Tuesday Tea on Wednesday
By Beth Wilkinson
ISBN 978-1-4660-2782-4
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011, Beth Wilkinson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Artist
Booknibbles.com
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
For Louisa
Prologue
Except when I’m ill I dream in colors, vivid colors. If I’m under the weather, have a cold or a migraine, even the blahs, my dreams are in a dull gray or black. Perhaps my dreams glow with color because I grew up in the Missouri Ozarks where vibrant foliage grows untamed and in profusion. There, the extreme weather, with intermittent downpours of rain and heavy humidity, is invariably followed by an explosion of blistering sun that transforms a dreary sky into an intense and spectacular indigo. My best dream, ever, was one where I could see myself walking through my mother’s house, sunshine picking out the delicate colors of the kitchen wall paper and with my footsteps tapping on the bright linoleum floor. I could even smell the strong fragrance of the chicory coffee my mother brewed every morning on the woodstove, a stack of shaggy logs piled nearby. I have tried to recapture that dream many times to no avail.
Certainly I would prefer the dream of my mother’s house to the ongoing nightmare that I have had, off and on, since I was eleven years old. I specifically remember my age because on the day, almost thirty years ago, when the dream first began, my best friend and I were in the grove taking turns on my stilts when he suddenly yelled, “Elizabeth, look over there! Oh, God, Elizabeth, it’s someone hanging from a tree!”
Chapter 1
"Get hold of yourself." I remember Paul saying as he groaned and shifted his body to get a view of the bedside clock. "Do you realize what time it is? Can't you get control of yourself? All this restlessness - moving around, getting up ten times every night? Really, Lib, maybe you should see a shrink."
The fact is that once I seriously considered seeing a psychiatrist, but, now, knowing my way of doing things these many years later, I would most likely have done a role reversal and counseled the shrink. Also, over time it has not only been the past that has disturbed my sleep.
I tried to remember when this disconnect, this rupture of our marriage and our antagonism toward one another had first begun. Questioning and searching for answers I read family publications and watched television talk shows, eager to learn how a wife confronts a husband when she senses indifference and may suspect infidelity. In my final analysis I decided it was the small stuff - the little annoyances on both our parts. I recalled specific times of lying beside him in the early morning hours and hearing the indescribable sounds that came bubbling from his throat and nose. This revolting disturbance pressed me to find solace by covering my head with a pillow. Then, when my tolerance was at its lowest, I would kick him hard, give him a quick pinch and then lie still. It always worked. He would stop snoring as if awakened from a nightmare; and for a few seconds, next to me, he would listen to my even breathing and try to figure out what may have happened. My spiteful self-righteousness went undiscovered and, undeniably, I found some sort of satisfaction in this inane deception.
Once, at the breakfast table, when I cautiously mentioned his "unusually" heavy breathing problem and suggested the possibility of surgery, "a nose job, maybe," he became offended. "Oh come now, Lib," he answered, "an expensive operation, and all the misery? If it bothers you, why don't you just sleep on the couch?"
Giving thought to incidents of this type reminded me that marriage was a two-way street, as Dear Abby pointed out in one of her columns I willingly admitted my errant ways. Still…
Certainly, it wasn't always like that. At the beginning of our marriage, when I would awake from bad dreams, frightened and sobbing, Paul would hold me in his strong arms and offer his strength and understanding. He spoke sweetly, sympathizing about my father's death and soothingly said that terrible things happened to people all of the time and "sh-hhh, Darling, everything will be all right." Eventually he became less sympathetic and said when a person's handed crap they just have to live with it, forget the lemonade, and did I ever consider that my younger brother, Rudy, looked amazingly like Mr. Williams, who to this day runs the Peal Family Lumber Mill. This does not seem probable, considering that Mr. Williams is a man of color and my mother, Ivy, spent much of her life railing against "nigras".
Usually, in those earlier times, not to disturb my sleeping husband further, I would swing my feet over to the side of the bed and get out the cigarettes hidden away in the night stand. Inhaling I would draw in the smallest details of what had happened after that long ago day in the grove - the day Aunt Lydia, in her silence, regressed into a mild sort of madness – spending her days standing at the gate waiting for my father, her brother, to return. Even at the oddest moments - wiping down a wall, polishing silver, or sitting at my desk in my fourth grade classroom - my mind wanders. Unconsciously I often put together bits and pieces of thoughts, sort out details of the past and try to figure out why my father hanged himself.
For years I believed my father's death was my fault. During my early teen years, I chastised myself, mercilessly, knowing that if I had been a nicer girl, earned better grades in school, done my chores without being told, had not been sassy, my father would have been happier and would not have felt the need to end his life. I told myself that if I had shown him greater respect by calling him Dad or Daddy as opposed to what I called him - H.L. - it may have made a difference. My mother disapproved of this address and often let it be known with a cuff to the ear or a quick swat to my backside.
"You are a flippant youngster...best hold your tongue and show your daddy some respect," she would say. I ignored her words, and at the same time felt smug and self-righteous because H.L. usually appeared not to hear her reprimands. Even years later, my mother, Ivy, and I were never able to discuss the past, never able to talk about what had happened on that terrible day.
I vividly recollect that particular morning and that I had patiently waited on the porch swing, trying to shut out the angry words of my parents' quarreling. As they shouted, it seemed as if their anger blew the gauzy curtains through the half-open kitchen window and I could clearly see them: H.L., his hand raised, and Ivy, holding the baby on her hip and cowering by the cook stove. When the baby began to cry, I remember that his puckered face turned the same color as the bright red rickrack that edged Ivy's apron; and I remember thinking that they'd never had cuss fights before Rudy was born. Never once had my father raise his voice to Ivy, let alone his fist.
"Damn you," he had yelled. "Damn you to hell." Then he lowered his clenched fist, turned, and stomped out onto the porch. He slammed the screen door and bounded down the wooden steps; his hurried footsteps echoing ghostly sounds. He did not turn back. He had forgotten me, sitting where every morning, since starting to school, I had waited to walk with him, trying to match his long strides as he hurried toward his work at the lumber mill.
Unsure of what to do, I watched as he passed the goats' sheds and plunged toward the grove. For a moment I tried to figure out whether to go into the kitchen to appease my mother or to run after him. My eyes began to water, and I licked at the mucous sliding from my nose onto my upper lip.
Oblivious, Aunt Lydia sat motionless when I moved suddenly from the porch swing, but a cat, curled in a spot of sunshine, jumped sideways and hissed in alarm. Panic filled me and I tried to catch sight of my father, but he had disappeared. Only when I heard a flock of guinea hens scolding in a remote distance, did I realize how long I had sat, stultified, and how far he had gone. Running through heavy undergrowth that connected to the well-worn path my father and I had walked together for many autumns---our destinations the schoolhouse and the mill - I yelled, "H.L., wait for me." My voice seemed hollow and weighted down by the morning fog. As I ran, the strap of my overalls kept falling, looping around an elbow, and instead of sliding it back with a hand I kept trying to jerk it up with one shoulder only to have it fall again. Finally sighting him in the distance, I hollered, "H.L., H.L.," then raced along gasping for air, the heavy braid of my hair whipping my back as if to spur me on. At first he didn't hear me. When he did, he stopped with his back turned toward me and waited.
"The leaves is pretty, gettin' all yellow and red," I said as I came up to him and gasped for breath. He stood silently and peered about as if he had only that moment remembered where he was. I said nothing but saw that the morning's sunshine dappled his head, making his hair golden. "The leaves," I repeated, "they's all yellow and red."
"Real nice," he answered in his throaty voice and turned to once again take up his pace.
How many kinds of trees you reckon's in this grove?" I asked trying to stall his hurried walk, wanting him to talk to me…say something…anything. Again, seeming unaware of my presence, I stubbornly tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. "Jamie told me there's a lot of different kinds of oaks. You reckon that's the truth?"
"I reckon he's right."
"Like what?" I asked.
I knew that my persistence, like a pesky horse fly, bothered him, but I was determined to get his attention. "Like what?" I repeated, for surely it would make him feel better to know that I did not blame him for being angry at Ivy. He hesitated, as if trying to find his voice, and said, "Well, there are burr oak, white oak, pin oak, and black oak. That's the names I can think of on short notice."
"Are they all in this grove?"
"No, but they grow in the area."
"Maybe I'll make a list of all the trees that grow in this here county. You'd like that, huh?" When he didn't answer I persisted with, "I could easy alphabetize them. Yes, I could do that. I learned that very thing at school."
When he did not answer, I glanced up at him and saw that he was crying and when he stopped a moment and drew a large white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose, I was embarrassed. An odd sentiment I did not understand wrapped itself about me and as we again took up walking the familiar path I longed to say the right words to him, to comfort and soothe him, but his grief appeared so terrible that I was afraid to speak. Inwardly I knew it had something to do with the new baby, him being so ugly and bawling, taking up Ivy's time with her always hushing and patting him, saying he was a sweet, precious child, which he was not.
Light-headed and heart-wrenched, I started to sing a song I had learned at school. My thin voice sounded as though it came from somewhere other than my throat, and my father did not seem to hear my determined attempt to cheer him. Even when a wild turkey flew up in a puff of amber cloud, he appeared not to notice. Confused, I stopped singing and quickened my pace to match his until we finally came to the edge of the grove.
"Bye, H.L.," I whispered and unconsciously he gave my braid a tug and in an anguished voice said, "Hurry on now."
Motionless, I watched as he hastened through a small stand of trees, his shoulders slumped and his head downward. I watched as yellow leaves on long stems were suddenly caught by a gust of wind and moved like hands waving goodbye. It was the last time I saw my father alive.
For days my mother speculated about what could have happened to him. "He probably went to Springfield or Kansas City with a load of lumber and forgot to mention it," she said in the beginning. Sometimes, as she did the ironing and I sat nearby reading aloud from a favorite book, she spoke in a soft voice, saying that Daddy wouldn't go somewhere without letting us know. Pride kept her from contacting the people at the lumber mill. "They're so nosy. Can't seem to mind their own business or their own selves," she would mutter and give a shrug. With a child's instinct, I recognized that my mother was not merely troubled but desperately anxious when after a time she asked repeatedly what Daddy and I had talked about as we walked through the woods.
"Trees," I told her. "We talked about trees."
A week passed before the mill foreman drove up in his Ford truck to inquire if Mr. Peal mightn't be sick. From where I sat by the kitchen fireplace I could hear Mr. William's questions and Ivy's tired and biting answers. "Why the third degree?" she asked. "You know as much as I do."
"I'd like to help figure this out," the foreman answered.
"You do that. You find out where he is. I surely haven't any idea why a man with a family would simply disappear."
"With all respect, Mam" Mr. Williams finally said, "the sheriff needs to be informed."
"Then why don't you call him?" she flared.
I heard my mother's footsteps as she retreated in anger to another room and the snap of the screen door as the defeated man left the house. For a while I rested my head in my lap and sobbed. Eventually and as darkness approached, Ivy appeared, holding Rudy on her hip, and suggested that we have a bite of supper.
"The least that idiot foreman could have done is to bring your daddy's paycheck," she said and slammed the kitchen window down against the chill fall evening.
During the weeks that followed neighbors dropped by and sat by the woodstove, drank coffee and talked in hushed tones. "H.L. was not a drinking man and he certainly never looked at another woman," they said gravely. "Reliable was what he was, an honest man," they said solemnly.
My mother did not cry, at least to my knowledge or as far as I can remember. Nothing seemed to change except H.L. was not at the house to help me with my school work and play checkers in the evening. We spoke little while Ivy nursed and rocked my baby brother; and Aunt Lydia, my father's sister took her usual place by the gate, her bleached eyes staring into space at who knows what.
I helped my mother with the housework without complaint, and without being told I fed the chickens and gathered eggs, hoping for her rare praise of "You are a nice girl, Elizabeth."
The one time I started to sing, Ivy sharply said to "Hush now." Her obsession for work and cleanliness did not lessen, although the fierceness of her movements---the constant sweeping, scrubbing, folding bedding and rattling dishes--- puzzled me and interrupted my determination to complete the list of trees I was organizing for H.L.
As the weeks passed, she moved about the house with less assurance, sometimes banging a table or hitting a pillow. Her mysterious anger at him would flare, and she would say worrisome things such as, "He's taken off for spite, that's it. Peals are well known for their grudges and spiteful ways."
Bewildered I ate and slept and wondered why H.L. did not come back to us, and I only vaguely recall that when the wind would shift there was a strange fetid odor from somewhere inside the grove. After a long and uncommonly warm autumn the area welcomed a cold snap. At night gentle winds blew as if to announce a forthcoming winter.
This is when the leaves had fallen off the trees. This was the day playing in the grove, that my best friend and I made the grisly discovery and could see what was left of my father hanging high in an oak, only his heavy boots recognizable.
I had gone into the grove with Jamie Joel Turner and as he clumped along on a pair of stilts, his shaggy head skimmed the tree limbs and his young strong arms and legs easily propelled his body forward, and dug the stilts into the soft soil.
"Jamie Joel, it's my turn now, so's you git down now, right now." I yelled up at him. "I mean it, Jamie Joel. Now!"
Ignoring me, he tightened his grip and jabbing at the dry root-bound earth, took longer strides.
Hurrying along, grabbing at the poles, I began hollering. "Them stilts are mine and ownership is 90% of the law so git down now, and this very minute, Fool."
Early on I had learned that I could coerce Jamie Joel Turner to do a chore or a homework assignment for me if I taunted him by saying he had to do what I said because I was the oldest and then emphasized that in America there was a law about that. I knew it was a lie but easily diminished any guilt and absolved my conscious by crossing my fingers.
"So big deal," Jamie yelled down, "your birthday bein' seven days before mine don't make you so special."
"Well, it sure enough does," I called imperiously. "It was my golden birthday. I was eleven on November 11, see? That's what makes it special. Mommy even gave me a little bitty gold coin and she made Jell-O. Lemon. That bowl of Jell-O looked like a pile of gold, yes it did."
"Elizabeth, I swear you are one damn weird ole girl."
"And you are one damn weird ole boy."
"Lemme me see the gold coin," he said and halted with mocking curiosity on his freckled face.
"Ivy's akeepin' it for me," I said. "She said it come from her father who was justly a fine man. Said he got it when he was in a war that ended a long time ago." I jiggled the stilts and then bumped impatiently at him with my overalled hip.
"You lie," he jeered. "You're lying. Lemme see if your fingers are crossed because you are lyin".
I raised my splayed fingers and shot him an angry look. "See this here," I said impatiently, "Now, do you not hear me? I said to git down."
When I kicked at the ground to emphasize that I meant business, the smell of damp earth and centuries of decay fumed and I fleetingly questioned why the grove was without birdsong.
"There's nothin' so red-hot about a gold coin, Jamie said as he jumped down and handed the stilts toward me.
"Jamie," I said momentarily repentant of the control I had so easily wielded over him, "someday, when you get grown and it's your birthday time, maybe your folks will get you a Chevy truck. That'd be better'n bitty gold coin."
I was wearing a cast-off army shirt of H. L., the sleeves rolled so that I could get a good grasp on the wooden stilts he had made for me the spring before. Happy to be with my best friend and glad to escape my mother's gloom, I started singing at the top of my voice, the song echoing throughout the grove.
"How do you do, Andy Gump, how do you do?
How are you, Andy Gump, how are you?
How is Chester? How is Min?
How's the whiskers on your chin?"
Jamie Joel, walking beside me and waiting for another turn at the stilts, laughed at my singing; but it was a good-natured laugh and he cheerfully joined in. "Where's the whiskers on your nuts, Andy Gump?" he sang.
Giggling, I repeated the line, and together we ended the song yelling, "How do you doodely, doodely, doodely, doodely, do?"
The stilts made a hollow sound as I dodged trees and walked over tough grass and through fallen leaves. My high-pitched voice continued to echo eerily into the grove. As we got closer to the creek, bright sun shafts reflecting from the water blinded me and I released my grip on one of the stilts and rested it on my skinny thigh. Shading my eyes with a hand I watched as Jamie started throwing rocks at a distant jackrabbit, and when he missed I tormented with, "You're not so red-hot, either."
The stilts, easy to manipulate, were of light-weight pine that my daddy had made at his lumber mill located on the far side of the woods, and for a while Jamie Joel and I move on, secure in the familiar surroundings and each other.
"You suppose old H.L. would make me some stilts, Elizabeth?"
"Sure thing, soon as he gits back home, I answered."
When I smiled down at him his face took on a pleased expression and he shot me a bashful grin.
"You're still a weird ole girl, Elizabeth. Damned if you ain't."
For a while we did not talk and as we headed toward the creek, which everyone pronounced "crick", my stilts became heavy and with suddenness lodge in the ground. Clearly there was something familiar in the distance, and I was filled with dread and the need to see what it was. Jamie Joel, at my command, struggled to move the mired stilts and even though he was large for his age, he couldn't budge them. A distorted copper-colored mist hung around treetops, ragged against the cloudless Ozark sky, and I saw clear bubbling water moving across huge boulders. I attempted to call out, but the sound I pushed from my throat was strangled and faraway. I felt that I was suffocating and needed to get down and run to the other side of the creek, but my body stubbornly refused to move from its perch. Jamie, for some reason, could not help me and had stopped trying. He stood as if bolted to the ground and stared wide-eyed at something I could not focus on.
"Dammit to hell, some friend you are, Jamie Joel Turner," I am finally able to yell at him. "You help git me down from here."
* * * *
Painfully, for years, I have been a captive of this nightmare where I am suspended mid-air on pine stilts, and can hear my friend yell and then clearly hear his words of "Oh God, Elizabeth, hit's your daddy ahangin' there. Them's his big brown boots with the yeller eagle on the side!"
Shivering from cold and still caught in the web of my dream I am awakened with suddenness and drawn back from the past by the family dog's impatient and unrelenting scratching at the bedroom door and determined that someone let him outside he began barking crazily. I stumbled from bed and drawing the drapes I saw shards of early morning sunlight dappling the garden that my teenager son, Hank, and I planted in the spring.
The hall clock chime struck the hour. One, two, buckle your shoe, three, four, shut the door, five, six pick up sticks – it recited and echoed through- out the house. As it spread its comfort toward me I stood a moment and as the resonance of the chimes seeped away I foolishly wondered why one couldn't simply capture happy moments and secrete them away for the difficult times.
The dog, interrupting my thoughts and impatient for someone to let him outside, ceased his irritating scratching at the front door and began a long and pitiful howl.
"Dumb shit," I said under my breath.
Then, as I pulled on a robe and left the bedroom I called back, "Paul, dear, it's time to get up."
Chapter 2
After selling the mill, Ivy budgeted every penny and even answered a magazine ad to sell cosmetics. Somehow, over the years, she even saved enough money for me to go to a state university where I had been awarded a small scholarship. Elated to get away from under her perpetual cloud of angst, I threw myself into my studies, and after applying, was hired part-time in the school's library. When another student, in her senior year, suggested that we rent an apartment together and share expenses, I was flattered. Popular on campus, Corrine was a beautiful peacock opposed to me, a plain brown bird. People admired her because she was always fun, even though it might be at someone else's expense.
When I first dated Paul Crewes, I was slim, as most young women are in their early years. Exercise at the university gym was a daily event and with observation I smoothed out my backwoods speech and I wore great clothes because my roommate lent them to me.
During our college years we had only one disagreement. That was the afternoon I walked in the apartment and Corrine, wearing a red satin robe, was sitting on the lap of a nude botany professor. Horrified I hastily retreated, returning later in the day to lash out with angry words and to be told to mind my own business.
"It seems to me that you could use some judgment and not be so free with yourself," I yelled at her.
"Yeah, well don't think for one minute I believe that you and that hillbilly friend of yours did nothing but walk around the woods on stilts," she flung at me.
In a huff, turning my back, I ignored her words and momentarily recalled an earlier time when Jamie Joel Turner had dropped his pants only for me to mock him by saying that my baby brother's jigger was bigger than his'n.
Eventually, when things cooled down between us, it was agreed that if a man's necktie hung outside the apartment door it was a sign that I was to make myself scarce.
Nevertheless, for days I fumed wanting to tell her Jamie Joel Turner had never been any more than a friend, and in high school we only attended sock-hops together - and that our friendship ended, or rather was put on hold, the day in the high school hallway when he pulled me behind a pillar, pressed his lips to mine and pried open my teeth with his tongue.
"What are you doin', Jamie Joel?" I had shrieked.
"Ah, come on," he said, his face reddening, "Give me a break. You know you like stuff like that."
"Are you crazy? It felt like a fish in my mouth, and you been eating mustard, Fool."
Embarrassed, he turned away and that afternoon, on the school bus he sat beside someone else. The next two years were spent avoiding one another other than "Hey," when we accidentally bumped into each other in the school hallway. It was years later, when I again met Jamie Joel, that I could appreciate him with all my heart.
In my third year at the university, when a student, wearing a SP0CK tee shirt, appeared at the check-out desk, I didn't recognize him as a regular patron; but I did recognize him as "smashing" - a description Corrine, pinned on anyone good-looking and possibly single.
"I wonder if you could locate a particular book for me... a book of poetry?" he asked. He smiled as if embarrassed, and I took note of the deep cleft in his chin and his wonderfully even teeth. "Robert Service is the author."
"Let me show you where it's located," I said, choosing not to look it up on the computer and aware of my roommate's advice of, "with guys, timing is everything,"
Breathless and thankful that I had thought to use generous splashes of cologne after my morning shower, I quickly led the way through the dim library stacks mindful of the pockets of odors and fragrances, good and bad, that people left behind when browsing.
"The truth is that I am familiar with that particular writer," I said, trying to sound casual. "My father enjoyed Robert Service."
Taking a moment to check book codes, I handed him the familiar blue-gray covered volume. "My father could recite a lot of the poems - probably because his father was in WW ll. That's what Service wrote about."
"A nice coincident," he murmured as he leafed through a few pages. "The Spell of the Yukon," he said then looked up. "The poor devil wrote all his life and probably never realized much money or any acknowledgment for his efforts."
Stalling for time, wanting him to talk more, I rearranged a few misshelved books and watched as he flipped through a few pages, thought him good looking and noted that he did not have a wedding ring on his finger.
"You're probably right," I said. "There aren't a lot of career poets."
When he grinned at my lame joke, I felt encouraged and tried to sound perky - Corrine's number one suggestion for anyone who needs a date or might want to get laid.
"I did write a poem once for the newspaper and the editor sent me a check for five dollars but I thought it best not to give up my day job," I said.
"Ah, yes, you being an efficient librarian."
"Only part-time. College of Education, full-time."
He smiled, extended his hand and said, "Paul Crewes, PhD candidate, Business Administration, where the money is. History minor which explains the interest in an obsolete, long forgotten World War 2 poet."
"Not so forgotten," I whispered remembering how H.L., in his wonderfully gravelly voice, took pleasure in reciting those obsolete poems.
"Elizabeth Peal," I said, shaking away the past, and emphasizing the name Elizabeth instead of the unworldly name of Libby which was what most of my peers at school called me.
He hesitated a second, grinned and said, "I wonder if you might have coffee with me sometime, Elizabeth Peal? We can discuss the merits of Service, as opposed to the more recent poets, such as you."
I struggled with a calm acceptance, turning my face away so that he wouldn't see the unperky blush that warmed my cheeks and neck.
In the Union and over coffee, a few days later, I listened, engrossed, in his philosophy of life and his ideas about business, ethics and politics; and when he offered me a cigarette I accepted, grateful that Jamie Joel and I, at age eight, had secretly started smoking in the grove.
At first I did not mention Aunt Lydia to Paul and was guarded when talking about my plain and modest growing-up years for fear of his rejection. I lightly explained that my mother lived in the Ozarks and as a hobby of sorts, sold Mayberry Marsh cosmetics to her neighbors and friends.
I did not tell him that my mother, curt, but accommodating with others, was always compassionate toward my father's sister. After H. L.'s death, Lydia, melancholy and silent most of her life began setting fires; the majority being blazes in the kitchen waste basket, and once, a small grass fire. Vigilant thereafter, we always kept matches hidden away and were watchful to detect when a lighted candle was set in a closet or a burning match dropped in a wastebasket. My mother told me not to fret. "Just keep an eye on Lydia, and don't let the neighbors know," she cautioned.
My mother's given name is Ivy, short for Ivory," I said quickly and sliding over the probability that her backwoods mother had simply named her after a well-known brand of soap.
"She was rather strict and often reprimanded me with old fashion homilies," I said dramatically mocking my mother. She often taunted me with, 'Is your cup half full or half empty, Elizabeth?'"
"It's obvious that your cup is always half full," Paul said and taking my hand, added, "Your mother is a wise woman, Elizabeth."
My shameless attempts to make an impression on Paul seemed successful enough but hoping to make a further impact I complained that I truly couldn't abide the way she ate until I learned that it was English style.
"She never crosses her knife when she cuts up food. Instead she piles food on the back of her fork; probably something her British mother, my grandmother, had done."
When I saw that he was more or less confused by my efforts to make him believe that my background was something it wasn't, I dropped the farce and tried another tactic. On future coffee dates, I exaggerated stories of farm sales in the area, where my mother lived, by saying antique glassware could be found for a fraction of its worth and it was a Mecca for New York antique dealers. I embellished stories of how quilting parties were held in different homes, with giant frames lowered from the ceilings. "They are called "gatherings" and are really a darling expression of art," I purred.
With a perplexed look on his face, he did not comment to my absurdity but smiled and suggested a third cup of coffee.
"The nearby country store, McCoy's, sell beans by the pound, homegrown vegetables, men's overalls, and ohmigosh, there's even a pickle barrel. At the end of a day people bring in fish they catch and the store owner sells them. I'm not even sure that's legal but a lot of people in that county aren't into legal. It's possible grandfather may have had a still somewhere in the grove – even been some kind of a bootlegger."
Paul was charmed by my backwoods tales. "Do people really take turns at the ice cream churn, go for hay rides, and fish whenever they want?" he asked. "Really, Elizabeth, you should write stories along with poetry."
Our times together seemed perfect: beer and dancing at the Buckhorn, midnight walks through the dark university campus, picnics in the park, and racquetball games at the Locker Club where Paul had a membership.
I was thrilled the day Paul offered to show me where he lived: a home that had once been his grandparents and where his parents had lived until they were killed in an accident that Paul rarely spoke about. A distant relative had resided with the family, and she apparently stayed on until her death. "After that I batched it," he said. "It wasn't all that bad with fast food and sometimes assistants from a cleaning lady."
It was a wonderful old house, reminiscent of where I had grown up in the Ozarks, but this house, unlike Ivy's, had floors laid with plush carpets, and converted crystal gas-light fixtures throughout the house. The furniture, most of which had belonged to Paul's great-grandparents, was in perfect condition. The first time he took me there, I marveled at the winding staircase that led up to three large bedrooms, two with fireplaces. I remember that on that particular day he said in his calm voice, and almost shyly, "What say we try out one of these beds?" I remember, too, that I hesitated only a moment before I slipped out of my jeans, and pulled back the quilts and found comfort in his arms.
Later, when he said that he loved me I could hardly find the words to tell him that I felt the same way; and when he pried my lips apart, I fervently pushed my tongue into his mouth. A few days later, I was dazzled when Paul further proclaimed his love and presented me with his grandmother's sapphire and gold ring.
In my last year of college, when I wrote to Ivy, my letters were filled with details of Paul. On the telephone she listened patiently as I chattered about his good looks, described the house he lived in, and the places we went.
"Paul Crewes has asked me to marry him," I told her one afternoon over the telephone. "It'll be a small wedding - Paul, me and my friend, Corrine as a bridesmaid and some guy that she's interested in, named Rosen, Sam Rosen."
She didn't say anything in the way of congratulations or approval, but instead huffed, "That's a Jewish name, Elizabeth. Does your friend know he's a Jew?"
Biting my tongue, I said, "I hope you and Rudy will be here, too." When she didn't answer, I knew that she was turning the idea over in her mind.
"We'll see," she finally said and sighed. "Rudy's got school."
"Paul's really attractive, Ivy. He has broad shoulders, nice eyes and dark curly hair. Great teeth, too."
"A person couldn't ask for more," she said tersely.
"I'm serious. He's wonderfully handsome," I sighed.
"Handsome is as handsome does, Elizabeth."
"I'd like...your blessing … Mother."
"Well girl, you'll do as you want, no matter what I say."
There was a long silence between us before she said, "Elizabeth, if'n you been sleeping with that boy, livin' there at his house, don't feel you have an obligation to marry him."
"Exactly what's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you've always taken everything serious like, felt guilty about so much."
It was true. Since childhood I believed that anything that went wrong was my fault. Ivy's unpredictable flare-ups, a school ground conflict, or a sudden rainstorm on a picnic day, was somehow due to something I'd done, certainly something I'd thought. Even now, years later, I would be embarrassed to send back food in a restaurant - sour, undercooked, overcooked, burnt, or crawling with vermin. And while I obsess about bad haircuts and bum permanents, shrunken sweaters from the cleaners or careless tellers at the bank, I never complain and always tip too much.
"What about advice?" I asked nervously. "Maybe you have some good advice for me."
"What I'm telling you is simple...if in doubt...don't."
"Oh, Mother..."
"It's all a trade-off, Elizabeth. Marriage is a trade-off. My only advice would be to give the other person space. Yes, that's about the sum total of it: try to give the other fellow a little space."
To my great relief she never made the trip to see me get married; but enclosed in a pretty card, along with her regrets, and wrapped in tissue paper, she sent the gold coin that she and H.L. had given me for my eleventh birthday.
When we returned from our honeymoon, Paul, smiling broadly and looking pleased had an additional surprise for me.
"It's State-of- the-Art and the finest the market has to offer," he said grinning as we walked into the kitchen. He waved his arms and flicked on the lights. "It's all yours Lib."
To my bewilderment, he had earlier consulted an interior designer and, in our absence, the wonderful old house had been remodeled. In place of the lace window curtains were celery-colored vertical window shades; and the kitchen's white cupboards had been replaced by bleached birch cabinets. Where the free-standing white porcelain sink with brass faucets had been, was a modern dark peach-colored sink with chrome trim. The counters were laminated in Super Art "Elegance," and on the floor, where for years braided rugs had lain, were blocks of black and white tile. A small glass-topped table, surrounded by three-legged stools, had been substituted for the sturdy oak table and pressed-wooden chairs. Gone was the pantry which had been turned into an alcove to house a stove and refrigerator, all glistening with doors of steel.
Pleased with himself, Paul pointed out the modern changes including a trash compactor.
"No more trash cans beneath the sink," he said and looking pleased with himself.
I quickly looked away to hide my disappointment, and he took my suppressed shock for delight and appreciation.
Earlier, certainly if he had asked me about any renovations, I would have told him that I loved everything about the house exactly as it was. However, he had not asked me, and I was beyond protesting, stunned into silence; and since those early days, he has never had any compunction about moving familiar pieces of furniture to the attic to be replaced with something new and modern. For me, the time to protest anything, however small or unimportant, has passed.
In the long-run we have been a good team for most of our sixteen years together, something I was thinking about on Saturday morning, after dropping my husband off at the airport for a two day business meeting in Las Vegas.
The sky looked cloudy, like rain. I wondered if I had remembered to pack his umbrella along with a slicker - always a good idea no matter the destination. A bit later, as I opened the wrought-iron gate at the side of the house, the family dog, barking wildly, appeared from nowhere.
"Down," I shouted, and gave him a slap and saw that his toenails had snagged my sweater sleeve.
"You don't have to be so mean," my son, Hank, said as he opened the screen door, and then called, "Here, old boy. Good boy." The dog flew into the kitchen, barking crazily and chasing his tail.
"Ah, you're up," I said as pleasantly as I could. "Why don't you put the dog in the basement so he'll calm down?"
"I'm not putting him down there. He hates it there."
"Please, Honey."
He ignored me; and determined not to get into a no-win situation; I moved cautiously around the lunatic dog and busied myself with breakfast.
"Eggs poached or scrambled?" I asked.
"Whatever," he grumped.
Hurriedly, I shredded cheese and added pimento to a bowl.
"Dad leave?" he asked, as he pulled a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. "I really meant to tell him goodbye, but my alarm didn't work."
"He's off to an important conference," I said, still ruffled by the dim-witted dog's earlier attack. "He'll be back in the middle of next week."
Hank took a long swallow from the carton; and I held back telling him to use a drinking glass and casually suggested that today was a good day to drive into the city and buy school clothes.
"Aw, Mom," he replied, shoveling down the scrambled eggs I put before him and talking with his mouth full, "I've already planned to skateboard with Matt." He hesitated a moment before he said, "I told Dad and he said it was okay." As an after-thought, he added, "Dad said to be cautious and to be sure to get home on time."
This was a lie. In the past Paul has forbidden Hank to go skateboarding on the bridge by the railroad tracks because it is dangerous. There are drunks and predators there. In my heart I know that is exactly where Hank and his buddy are headed, but I am sabotaged by his quick smile and flimsily conceived story.
"Matt's grandpa gave him a bunch of money for his birthday and we're going to eat at McDonald's," he said, and gave me quick thumbs up. "We're going to have a great time because, you know, it's a special day."
It would have been useless to object. I looked at him and realized that he had recently had a growth spurt and that he was almost as tall as his father. Facial hair was appearing on his upper lip and his voice had changed to the same soft modulation as Paul's. He had become less dependent on me and often, when his father was not around, answered any questions I might ask, with a smart, "Oh yeah? So?" or "Who cares."
Now he yelled, "See ya, Mom," and slammed the front door as my query of "Honey, did you brush your teeth?" went unheeded.
Once, during our weekly telephone conversation, I confided to Ivy my fears concerning Hank's attitude. "If you haven't taught him right from wrong by now, I'd say it's a little late. It's how the tree is bent, Elizabeth," she said devoid of sympathy. At that moment there was silence, and I knew that she was thinking of her son, Rudy, long grown and living what she called the "high life" in New York, and from whom she seldom heard.
"Besides," she added, "when a boy becomes a man, there's not much you can do to change things, Elizabeth."
"You may be right," I told her, discounting the fact that Hank was still only fifteen, and often, after dark, sneaked out of his bedroom window to go to who knows where.
In between wiping off the table and straightening the chairs, I ate Hank's remnants of eggs and sausage. Before I put away the toaster, I popped in two slices of bread, got out the butter and jam, poured a cup of coffee, and enjoyed a second breakfast. As I concentrated on sweeping up crumbs and the dirt that Flag tracked in, he followed me about, jumping, playfully nipping at my heels and maddeningly whipping his tail back and forth. Exasperated, I finished loading the dishwasher and hurried into the hallway to shut him away.
"Get down, you miserable beast," I said, and gave his collar a jerk. "Don't you see that I despise you? Can't you see that you're not wanted?" He cowered as I opened the basement door, his urine spraying the wall as I pushed him toward the steps. Hurriedly I found some cleaning rags from the nearby cabinet and began to mop up the fast-spreading urine.
"Disgusting dog," I yelled because the house was empty and no one would hear. "Miscreant! Shitty mutt!"
Then, feeling guilty, I carefully opened the basement door and put a pan of fresh water and a few dog biscuits on the top step.
The fact is Hank's dog is an imbecile. He jumps and barks at anything and everything. He slops his water dish and slobbers when he eats. He makes unbelievable messes of an unemptied wastebasket and the rumblings from his hindquarters are of incredible volume.
I am not sure where our family dog came from. A few years ago I looked up from where I was dusting a windowsill to see Hank, hurrying homewards and pushed on by the wind, with a scruffy black and white dog in his arms. "Mom, he followed me," Hank hollered from the porch. "Mom, you promised that someday... Hey Mom, open the door. I named him Flag. See his tail. It waves like a flag, Mom. It's okay, isn't it, huh? You said someday…"
Hank's dog has scratched doors, chewed shoes, eaten socks and constantly made puddles all over the house. Last month he jumped the iron fence that surrounds our house and ran across town before he decided to do his business on the dog catcher's lawn. Of course, Mr. Harnden hauled him to the city pound and then called to say we could retrieve our animal if we paid the fine.
"Really Paul," I remember saying at the time, "For the fifty dollars bail we should leave him. He's a tramp, a nothing dog that can't---no---won't be trained, refuses to eat dry dog food, and wakes up the whole house before 5:00 AM. Besides, there's dog hair all over the furniture, and his constant howling brings complaints from the neighbors. When he licks himself it's disgusting. As for a watchdog, anyone could carry off the house. The truth be told, he'd probably go home with them."
When Hank started to protest, I fervently continued my tirade. "He's a stupid, stupid dog...let's leave him there. Mr. Harnden can put him to sleep. Maybe even find him another home. Listen Hank, he'll never feel a thing, not a thing, for goodness sakes. He's a mongrel, Honey, a stray and a stupid stray at that. The dog catcher's lawn. Really, Paul..."
By this time, tears were welling in Hank's eyes, and his nose was running; but he didn't say a word, simply continued that insufferable snuffing.
"Get a Kleenex, Son," his father told him. "Do you want to ride along with us to the animal shelter, Lib? If you do, better get a sweater, it's a little chilly."
Needless to say, Hank and Flag had a joyous reunion while Paul paid the fifty dollar fine. The holding pen in which Mr. Harnden held Flag was so filthy that afterwards all three of us had to bathe the idiot dog in my tub: Paul and Hank use the modern and oversized shower that Paul recently had installed in our bedroom, Flag and I used the tub.
"He likes the bubble bath, Mom. Look how he likes the fancy bubble bath stuff." This was Hank's way of telling me that I am forgiven; my offering of a whole bottle of Rose-Are-Red-Bath-Foam; my way of asking forgiveness.
Flag knows his bubble bath; I'll give him that --- the top of the line. My mother frequently sent me these expensive and overpriced products because she is, by and large, what was called "The Maybury-Marsh Lady."
Ivy, with her abrupt manners, seems an unlikely representative for these garishly packaged and cellophane covered jars, tubes, and bottles; but sell them she does, and as regularly as clockwork, she sends me boxes of her wares.
Your mother is an absolute jewel," Marion Malloy, the third grade teacher said the last time I dumped an assortment of Maybury-Marsh cosmetics on a table in the teacher's lounge.
"Maybe next time she could send more lipstick samples of Native Orchid or Orange Kiss," Sherry, the first grade teacher suggested and giggled.
Once, our principal Mr. Ellenwood, his staid appearance covering a rare sense of humor, suggested that Ivy might send him a bottle of something sexy. "Whatever that means," he had added with a twinkle in his eye.
Now, standing at the kitchen sink, musing about the past and unenthusiastically polishing silverware, it dawned on me that it was less than a week before school would start for a new bunch of eight-and-nine year-olds. I felt a tug of joy as I thought about being, once again, in the classroom and my mood lightened as I thought how excited the children would be as they returned to school after a long summer.
Since the beginning of my teaching career, everything in my life has seemed umbilically connected to the classroom. If I go to a movie, a university basketball game, or the shopping center, I regularly run into a familiar face from a present or past fourth-grade class. At fast food restaurants parents pause to ask about their child's success and behavior in the classroom. It is also a fact that on more than one occasion I have willingly kept a child overnight, even a few days, because his or her parents were in the emergency room at the hospital or remanded to the county jail.
When I remembered that it was Wednesday, the day to meet with my women's group and my one and only access to the outside world, I had a feeling of indecision as to where was best to spend the afternoon – with my friends or at the schoolhouse.
Other than paying my dues to the PTA, NEA and WEA, Tuesday Tea on Wednesday was the only group to which I belonged. It wasn't exactly an organization because there were no rules, no dues, and no defined expectations. It was just eight good friends that got together once a week to talk about the terrific vacations they planned or talked about their terrific kids' terrific grades, and their terrific successes as gymnasts, swimmers, soccer players or first chair in the school orchestra. Although we frequently confide our innermost thoughts and problems to one another, I have never told anyone, even my best friend, Corrine, about my father's suicide.
I was almost finished polishing the last teaspoon when the telephone rang. "So what's going on?" Corrine asked, her usual way of starting any conversation.
"Well, for starters," I said, "my son gobbled down his breakfast and took off for the day who knows where and what, and the dog snagged my sweater and then peed a lake in the front hall before I could get him into the basement, and school starts on Monday." I took a deep breath when I heard her laugh sympathetically, but went on with, "I really need to go to school this afternoon and put up bulletin boards and check the year's classroom roster."
"Ah Libby, surely you haven't forgotten that today is Wednesday. Group is at Leigh's - forget school and get there early so we can visit before everyone arrives, okay?"
"H-mm, maybe," I said balancing the phone on my shoulder and pushing aside a mound of silverware. "Paul is always grousing that I spend too much time at school..."
"Well, I'm grousing, too, because he's right," she said and I was reminded that Corrine has always agreed with Paul, while his complaint of her was only that the space between her nose and upper lip seemed a bit short.
"See you later – at Leigh's," she said cheerily and hung up the phone.
Once, Ivy, in an unusually mellow mood, told me that everyone is struck with a pebble before they are hit with a brick. At the time I was disinterested in what she said, merely annoyed with her endless clichés and lectures. However, it was the day Paul took a commuter for Denver, and later when Corrine called to be sure I'd make it to Tuesday Tea on Wednesday, that I was struck with a pebble and didn't even realize it.
Chapter 3
When Corrine suggested that the Tea Group meet on Wednesday because of a conflicting luncheon schedule, all of the members agreed without question.
"Believe it or not," she told us and flashed her beautiful smile, "Sam and I were allowed a membership in the Country Club even though he's a Jew and constantly uses the f-word as an adjective."
"That is not true," Kate sputtered. "Your husband is a darn nice guy; he's good looking and I doubt he would ever use such language. Really, Corrine, you shouldn't exaggerate so much."
"That's part of her charm," someone said.
"Wednesday would work out for me," Leigh suggested ignoring the exchange and everyone nodded with agreement.
After that, we jokingly referred to ourselves as Tuesday Tea on Wednesday, or TTOW. No one protested the change because everyone had learned that it was easier and wiser to agree with Corrine than to disagree with her. Certainly, when she reported a bit of gossip or revealed someone's darkest secret, no one took issue or questioned her source of information; instead, they put down their tea cups expectantly and listened.
The absolute innocence of Tuesday Tea on Wednesday and its beginnings gives me joy although how everything eventually came to an end often throws me into bouts of melancholy and regret. Back then everyone did handwork - crochet and lace-making were popular, paper making was fun and knitting was trendy. Recipes for economical meals were constantly exchanged and everyone talked endlessly about children. We wore jeans, madras shirts, calf-high boots and handmade sweaters. As the years passed interest in elaborate needlework-art, foreign food and wine became the subject. A few years later, as if a signal had been given, everyone became mod and started showing up in velveteen pantsuits, floor length skirts, shifts, textured hose, and faux fur.
Once, to everyone's amusement and delight, Theresa and Grace, returning from a New York trip, brought gifts of false eyelashes, fake fingernails and tubes of a temporary fad - white lipstick. Corrine, style conscious and always ahead of everyone, wore the first Dynel hair piece - a cluster of curls pinned stylishly on top of her head. Every Wednesday, along with fashion magazines, best-selling novels and Vacation Hideaway brochures appeared regularly on the Tuesday Teaers' coffee tables. As a group, we took day-trips to Denver for lunch at the Hilton, with leisure time to browse in expensive boutiques and later enjoy a late afternoon at Susan's
Scone and Tea Shoppe.
After talking to Corrine on the phone I rushed to finish up my household chores, took a quick shower and drove over to Leigh Worthington's. Following the pathway into her backyard I walked past a blooming tree and paused a moment to gently shake its limbs. A multitude of bells, part of an extensive collection from Leigh's frequent travels, merrily rang out announcing my arrival.