Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  For the first week after his return from the nine-month cruise, every spare minute had been spent in the efficiency apartment’s Murphy bed. And as long as Sheila lived with dread that he would leave again, a certain special tension remained, tingly and breathless as if each time together might be their last. Since he received the assignment on base and they’d moved to the new apartment, this had changed … there was no pretending. Sheila dwelt on Jim’s cutting remarks and worse yet, his interminable silences. She never knew what caused him to go into a funk. After a while she gave up trying to get him out of each one.

  Then, there were the good times. Sex wasn’t as often, but when it happened he could still make her cry out with pleasure. For a day or so after she would think, How could I ever question my feelings for him?

  Sometimes the lovemaking didn’t help, when Jim said things like: “We’ll always have this,” or, “Why don’t we do this more often?” or, “I do love you.”

  To this last she wanted to say, “Was there some question?” She never asked, afraid of his answer. At least he didn’t talk about babies anymore.

  Following one of their good times together, while they snuggled contentedly in each other’s arms, she suggested the evening with Marcelle and her husband. Will he agree and take on a mood until I say, “It’s okay, we don’t need to go.”

  Surprisingly, he said, “Sounds like fun,” and sounded sincere.

  On Monday, Sheila told Marcelle, “It’s fine with Jim. We can go to the show with you.”

  That afternoon, Marcelle left the office with a mission—pick up tickets for the following Saturday evening.

  Tuesday, Marcelle said, “You must come over to our townhouse. Christopher’s dying to meet you. I told him you’re exactly like Auntie Laureen.”

  Why would a kid care?

  For the rest of that day, Marcelle kept bringing up the logistics of getting Sheila and Jim to their place and going to her big event. After considering possibilities, as if planning a party for fifty, she decided that the Gallaghers would leave their car in the townhouse parking lot and her husband would drive both couples to the performance.

  Why make everything so difficult?

  Wednesday, Marcelle said, “Does Jim have a suit? If he doesn’t, he can use one of Clay’s.”

  “He had one tailor-made when his ship anchored in Hong Kong.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure all the men attending will have on suits. You wouldn’t want Jim to feel out of place.”

  No matter what, I’m sure he’ll feel out of place with you!

  Thursday, Sheila tried to write a check for their tickets, but Marcelle said, “No, indeed not. You will be our guests.” She went on to jabber about what to wear and what Sheila should wear.

  By Friday’s repetitions, Sheila thought, Can I make up an excuse and cancel?

  But she couldn’t. There’ll just be another time.

  As it happened, Sheila and Jim arrived at the Dahlin townhouse to a subdued atmosphere. A soft Mozart record played in the background. After Marcelle’s uncharacteristically restrained welcome, she did a double-take of Jim in his blue sharkskin suit.

  He looks like an Irish Mafia member—an awfully handsome one. Sheila gave his hand a squeeze.

  “My, you are a striking pair.” Marcelle scrutinized Sheila’s sleeveless black sheath.

  Sheila fought back the urge to do a little twirl.

  Christopher had carefully trimmed light brown hair and wore a gray blazer boasting his private school insignia. After polite introductions, with the boy fidgeting as Marcelle provided details about his success on the soccer field, he held up a book about dinosaurs, and said, “Can I go read now?”

  “Stay here with us. And yes, you may read your book.”

  Clay was about six feet tall and thin, with a face surprisingly free of lines, much like Christopher’s. Boyishly shy, he was hardly an “oaf” as Marcelle had once described him. His tan suit showed signs of a recent press. The knees were a bit shiny. No way would one of his jackets have stretched across Jim’s broad shoulders.

  Marcelle guided them to a sofa with several fancy pillows placed on it, then took a seat on a pink satin brocade chair, never leaning into its straight back. She crossed her ankles so that the full skirt of her rose-colored cocktail dress draped nicely. She folded her hands as if posing for a portrait.

  Clay brought drinks according to their requests: Sheila a screwdriver, Jim a scotch on the rocks, Marcelle a sherry. Next, he carried in a tray with cheese-filled puff pastries.

  “Didn’t my husband do a marvelous job on these canapés?” Marcelle said. After they agreed, “Christopher-honey, put the book down and show Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher your collection.”

  Her son dutifully went upstairs to his bedroom and brought down a treasure box full of glittery mounted minerals like Sheila had seen in museum gift shops. They examined each rock and the printed description. This kept them occupied until his sitter, a gray-haired, bespectacled woman, arrived.

  In their blue Oldsmobile, Marcelle directed Clay every block of the way. In between instructions, she pointed out, “I buy all my produce at that stand,” and “There’s the park where Christopher plays soccer,” and “Our Southern Baptist church—Holy Spirit Temple—is right around the corner from here.”

  In the backseat, Sheila glanced at Jim. His face was creased into an irritated expression, as if he’d opened a closet and a box of junk had fallen out. That was the attitude Sheila expected when she first brought up this evening. Why did he decide to go?

  Hidden Harbor’s steaks were tough, but the hypnotist entertained them for two hours with volunteers from the audience clucking like chickens, dancing the tango, and skipping make-believe ropes to “Merrily We Roll Along.” Although none of their group of four went on stage, Mr. Robanco, eyebrows raised almost to his black peaked hairline, kept staring at Marcelle.

  Finally he said, “How about you, little lady? Want to come up?”

  Marcelle covered her mouth with a hand, and said, “Oh my no, I could never do such a thing.” Despite the charming reticence, she chortled at the more adventurous audience members and downed several whisky sours.

  Jim barely said a thing all evening, making Sheila fill in the lapses with blather about work and television programs and news articles. She felt tight breathlessness and wondered why she cared. They would never go out with this couple again. Still, she babbled on, feeling like if she spoke enough they wouldn’t notice her husband’s complete lack of interest.

  During the drive back to the townhouse, except for an intermittent snore, Marcelle stayed quiet, head lolling against Clay’s arm.

  In the townhouse parking lot, he said, “This was fun … we should get together again,” before carefully shifting her bobbing head onto the seat’s back, then stepping around to help Marcelle out of her side.

  “Soooo tired,” she moaned.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll get you to bed.”

  The Chevy’s headlights shone on night-blooming jasmine as Jim wheeled away. Sheila watched Clay hovering over Marcelle, holding one elbow, rubbing the small of her back while she bent toward the shrubberies, looking as if she searched for something.

  Jim didn’t seem to notice her getting sick. However, a couple of minutes later, with a sideways glance, he said, “How about your Mr. Chadwick—is he a lush too?”

  Johnny Cash sang on the radio. Sheila gripped her hands into fists. What would it be like to shoot a man—just to see him die?

  They drove the rest of the way to their apartment in silence. She stared out her window, watching lit-up store fronts flash by, sitting jammed against her door handle, wishing to be anyplace else other than inside his car.

  Marcelle never mentioned much about the evening out, except to say, “Such a lovely time.” She certainly didn’t say anything about getting drunk. />
  Soon after this, Jim came home to their apartment one night, and without preliminaries, said, “I’m seriously thinking of re-enlisting.”

  Sheila caught her breath, temporarily speechless. She had been preparing a special meal of spaghetti and meatballs, to try to make up for the last few silent days. She took the wooden spoon out of the bubbling sauce and threw it onto the counter. Thick red blobs flew. “I can’t believe you. Do I have an opinion on this?”

  “What difference does it make? I’m the one who has to choose a career. Before long, you’ll be home and having babies.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to stay home and have babies! I sure as hell don’t want to travel all over the world with these people.”

  “What’s wrong with these people? They’re my friends.” He paused and straightened his shoulders. “A lot better than your drunken Marcelle and that weird Kleven family.”

  “Yeah, like your friends are so great. The Rollys. Terrific people. Brenda was so loyal. And that sleazy Ted …”

  “Not everyone is like the Rollys. I’ve told you that before. Most of these guys do what they have to do, stay clean, and come home to their wives and kids after cruises. Besides, there won’t be that many times shipping out. I’m on base for almost two years, and there’ll be more shore assignments.”

  Calming a bit, she decided to take another tack. “You don’t have to decide for a long time, right?” If he had brought this up, Sheila felt certain that Jim was close to a firm decision. Maybe I can get him to reconsider.

  “The sooner I decide, the better.”

  “I can’t possibly agree to this. I don’t agree with anything about Vietnam. My God, lots of famous people are protesting. Even Cassius Clay …”

  “Cassius Clay … dumb nigger!”

  “Jim!” She’d never heard him say anything like this.

  “I didn’t know you felt so strongly.”

  “I do. We need to talk more before you do anything.”

  They argued and she cajoled for a month, but there was no resolution.

  “You didn’t have any choice before. You were going to be drafted. You have a choice now,” she’d reason.

  “It should be my choice,” he’d flash back in anger.

  Finally, she said, “I cannot live with someone who chooses to be in the military. You need to be by yourself, to see if this is what you really want to do.”

  It was decided that Jim would temporarily move to bachelor quarters on base, to think over his future. He packed a few things and left in the car that Sheila had saved to buy.

  She wept. But she also thought that according to the Church she was in this marriage forever. Along with her use of birth control, this was another reason to question her Catholicism. She couldn’t return to Minnesota alone, prove her father right. She couldn’t stay in Long Beach without Jim. She waited for him to come back to their apartment, or at least to call while these thoughts kept circling in her mind.

  When Jane heard about the separation, she expressed concern and commiseration. Fifteen minutes of this and she turned to her own worry. “I don’t know what’s got into Mary Beth. Since moving up north, she’s told us her name is ‘Willow Tree,’ which I think is damned ridiculous since she’s at least thirty pounds overweight. She’s so vague on the phone. I mentioned your predicament, and what does she come up with? ‘Send Sheila to San Francisco. We’ll make her feel better.’ It seems she has lots of friends.”

  A day or two after this conversation, Sheila called Mary Beth.

  “Doesn’t surprise me that you’d leave that guy,” Mary Beth said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know. He’s so … straight.”

  Sheila wasn’t sure what Mary Beth meant by this, but it sounded like a good way to describe Jim. “I guess he is pretty straight.”

  “I’d love for you to come here. San Francisco’s with it. A lot more fun than Long Beach.”

  Sheila wasn’t looking for “fun,” merely a change, and maybe the threat of her leaving would make Jim come to his senses.

  After a month, with no word from him, she gave two weeks’ notice at Douglas Aircraft, hoping he’d come back before those two weeks were up, so she could stay at her job. She’d saved quite a bit of money after the car purchase. If she did go, there’d be a loss of rent money, but this place was month to month like other apartments that rented to navy people.

  Jim never got in touch, and the two weeks ended. Sheila packed her own scant belongings.

  Looking around their second Long Beach apartment, she couldn’t help but think about Medio Street. This apartment also was furnished, The orange and brown fabrics on the sofa and chairs were a lot more colorful and less timeworn than the dingy beige vinyl. As she gathered her clothes and personal items together, Sheila remembered how happy they’d been, being together. Sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, she cried for the Murphy bed … and that feeling of being so much in love.

  Still, Sheila never considered reaching out to Jim and saying that she’d follow him wherever he decided to go.

  On her last day of work, Marcelle insisted on treating her to lunch at a nearby restaurant. “Since you have to leave, I want to give you a good send-off.” Giggling, she added, “The boys can fend for themselves.”

  She brought along a large box, gift-wrapped with purple blossom-covered paper. “Wisteria, like at home,” she said.

  Just like Mama’s burial lingerie.

  After salads, sparkling cider, and chocolate cupcakes, “To commemorate the occasion,” Marcelle pushed the box toward Sheila. “Open your present right away.”

  Inside, surrounded by lavender tissue paper, rested a large oval mirror with a gold filigreed frame, and a loop on the back for hanging. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. “Thank you so much,” Sheila said, wondering, Where in the world will I put it?

  “You can mount it or use it as a vanity tray for all your beauty enhancers—perfumes, lotions, sprays,” Marcelle informed, without being asked.

  Before leaving the apartment for good, leaving her key in the mailbox as the off-site manager had told her to do, Sheila looked at the mirror several times, hardly recognizing her own reflection—her well-cut hair, her tastefully-applied make up, her carefully pressed clothes. Have I turned into someone that woman at the attorneys’ firm would hire? Taken aback, she hoped not. She put the mirror, wrapped in its lavender paper, in a big box with other unnecessary things.

  Jane had said, “You can leave non-essentials with me. I’ll store them in my shed.”

  On the airplane, looking out her window, wishing she would see Jim racing along the tarmac, Sheila felt resigned. If he wants to find me, he’ll figure out a way.

  For Jim and Sheila, being together forever and ever lasted a little over two years.

  On that flight, her second ever, she wondered about Mr. and Mrs. Manager and how long his wife would last, if she wasn’t gone already. And she wondered about the Ancients, hoping when they finally went it was together. And, she wondered about the Bruisers, how many years their bodies could possibly hold up.

  Mostly, she wondered about Jim and herself. It sure wasn’t the way she’d hoped, planned, dreamed. Soon after he got shore duty, there never seemed to be a thing to talk about. Their new apartment turned into a shambles. And when the radio broke, they never bothered to replace it.

  The Liberty, an American Navy electronics ship in the Mediterranean, was mistakenly attacked by Israeli forces, and thirty-four crewmen were killed. In addition, there was an explosion on the Forrestal, another aircraft carrier in the Gulf of Tonkin. The accident started a blaze that left one hundred and thirty-four men dead and eighty wounded. The navy could be as dangerous as any other branch of the military.

  This didn’t matter so much to Sheila anymore. She had cut ties with the navy.

  PART 2
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  WANDERING

  CHAPTER 16

  Summer of Love

  IT WAS SATURDAY, AUGUST 5, 1967.

  Race riots had broken out in more than thirty cities, the worst in Detroit, where fourteen thousand paratroopers, National Guardsmen, state and local police quelled the disorder that left forty-two people killed, two thousand injured, and thirty-two hundred arrested.

  Is this insane? Sheila had left a perfectly good job and run off to parts unknown. The whole country seemed to be erupting with problems. But what else was she to do? Stay at a job she had grown to dislike under Marcelle’s constant scrutiny? Go to another department at Douglas and live with Jane? Start school at long last? A short time visiting Mary Beth seemed like the best answer. A change of scenery would give Sheila time to think. Jane was all for this. She wanted a firsthand report about Mary Beth’s circumstances in San Francisco. Sheila could get a job and start night school in January, when she came back to Long Beach, when things were resolved one way or the other with her and Jim. Those would be the stipulations. No re-enlistment. Sheila going to school.

  From the airport, she used a pay phone, plunking in all her change.

  “I’m glad you called,” Carl said. “More disturbing news around this place.”

  Oh great! She’d considered not calling them before she left for San Francisco, but decided, just in case, she better check in. She didn’t know when there’d be access to a telephone again.

  “About this baby.” Carl Doty had his usual disgusted tone of voice. “Things have progressed.”

  “How far along is she?”

  “A few months. Her folks are in an uproar. Demanding that they get married.”

  Sheila thought of all the times she and Jim had, with no plan or precautions, “gone all the way” when they were dating. They never got caught. Here was Tommy, in trouble again. Can’t he ever get a pass?