by Julie Kibler
All she really knew of him, beyond the stability she witnessed every day, was that he’d been married before. Maybe widowed. If he was divorced, she didn’t want to know any more than he’d want to hear about her buried past.
Pat sat now, and she pushed at him gently.
He rolled to the far edge. She switched off the lamp.
The fumbling that followed was unlike anything she’d expected. She’d expected haste, without much to-do. That was what her limited experience had taught her. If she’d still been a virgin, though, Pat would not have known. After he stubbornly refused to harden, he rolled away, silent. Mattie lay awake until dawn, waiting for him to stir, thinking they might try again.
He never moved.
At breakfast, he said, “Guess I’m too old after all.” He glared into his coffee cup as she slid eggs onto his plate from the fry pan.
“Guess we’ll have to work on it,” she said. “Maybe we’re just out of practice.”
He shrugged and pulled the newspaper closer and turned to the sport scores. “Maybe so.”
Mattie stirred cream into her coffee and swirled it around at the top of the mug.
It never really got better.
One day after work, while Mattie cleaned house, she shuffled through an envelope full of dated paperwork she found in Pat’s dresser drawer. She pulled one closer—a yellowed Peoria, Pekin, and Jacksonville Railroad employee identification card with Pat’s name and signature.
From 1873.
If he’d been sixty when they married in June, he would have been thirteen when it was issued. He’d mentioned working for the railroad in Illinois in his past, but thirteen seemed awfully young. She flipped over the card. It listed additional information, including his age at the time of issuance—Twenty-three years old.
If that card was correct, Pat was not a day under seventy now.
Twenty years between them suddenly expanded to thirty, and Mattie’s anger like hot air. If he’d lied about his age, what else might he have been less than honest about?
After dinner, Mattie said, “How old are you, Patrick Madigan?”
He scratched his Adam’s apple, his eyes rolled back as if doing the arithmetic.
“Seventy. You are seventy years old.”
He didn’t deny it. She thrust the identification card at him. “You wrote sixty on the wedding license.”
He began drawing circles on his plate with the tines of his fork. “Figured you’d think I was too old for marrying. And you’d probably have figured right. But I did want to marry you.”
She dropped her head onto her fist. Neither of them could do anything about it now, of course. But the joke was on her.
She felt lucky she had not quit the grill. She’d added up her savings, and decided she could put up with Mr. Gaston a while longer, in case Pat was not in as good of health as he appeared. Of course, Pat could die from old age before he died from failing health. But he could also live another twenty years. She’d made her bed. She would lie in it, as securely as possible.
Pat was a homebody. After his long workweeks—and at his age—Mattie guessed she couldn’t blame him, but she was stir crazy. She convinced him to take the trolley to the county fair that had mounted at the edge of town.
They arrived in time for the air show, then wandered through the exhibits. Pat grumbled all afternoon, claiming he hated crowds and felt suffocated everywhere they walked. He refused to enter the vaudeville tents.
Weary of arguing, she resolved to get a snack and then board the trolley home. While she waited on the midway for roasted pecans, Pat kept his back to the wall of the exposition hall, arms across his chest, as if someone might pick his pocket if he didn’t guard it. The line moved slowly, and she half worried he’d leave before she returned.
Young couples strolled past her, hand in hand, dreamy-eyed. For a minute, a person could believe romance was real. But she’d decided romance was a sham—and mostly a matter of convenience.
Suddenly, her eye was drawn by a flurry of motion. A woman stood before Pat, small and hunched and much older than Mattie. Pat’s face froze in apparent shock, maybe even fear. The woman pointed at Mattie, and Mattie shrank, almost reflexively. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but this woman seemed to think so. She scowled, though her eyes sagged, more weary than anything. But then—whack!—she slapped Pat’s cheek, leaving him reeling as if she’d knocked him off balance. She stalked away, casting a nasty glare at Mattie. Mattie was nearly at the front of the line but hurried to Pat. He was doubled over, hands on his knees and breathing hard.
She grasped his arm and straightened him up, then brushed him off, as if he had fallen. “Pat, what did that woman want? Why did she sock you?”
It seemed obvious, but she wanted to hear it from Pat.
“Guess I didn’t leave things off very good. She’s jealous. Forget it.”
Jealous? Mattie wondered. Pat wasn’t exactly a catch, even if steady in everything he did—or did not—do. If she’d known he had someone else, she would have told him to move along. But what could she do now? They were married.
They rode the trolley home in silence. Pat glanced at her now and then. Silence was not her gift, but at this point she had nothing more to say and nothing more to ask. She didn’t really want to know.
* * *
—
Mattie stewed until she realized she’d lose her mind. It felt as if she’d be stuck with Pat forever, but she couldn’t waste all the good years she had left being bitter.
At the Home, they’d taught the girls civics. The church took civic duties seriously, but Mattie had never been one to get involved in politics. The Nazarenes permitted women to preach and teach, so naturally, they thought they should have the vote, but she’d mostly looked past the suffragettes who came around the hotel and grill early on. They’d wanted Mama Stell to post placards at the counter. Mr. Gaston had put his foot down, but even without their participation, Oklahoma had passed women’s suffrage in ’18, right in the midst of the Spanish Flu epidemic—and right when Mama Stell died—though the governor had kept the vote secret for weeks before it came to public notice. The national amendment was ratified around the time Mattie learned about Pat’s age. In both cases, she’d been too blanketed in self-pity to care.
Labor unions had made big inroads in OKC, more each year, and the hotel and restaurant employees local of the national union was gaining a stronger foothold in the area recently. In February, the treasurer came by the grill. He invited her to their meetings, held nearly every Monday evening, with a special visit by the mayor coming up the next week. Mattie nodded and smiled, with no intention of going. She’d always paid her dues as a matter of conscience, aware the union rules had saved her skin a few times at the hotel.
But Monday, she left a stew simmering and a note: Gone to union meeting. Serve yourselves.
The meeting was at eight—who in a union of so many cooks and waiters could have attended if it fell at the supper hour?
Downtown, she wandered, amused at how daring she’d felt walking alone all those years ago when she’d just arrived. She could hold her own anywhere now. Who was left to fuss?
She arrived at the hall a half hour early. It was decorated for the mayor’s appearance, with refreshments laid out on several tables. She spotted familiar faces with relief. Her world had shrunk since marrying Pat—down to her lodgers and regulars at the grill.
A woman she’d worked with at the hotel pulled her into a group discussing who was hiring and who was firing. Mattie had little in common with these women anymore. When the meeting began, Jeanette waved her up front to sit with them, but she shook her head. She’d leave soon. Breakfast started early at the grill.
She remembered that the young girl next to her had worked in the hotel laundry. She’d been fifteen when Mattie quit—too young to work so hard. But it was
the way for many. It had been for Mattie.
“Hey, honey,” she said, “what’s new?”
Nora smiled and shrugged. At seventeen, she’d matured into a pretty thing, her thick, shiny hair pulled into a braided bun, her skin like china except for her hands—red and rough, the dead giveaway for a laundry girl, along with the perfume of detergent and starch.
“Still at the hotel?” Mattie lowered her voice as the press secretary ascended the podium.
“For now,” Nora said. “My ma married a man with a laundry. I’ll go to work for him soon. Came because I like the cookies—and getting out of the house.”
Mattie couldn’t argue. “Which laundry?”
“Edward’s, off Robinson.”
“Really?” Mama Stell had used Henry’s for years, but lately the sheets came back with spots, and the towels smelled off. “Suppose they’d give me a good deal?”
The girl nodded. “Sure. Come by in a week or two. I’ll tell them I know you.”
They quieted for the secretary’s report. The biggest news was a warrant on the treasurer. He’d left town, taking the money with him. Mattie gasped along with the rest. The man had seemed so trustworthy when he’d come by the grill.
Next, the mayor spoke. The local government was in a battle with businesses that wouldn’t allow their employees to organize. He presented the union’s international labor organizer, in town for the meeting, with a Kodak camera to show the city’s appreciation.
Mattie intended to leave after the speeches, but the refreshments were compelling—sandwiches, cake and ice cream, prepared by someone else’s hands. She hadn’t eaten ice cream in a month of Sundays, and extra fat never haunted her skinny frame.
There was fruit punch, but the drinks table offered another choice: beer. She’d never had even a sip. Pat wasn’t a teetotaler, but they didn’t keep alcohol in the house. She couldn’t live without coffee these days, but she’d never had the desire to take up drinking, even after the church took her off the membership rolls.
She glanced around, as if someone might stop her after all, and then selected a glass, balancing it alongside her sandwich and cake. She found her hotel friends again and was happy to see she wasn’t the only woman with beer. Her first sip made her pucker. But after a few bites of sandwich, it improved. Better than Oklahoma water for sure. She finished the glass with her sandwich, and another washing down cake.
She felt exactly the same as always. She’d seen enough drunks to know what that looked like. As the hour passed, she relaxed in the company of other women as they laughed and passed stories of work and family.
When Mattie rose to leave, Jeanette offered to walk her. It was only a few blocks. “Don’t leave on my account,” Mattie said.
“Honey, you’re three sheets to the wind.”
Mattie had no idea what she meant. She shrugged.
“You’re drunk!” Jeanette laughed. “No wonder. You were always a church girl, right? I mean, a real serious one.”
Mattie didn’t feel drunk. “Not anymore. And I’m fine.” She covered a hiccup.
“I’d never let you go alone like this. You’d be on your face on the sidewalk.”
Mattie shrugged again, still hiccupping. She could tell she was wobbly now that she was on her feet. Jeanette grabbed her elbow as they left the building. A man fell into step with them.
“That’s my cousin Jim. He’s a good guy. Works down Reno from the Liberty. He’ll see us home.”
Mattie ogled him, tilting her head around Jeanette. She winked. “Thank ya, Jimbo,” she called, mimicking the mayor’s jovial tone. “You’re a real gent!”
Jim chuckled but kept his distance. He was a looker. And he did seem like a gentleman. He’d caught Mattie’s eye a few times before and after the meeting, when he’d talked nearby with Jeanette’s husband. She’d wondered why he’d looked at a woman like her, practically middle-aged and plain as fruit punch, when lots of prettier—and younger—girls had filled the hall. He could have his pick. She sighed loudly and concentrated on keeping her steps from veering too far left or right.
By the time they reached their block, the cool February air had knocked some sense into her, and her earlier boldness had passed. Thank goodness Jeanette had taken her in hand.
Jim watched from the corner until they reached Mattie’s stairs. What would he think if he knew she was a married woman? She’d winked at him. But it wouldn’t matter. She’d never show her face at the local again. The others were certainly laughing at her now.
Upstairs, she let herself inside. They’d begun locking up recently. Mama Stell had never locked the door, but Pat thought they ought to. The neighborhood was going down.
He was asleep in Mama Stell’s chair—she could never bring herself to call it anything else. She’d wondered if she could stand to keep it, knowing from Pat that her surrogate mother had drawn her last breath in it. Mattie avoided it at first, but one evening, she’d collapsed in it, worn out, and it embraced her like a big hug from Mama. The chair had stayed.
Pat startled at the sound of her turning the lock behind her. She’d fumbled, her coordination off. “Who’s that?” he said, his voice gruff. He struggled up from the chair, squinting. She reached to kiss his cheek, even though things were cool between them.
Pat grasped her arms and held her off. “Good God, woman, you smell like a bread factory!” Her face flushed, and she hung her head. Recognition dawned on his face. “Union local meeting, huh? You’ve been to the local bar, that’s what.” He pushed her away. “Get to bed. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
Her face went hotter. He had no right to speak this way. “You may be old enough to be my father, but you will not say what I can and cannot do.”
Pat leaned his face close to hers. “You’re my wife. That means I can. I won’t have you sneaking around and drinking—and on a Monday.” He scoffed.
“Because you’re my husband?” Mattie allowed the words to linger between them.
He stalked to the bedroom. She slept in Mama Stell’s chair. It was still warm from Pat’s nap, but that wasn’t what she took from it.
The next morning, he left for work without a word. Over supper, she apologized for coming home smelling of booze and assured him she’d only tried beer the first time. She acknowledged it was completely out of character. But she’d enjoyed the social setting, and intended to attend again, even if it meant the others would tease her about the night. She promised not to drink.
The next week, he observed her departure with tense shoulders and wary eyes. She knew what worried him. Not the beer.
If she made new friends, she might not need him at all.
CATE
Arlington, Texas
2017
Between writing in my notebooks—more than one now—I work, eat now and then, and sleep when I’m exhausted. When my appointment day arrives, I leave Diana a message. She calls to check in, and I tell her I can’t stop. She’s not surprised. “Call me when you’re finished.”
I keep going.
The day the semester ends, I hesitate as Laurel leaves work. I’m tempted to go after her, but I don’t. I check the housing website to reassure myself the dorms are open even through the long holidays. Five whole weeks. I’m not a person she needs right now.
Not yet.
Except, after I’ve been off work five days, and I haven’t left my apartment other than picking up microwavable food—and additional notebooks—my doorbell rings, startling me where I sit near three filled notebooks, with another half full in front of me.
I consider ignoring the bell, but there’s been a spate of recent burglaries. Through the peephole, I see Laurel. Her hands are jammed inside her pockets, and she looks so nervous I worry something’s wrong. I have to answer. Of course I do. I glance at my notebooks. I’m not ready to share these, not with anyone. I call,
“Just a minute,” then stuff them inside my work tote.
“Hi,” I say, when I answer the door, cautiously. Hopefully.
“Don’t say anything,” she says. “Let me talk.”
I nod. I wasn’t planning to, though my heart races with concern.
“I shouldn’t have called you a hypocrite,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, honey,” I say, shaking my head. “You were so right. But I’m learning. I’m trying anyway.”
“Well, that’s all I wanted to say.” She stands there, her arms crossed over her chest, over that same old ratty T-shirt, as if she isn’t sure where else to put them.
But I know what to do with them. I grab her elbows, gently, and tug. “Come in. We have things to talk about.”
She starts crying before she hugs me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” I say, hugging her right back. “And Laurel? I’m so thankful you’re more mature than I am.” And just like that, our laughter overtakes our tears.
I microwave two frozen dinners. Laurel claims they taste better than what she’s been eating all week. I make a mental note to ask about that later.
I tell her to prepare herself, that this story is going to take time. And I warn her it may surprise her, might even make her nervous. I’m not sure how she’ll feel when I tell her about River. Will she think I’m creepy? That I have ulterior motives? A woman my age, with my history, befriending a younger one? Is that normal? I don’t know. It’s all new territory.
I should have known better. Laurel is a product of her generation. She has friends who have been in same-sex relationships since middle school—with many, if not most of them, certain of their orientation since they were old enough to experience first crushes. It’s still not easy, she says. Parents get upset. Kids get kicked out. And few of them go to church, because churches, in general, are still bastions of judgment masquerading as refuges of grace and acceptance.
Few of her peers believe these preferences are perverted or wrong—at least not openly—or that sexual orientation is a matter of choice. Why would anyone intentionally choose to love differently, she says, knowing they could be shunned for it? And why would anyone choose the inevitable prejudice or heartache if the alternative was their natural instinct?
