At home, she found her copy of “Minnesota Movers!” in the coffee-table drawer and proceeded to deface the brochure put out by the governor’s office, one that Joan Dwyer had ordered for everyone in the office because it featured her boss on the cover.
Pressing deeply into the slick paper, Shelly proceeded to give Bill McGrath’s smiling visage a cross-eyed gaze, devil’s horns, and the letter A on his forehead. The ink was dark blue and not scarlet, but the point was obvious.
Dinner was a can of SpaghettiOs with a rum and Tab for an appetizer and one for dessert, and when she washed the dishes, her glass wasn’t included in the cleanup because she wasn’t done using it.
With one of the mysteries she’d checked out of the library, she settled herself on the forest-green corduroy couch Ray had insisted they buy, even though it wasn’t on sale (she had hated that he was a spendthrift; although the couch had certainly held up far longer than their marriage), but she couldn’t concentrate and didn’t care who in fact had killed Reginald Tromley, the village vicar, and tossed the book aside.
Squatting by the television set, she spun the dial, but there was nothing on any of the eight channels broadcast in Granite Creek, and she bumped the on-off dial with the palm of her hand, agitated and angry.
“I should call his wife,” Shelley muttered, but upon seeing the notepad next to the phone, she had a better idea. In her round and bloated script, she wrote:
Dear Mrs. McGrath,
Who I am is not important, but what is is that your husband is having an affair with Haze Evans, yes, the same happy-flappy columnist who’s so popular and who everyone says is “just so wonderful” and “so insightful” and “someone who makes me think about my life.” Ha! I used to think all these compliments were a little over the top when they’d call into the paper (oops, have I given you a clue as to who I am?). Little do all those readers know what I and now you know—that that “wonderful” and “insightful” columnist is a big, fat fraud who happens to be banging her boss! (Sorry for being so crude, but that’s the truth.)
I hope you’ll let the world know about your husband (I can’t, I need my job) and that big, fat fraud who yammers on about love or loyalty or honor or her dead husband. Remember that column she wrote last week about her youth pastor back in Podunkville, North Dakota, and how he taught her how “faith is a verdant field that can tolerate seeds of doubt” or some bullshit? Wonder what that youth pastor would have to say about adultery?
Wonder what you’ll say?
Shelly addressed an envelope and even put a stamp on it, but by the end of the night, she had ripped it up into tiny pieces, not wanting to be the messenger of such life-changing news.
Part Three
15
Trembling, Caroline sits next to Haze’s hospital bed.
Although she will admit to feeling fury when she opens her cable bill, reading her mail does not usually elicit such strong emotion in the young woman, but the day’s delivery has included a letter from her mother. While an avid and enthusiastic user of e-mail and the telephone, Mrs. Abramson will occasionally collect her deeper thoughts in a letter (i.e., a notecard busy with bees, butterflies, or flowers) and send them to her daughter in the States.
This particular letter, however, does not contain her views of another government blunder or news of their neighbor’s backyard bacchanalia that brought a visit from the police, or the analysis of a Bible verse; no, what makes Caroline shake is the news that her mother’s coming to visit.
“Mercedes,” says Caroline, and standing up, she opens her arms wide and drapes them around the nurse, the gesture surprising both women.
“I’m sorry,” says Caroline, pulling away.
“No, no, don’t be sorry,” says Mercedes, who is genuinely happy that her daughter’s reserved partner has greeted her so enthusiastically. “That was nice.” As the young woman sits back down next to Haze’s bed, Mercedes asks, “Carolina, what’s wrong?”
Like a child thinking she can stop crying by scrunching up her face, Caroline does just that, but the muscle contractions don’t work, and tears leak out of the sides of her eyes.
“Oh, mi querida,” says Mercedes. “What is it?”
Several soggy tissues later, Caroline has composed herself enough to tell Mercedes about her mother’s visit.
“I wish I could tell her,” says Caroline. “I mean, I know she loves me, and I love her, but she and my whole family—they’re pretty religious. I mean really religious.”
“Ey,” says Mercedes. Christina has told her about Caroline’s fear of coming out to her family, but to hear the anguish in the young woman’s voice makes her angry and sad at the same time. “Can I do anything to help?”
Caroline’s smile is quick and wide, and she dabs at her eyes with her fingertips.
“Well, would you mind being over when I tell her? It’d probably be a good idea to have a nurse around.”
MANUEL HAD ALWAYS BEEN THE MORE GOD-FEARING of the two, and while Mercedes respected his deeply held feelings, she couldn’t say she shared them. Her first indication that the church didn’t value her occurred when she asked her mother when she might be an altar boy like her older brother Ernesto.
“That is not a girl’s job!” said her mother, her voice an exclamation and a scold.
It didn’t take long to realize that she was a second-class citizen in the eyes of the church, and as she grew, she understood she held the same status in society and government, but it was the church’s failure to celebrate and honor who she was, who all girls and women—except the Virgin Mary!—were, that hurt and angered her the most.
Manny’s faith in the church had begun to falter when he understood how much it was opposed to the person his daughter was.
“God gave us Christina,” said Manuel at one of their kitchen-table conferences. “So how can we tell God He was wrong?”
“God is not wrong,” said Mercedes, “but the church is.” She didn’t add, “Haven’t I been telling you that for years?”
After Manny died, her friends at Holy Rosary provided solace, but when she moved to Minnesota, she joined no church and in fact spent her Sunday mornings working at the hospital, which for her was a form of worship.
SHE WOULD HAVE LIKED TO STAY and talk with Caroline, but she had other patients to attend to, and after checking Haze’s vitals and tucking the blanket around her—Mercedes was convinced it comforted sick people to be cocooned in their covers—she hugged the young woman.
“Whatever you need from me, let me know. If you want me to talk to your mother, make her tamales—anything—I would love to help where I can.”
Caroline’s eyes continued their tear lubrication, and she hugged Mercedes back, hard.
“Thank you.”
June 27, 1976
Well, the big news* around the news office last Friday was the Granite Creek girls’ volleyball team playing in the state tournament, right on the fourth anniversary of the enactment of Title IX, which supposedly will level the playing field between boy and girl athletes, or at least level the field on which they play. Don’t get me wrong; I’m thrilled that that which was denied for girls so long—the opportunity to participate on school teams that play against other school teams—is now available. Maybe there truly will be some parity in junior high and high school sports programs, but when the girls get to college, I sincerely doubt that their sports will get the attention and, most of all, funding, that boys’ sports do. I hope I’m wrong.
I for one was a very good ball player. In grade school, all the boys wanted me on their team because the balls I hit were often home runs and the balls I fielded often resulted in a double play, or at least an out. In summer, we’d gather at the park and play until supper and then after supper until it got dark. I have fond memories of walking home with Andy Pruitt and discussing, with great seriousness, our dream teams to play on—he loved the New York Yankees, while I was enamored with the Boston Red Sox. Even if he thought, “What are you, crazy�
��girls can’t grow up to be pro ball players!” he never expressed it, because he knew, at that point in time, I was just as good as he was.
Things began to change, of course, in junior high when we all started seeing one another not just as fellow human beings but as BOYS or GIRLS, and the boys started puffing out their chests and braying, and the girls started hunching their shoulders and giggling. I was still allowed to play ball but began to hear comments that had no place among teammates and certainly no place in a family newspaper, and by high school, well, forget it. If you were an athletic girl, you could try out for the cheerleading squad or the dance line.
I did play on an intermural basketball team after school, our schedule determined by when the boys needed the gym to practice.
It’s true, our physiology is different, and hips and less muscle mass and a lower center of gravity affect us so that in competition with a man, we’d come in second, but in the sports world, someone always comes in second, or third, or fourth . . .
And we’re in the midst of baseball season, and I’m a proud rooter for the Twins, but am I the only one disheartened that something that is supposedly “America’s Pastime” is only represented by men?
There is such a long list of Things Girls Aren’t Supposed to Do, and I celebrate that one item is crossed out. So to Title IX, I’ll raise a glass of the elderberry wine that Ed Dyson puts out every year (I’m no sommelier, but this stuff’s good!) and toast to girls given an opportunity to come in first, second, third, or fourth. To at least be in the game.
*I exaggerate. Another female staffer mentioned that the weather seemed to get more coverage.
To the Editor:
I am so tired of these feminist tracts from your columnist that I’d cancel my subscription if there were another local paper I could read! Honestly, what is her problem? God made men, and God made women, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Why does Haze Evans feel women’s strengths aren’t enough?
Please stop this continual pollution of your paper by this radical hag’s screeds.
Mr. Joseph Snell
MR. SNELL HAD BEEN PARTICULARLY BUSY in the 1970s, responding to nearly every column Haze wrote with a letter explaining why the column was (a) stupid, (b) a waste of time, or (c) the product of an out-of-control feminist and/or radical hag. In response to Haze’s column about the premiere of the late-night comedy show Saturday Night Live, Mr. Joseph Snell wrote, “What’s a bigger waste of time—reading about an inane, smug comedy show, or reading an inane, smug column about it?” After her column about the averted nuclear catastrophe at Three Mile Island, he wrote, “The clean and efficient benefits of a nuclear-powered world far outweigh the cries of ‘we’re doomed!’ by a left-wing/anti-science contingent that think the sun and wind can solve our energy problems!” And even when Haze wrote about Mother Teresa winning the Nobel prize, her harshest critic was outraged by the recipe she included.
HEAVENLY HONEY MUFFINS
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup sugar
½ t salt
3 t baking powder
1 egg
1 cup milk
¼ cup butter, softened
¼ cup honey
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine the first four ingredients in a bowl. In another bowl, whisk the last four ingredients, and stir into the dry ingredients until just moistened. Spoon/pour batter in greased muffin cups until three-quarters full. Bake 15–18 minutes or until inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove muffins from pan to a wire rack. Serve these heavenly muffins warm or cold—food for angels either way!
To the Editor:
I appreciated that Haze Evans devoted a whole column to the holy work of Mother Teresa, and I would suggest that the columnist do herself a big favor by trying for one day to exemplify Mother Teresa and dedicate herself to serving others rather than serving herself. And her use of the words “heavenly” and “angels” in her recipe was childish and unnecessary.
COMING HOME EARLY that evening from the conference, Susan had thrown together what she thought was a not-so-special dinner of salad and reheated chili, which they’d eaten out on the patio. But the fact that all through the meal Sam had been as solicitous as a maître d’ (“Can I get you some more water, Mom?”) and was now helping her do the dishes without being asked makes Susan think she should put chili on a more regular dinner menu rotation.
“Mom,” Sam says, putting away a handful of silverware. “Why do you think that Snell guy hated Haze so much?”
Washing a serving bowl, Susan laughs. It’s not that the question is so funny; she’s just near-giddy that Sam continues to be engaged in a conversation with her.
“I don’t think he hated her so much as disagreed with her opinions.”
Along with one of Haze’s old columns, they’d published one of his many rejoinders in the paper that day.
“Yeah, but the names he calls her, like ‘radical hag’? I mean, shouldn’t he attack the ideas and not the person behind them? And would he be calling her those kinds of names if Haze was a guy?”
My boy’s growing up, Susan thinks, stifling her urge to hug him (she doesn’t want to scare him off). She passes him a rinsed bowl and notices how tall he’s getting.
“I think most of the time ‘Mr. Joseph Snell,’”—Sam smiles at her exaggerated intonation—“tried to only argue his point, but you’re right, that he resorted to name-calling—and sexist name-calling—was beneath him. I think that’s why Granddad chose to publish only a small percentage of his letters.”
Nodding, Sam wipes the bowl, and then he continues this evening of surprise by asking his mother if she’d like to go back out on the patio, because it’s so nice out there and would she like him to make her some coffee?
It’s Susan’s ritual to end dinner with a cup of decaf, and that Sam has offered to make her some (does he even know how?) and wants to spend even more time with her renders her mute for a moment. Finally, staring at the draining sink water, she says, “That sounds good.”
Outside, after he serves her coffee, he clears his throat, and says, “Mom, I’ve got something to show you.”
So that’s it, Susan thinks, her heart thudding. He’s been softening me up for the blow.
Her son’s voice is so serious, deeper than usual. Is he going to pull up his shirt and show her a baseball-sized lump pressing out of his rib cage? Or a devil tattooed on his bicep? Or will he slap down, like a resigned Vegas blackjack dealer, photos of Phil and his dental hygienist attending to more than teeth?
With a sheepish smile and a flush to his face, Sam says, “I’ll be right back.”
And he is, holding under his arm a wooden box, which he sets on the iron-mesh patio tabletop.
Susan stares at the words Pirate Booty etched into it before looking up at Sam, who answers the question in his mother’s eyes by saying, “It’s filled with Haze’s stuff. Letters. A journal. I found it in her office.”
Now Susan’s forehead tamps down, furrows.
“I probably shouldn’t have read what’s inside it,” says Sam, nearly breathless. “But I did. I was sitting in her office yesterday—I mean, I was working, not just sitting—anyway, I was looking up at her bookshelf and saw this box that . . . well, that wasn’t a book. And I found a key too—in her drawer—and it fit.”
Not knowing what to say, let alone think, Susan stares at her son.
“I know, I know, it’s kind of like a break-in,” says Sam, opening the box. “I thought that the whole time. But I also thought, well, she left this stuff in her office . . .”
He hands his mother a journal and a packet of letters. “It’s all about Haze and your grandpa. They were . . . well, here, read.”
Susan watches openmouthed as he lurches out of his chair and runs inside the house before she can say anything. After a moment, she closes her mouth and unfolds a piece of lined white paper. The first two words under the date make her gasp.
Darling Haze,
She st
ares at those words. They’re written in the same slanted, angular penmanship her grandfather used when writing her notes and letters when she lived in California, but her grandfather never addressed her as “Darling.”
She reads on.
You were absolutely splendid at last night’s banquet—my God, woman, your wit is as deadly as your looks! And where did you get that dress? It was a faithful servant, complementing your curvature and making you look even more radiant than ever, and you know I love when you wear your beautiful brown hair up. You look like a sexy Gibson Girl.
Your speech was fine and funny, but I’m sure you recognized that by the many laughs that filled the room. I had to sit on my hands to stop them clapping after your every word, to press my lips together so I wouldn’t offer up well-deserved but inappropriate wolf whistles.
All I could think of was how much I wanted to get out of my tuxedo and into your arms. Made it a little hard to give my own speech after yours—know that my mind was on you instead of excellence in journalism or whatever the hell I gave my speech about.
Yours, of course,
B
LIKE AN ARCHAEOLOGIST holding a piece of ancient papyrus that’s revealed to be a love letter from Mark Antony to Cleopatra, Susan stares at the paper, stunned. Her breath is shallow in her chest, and she feels flushed. She wants to swallow, but how can she when her throat feels completely blocked?
“Honey, bring me another beer, will you?” The voice of her neighbor Jeff Larson carries over the hedge as well as the voice of his wife, Laurie, who calls back, “Not until you unload the dishwasher like you promised!” If Phil were there, he’d call back to them, making some sort of joke like, “And Jeff, when you’re done, will you bring me a beer too?” Phil was King of the Block; he knew everyone in the neighborhood much better than Susan and told her juicy gossip about people she waved to but barely knew.
Chronicles of a Radical Hag (with Recipes) Page 15
