by Peggy Webb
See, this is another thing I’m talking about. Jenny would laugh over the pink elephant reference, but I’m standing in my kitchen wondering why Mom won’t come right out and tell me in plain English.
Not that I’m jealous of Jenny. It’s just that I feel I’ve failed in some way to be the kind of person that would make Mom pat the covers on her bed (as she did with Jenny) and say, Hop in and we’ll giggle over secrets.
“I know this all seems sudden and bizarre to you, Kate. You’re rational like Howard.”
See, that’s just what I mean. Mom always views me as outside the exclusive girls’ circle.
“Well…yeah, it does, Mom. I can’t understand why you’re not here working things out.”
“I guess this sounds lame, but I have to work things out in my own way. And not just with your father. With me, Kate. I don’t know who I am anymore, and until I do, I’m not of much use in Tupelo making pies on Sunday and doing the laundry on Tuesday.”
Mom says goodbye, tells me she’ll call again, and I go into the laundry room to take Rick’s shirts out of the dryer feeling totally inadequate. What’s wrong with doing laundry and making pies and keeping a nice house for your family? Mom did it for years without complaint. Am I going to wake up one day when I’m fifty and think, Hey, I don’t want to do this anymore?
And why can’t I talk to Mom about these things? Would she and I be laughing together and sharing confidences if I had run off like Jenny on the back of a Harley?
All of a sudden I can’t bear to fold shirts. I go upstairs where Bonnie is sleeping and stand in her doorway thinking, Please. Please don’t ever let her feel as if she can’t talk to her own mother.
CHAPTER 6
“Is sleeping late a character flaw?”
—Beth
Day three: I decide that if I’m going to find myself, I might as well start with my cheekbones. Dressed in sweats over my swimsuit, I head to Pensacola Bay.
One of my best memories of growing up is jogging on the beach every morning with Aunt Bonnie Kathleen. While we did our warm-ups and cooldowns we’d talk, some of the few times we ever said anything more significant than What time will you be home? What do you want for supper? and When was the last time you watered the petunias?
I remember asking her one morning what she would do differently if she could start over.
“I’d wear real silk instead of the imitation kind,” she said. “I’d get a manicure every week and I might even get a pedicure, too, and paint my toenails red.”
At seventeen I didn’t understand what Aunt Bonnie Kathleen, in her obscure way, was trying to tell me. At fifty-three I know she was saying she’d allow the real woman trapped inside to come out and face the world.
She never did allow that woman to come out, but thirty-six years later I’m bursting forth, shucking my cocoon and hoping to emerge the woman I was born to be. I don’t know yet exactly who that is, but at the very least it’s going to be a woman who is physically fit.
I park under the shade of a live oak, then walk briskly to the edge of the water to start my stretches, a few toe touches, which ought to be simple. The TV exercise gurus make this look easy, but believe me, they’re lying. When I bend over, some body part I didn’t know I had creaks, and for a minute I think I’m going to be stuck in this position for the rest of my life.
Grunting and groaning helps me get upright, and I decide to forego the warm-up. Just cut to the chase. Get on the sand and jog.
The first five yards are easy, but then things get complicated. Instead of spraying up behind my flying feet, the sand just sucks me in and tries to hold me captive.
A quarter mile down the beach I’m heaving and panting, convinced I’m fixing to die of exertion.
“Hello, there.”
I look up to see the lovely elderly couple who frequent this beach, strolling from the opposite direction. Both tall and slender, they walk with the grace of dancers. I imagine this is how Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire looked in their golden years. They introduce themselves as Ken and Irma Price, and then ask if there’s anything they can do to help me.
“Oxygen and a wheelchair would be nice.” When I laugh to show I’m kidding, they join in, and I hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Beth Martin.”
“We’ve been noticing you,” Irma says. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m from Tupelo.”
“Welcome to Pensacola,” Ken tells me, and when I thank him, he and his gracious wife continue their stroll.
I find the nearest sand dune to sit and catch my breath, then pull my cell phone out of my pocket to call Jane and tell her about my failed attempt to lose ten pounds.
“Lord, Beth, you can’t do it all in one day.”
“I won’t do it at all if it involves this kind of exertion. I’m with Joan Rivers—if God had meant for me to bend over he’d have put diamonds on the floor.”
“You didn’t call just to tell me this, Beth.”
“No, I called to ask about Howard. Have you seen or heard from him?”
“I saw him yesterday morning when he got the mail. We waved, but that’s all.”
“How did he look?”
“He was on his porch, I was on mine. Beth, if you’re asking how he feels about your being gone, why don’t you ask him? Or better yet, tell him how you feel.”
“I wrote him a letter, but I didn’t mail it.”
“Why not?”
“I honestly don’t know. Howard’s always so right, and I’m always so…oh, I don’t know…like somebody with two left feet. But, hey, what about you? What’s going on?”
She tells me about her daughter-in-law Mary’s promotion at the bank and her grandson Ben’s new tooth. After we say goodbye I call Laura Phelps to take a rain check on our shopping trip to Memphis and Emmaline Brooks to cancel the book club luncheon.
I’m getting ready to call Grace York to tell her I won’t be at the symphony board meeting when she calls me.
“Beth? I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve been trying to reach you at home, and finally got Howard. He gave me your cell phone number.”
Isn’t that just like Howard? He makes himself available to the whole world via his cell and can’t understand why I only give my cell number to my family and my real friends. Grace is not one of them. She’s chairman of the board I’m on, but other than that she just wants to pester me to death about meetings or drag some gossip out of me.
“I won’t be at the board meeting Thursday night,” I tell her.
“Yes, I heard that already. I never dreamed you and Howard were having trouble.”
“I’m just vacationing, Grace.”
“By yourself? I’d be careful about that if I were you. I know at least three women who’d be more than happy to snatch Howard up.”
I don’t ask Grace who, instead I tell her I have something important to take care of, and the minute I hang up I fall victim to small-town gossip. Who are those women and what will I do if Howard gets tired of waiting for a wife who ran away and decides to turn his attention—and his pocketbook—to somebody who’s willing to stay home and wash his socks and give him the adoring Nancy Reagan smile?
Maybe I want him to, anyway. Maybe I don’t want a future with Howard. But if that turns out to be true, I’d better darned well be prepared to fend for myself.
True, Aunt Bonnie Kathleen left me financially secure, but that money wouldn’t be enough to last the rest of my life. If I’m truly going to be an independent woman—married or unmarried—I’d better figure out if I have what it takes to make my own living.
A svelte body will have to wait. Hurrying back to the Palm Breeze, I grab my composition book and sun hat, then sit on a pink plastic chair on the concrete patio and work on my symphony.
Day four: I am still at the Palm Breeze, a bit thinner, a bit more content and working on my symphony. But the only things I’m certain about are that I miss my children and friends, I miss my dog and truth to tell, I even miss Ho
ward.
If I’m going to reinvent myself, I’d better get busy because so far I’ve only done about a tenth of the job. I could lie here all morning mulling over my future. Instead I roll out of bed at the crack of nine.
Thank goodness I’m not interested in getting worms because I’m surely not an early bird. By the time I get to the beach and spread my gear, Ken and Irma are already there.
I wave and they wave, and then I wonder if my laggard ways explain why it has taken me twenty years to finish my symphony. If I had rolled out of bed at five instead of crawling back under the covers saying, Oh God, it can’t be morning, maybe I’d have something to show for my time besides a stomach that looks like a cream-filled doughnut and untoned legs that scream, Help! after a quarter mile plod on the beach.
As much as I want to, I’m not going to call my children today because every time I do I’m sucked backward and end up feeling as if I’ve consigned them to orphanhood. Especially Kate.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about her. I see her making the same mistakes I made, and I feel helpless to stop it.
Good mothers-in-law butt out is what Jane once told me, and I know that good mothers guide their children instead of lecturing them. For years I’ve butted out and shut up while Kate has barreled down the same path I took—being a woman who tends to everybody’s needs except her own.
If it’s not too late for me, then maybe it’s not too late for Kate. Maybe the best thing I can do for her is set a shining example, be multifaceted instead of one-dimensional.
I take out my composition book and music transports me to creative vistas of the mind until my rumbling stomach reminds me that I didn’t eat breakfast and all I brought to the beach is a pack of Nabs.
I’m peeling back the cellophane on my processed cheese and crackers when Ken and Irma show up with a picnic basket.
“When I saw you eating Nabs, I said, ‘Ken, why don’t we share our lunch with Beth?’”
“We hope you don’t mind,” Ken says. “Our children are scattered across five states and, except for our grandson, Adam, we don’t get a chance to talk to many young people.”
I almost burst into tears. Unexpected kindness always does that to me.
“That’s very sweet. Are you sure I won’t be intruding?”
“Of course not. I always cook enough for a logrolling.” Irma passes the fried chicken. “We had six kids and I never got out of the habit.”
Chicken is Howard’s favorite food, and the first time I ever attempted to fry it was on our first anniversary. Aunt Bonnie Kathleen taught me everything there was to know about books and art and music, but nothing at all about cooking. Her idea of a home-cooked meal was macaroni and cheese out of a box. Anyway, I used too much flour, too much heat and not enough oil. By the time Howard came home, the kitchen was filled with smoke, the charred remains of the chicken lay on a white platter and I was sobbing.
“There, there, now. It’s not that bad.” He’d kissed my tears, ate my chicken and told me it was delicious. Then he drew a bath, added bubbles and cleaned up the kitchen while I soaked away my misery. Afterward we made passionate love all over the house, including the kitchen table.
Suddenly the chicken clogs my throat, and when Ken pounds my back I burst into tears.
“Are you all right?” Irma asks, while I try to pull myself together, but the tides have pulled my emotions to the surface and my hurt tumbles out.
“I left my husband.”
“Oh, well, now.” Irma puts her arm around me while her husband looks at me with sympathetic dark eyes. “I left Ken once. When was it, darling?”
Amazement dries my tears.
“Nineteen forty-nine, sweetheart.”
“I packed my bags and went down to the station and bought a ticket to Washington, D.C. By the time the train pulled in, Ken was sitting on the bench by me, his bags all packed. ‘Going somewhere, toots?’ he said, and we ended up going together.”
“Had the time of our lives,” Ken adds.
I picture me at that train station, wearing a fish-tail suit and little red hat with a flirty veil, and Howard strolling casually by as if he’s just come to pass the time of day. Suddenly, he’s dipping me for a deep kiss, and we board the train and celebrate with sparkling champagne in the dining car.
“How did you manage to stay in love with each other all these years?”
“Passion,” they answer together.
See, that’s how a marriage ought to be.
“Respect and kindness, too,” Irma adds. “We’re always good to each other.”
“And a whole lot of magic.” Ken kisses Irma, and neither one of them is the least bit embarrassed that they have an audience.
It’s not until we get to the peach pies that I learn she’s a concert pianist and he’s a magician. I tell them about my symphony, and by the time they get ready to leave we’re exchanging addresses and phone numbers and promising to keep in touch.
I hope we will. Too often we lose the magic of these chance encounters by not following through. We immerse ourselves in the humdrum of daily living, thinking we’ll call next week, and before you know it, it’s Christmas and we’ve lost the address and can’t even send a card.
Thinking of loss, I get so blue I’d be dragging my tail feathers if I had any. Why can’t we hold on to the people who matter? It’s these connections that weave the fabric of our lives.
“Listen,” I tell them. “I’m going to be in Pensacola a while. I’d love to take both of you to dinner.”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely? Better yet, come to our house.” Irma gives me directions to their beach house and we settle on tomorrow night at six; then I watch them walk toward home, arm in arm. Afterward, I work on my symphony until I am swallowed up by darkness.
Back at the Palm Breeze I put on my new nightshirt that reads Good Girls Have Haloes, Bad Girls Have Fun, and call Jane.
With Irma and Ken fresh on my mind I ask about my husband right off the bat.
“Have you seen Howard? Talked to him?”
“No.”
“Has anybody else seen him?”
“Wait a minute, Beth. What’s this about?”
I tell her what Grace said, and she says, “Grace York ought to be coated with peanut butter and hung out for the birds. Put your mind at rest. Howard’s totally devoted to you.”
“Hmm,” I reply because if what Howard has been showing me is total devotion I’d hate to experience indifference.
“Have you seen Kate?” I ask.
“I was in the front yard cutting a bouquet of purple iris when she drove up early this evening. She was taking a chicken casserole to Howard.”
“Did she seem depressed to you?”
“Oh, you know Kate. She’s carrying on, as usual. She did tell me ‘Somebody has to watch after poor Daddy.’ But look on the bright side, Beth. Wouldn’t you rather be doing something fantastic and brave than sitting home having your children call you poor Mother?”
“Right now I don’t feel very fantastic and brave. I feel lonely. And scared.”
“I’m coming down. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“No. Wait. I really appreciate it, and I’d love to see you, but I need to do this by myself. If I’m the kind of woman who has to be propped up, then I might as well have stayed home.”
“Way to go, girl. You’ve blazed the trail for all of us.”
Jane has given me something good to hold on to, an image of myself as woman who’s not afraid to go out on a limb to change things.
Tomorrow I’m going to continue with the small things I can easily change—eat healthy foods, finish my symphony, meditate. But I draw the line at exercise. God hasn’t put diamonds on the floor yet, and the last time I looked I hadn’t turned back into a twenty-year-old.
I climb into bed and automatically reach to the other side for Howard, but all I feel is an empty pillow. I’d better get used to that or else figure out a way to go home without conti
nuing to be the only person in the house who knows where Howard’s clean socks are.
CHAPTER 7
“Who made me Dr. Phil?”
—Kate
I was doing fine with the current situation until the casserole I’d meant to halve and take to Daddy bubbled up and ran all over the oven. Bonnie’s the one who saw the smoke, and when she came running into the laundry room where I was sorting Rick’s socks, yelling, “Mommy, Mommy, the house is on fire!” I nearly had a heart attack.
People my age do, you know. Especially women, because who else would take on the problems their mothers ran off and left behind? Nobody, that’s who.
I jerked up my daughter and raced down the stairs, prepared to bolt out of the house and call 911 from the Crockett’s next door, but all I saw was smoke coming out of the oven. No flames, thank goodness.
In as calm a voice as I could manage I assured my daughter the house wasn’t burning down, and then told her to run back upstairs and play. And now here I am up to my elbows in burnt burgundy beef.
If Mom were here I wouldn’t have been putting double the ingredients in a casserole dish that turned out to be too small. Now, it’s either hand-clean the mess so I can finish cooking it or turn on the auto-clean cycle and pick up dinner at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
I opt for hand-cleaning because Rick prefers home-cooked meals. Fitting on rubber gloves, I tackle the oven. But right in the middle of scrubbing I wonder how in the world I ended up with my head in the oven.
I was going to be a great designer. I was going to live in New York and make my mark on the fashion world with a line of clothes—most of them purple, my favorite color—that everybody would clamor for.
I wonder if Mom sacrificed her dreams to raise a family. Not that I’d trade Rick and Bonnie for a career; still…there are women who have it all. My college roommate, Kim, is a pediatrician as well as a wife and mother. And my friend Linda has her own beauty salon in Saltillo and a boyfriend named Stoker who wants to marry her and build her a house with a beauty shop attached.
