The Day Bob Greeley Died

by Kimberly A Bettes

  Of course he’d also promised that last summer.

  Maude busied herself with housework until the beads of sweat on her lip was accompanied by streams of sweat that ran down her sides and back. The locks of flaming red hair that had curled elegantly around her face that morning became wet tangled clumps that stuck to her cheeks and forehead. When she wiped the sweat from her brow and found her hand covered in makeup, she knew it was time to stop cleaning and head on down to the pharmacy, where the air conditioned soda shop waited for her. As did the ice cream.

  After reapplying the many layers of makeup she always wore, which included the usual bright red lipstick and blue eye shadow, she checked to make sure the light green everyday dress with white polka dots didn’t show any sweat stains. It didn’t — at least not yet. She then donned her favorite hat with the wide brim and green flowers, and slipped into her new white Norwoods, even though they pinched her toes a bit. She was then ready to go.

  Before leaving the house, she poked her head in to check on Andrew. She had ushered him back to bed when he complained of cramps, telling him they were due to the oppressive heat. Looking in on him now, she saw that he was curled in the fetal position on his bed, wearing only an undershirt that was a size too small and a pair of shorts, snoring loudly, a trait he inherited from his father.

  Smiling, Maude gently closed his bedroom door and made her way down the stairs and out of the house, where by now, the hot air was absolutely suffocating. She felt as if she’d just stepped into a furnace.

  She hurried down the steps and across the crunchy grass to the car, eager to get to the soda shop. It didn’t matter how silly she looked hurrying along, body jiggling as she went. No one was around to see her anyway. All that mattered was that she quickly arrived at the pharmacy, where she could then sit in the cool air and taste the cold, delicious ice cream.

  Chapter 4

  Henry Miller poured a drink for the first customer of the day, his wife Sara. She was the first customer of every day. And also the last customer. For the past year, her drinking had escalated to frightening levels, but Henry had convinced himself it was nothing to worry about. He tried to tell himself that she wasn’t an alcoholic. She was simply surrounded by liquor all day, every day and gave in to the temptation to partake. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe that.

  As soon as the glass touched the bar in front of her, Sara picked it up and brought it to her mouth.

  “Thanks,” she said, her voice raspy from years of drinking and smoking.

  In two swallows, she downed the whiskey and returned the empty glass to the countertop.

  Henry watched with sadness, wondering why he’d ever thought operating a bar was a good idea. Had he known his wife had an addictive personality and an affinity for spirits, he would’ve steered clear of the business. But it was too late for that now.

  He went to work sweeping and dusting, wiping down the bar and the tables, and making sure everything looked as good as it could look for the busiest night of the week. It was Saturday, and that meant all the work-weary residents would be in to wet their whistles. Glancing at Sara, he knew it also meant that he’d have to carry her home at the end of the night, and that he’d have to spend the next day watching her nurse a hangover. It had become a routine.

  As Henry mopped in front of the door, Sara started the jukebox. She hit F5, and began dancing her way across the room toward Henry, singing too loudly with “Hey Good Lookin’” by Hank Williams. That was her favorite song, and she played it no less than five times a day. Henry loved Hank Williams as much as anyone else, but he’d heard that particular song so many times, he was seriously considering removing it from the jukebox.

  Henry tried to continue mopping as Sara rubbed up against him and continued singing badly.

  It was getting harder and harder for Henry to tolerate Sara and her drunken ways. He never wanted to be married to an alcoholic. Too many nights, he’d stood behind the bar and watched as she flirted with a string of men. Over time, he’d watched her wardrobe transform from what a wife should wear into what a prostitute would wear. He’d watched her health decline along with her attitude, and he was sick of it. He was tired of living for both of them. Tired of caring for someone who didn’t care about herself. Tired of having to be extra responsible to make up for her complete lack of responsibility.

  Sara wrapped her arms around Henry’s neck and tried to kiss him. He turned his head to the side, but she leaned over and laid one on him anyway. A wet, sloppy kiss that tasted very much like an ashtray that had been rinsed with whiskey.

  After violating his mouth with her nicotine-laced tongue, Sara began singing again, this time, in Henry’s ear while she danced against him. She pulled on his neck, trying to force him to dance with her, but there was work to be done. He had no time for this nonsense.

  As he tried to push Sara away with his free hand, Henry noticed how she looked. How she really looked. The wrinkles around her eyes. The parenthetical lines that flanked her mouth. The deep creases in her upper lip. The gray hairs that poked out as if trying to flee from her head. Her eyes had lost their glow, and had been replaced by a drunken glaze.

  Looking at her now, Henry realized how much she’d changed since the two were married. In the thirty-four years of their marriage, she’d gone from an amazing beauty to little more than an eyesore. He hated to think that way about her, but it was true. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her and thought she was beautiful. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d been physically attracted to her. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d ached to have her, or had longed for her touch him.

  Her personality had changed as well, which may be why he no longer found her attractive. She was no longer the carefree woman who loved to laugh that he’d known. She was bitter, at least toward Henry. To every other man, she was flirtatious and full of smiles and compliments. But with Henry, she said mean and spiteful things that cut him to the core. She had grown hateful and he wasn’t sure why.

  He supposed it was because of Sweetwater. She hadn’t wanted to move away from her friends, especially not to such a small town so far away. But Henry needed the quiet. He needed the isolation and the solitude the small country town offered. He knew she didn’t understand — couldn’t possibly understand — why he needed to get away from the crowds and the noise of the city. After all, she hadn’t been in The Great War. She hadn’t known what it was like to be surrounded by ear-splitting sounds around the clock, to never be able to relax, to always have to be on guard and wary of your surroundings. He was glad she hadn’t known that fear. He only wished she could understand his need to be as close to the middle of nothing as possible. To be able to finally sleep at night. To be able to live without always looking over your shoulder.

  When he suggested they move to Sweetwater, she had protested. It took him months to break down her resistance and convince her that moving was the right thing to do. And for the first year after the move, he continued to have to remind her why it was the best for them.

  He knew she hated it. He knew she longed for the bright lights and action of the city. She was a St. Louis girl, born and raised, and she missed it. She didn’t care that she could count the stars at night under the big country sky, which was something she could never do surrounded by concrete. Didn’t care that she could hear the birds chirping, something she would never be able to hear over the blaring car horns and sirens. None of that mattered to her. She wanted the excitement of living in a city, and nothing he could say or do would ever change that. Even after all these years, she was still bitter that she’d left behind her beloved city.

  Thinking of his first wife, Henry wondered if she would’ve minded moving to country with him. He doubted it. There had been many nights when he’d lain in bed at night listening to Sara vomit up a night’s worth of alcohol, thinking of what his life would be like if his first wife hadn’t left him. He imagined it would be very different, and in a good way.


  Upon returning to the states after the end of the First World War, Henry had gone home only to find that he no longer lived there. His wife was gone and had never said a word to him about leaving. She never even said goodbye.

  The days that followed were dark. Henry had holed up in a cheap hotel and found solace at the bottom of a bottle. He struggled to come to terms with what his life had become. He’d gone to fight in a war he didn’t fully understand, fought to make it back home to his wife, only to find that she had disappeared into the crowd during his absence. While he was struggling to survive, she’d left him behind like he didn’t matter, like he had never mattered.

  He spent the next year trying to find himself, trying to understand and make sense of it all.

  It wasn’t until he met Sara that he found another reason to live, a reason to wake up every day, and a reason to stop drinking.

  It was ironic that Sara had been the reason he’d stopped drinking, and was now an alcoholic herself. It was funny how things worked out sometimes.

  “Come on,” she croaked in the raspy voice Henry had grown to despise. “Dance with me.” She rubbed his bald head and pressed herself up against him tighter.

  “I have to work.”

  “Oh, you and your work.”

  “Well someone has to do it,” Henry said meekly.

  “Just for a bit?” she asked, moving her hips seductively.

  “No.”

  Bored with him, Sara danced her way back across the room to the bar, where she lit a cigarette.

  Henry watched in disgust as she went behind the bar and poured herself another drink. He shook his head and went back to mopping, wondering just how much more he could take of living like this.

  Chapter 5

  When Miriam pulled into the Greeley’s driveway and shut off the car, she took a deep breath and reminded herself once again to keep her mouth shut about Bob. If he was having an affair behind his wife’s back — and she was certain that he was in fact having an affair — then it was Grace’s business. Not hers. But it still made her blood boil to think of him only a couple of miles down the road, sleeping with the new town harlot.

  She waited for the cloud of dust to settle in the wake of the car before getting out and walking across the dead lawn and up the steps of the old porch. She held on to the railing in case a step gave way. They looked mighty rickety. In fact, the whole porch seemed ready to fall in on itself. If one of the steps was to give way, she was almost positive the rickety railing wouldn’t save her, but she held on anyway.

  She thought about poor Grace, forced to live in a ramshackle old house with a cheating husband. It was a shame.

  It made her think about her own husband, a veteran of the Second World War who had nearly sacrificed everything for his country. He almost lost his life, and he damn near lost a limb. Even after all he’d been through, he remained a loyal companion to her and a great provider for their children. Their house wasn’t on the wealthy end of town. It wasn’t as big and fancy as the Wilson or Andrews house, but it was a far cry from the small, rundown shack that Bob Greeley provided for his wife.

  Miriam knocked on the door and waited. After a minute, she raised her fist and prepared to knock again, but before knuckles met wood, she heard Grace speak.

  “Yes?”

  Turning, she saw Grace Greeley standing at the corner of the house. She wore a simple wrap dress with a worn pair of Keds. Her blond hair was perched atop her head in a bun, wisps of hair hanging loose in places.

  “Hello, Grace.” She smiled through the awkward pause that followed, as Grace surely wondered what Miriam was doing on her front porch and Miriam tried to think of what to say next. “I just wanted to swing by and check on you. I was just telling Bruce that we rarely see you these days.”

  “I don’t get out much,” Grace said quietly as she wrung her hands. “There’s a lot to do around here.”

  “I know what you mean. A woman sure can get covered up in housework.”

  The two stood in silence for a moment, neither sure of what to say. Finally, Grace spoke in that soft voice of hers.

  “I was doing a wash around back.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll go with you.” Miriam quickly but carefully left the porch and followed Grace around to the back of the little house.

  A small, rusty metal wash tub set on what was left of the grass near the back of the house. A washboard leaned against the inside of the tub. Since there was no shade to be found in the back yard, Grace was left no choice but to do the wash in the direct sunlight. It showed on her face. Her cheeks were red, as were her thin, bare arms.

  “You mind if I finish up here?” Grace asked, pointing to the tub.

  “No, no. I don’t mind.” Miriam watched as Grace dropped to her knees and began scrubbing. With furrowed brows, Miriam couldn’t help but wonder why Grace would choose to sit with her bare knees on the dead grass. It had to be uncomfortable. Curious, she had to ask. “Grace, why don’t you get you a chair to sit on while you do that?”

  “Bob doesn’t like it when I bring a chair onto the grass.”

  “But Bob’s not here. And he’s not the one down on his knees. Go get you a chair, honey.”

  “That’s all right. It’s quicker and easier this way. Best to just get it done.”

  Miriam sighed and shook her head as she stepped closer to the tub. When Grace finished scrubbing the shirt and prepared to stand, Miriam stretched out her hand. “Here. Give me that. I’ll hang it on the line.”

  Grace gave Miriam the shirt and watched as she went to the clothesline and began hanging it. She wondered why this woman stopped in for a visit, completely out of the blue. Not only was Grace not used to the company of Miriam Lawson from down the road, but she wasn’t used to having any company at all.

  She went to work scrubbing Bob’s pants as Miriam walked back toward her, shaking the water from her hands.

  “So how have you been?”

  “Fine,” answered Grace. “You?”

  “Oh I’ve been just fine. Other than being hot.” She laughed.

  “It is hot. I was hoping it would rain before I went into town later. They’re calling for it.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve been calling for it for a while. We haven’t seen a drop yet.” Miriam watched as Grace scrubbed Bob’s pants. “So you have to go to town later?”

  “Yeah. Bob’s out of beer. I thought about stopping in at the pharmacy and having a Coke while I’m in town, but Bob said I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said we couldn’t afford it. But it sure would hit the spot on a day like today.”

  Miriam took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying her best to remain calm, though what she wanted to do was claw Bob Greeley’s eyes out. “Is Bob going to take you to town, or is he making you walk?” Though she’d tried to hide it, Miriam was certain that the anger she felt toward Bob had shown in her tone.

  “I’m going to walk. It’s not that far.”

  “It’s about three miles, Grace. It’s too far to walk in this kind of heat.”

  “I’ll be fine. I do it all the time.”

  Miriam wanted to add that it wasn’t fine, and it wasn’t okay that she had to walk to town in the heat when her husband had a perfectly good automobile that he could use to drive her. But Bruce’s words echoed in her mind, telling her to leave it alone. It wasn’t her business.

  For the next few minutes, as Grace finished washing Bob’s clothes and Miriam hung them on the clothesline, the two talked about the oppressive heat and overwhelming humidity and whether or not the drought would ever end. By the time all the clothes were on the line, both women were drenched in sweat.

  “You wanna come inside? It ain’t no cooler in the house, but I’ve got some tea.”

  “Sure.”

  Miriam followed Grace inside through the back door, which opened into the kitchen. She’d never been inside the Greeley’s house before, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. Turns ou
t, she was right about what it would look like. At the same time, she was wrong.

  The house was small and just as run down on the inside as it was on the outside. She’d expected that. But what she hadn’t expected was that it would be so clean. Grace must’ve spent every hour of the day cleaning. There were no cobwebs or dust, no food crumbs on the counter, no dirt on the floor, no dishes in the sink. It was immaculate.

  “Have a seat,” Grace said as she retrieved two glasses from a cabinet.

  Miriam sat at the table, in the very chair Bob Greeley had knocked over earlier, and watched as Grace went to the icebox.

  “You don’t have a refrigerator?”

  “No. Bob says we can’t afford one.”

  When Grace brought the glass of tea and set it on the table in front of her, Miriam saw that the red on her cheek wasn’t just from the heat. It was a handprint, well on its way to becoming a bruise.

  Her heart sank as she realized that Bob wasn’t just cheating on his wife. He was beating her.

  “What happened to your cheek?” she asked lightly, as if she didn’t know or suspect a thing.

  Grace waved her hand. “Oh that. I fell off the porch this morning.”

  “Was Bob there?”

  Grace looked at Miriam quickly. “Why would Bob be there?”

  Miriam considered saying something more, but remembered Bruce’s words and instead said, “To help you up.”

  “Oh. No, he wasn’t there. It was just me and my clumsy self.” She laughed a short, thin, terribly fake laugh. Her eyes shifted uneasily from Miriam to the perspiring glass of tea on the table.

  Miriam clenched her jaw to keep from saying anything about Bob Greeley. She kept it locked tight as she raised the glass to her lips and took a drink.

  In an effort to direct the subject away from Bob, Miriam asked, “So how do you spend your time out here all alone? What do you like to do?”