For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  “Let take a look.” She peeked under the bloody paper towel at the half-inch gash across my palm.

  “Not too bad. I’m Cissie Voight, by the way.”

  I gave her my name and told her I was Chelsea’s mother.

  “I already guessed that. Sit still,” she said, patting the air. “I’ll get some stuff.”

  She disappeared upstairs, giving me my chance to check the adjacent rooms. Around the corner in the living room a portable crib/playpen contained a baby of about four months. Judging by the pink onesie and lacy socks, it was a girl—peacefully asleep, thank goodness.

  Cissie tiptoed downstairs and caught me admiring her child. “That’s my little Caroline,” she said, flushing with pride.

  “Bet you don’t know what you did without her.”

  “Oh, I know what I did, I just can’t do it now.” Chagrin crossed the new mother’s face but quickly fled. “Let’s get your hand cleaned up. I’ve gotta start dinner soon.”

  Two minutes later my cut was disinfected and protected by a large band-aid.

  “You changed your clothes,” Cissie observed. Then, noting my surprise added, “I saw you earlier with your dog.”

  “Oh, right. I brought a clean outfit in case I ran out of tiles, which I did, of course. Home Depot here I come. Again."

  Cissie contemplated the crossed hands on her lap. When at last she fixed her gaze on me, I knew she’d come to some sort of decision.

  “Ron’s always telling me to be more careful, that there are bad people out there, but...” She gave me a blink of a smile, “...but I don’t think you’re one of them. Do you have to go to Home Depot right away?”

  “I guess not. Why? What do you need?”

  “I need twenty minutes to take a shower. All you’d have to do is watch Caroline while I’m upstairs. She isn’t even awake. I wouldn’t ask, but I’m kinda desperate.”

  That I could see for myself. This woman hadn’t had half an hour to herself in at least a week. “Be glad to help. When my kids were new, we ate frozen dinners for months.”

  Cissie rolled her eyes. “Ronald would kill me if he had to eat that crap.”

  People exaggerate their spouse’s eccentricities all the time; it’s almost a sport. But afterwards their lips don’t usually tremble or their eyelashes fill with tears. I yearned to reach over and brush the corn silk hair away from the young woman’s cheeks, find her a tissue, give her a great big maternal hug.

  Instead, I slapped my knees, stood, and pulled her up with me. “Let’s get you that shower.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Go,” I told her in that pseudo-stern voice even toddlers know is fake.

  One last giddy glance, and she practically flew up the stairs.

  Little Caroline Voight had kicked off her cotton blanket. Her legs were splayed like a rodeo rider, and she wore the aggrieved expression of someone whose favorite sitcom had just been canceled. Entranced, I watched her baby’s lips move in and out, in and out, as if she were about to say something.

  Wail.

  I scooped her up before the second waaaa, and the child’s eyes popped open.

  Yikes! Who are you? WAAAA.

  The rump in my left hand felt damp, so I ignored the crying and reached for the lid of the portable crib, which back in the day used to serve as a changing table. Holding her in place with her one hand, I collected necessities with the other—a new diaper, a wipe, the tube of diaper rash ointment. Offering comforting play-by-play commentary, I freed the baby’s legs, untaped the old and put on the new.

  Little Caroline quieted down.

  “There,” I crowed when I finished. “Even easier than do-it-yourself tile.”

  Caroline blinked damp blonde eyelashes at the ceiling then opened her mouth to fuss.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I warned. “I promised your mom a shower.”

  Hoisting the ten-pound treasure to my shoulder, I began to sing, walking and bouncing as the words to an old camp song came to me like déjà vu. “A cannibal king, with a big nose ring, fell in love with a dusky ma—ai—d.” No longer politically correct, I’m afraid but my innocent audience wouldn’t know that for years yet. My own babies had loved the tune. Chelsea, now an accomplished vocalist, pianist, and choral director, had even sung it herself when she got old enough—off-key, in imitation of me.

  When I got tired of walking and bouncing, I sat down on the sofa with the baby on my thighs, her impossibly little feet pressed against my stomach.

  “What were you crying about so loudly this morning?” I whispered. “And how come you got quiet so fast?”

  The young Ms. Voight pressed her lips tight and blinked.

  And then it all went south again. Hunger this time, I assumed. Lifting the baby to my shoulder, I checked the refrigerator. No bottles. The cabinets—no canisters of formula. Caroline was being nursed, but her mother wasn’t yet ready to come downstairs.

  “Bring her on up,” the mother in question called down when I asked what to do. “Do you mind?”

  “No problem.”

  “Just got my hair dried. Thanks a million. You saved my day.”

  Cissie relieved me of the frantic baby, settled on a cushioned rocking chair, lifted her fresh blouse, and offered Caroline her four-o’clock snack.

  Trying not to watch, I scanned the rest of the room. Aqua and yellow gingham here and there, a changing table loaded with blankets and towels, and beside it on the floor a Price Club sized box of generic disposable diapers, one end deeply dented as if it had been dropped. The source of the thump perhaps?

  “I couldn’t get her to quiet down,” I confessed mostly for something to say. “I tried, but she knew I wasn’t you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. When she won’t settle down for me, I just give her a Binkie.”

  “Binkie?”

  “Pacifier.”

  “Oh, right.” I’d forgotten about them. “Next time I’ll know.” I smiled to seal my offer of additional help, but Cissie was lost in the mommy-zone.

  Just as well that she hadn’t heard me. Soon I might be watching another child on a paying basis. The twenty minutes with Caroline had made up my mind.

  As I followed Fideaux around Chelsea’s backyard before heading to Home Depot, I phoned George Whatizname to report that I was willing to talk to his daughter about the job possibility.

  “Splendid! I’ll let her know and get back to you.”

  I said, “Fine,” although I’d hoped to cut George out of the loop. Darn that Didi. I was not, I repeat, NOT interested in acquiring any new male friends.

  No way. Nix. No thank you.

  George called back five minutes later.

  We agreed to meet at his daughter’s house then go out to dinner.

  Chapter 7

  I HAD JUST enough time to take Fideaux home and feed him, wash my face, add earrings, and change to better-looking flats. Even as I headed out the door, I was kicking myself for agreeing to dinner with George; but I'd been too surprised to remember how to let a man down nicely.

  After squeezing the front door latch to make sure it was locked, I crossed my fingers and hoped the evening wouldn’t be one big regret.

  Two minutes beyond the nearby Dannehower Bridge put me on the Norristown side street where George's daughter lived. I parked in front of some skinny homes built when necessity had favored utility over good taste. Facing these cheek-to-jowl stood four unadorned brick duplexes. Number Six proved to be the left half of one of these.

  After crossing the street, I entered the Swenson's tiny front yard through a chain-link gate as off-putting as a drawbridge. The porch railing sported a realtor’s sign, but even without it the peeling white paint and absence of personalization told me the property was a rental.

  George opened the door to my knock. He seemed taller somehow, his eyes a livelier golden brown. Could he possibly have more hair than he had at Didi’s?

  I must not have been paying attention.

  “Come in. Come
in,” he offered, smiling as if he owned the place.

  “This is my daughter, Susan.” He nodded toward a woman of about thirty with elaborate makeup and chin-length, perfectly straight auburn hair. Her clothing was all black, and her acrylic nails looked as if they could open a soda can.

  “...and this is little Jack.” George beamed at the toddler kneeling at the coffee table scribbling on a piece of newspaper. He was a beautiful boy, really, with a perky nose centered in a photo-perfect face.

  The mother ruffled his blonde curls and urged him to say hello, but the child’s concentration never wavered.

  “He talks?” I asked. “I thought he was only eighteen months.”

  “He says some things. When he wants to,” Susan replied with a shrug.

  “Normal kid.”

  “Pretty much,” she agreed.

  “Have a seat.” George gestured me onto a soft, blue chair before joining his daughter on the sofa.

  “Do you have any experience babysitting?” Susan inquired, “...if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “No, it’s a perfectly good question, and the answer is yes and no. I’ve raised my own two kids, of course, and I changed a diaper a couple hours ago, but I didn’t give any thought to babysitting for anyone until your father mentioned it.”

  “So you don’t have any references.”

  “Her husband was head of a school,” George contributed. “They’re good people, honey. Why don’t we give her a few minutes with Jack, just to see how they get along?”

  Susan opened her lips as if to protest then abruptly changed her mind. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll wait in the kitchen.”

  After Susan and George departed, Jack spared me a bashful glance that conveyed the hint of a quiet intelligence. Very soon he would be learning things at warp speed. Did I want to be around to watch? Tempting, but not overly so. Of the two of us Rip had been the one soft on all children; I mostly loved my own.

  Of course that was then and this was now. Now Garry needed spending money, which I wanted to send freely. “A penny saved is a penny earned,” said Ben Franklin, and I’d begun to appreciate exactly what he meant.

  I slipped down to sit on the floor, selected a red crayon from the box, and helped myself to a sheet of newspaper. After coloring the truck in a Toyota ad, I offered to trade colors with Jack. “Want this one?”

  He accepted the red and relinquished the purple.

  Then the front door opened and Daddy Mike swept in.

  “Hey, little buddy. Whatcha doing there?”

  “Daddy!” Jack threw himself at his father’s legs.

  The man narrowed his eyes at me. “And who are you, may I ask?”

  I rose to my full height, far short of the man’s prying gaze. “Ginger Barnes.” I extended my hand, but Mike Swenson ignored it.

  “Sorry, but you haven’t said why you’re here.”

  “I’m an invited guest,” I told him, “a mistake that can be remedied at once if your attitude doesn’t change.”

  “Michael!” The voice was Susan’s, and judging by her husband’s reaction it was uncharacteristically forceful. “This is the babysitter Dad met the other night. We talked about this, remember? If I’m going to take that job, we need somebody to watch Jack.”

  Swenson glanced down at his son, who was staring back with shock bordering on fear. Not emotions you want a toddler to endure for long, if ever, so I instinctively scooped him into my arms.

  Whereupon the father grabbed his wife’s bicep and steered her back toward the rear of the house.

  “You know what I said about that job,” he snarled in a stage whisper. “I can’t believe you...”

  “We need...” was all I heard of Susan’s reply.

  Emerging from the wings, George rushed to relieve me of the now-whimpering Jack, who tucked his head under his grandfather’s chin and clung to him like lint.

  Back in the kitchen the couple continued at a less-than- discreet volume. Most of their words were unintelligible, but their differences were clear. Susan was prepared to go earn money for the greater good. Mike wanted her at home. Macho bluster, in my opinion, but not really my business. I just felt bad that my presence had touched off this particular installment of their argument.

  “Sorry about that,” George apologized as he petted Jack’s curly head. “Let’s give them a minute, then I’ll hand off Jackie-boy and we can go eat.”

  “I don’t think...” I began, but George showed me his palm.

  “You’ve come out of your way. The least I can do is buy you dinner.”

  “But I’m leaving,” I said. “Right now.”

  “Understood. How about Sullivan’s in fifteen minutes?”

  I knew perfectly well what I should have said, but looking into those sorry, insurance-salesman eyes all I could say was, “Fine.”

  Chapter 8

  SULLIVAN’S SAT ON the Route 202 edge of a parking lot for the large, land-locked King of Prussia Mall. Hundreds of people passed by the upscale steak house each day because of its location, location, location—the calculated convergence of four major Pennsylvania roadways. As I stepped into the reception area, I wished I’d had the presence of mind to suggest a less extravagant venue, but I’d been too annoyed with Mike Swenson to think that fast.

  George hurried up behind me as I approached the hostess’s dais.

  “Thanks,” he said breathlessly. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “Just got here myself,” I assured him. “Thanks for the invitation.”

  As we followed the swishing hips of the hostess to a far table, I instinctively secured my shoulder bag between both hands to keep from bumping anything—a person, a slender goblet, a graceful black chair.

  “I’m sorry about Mike,” George apologized after we’d settled into our seats. “He’s...he’s...”

  “Overbearing?” No reason not to be honest. George had witnessed my reaction to his son-in-law, and he’d already expressed his own doubts about the man.

  Musing, he sipped at his water before he responded.

  “Protective, I think. Or maybe you’re right. I don’t know him as well as I’d like. He and Susan met when she was a freshman at Michigan State, and they married there the next year. She left school during her junior year when George took a job out of state. Soon after that they adopted Jack, so..." He shrugged away his daughter's education.

  “Has Susan ever worked outside the home?”

  “Oh, yes,” her father responded perhaps too quickly. “But temporary jobs. Macy’s at Christmas, a card-store clerk for a while. She likes doctors’ offices, probably because she's visited so many."

  Trouble getting pregnant? I wondered because of the adoption.

  "Allergies," George offered, his eyes briefly avoiding mine. "Not much of a resume, I know. Which is probably why she's so eager to take this new job—to get a sense of herself, I think. To find out whether she can hack it out there in the business world.”

  I understood. Why else had I secretly embraced the "Problem Solver" title Didi had bestowed that night so long ago? "Wife" and "Mother" were certainly enviable and worthwhile roles, but more often than not they fell short of describing the whole woman.

  “Do you think Mike will talk Susan out of taking the job?”

  George shrugged. “I left in a hurry.”

  “We both did."

  When he chuckled in response to my laugh, his cheeks creased in a pleasing pattern, as if he’d done a lot of smiling over the years. Yet his face also looked as if something were missing. Glasses perhaps? Had he had cataract surgery, or maybe lasix?

  Best not to ask, I’d learned from Rip, and the thought of my late husband gave me a pang. Here I was dining alone with another man. Something I’d done...never, since I’d lost Rip.

  “What are your interests, George?” I asked, the line that had rescued many an uncomfortable silence.

  “Ah,” George replied with a wince. “That’s a tough one.”

  “How so?”r />
  “I’ve been a workaholic so long I don’t know anything else.”

  “So you must love your job.”

  “Selling insurance?”

  “Yes. What do you like about it?”

  Our drinks arrived, and George used the interruption to contemplate his answer.

  “Meeting people,” he concluded. “Hearing about their lives. Helping them plan for any eventuality.”

  “You sound like the Catcher in the Rye.” Saving strangers from whatever might go awry. Classic soft-hearted, sophomoric stuff, unless you actually did it for real.

  “And you sound like a shrink,” he said with a bemused grin.

  I sipped my wine while I gave that some thought. “My grandmother was a very wise woman,” I said. “Somehow she looked past your skin straight through to your heart. It was amazing, really. I always wished I could be like her.”

  George shook his head in wonder. “Holden Caufield, the guy who wanted to save everybody.” He waved his head again and huffed. “Nobody ever got me so quickly. Certainly not my ex-wife, that’s for sure. And you did it inside a minute. You are a wise woman, Gin. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

  Too intense. And too flattering. “Holden Caufield and Pollyanna,” I joked.

  “No, no,” George disagreed. “Cassandra. Wasn’t she a seer, or a mind reader, or something?”

  “If you say so.”

  We moved onto trivia, widely skirting his divorce and Rip’s demise, Susan and Mike, and anything else of importance for the remainder of the meal. I enjoyed my wine and the medium-rare steak and even the calorie-dense garlic mashed potatoes.

  After George’s credit card and the bill had been collected, he turned serious. “If Susan wins the argument, will you take the job?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Unlikely that she’ll win, or unlikely that you’ll help them out?”

  I was saved from an immediate reply by George’s cell phone. He said hello, listened a moment, answered, “Do my best,” then hung up.

  “So will you do it?” he asked again.