by Pamela Morsi
I believed that to be because I was not his intellectual equal. I was just an ordinary woman with a high school education and limited experience in the world. Perhaps I could have tried harder to think deep thoughts. I could have read more substantive magazines. I could have attended night classes or reached out to embrace culture. But I have to admit that truthfully, I didn’t long for more serious discussions. I didn’t mind living a life more superficial and less examined. I knew the world could be a darker, deeper place. That little bit of knowledge had been enough to choke out any desire for further examination. I chose to step away from a serious world.
Unfortunately the world has a way of coming crashing into one’s door.
LANEY
I GOT MY FIRST paying job when I was twelve years old. However, you shouldn’t be picturing me in some child-labor sweatshop hunched over a sewing machine. Aunt Maxine hired me to help out Uncle Warren at the shoe shop. Two years after his stroke, he was still not completely recovered. He leaned heavily on a cane and dragged his right foot wherever he went. He didn’t go that many places. Aunt Maxine drove him to the shoe shop in the morning and he stayed there all day. In these last years of his life, he lived as he had early on, all by himself, repairing shoes in a tiny shop.
Aunt Maxine had taken on all the other businesses. With the help of the twins and what seemed to be a natural gift for organization, she had taken up the challenge of being the breadwinner and run with it. She hired competent people, paid them a little more than they’d get elsewhere and expected a lot from them. Surprisingly she usually got it.
She never asked her boys to come home and help. Pete graduated from North Texas and got a job at Texas Instruments in Sherman. He was engaged to a very nice girl. She wasn’t as pretty as some he’d brought home, but she was out of medical school and working to become a pediatrician.
Renny had become a training instructor in Georgia. He’d also married and had a little baby. We’d only seen them in photographs. He’d never brought his wife back to Texas to meet anybody. They certainly looked happy. And they seemed settled, but inexplicably Renny volunteered for another tour of duty in Vietnam. So Aunt Maxine was back to worrying about him all the time.
The twins were freshmen roommates at Texas Women’s University. They had both made enough money from helping run their parents’ businesses to afford to send themselves.
I have to admit that I was surprised when Aunt Maxine asked me to work for her. But I was also delighted. I’d started my period. I was wearing a bra. I was becoming a woman. My mother had not noticed. I was so glad that Aunt Maxine had.
The agreement was that I would ride over on my bicycle after school and work until closing adding up the day’s receipts and making the charge tickets match what was in the money drawer. It required some math skills, but I was good at that. And it was less than two hours a day.
My mother didn’t like it.
“She’s a little girl,” Babs complained. “She should be doing homework or out playing after school.”
Aunt Maxine waved away her concerns. “You weren’t much older when we put you to work,” she said. “And Laney will have plenty of time to keep Warren’s accounts and do homework, as well. And she’ll certainly be safer employed on the downtown square than hanging out at the playground with those wild hooligans who spend their time there.”
Aunt Maxine was sure right about that. The wild hooligans included my cousin Ned. Now a fourteen-year-old chain-smoker and frequent truant from McKinney High School’s freshman class, he’d never liked me and often sought me out for some type of mean trick. I avoided him like the plague. That was easier now that we weren’t in the same school.
Babs couldn’t really go against Aunt Maxine. And she was so busy with all her clubs and parties, it was probably a relief to have me out of her hair in the afternoons.
I had my own desk that I decorated, as working people do, with memorabilia and personal treasures. There was the five-by-seven framed photo of Acee, Babs and me that had been sent in the family Christmas card. Beside it was a smaller photo of my dog, Bowser, a white Scottie that lived and barked in our backyard. My second place trophy from the Rural Electric Cooperatives public speaking competition was draped with my Fourth Place ribbon for Cornbread Muffins at the County Fair. The only other personal items were my SoupKids salt shakers, Alana and Marley. I felt weird for having kept them hidden in my treasure drawer. My mother, I was certain, would never remember that she’d thrown them away and forbidden me to rescue them from the trash. But I still felt guilty about disobeying her. Here in the shoe shop I could see them every day.
Aunt Maxine noticed.
“You still have those things,” she said, surprised. “I remember when we collected the labels from the cans.”
“I’ve always kept them,” I told her. “Though the boy got his hat broken.”
I didn’t say how.
Aunt Maxine and I had become very close. I felt closer to her, in fact, than I did Babs. But that often happens when people share a secret. By necessity, Aunt Maxine had shared hers with me.
It was the first afternoon of my first day on the job. Aunt Maxine took me for a treat at Miss Lettie’s Tea Room and gave me a serious talk.
“I’m very glad that you are going to work at the shoe shop. And I know that you’ll be perfectly able to take care of things there,” she said.
“Thanks, Aunt Maxine,” I answered. “I promise to really try my best.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said. “What I want you to keep in mind is that your job is to help your uncle Warren.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Whatever he asks me to do, I’ll do it.”
Aunt Maxine nodded. “I know that,” she said. “The thing is, he may not remember to ask you.”
I frowned, uncertain.
“Uncle Warren is about as recovered from the stroke as he’s going to get,” she said. “He’s come a very long way and we are all so grateful and blessed. But his is not a full recovery. He is not the same man he was before.”
I nodded solemnly. “He drags his leg when he walks,” I said.
Aunt Maxine smiled sadly.
“That’s what everyone notices,” she said. “It’s obvious and everyone sees it. But what is less obvious is that he’s having to drag a part of his brain along, too.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by that.
“Your uncle Warren’s thinking is not quite up to what it used to be,” she said. “He can’t count the money accurately or keep sums in his head. He has trouble doing more than one thing at a time.”
She smiled at me and patted my hand.
“That’s why I want you to help him. I want you to add up the figures that are so hard for him now and keep the books accurate.”
“Sure, I think I can do that.”
“But there is more to it,” Aunt Maxine said. “You must do it without anyone realizing that you’re doing it for him.”
“Huh?”
“He’s a proud man,” she told me. “I don’t think he’s allowed himself to admit his limitations. If people began to treat him differently, and they would, I don’t think he could bear it.”
I nodded thoughtfully.
“So you must quietly go behind him, fix his errors, cover for his mistakes, remind him of what he’s forgotten and never let him know that you’re doing it.”
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“It’s not easy,” Aunt Maxine said. “I’d be the first to tell you. It takes patience, it takes practice and it takes humility. But it’s a skill that if you learn it and learn it well, it will suit you admirably on life’s long road.”
So I made a point of figuring out how to help without seeming to and put that knowledge into practice. As it turned out, it wasn’t really so difficult. Maybe because I am reticent by nature or because I’d lived my whole life in the shadow of my mother, I found that I could easily correct things and not take credit for it. I took joy in my successes, withou
t needing to take a bow or get a pat on the back. I felt an inordinate amount of pride in how well I could hide my own usefulness. And the only time I was even tempted to tell was at a slumber party.
It was a Saturday night and Nicie’s thirteenth birthday. Uncle Freddie and Aunt LaVeida treated her and seven of her closest friends, which included me, to a slumber party. The evening started out at the new Pizza Inn out at Westgate Shopping Center. We sat together at the big corner booth.
It was lots of fun and I was feeling great. I’d just had my hair done that morning. I’d kept it long, much to my mother’s distress because she thought it looked unkempt, but since I paid for it myself, she had no say at all. I’d had the hairdresser frost it a light ash blond. It looked really good. And I felt really attractive and a lot more grown-up as male heads turned my way.
Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one to notice.
My cousin Cheryl took offense.
“Twelve is too young to bleach your hair,” she stated adamantly.
“I’m almost thirteen and it’s not bleach,” I told her. “It’s just frost.”
“There’s bleach in the frost,” she said. “You can’t turn brown hair to blond without bleach.”
All the other girls agreed.
“It really looks nice,” Nicie told me. “I wish I could do that, but my mom would never let me.”
“Your hair looks great just like it is,” Cheryl assured her. “And your mother is right. We are too young to color our hair and Laney’s mother shouldn’t have let her do it.”
“She didn’t have any say in it,” I pointed out. “I make my own money, so I do what I want.”
That was an exaggeration, but it was meant to shut Cheryl up. It didn’t work.
“Oh, yeah, your family gives you a few little chores to do and they pay you for it instead of giving you an allowance,” she said.
“No, it’s not like that at all.”
“Sure it is,” Cheryl insisted. “Your mom just wants to keep you busy after school so she won’t have to worry about you getting into trouble at the park. Paying you is cheaper than hiring a babysitter.”
Her dismissal of my responsibility and the silent agreement around the table tempted me to tell them all. To explain how ill and confused my uncle Warren still was. To point out the level of confidence my aunt Maxine had in me and my abilities. I wanted them to know it all. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell them all.
But part of the trust that had been placed in me was discretion. Revealing the truth might make me look good, but it would make Uncle Warren look bad. For the first time in my life, I suppose, I was forced to truly be a grown-up, to swallow my own pride for the sake of someone else. I managed to do it, but pizza hasn’t tasted the same to me since.
After dinner, we all packed into Aunt LaVeida’s Oldsmobile station wagon and rode to her house. We were laughing and screaming and hollering at people out the windows. She took the long route through town, which included three complete circles of the downtown square. We were in high spirits by the time we reached the Hoffmans’ brick suburban two-story house.
I could never visit Nicie’s room without remembering that I could have been her sister. I could have shared the life that was hers. Of course, her room wasn’t as nice as the one I had with Babs and Acee. But there was always something about it, something that said she was special, an individual, loved and appreciated for exactly whom she happened to be. My room was a stereotype of what thirteen-year-old girls are supposed to want. It could have been any girl’s room. Everything that was out of the ordinary and unique to me I carefully kept packed away in a box in my closet. Once in Nicie’s bedroom we changed into our pajamas and began the festivities that passed for entertainment among preteens.
We used Nicie’s pink princess phone to call up old people, who were always a little less quick than our parents, and ask them, “Is your refrigerator running?”
If they answered yes, the punch line was, “You’d better go out and catch it!” Followed by a quick hang up and a riot of giggles.
Later we all opened our backpacks, overnight bags and pink duffels to retrieve all our cosmetics and hair paraphernalia. I lay across the bed with my head hanging off the edge, while Trixie Bryan and Cindy Gilbert painted my eyes to look like Cleopatra. Nicie and Charlene Wilkinson were painting each other’s toenails. April Harmon and Kathy Cox were giving Cheryl a new hairdo. Even watching upside down, I could see that their outcome was not going to be good.
“I thought ratting was out,” I said, hoping to discourage the two from the extensive back-combing that had Cheryl’s mousy brown locks standing straight out from her head.
“I don’t think it’s totally out,” April said.
“Yeah,” Kathy agreed. “All of the beauty shops still do it.”
“They do it for, like, our moms or someone,” I said. “I think it’s totally out if you want to look cool.”
“Oh, it’ll never go totally out,” April assured me. “I mean if your hair doesn’t have shape or body you’ll, like, have to give it some.”
“No,” I disagreed. “All the college girls wear their hair stringy.”
“Since when are you the expert on hair fashion!” Cheryl asked, clearly angry. “You have one day when you think your hair looks pretty and suddenly you’re telling the rest of us how to live our lives. Well, you’re not telling me nothing.”
Nicie gave me a wide-eyed caution and I shut up immediately.
As the night wore on, more makeup was applied, more hair was sprayed stiff and more nails were buffed and polished. The more tired we got, the less we did. The less we did, the more serious the gossip became.
We sat, heavy-eyed and painted like harlots among the stuffed teddy bears and ballet slippers.
Cheryl explained the mechanics of sexual intercourse.
“Yuk! That’s disgusting,” was the universal response.
“That’s how it’s done,” Cheryl said. “It’s totally disgusting, but that’s the way it is.”
“I can’t believe my parents did that,” Nicie said with a horrified whisper.
“At least you’re an only child,” Trixie pointed out. “I’ve got five brothers and sisters. My parents must have done it six times!”
“Eeeewwww,” we all agreed.
“I think if you’re married it’s different,” Cindy said. “I don’t know how, but obviously that’s the reason that parents are always cautioning teenagers against it.”
“I’m sure no one would do it if they didn’t have to,” April said.
“They say boys always want to do it,” Nicie pointed out.
“Why?” Kathy asked.
“Why do some kids eat boogers?” Charlene asked rhetorically.
We all shuddered with disgust.
“It’s hard to believe that anyone does that ever,” I said.
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“No,” I assured her. “I’m just...just grossed out.”
“It’s all true,” she said. “And people do it before they get married. There are even people that we know who did it before they got married.”
There was a startled shock around the room.
“Who?” somebody asked aloud.
Cheryl looked over at me. Her expression was pure venom. “I heard my mother and Aunt LaVeida talking about when your little brother was born. It was only seven months after your mother and Mr. Clifton got married. They both agreed that the only way he would have married her was if he had had to because she was pregnant.”
The other girls uttered a gasp.
“So,” Cheryl continued nastily, “your mom must have pulled her pants down and let him do that to her just because she liked it.”
“My mother never did that!”
“You’re supposed to be the math whiz,” Cheryl pointed out. “Can’t you count nine months.”
“My brother was born early,” I defended. “You can’t say those things about my mothe
r.”
“Your mother thinks she’s a society hostess,” Cheryl said. “But if you ask the Hoffman family they’ll tell you that she’s a slut. She’s selfish and disrespectful to the memory of our uncle. She probably never loved him. He was hardly cold in his grave before she was doing it, probably for money, with Acee Clifton.”
I reached over and slapped her face.
But I never forgot what she said.
BABS
IN THE SUMMER of 1972 Acee ran for judge. With my duties as chairman of the Cotton Days celebration, the timing wasn’t perfect. Of course, he couldn’t be blamed for the timing. Old Judge Weatherford, who was at least eighty and had been napping on the bench for years, was, at long last, stepping down. Even when the state legislature had mandated old-age retirement for judges, he’d stayed on the civil court bench and continued to resist. Finally a bout of bad health forced him to call it quits.
In Texas, state and county court judges are elected just like mayors and senators and governors. In theory, they are then answerable to the people and the bad ones can be voted out of office. In practice, once elected, most keep getting reelected. So an opportunity to campaign without going up against an incumbent is not a chance to be passed up.
Early on, Acee seemed like the favorite. I admit to taking a certain amount of personal pride in this. Of course, his reputation was his own. He was smart and honest and well-respected by everybody from the town drunk to city officials. But I had turned those qualities into political capital. I was the person who’d kept his name and his success fresh in the minds of the socially prominent people of the community.
Acee wasn’t as interested in political life as he should have been.
“If I’m the right man for the job, the people will vote for me,” he said.
“Acee, the people will vote for you because you convince them that you’re the right man for the job.”
