“I will.
“Uncle Steve, I have something I need to ask you that’s been worrying me lately. Do you think Joe’s reluctance to move to this area has anything to do with his feelings for his former fiancée, Becky? I know when he first told me about her he still seemed to be really moved by the experience.”
“Well, Melissa. I was around during Joe and Becky’s courtship. And I won’t lie to you and say that Joe didn’t love her. Gosh, it would be hard for anybody not to love Becky. She was so ‘motherly’ I guess is the word for it. She was always ready to take care of people. I think for Joe, she became the mother he lost as a child.
“Yes, that’s a kind of love. But what he feels for you, Melissa, that’s something totally different. That’s what marriages are made of, what sustains them through the years. You need much more from a wife than a mother. No, Melissa. You’re the one for Joe. And don’t give Becky another thought. I know that Joe hasn’t, ever since he fell for you.
“And one last thing, if you would,” Uncle Steve offered, with a strange, guru-like grin. “Don’t let Joe know that you were here to see me. Is that a promise?”
“I promise.”
Chapter 12
“I’ve been worrying too much about you, M.A. And because of that worry, I think our relationship has suffered.”
With those exact words, Paul began his explanation for the lack of sexual activity.
“I want everything to be perfect for you. You’ve been denied so much in the past just because you couldn’t afford things. Now, my goal is to make sure you never have to worry about money again—for as long as you live.
“I want you to find work again, because I know you’re unhappy being unemployed. I see you unhappy, and I get uptight. Then when I’m uptight, I can’t relax and be intimate with you. I also get irritable when I’m uptight. And when I’m irritable, it’s very easy for me to get into arguments—even over stupid little things like what TV show or what movie we should watch.”
“I’m also to blame,” Mary Ann noted, contributing an apology of her own to the post-dessert discussion. “Without a job, I feel so much at your mercy. For instance, I have a new car sitting out there in the street, and you’re making payments on it. What would happen to that car if you walked out of my life? Not that you would walk out on me, but I guess that’s how I think when I don’t have any steady work to keep my mind busy.
“I admit, Paul, that I’ve been cold toward you physically. But now that I recognize the problem I’ll change. I’m still worried, though, that you might not like me as much since I’ve gained weight. I’ve only put on about ten pounds, but it feels like a lot more.
“Maybe I should apply for guard work or some kind of security job,” Mary Ann continued, tongue-in-cheek. “With this extra weight, I’ll be more effective whenever I have to kick a few rear ends.”
“The weight you’ve put on isn’t even noticeable,” Paul answered. “You’re the type of person who never looks fat. And as for your job hunting, I’ll tell you about a deal I have for you. When you find a job, we’ll celebrate by taking a big trip somewhere as soon as we can. The big trip can be our honeymoon. Of course, we might not be able to go until your new bosses let you take a vacation. But I won’t mind waiting.
“So, how’s that deal sound to you?”
Mary Ann wasted little time before contacting a travel agent. She picked up brochures for trips to Hawaii, Bermuda, Ireland, and several islands off the coast of Florida—four areas she’d always wanted to visit.
“I’m picking places we can’t possibly get to by cross-country bus,” she reasoned, inwardly.
Back when she was fifteen years old, Mary Ann’s mother had put her on a bus from Harrisburg to Chicago. Mary Ann stayed in Illinois with her grandmother for six months until financial problems were settled at home.
“I never hated my mom for putting me on that bus,” Mary Ann remembered. “But ever since then, I’ve never taken a long-distance bus ride. There was a certain finality to being put on that bus to Chicago. I was worried I’d never come home again, even to visit. I don’t think I would have felt that way if I’d have been driven to Chicago in a car.”
While Mary Ann continued to send for travel literature describing her personally selected faraway places, an occurrence on the home front took on a special meaning—indicating to her that the as-yet-unknown date of her marriage to Paul was indeed getting closer.
“We might as well forget about replacing your refrigerator with another small unit,” Paul told her. “I have a small one, also. So what we’ll do instead is buy an extra large model, and you’ll keep it until we get married.”
When the deliverymen were removing her old refrigerator, Mary Ann felt like a part of her past was going out the front door with it.
“Melissa and I found that refrigerator in an alleyway two blocks from here,” Mary Ann recalled. “A neighbor helped us push it home on a small hand truck, and then the girls and I spent all weekend cleaning it up.”
Paul did make one other offer to Mary Ann that she quickly turned down.
“An executive-director at my bank is looking for a cat,” Paul mentioned. “If you want to give away one of your three, she would have a good home. In fact, it would be a very rich home, really. They have servants, and the cat could probably ring for her dinner every night.”
“Absolutely not,” Mary Ann countered. “They’re all family, too. I couldn’t part with any one of them. Four daughters, one husband, and three cats. That’s all I want. And that’s final.”
However, a segment of Mary Ann’s life that was definitely due to disappear concerned her unemployment status. A sudden but pleasant event took place just about the time the weather starts getting hot again in Pottstown—the middle of May.
First thing one sunny morning, Mary Ann received a phone call telling her that she had been hired.
“Good news,” she phoned Paul. “Your fiancée is on the road to sanity again.”
For the remainder of that balmy spring weekend, Melissa devoted a great deal of concentrated thought to Uncle Steve’s “Go To Florida” suggestion. But at the end of much deliberation, she still wasn’t sure if she had the nerve to do it. For her, such an action would constitute a definite change in character, sort of like assuming the male-dominant role in a courtship.
Just as a young man might fear that his request for a date with a woman would end in rejection, so did Melissa feel vulnerable at the prospect of asking Joe to pack up his Florida bags and move north with her.
In essence, whether or not she’d adhere to Uncle Steve’s urgings would be a tough decision, and one she felt she would have to make soon. So, Melissa took a mental pledge that she would force herself to act on the prospect of a Florida trip—yes or no, one way or the other—before the end of March.
Meanwhile, the center of her attention for the next few days would be Atlantic City—site of a convention for members of the Pennsylvania State Librarians Association. Melissa was a member in good standing and a regular attendee of all association functions.
“It’s ironically amusing,” Melissa reflected, “that ever since casino gambling became legal in New Jersey, the Pennsylvania librarians, like groupies attracted to a rock band, have always trekked out-of-state, to Atlantic City, for their annual get-together. Such is the drawing power of a boardwalk full of wagering emporiums.”
Melissa had to admit, though, that the casino city’s electric atmosphere had never resulted in a dull convention.
The big town by the Jersey shore had changed quite a bit since she was a child. Melissa remembered fondly those occasions when her mom and stepfather would take her and her three sisters to Atlantic City or Ocean City—usually on weekends during the summer. It got so that Melissa knew the name, strength, and peculiarities of every diving horse at the famous Steel Pier. In this day and age, however, Atlantic City was less a family-type resort and more a conventioneer’s city that also lured degenerate gamblers. Each group
was attracted to night-long action at the green felt tables. The popularity of day trips in the family car for sunshine and ocean bathing had been replaced by day trips in a casino bus for blackjack and slot machine gambling.
When she checked in at her hotel, Melissa was glad to have a room on a lower floor. Sleeping on upper floors always disturbed her. She recalled when her stepfather had installed a metal, fire/security hook outside the window of her second floor room back when she was in junior high school. She had kept a connecting hook, attached to a long rope, under her bed. She never had to use it as a method of emergency escape, but it was still there when she’d left home for college.
On her first night in town for the convention, and in advance of three straight days of planned professional seminars, Melissa attended a retirement party for Olga Hines, one of the associate directors of the Philadelphia Free Library.
The meeting room for the librarians, in an anteroom right off the main lobby of the hotel, was decorated with photos of old Carnegiefaçade libraries where Olga had worked, photos of a young Olga standing in front of old libraries, and photos of groups of librarians—some even older than Olga—with whom she had labored through the course of some forty-odd years.
Olga herself seemed overwhelmed by all the attention she was receiving from her co-workers. Petite, with short gray hair and eyeglasses that seemed too large for her face, Olga looked fit—and typecast—for the role of a cartoon-character librarian. The only missing prop would be a sign in her hand that said “Quiet Please.”
One of the rumors circulating among the Philadelphia-area librarians was that Melissa might eventually be chosen to replace Olga. Melissa knew that she had a realistic chance for this step upward in the librarian hierarchy, but she wasn’t campaigning actively for such a career promotion.
“If I get it, I get it,” was her philosophy. “True, it might mean more money and more prestige for me, but it would also mean more administrative work. I’m kind of happy as a reference librarian. Finding answers to other people’s questions is something that never gets boring.”
Throughout the course of the evening’s cocktail party and dinner, Melissa spent the better part of an hour or more talking with Jane Doherty, a long-time reference librarian who worked in a small South Philadelphia branch. And it was one of the stories Jane related that set the tone for the rest of Melissa’s week in Atlantic City.
“I thought for awhile that I might have to retire prematurely from my library,” Jane explained, “even though I really want to keep working for as long as I can. My husband, who was a Philadelphia city policeman, suffered a slight back injury and was forced into premature retirement a few years ago.
“After sitting around the house for only a month, though, the inactivity started to bother him, so we discussed the possibility that maybe I should retire, too, in order to keep him company. And I would have done it, just to make him happy, except that through a bit of luck, he stumbled into a full-time job that he just loves. He’s a security consultant now for a casino that’s just a few blocks away from here.”
“Security? What does he do exactly?”
“He says it’s just like the police work he did for most of his career. He supervises the guards on the casino floor, watches out for thieves and con men, and, occasionally, he arrests people.”
“How dangerous is this job?” Melissa continued, her inquisitiveness genuine.
“From what he tells me, it’s a lot easier than being a big-city cop. Basically, there are no street corner brawls or knife-wielding weirdos to worry about. And, so far, there have been no murders, no beatings, and no rapes on the casino floor.
“Most of the time he deals with purse snatchers, pickpockets, prostitutes, rich and poor types alike who deal in stolen goods, and counterfeiters.
“At least once a month someone tries to counterfeit those black chips that are used at the gambling tables. They’re the ones worth a hundred dollars apiece.”
“I don’t mean to get too personal,” Melissa again interjected, pursuing the matter further, “but tell me, Jane, since your husband is a retiree, wasn’t there a problem with his age? The reason I’m asking is that a friend of mine has been looking for police work in the Philadelphia area, and he’s gotten nowhere. He thinks it’s because he’s too old.”
“Oh, no. They were happy to have him—considering all of his experience. In fact, he tells me that most of the casinos have hired ex-policemen for the security positions—or for the armed guard jobs. And as far as our personal relationship goes, his new work has just been great for us.
“Really, it’s almost unbelievable, Melissa,” Jane concluded, “but for the first time since we were married, over thirty years ago, my husband has a certain pride in his job title. He likes being referred to as a ‘professional’—just like me. In the eyes of the world, he’s no longer just a cop. He’s been transformed—into a suit-and-tie-wearing consultant. For all those years when he was a cop, he probably felt inferior to me, but no more. I can’t believe how this new job has changed him. He’s lively, spirited, and seems to feel so good about himself.”
For the remainder of the retirement party that evening, Melissa was present in body but not in mind. Outwardly, she may have appeared to be conversing normally with those around her, but inwardly her thoughts were dominated by visions of Joe obtaining a security consultant’s position with the local casino industry, similar to the job that Jane’s husband enjoys so much.
“If Joe got a job here, we could buy a house in southern New Jersey,” she told herself, “halfway between Philly and Atlantic City. Getting a place in a location near where Uncle Steve lives would be perfect—about forty minutes drive time either way.”
The following morning, Melissa opted to pass up attending two library seminars for which she had enrolled. Instead, she managed to visit every casino on the Atlantic City boardwalk, picking up employment applications for Joe at each stop along the way.
As she walked from one casino’s personnel department to another, Melissa also found time to write a pocketful of notes that would be of value in Joe’s job search—such as the names of key employees to whom he could address his resumes.
In what amounted to a full day’s work, Melissa also spent several hours wandering through the gaming areas of each casino. Her purpose was to check out the doings of the security people on the floor and to try to get a feel for what it would be like for Joe to work in a gambling hall.
What startled her the most were the large numbers of women she saw.
“There seem to be just as many younger women sitting calmly at blackjack tables as there are older women frantically playing the slot machines,” she wondered, almost aloud. “I never realized that this fascination for casino gambling included women to such a great extent. I’m not sure where I’d fit, though. Maybe I’m too old for the tables and too young for the machines!”
And even though Joe had never told her whether or not he liked to gamble in casinos as opposed to racetracks, Melissa felt confident that he would enjoy working in a gambling atmosphere—what with his affinity for wagering on horses and dogs.
During her travels around town, Melissa saw a bevy of armed guards that were a noticeable presence in just about every casino.
“These places are sort of like banks,” she reasoned. “I imagine if there weren’t so many guards standing around, looking tough, a lot more people would get tempted by all that money floating around in the open.”
Before the one hundred dollar bills were exchanged for betting chips, these large denominations flashed briefly almost everywhere. Quickly, the dealers would stuff this cash downward through openings in the tables. And, occasionally, some of the bills would require extra shoves before they disappeared, as if they were objecting to the downward destination, like so many fish trying unsuccessfully to swim upstream.
The volume of dollars amazed Melissa at first. She realized, however, that in a casino, the money, after awhile, seems to lose its r
eal meaning.
“That’s why they use the chips,” a bystander explained to her. “When people lose their chips, it doesn’t seem as monumental or as traumatic as losing real money. Chips are like toys. The buying power in food, rent, or whatever just disappears when twenty-five American dollars become one tiny, green piece of plastic.”
For her remaining days in Atlantic City, Melissa struggled mentally, alternating her brain power between snatches of professional duty and ideas for Joe. She did present herself at several seminars and at a workshop that analyzed “The Techniques and Record-Keeping Methods For Dealing With Reference Questions Received Via Telephone.”
As soon as she returned to Philadelphia at the end of the week, Melissa wasted little time in getting straight back to her office in the library—for a bit of personal research.
During a three-hour, non-stop stretch, she dug into the guts of every casino management book and newspaper article she could find in order to ferret out kernels of information that would be helpful to Joe.
All told, she photocopied almost two dozen pages that Joe could use to brief himself on the ins-and-outs of how casinos are operated.
This, together with the piles of employment applications, the names of contacts in casino personnel departments, and the notes that she’d accumulated from her walking tour represented Melissa’s total stack of readables.
She was confident that these materials could serve their purpose. Her beloved Joe would now have a head start on any job shopping he might get into while touring the East Coast’s version of casino heaven.
“After all,” she told herself, while admiring her casino information collection, “when I take Uncle Steve’s advice and travel to Islamorada to claim my man, I might need more ammunition than my body and my smile.”
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