Luke says we’d better get going, but I am not ready to leave this place, and he sees that. “I’ll shower first,” he says, and I roll over and watch him as he heads to the bathroom. I thank God that this handsome and good man, who has grown into a sensitive and emotionally generous man as well, is my husband.
Poor Mother.
Well, where on earth did that come from?
Until this very moment, I have not once pitied my mother.
I doubt anyone else has ever pitied Carolyn Belk either. Why would they? She has good looks (even now, at her age), class, money, drive, intelligence, and a prestigious position in a respected company.
What she has never had, however, is a husband. And though she has always seemed glad of it, it suddenly strikes me as sad. She made a bad mistake once (enter Kennedy Marie Belk), and she did not intend to make another.
It’s quite unfortunate she met my father her first year at the university, worse still that she fell in love with him. Head over heels, as they say. He too was good-looking and intelligent, with the added bonuses of rich and amusing. Too bad she didn’t notice he was also full of himself. Mother said if my father had a fan club, he would have been president and CEO. Mother sort of laughed when she said that, but I think she meant it. Mother is confident, but she has never been arrogant or self-absorbed.
She
has
been absorbed by her work, but that may be just one more result of having loved Craig Tanner. He never considered marrying my mother. In fact, by the time she found out she was pregnant with me, he and his deceptive charm had already moved on. When she was completely sure a baby was on the way, she asked him to meet her for lunch at a local café and told him she was pregnant. “Bummer,” he said and popped another French fry into his mouth. I’m sure he must have said more, but nothing any more comforting. Mother got up and walked out, leaving him to finish his fries and to pick up the check.
He called a few days later and said he knew of someone who could take care of her little problem, and she told him she’d take care of her “little problem” herself. To my knowledge, she’s never spoken to him since.
She did take care of it but not exactly by herself. She gave birth to me the summer between her freshman and sophomore years of college and needed help in order to finish her degree on time and get on with her life. My grandmother had been in her early forties when my mother came along, which was uncommon then. Yet at sixty-two and sixty-five, her parents took the news of Mother’s pregnancy well, offering no reproach—“mistakes happen.” They wouldn’t allow a church baby shower, wanting no controversy, but they welcomed everyone into their home to see the baby when I was born and proudly took me to church when I was a mere five days old. They told Mother they would be happy for us to live with them and happy to help her with me until she could finish her degree, so she moved back home, commuted to a nearby college, and graduated on schedule.
Mother appreciated her parents, and though we did
move into an apartment of our own as soon as she graduated and got a job, we did not move from Texas to St. Louis until her parents died within a year of each other when I was in the fourth grade. I was grown before I realized how good it was that Mother understood and appreciated her parents’ sacrifice and love, and how good it was that she took a job near them, even though she had many, and perhaps better, offers in distant locations. They had not said “Bummer,” and she would not deprive them of their only child and grandchild.
I doubt Mother would have told me most of these things, but I had bugged her once too often about my dad, and on top of that she had just buried her father. She apologized later.
“That was pretty brutal,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said. And it was okay. Brutal or not, I wanted to know everything I could about my dad, good or bad. However, as upset as she was the day of that conversation, I still didn’t get a name out of her.
“When you’re older,” she said.
“How much older?”
I’d really wanted a dad.
But at least I had had good grandparents. Grandpa used to hide my Hostess Sno-Balls from me, and Grandma used to take me to the park to feed the ducks. Their picture is on a shelf in our living room. Mother rarely visits their graves, though she makes sure they’re being cared for. She says their pictures are their memorial, and she visits it every day.
Mother’s parents were not good at saying loving, even positive things; that was not their way, and as old as they were when she was born, they surely weren’t the type to play with her or attend any school events. But when she came home, they were always there, keeping her safe and warm. They gave her a stable foundation, which accounts, I think, for the strong qualities that have made her a success in the business world. What would her parents think about her becoming the CFO of such a prestigious company?
Though she has certainly never said so, I think working hard and accomplishing goals was something Mother could control. I heard her say once she never planned on “being stupid” again. Once I was married, I concluded that Mother could work with men well because her job required it, but she never desired another personal relationship with a man. She did not want to be vulnerable again.
So she let ambition victimize her instead.
I was horrified, then, when I realized my husband had an ambition not that different from my mother’s. Luke and I weren’t married long before his working on Saturday was more the rule than the exception. And worse than that, at least early on, his job included consulting that took him away for days and, on occasion, weeks at a time. The traveling may have been required, but as far as I was concerned, working on Saturdays and until seven many evenings was not.
Luke has a father who enjoys his work, but he is not driven. Where did Luke’s ambition and competitiveness come from? Perhaps his playing competitive sports in school and his living and studying with an aggressive group of college friends are responsible; otherwise, I don’t know how to account for Luke’s determination to be a partner by the time he was forty.
When he was home, he was wonderful. That was never a complaint. He was kind, pleasant, and attentive in the scarce time we had together during those years. But to find myself lonely so often took me back to Saturdays in the condo, waiting for Mother to finally come home, exhausted and ready to chill in front of the gas fireplace with a book until she couldn’t keep her eyes open and told me it was time for bed.
My sophomore year I threatened to move in with Margaret and Hugh. Mother started to laugh until she saw my face and realized I meant it. “No you won’t, Kennedy. You can visit them all you want, but whether I’m busy or not, this is your home, and I will take care of you.”
She didn’t get it.
And neither did Luke for a very long time.
I had kept his dinner warm for hours when I ended our last argument about his being gone so much by slamming his plate on the table in front of him and stomping out of the kitchen. I hadn’t gone far before I turned around and walked back as far as the kitchen doorway. When Luke finally looked up and saw me, I summed up for him everything I had been trying to say for so long: “Listen to me carefully, Luke—I did not get married to be lonely.”
That was my final word on the subject.
Luke comes out of the bathroom now, towel drying his hair, and that confrontation in the kitchen seems eons ago.
“Your turn,” he says.
“No,” I say in mock defiance. “No, I won’t go! You can’t make me.”
He laughs, and I find his laugh as comforting as his touch.
Maisey
My car hasn’t looked so nice since it sat gleaming in the showroom. I have washed it, dried it, vacuumed it, cleaned the inside of every single window, and polished the dashboard. I’m standing here in the bay, having to concede there is nothing else I can possibly do to it.
What now?
Like a beacon in the night, I look up and see the Golden Arches. I slip behind a steering wheel that I have energetically attacked with leather cleaner, drive down the block to McDonald’s, run in to get a Coke, and rush back out as quickly as possible to sit in my clean car and watch the highway traffic.
I wish to be as hidden as Waldo.
I have to go home; I don’t see any way around it, but Marcus has made that very difficult. In grade school I had a recurring dream that I was walking into the school building in my underwear. When I looked down and realized it, I felt utterly exposed and mortified and didn’t have a clue what I should do. Fortunately at that point I always woke up.
I feel like that now, except this is not a dream and I’m not going to wake up. I remain exposed. But I’m not mortified— I’m angry.
Furious.
Marcus doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and he has no right to interfere. But I’m not just angry with Marcus. I’m angry, period. I’ve been angry for such a long time now. I’m even angry that I’m angry.
My phone is ringing. I wait until it stops and check for missed calls.
Marcus.
I knew it would be. How can I go home when I don’t even want to answer his call?
It was such a nice day until he insisted we go to my room for that private little talk.
The girls love their dresses. I had to talk them into the simple elegance of a black strapless dress with a straight tea-length skirt, but they are all about it now. Jackie’s dress is made the same way, but it is a black-and-white floral. She loves that her dress is different. “I’m special,” she said when the others weren’t listening, and I couldn’t disagree.
We left the shop today with everyone’s dresses in garment bags, ready for Saturday evening. I was so relieved. And then I walked in and found Marcus sitting in the middle of the floor with my albums.
Why did Mother have to drag them out?
Paula said she was going to try to talk her into going to Indy. Why couldn’t Mother just go with her? Marcus was so unfair. Why would Mother have wanted to go to a dress fitting if she hadn’t even wanted to go shopping with Paula?
Of course Jackie had asked me much the same thing. “Why don’t you ask your mom to come?” But before I had to say something, Paula walked into the house, the perfect answer.
Someone’s honking interrupts my thought. How irritating!
I look up and see that the offending honker is Jackie. She has parked next to me and is getting out of her car. My passenger door is locked, and she beats on the window. With the slightest hesitancy, which I hope she does not notice, I unlock the door.
“What are you doing?” she asks, plopping into the seat, leaving the door open.
“Shut the door,” I say. “The air-conditioner’s
running.”
“Well, good grief. Let’s go in. Stop wasting petrol.”
“I’m not in the mood for a crowd. What are
you
doing?”
“Getting salads for Heidi and me. I don’t know for sure what you’ll be doing the day after your wedding, but Heidi and I will be right here buying a Big Mac and fries the minute we decide to get up. What are you doing at McDonald’s by yourself when your mom has a great dinner waiting for you at home?”
“What makes you think so?”
“Marcus called about two minutes ago, asking if I’d seen you. He said something about dinner, and I’m assuming it’s great. When isn’t it great?”
Oh brother, my mother could serve Jackie a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a paper napkin and Jackie would call it gourmet.
I ignore what was a rhetorical question. “I’m on my way home. I needed to wash the car.” I look over at her car. “You might want to try it.”
“Easy, now.”
I almost laugh.
“Marcus seemed worried about you.”
“What did he say?”
“It wasn’t so much
what
he said but how he said it. He sounded worried. What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing.”
In response, she just looks at me.
“Nothing’s going on,” I repeat.
“She doth protest too much, plain and simple.”
“Nothing much. I just didn’t like defending myself. When I came in a while ago, he wanted to know why Mother didn’t come with us to the fitting.”
“I thought she was going somewhere with Paula.”
“I guess she didn’t.”
“Well, she
should
have come with us, then! While I was doing her nails, she asked me what the dresses look like, for goodness’ sake. What they
look
like? Haven’t you shown her a picture or anything? She
should
have come to see them.”
“You know what—I don’t think I can handle any more interrogations or accusations.”
“My gosh, Maisey, I’m not trying to interrogate you or accuse you of anything. What’s the matter with you?”
Another conversation I don’t want to have.
“Wedding jitters, I guess.”
“Are you sure that’s all?”
“Yes!”
Jackie shakes her head. She isn’t buying it.
“I mean it. Everything’s fine. I just needed to get away for a while. It’s been a busy day, a busy week.”
She smiles sweetly and grabs my hand. Her sensitive side is making a surprise visit. This isn’t a good time.
“You look sad, Maisey. I know something’s wrong.”
“I’ve got to go, Jackie. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Okay?”
“I guess it’ll have to be.” She opens the door, gets out, and leans back in for a parting shot. “But something
is
wrong, and I wish you’d tell me what it is.”
She shuts the door gently.
The gentleness of the gesture gets me. I want to say,
Get
back in the car—I’ll tell you what’s wrong.
Instead I back out and head for the exit, feeling worse than ever, if that is possible.
Oh, Jackie, you really don’t want to know what’s wrong. Is
that what has kept me from telling you about it all these years?
Jackie and I, along with four other kids and our youth sponsor, were packed into the van that was taking us to a middle- school week of church camp. We had been gone from home at least fifteen minutes when I realized I had left my sheets and towels sitting on my bed. That was mistake number one.