Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  He didn’t.

  The hotel was a shabby, orange stucco building that served as a bus depot in addition to a lodging. Despite its name, other newer, taller buildings blocked any view of the water. The desk clerk, a middle-aged man with slumped shoulders and reeking of cigarettes, helped carry their bags up to the third floor, panting all the way. After opening the door to the room and placing their things on a faded rug, he waited for several moments before sighing and ambling off.

  Once he’d left, Jim grabbed Sheila’s arm and walked her over to a streaked window. “How about that amusement park? Look at the roller coaster! Corndogs and cotton candy for dinner?” He stroked her elbow.

  His fingers tickled her skin, and she moved away. Sheila watched sailors in uniforms identical to Jim’s, with girls hanging on their arms, strolling through the Pike’s gates.

  “We can ride the Ferris wheel,” he went on. “I’ll win you a Teddy bear.”

  “Where are we going to put a Teddy bear? Isn’t there enough to lug around? Besides, it’d be too expensive. Can’t we just eat here and go to bed?” Sheila collapsed on a worn brown armchair. I could sleep for days.

  Jim gave her a questioning look, before saying, “Whatever you want.”

  They ended up splitting a hamburger in the empty hotel coffee shop. Sheila gave Jim the pickle. As soon as they returned to the room, both of them flopped onto the sunken-mattressed bed.

  He started kissing Sheila’s neck in the hollow of her collar-bone, the way she liked it.

  Forgetting about her amorous feelings on the airplane, she said, “I’m too tired,” and rolled away. Soon, despite rumbling stomachs, they both fell sound asleep.

  About 2:00 a.m., Sheila awoke to low-pitched male voices and higher girlish giggles. In a short while, other moaning sounds pierced the thin walls, along with an image of sweaty bodies slapping together. She’d never heard anyone else having sex. Nudging Jim, she whispered, “Do they have to be so loud?”

  He drowsily chuckled and until morning, held her tightly in a tangle of threadbare sheets.

  CHAPTER 2

  Apartment Hunt

  “I REALLY LIKED IT.” SHEILA SIGHED.

  Jim grabbed her hand and walked away from the white Spanish-style building.

  “Do you want to commit to $125/month? A one-year lease?”

  “Of course not, but it was so nice.” A front window with built-in bookshelves on either side faced the beach. Dishes with pink roses painted on them filled the kitchen cupboard. A claw-footed tub and thick, pastel towels and rugs brightened the bathroom. And best of all, there was a queen-sized poster bed with sumptuous-looking, pale-green linens.

  “We’ll find something that’ll work.” He stood taller. “It was too frilly for me.”

  Sheila knew Jim said this to make her feel better.

  It didn’t.

  They trudged on, stopping to read more For Rent signs. At each apartment building their first questions to the manager were: “How much?” and “Is there a lease?” All of them were $125/month or more, with leases of no less than six months.

  “Good thing we’re not lugging our stuff,” Jim said after several hours.

  “I hope it’ll be safe with that guy.” Sheila pressed her lips together.

  The desk clerk, who had looked sleepier and more put upon than ever in the morning, told them he’d keep their things in his storage closet. He stuffed the suitcases and duffel bag into the space that overflowed with a broom and dustpan, mop and bucket, vacuum cleaner, wastebasket, and cleaning supplies. There was no lock on the door.

  Sheila’s immediate reaction, What if we lose all of it?

  The man had disinterestedly gone back to his newspaper.

  Now, stopping for a moment, Jim said, “It’s awfully hot out here.”

  Waves of heat seemed to rise from the sidewalk.

  He ran a hand across his forehead. “Let’s go in that café for a Coke.”

  The Copper Kettle looked like it had been built about 1900. Several cops sat drinking coffee. A waitress showed Sheila and Jim to a back booth with upholstered seats in dingy pale blue. Yellowish-white stuffing poked out of a rip on her side.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Jim asked.

  “I’m not hungry. Later. After we find a place.” What if we don’t? He had to report for duty the following night at midnight, and she’d be left alone. Back at the Seavue Hotel.

  Jim stared out the window adjacent to their booth. “How about that building over there?”

  It was tucked away on a street they had overlooked.

  “We can try it.” Sheila took a last sip of her Coke.

  Van Dorn Apartments, a pink stucco building, circa World War II, on Medio Street, had a couple of straggly palm trees in front, symmetrically planted on either side of an arched entry that led to a raggedy-lawned patio. A white board with sloppy, black, handwritten letters advertised a furnished efficiency for rent. It looked like this might be something Sheila could afford.

  A long pause followed Jim’s knock on the manager’s door.

  “Maybe they’re gone.” His eyebrows lifted.

  Finally, a worn-out-looking man in a sleeveless undershirt and rumpled khakis opened the door.

  “Here for the apartment?”

  Jim nodded and introduced himself and Sheila.

  The man gestured for them to sit down at a maple dinette table.

  “John Grey.” He tapped a hand on his concave chest.

  His wife huddled on a rocking chair in the front room, glazed eyes staring at a television cartoon program. She rubbed her fingers over a multicolored knit afghan. Her matted brown hair looked like it hadn’t been washed or combed in days. Sheila concluded, She doesn’t realize a thing that’s going on.

  “Medio’s the shortest street in the city—only one block,” Mr. Grey said.

  “Interesting,” Jim said.

  Sheila wrote their information on a white paper.

  Mr. Grey was the first person to spend much time talking to them since they’d arrived in California. As if lonely for any kind of conversation, he listed details about the building. Sixteen apartments. Tenants mostly retired or navy. “Best deal in Long Beach. Each unit on the two floors has its own entrance door.”

  Like a motel back in Minnesota.

  “I want a place on the second floor.” Jim handed him the form. “So Sheila will feel safe when she’s alone.”

  The apartment Mr. Grey showed them consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom, and a front room with a Murphy bed that he pulled down from the wall. It rented for $80/month. After they signed a month-to-month lease and paid for the first and last, he said, “Need to get back to the wife.” He left them with the keys.

  Sheila sat next to Jim on the Murphy bed. A knot in her stomach eased. At least I know where we’ll sleep tonight. Soon, they’d walk over to the hotel and she’d find out if their belongings were all right.

  Pushing the mess of dark red curls away from her face, she said, “They’re so old.”

  “Who?”

  “The manager and his wife.”

  “Lucky. They have an apartment with a bedroom.” Jim’s eyes rested on the beige vinyl sofa and chair, discolored with grime. “These look like they came from the waiting room of a car repair shop.”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Sorry I don’t have the money for a better place … that you have to pay for this one.” As a newly enlisted man, Jim’s pay barely covered his own needs. He jiggled his foot, bouncing the mattress of the Murphy bed up and down.

  “It’s fine. Someplace to stay while I look for a job.” The monthly allotment check of $100 that Sheila received as his wife would cover rent, but her remaining $300, which included the money her father had insisted upon, wasn’t going to last long.

  Momentarily distracted fro
m these concerns, she shuddered. “That woman must be really sick.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Manager.”

  “Looked like she belonged in their bedroom.”

  “I never saw anyone so skinny.”

  “Let’s forget about them.” Jim nuzzled up to her neck. “We can try this out before we go.” He patted the mattress.

  For a moment Sheila cuddled back, then hopped off the bed. “We better hurry and get our things.”

  Jim hauled his large frame that had served him well in high school as a linebacker on the football team, to a standing position. Wrapping his arms around Sheila, he said, “Listen, doll, it’ll work out. This isn’t such a bad place.” He said this as if reassuring himself as well as her. Bumping a knee against the mattress, he continued, “We’ll make good use of it later.”

  “I’ve never seen this kind of bed.” Sheila wrinkled her lightly freckled nose.

  “Think of all the fun that’s been had on it.”

  “Oh gross! I don’t want to think about anybody else.” The rhythmic sounds of those sailors and their girls the night before flashed through her mind. “I just hope it’s clean.”

  When they entered the hotel lobby, the clerk shuffled over to the storage closet and hauled out their belongings, then returned to his racing form. He had no expectant look. Sheila and Jim were in such a hurry to get back to the apartment that they barely thanked him.

  It was almost 5:00 p.m. when they dumped their bags on the floor next to a wobbly coffee table.

  “I have to figure out where to put everything,” Sheila said. “After we get something to eat. Aren’t you starved?”

  Jim came up behind her and cupped his hands over her small breasts. “Not for food.”

  “Oh you …” Sheila’s hunger was soon forgotten as the heat between them increased. They initiated the Murphy bed with her completely forgetting about who had been there before and what they had done. She ran her fingers across the prickly buzz cut of Jim’s once-wavy brown hair and arched her body toward him.

  Afterward she thought, This crazy bed is ours.

  Later that evening, Sheila giggled, bumping into Jim as they walked up the steep steps to their apartment, juggling burgers and fries and Cokes from Herfy’s, a take-out place two blocks away.

  As he fumbled for the key, an elderly couple came out of the screen door to the left of their apartment, on the bedside wall. They both sported big, false-toothed grins.

  Sheila, noting their enthusiasm, wondered, Have they been waiting all day to meet us?

  The woman, who looked like a white-haired Shirley Temple, grasped the back of the man’s belt for balance.

  “You’re our new neighbors,” he said. “Clarence Potter.” He held out a spotty, wavering hand, then took it away. “Guess you’re too loaded down to shake. This is my bride, Abigail, but I call her Abby.”

  She gave a wide-eyed nod, her curls bobbing.

  After Jim made introductions to this couple, the man said, “We rented this place a good twenty years ago, due to its low rent. Retired here from Kansas.”

  “A short stroll across Long Beach Boulevard to the ocean,” the woman added. Then wistfully, “We used to go every day.”

  “It’s a big event to haul out our walkers once a week,” he said.

  “Never on weekends. For safety, don’t you know. Mostly, we take our sun on the roof,” she said.

  “Yep. It’s flat and tarred. You’re going to like it.”

  No way. Sheila would go to the beach whenever possible, certainly not sit up on a roof with these two, even if they did seem harmless. “Is the manager’s wife sick?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “Plenty sick—with cancer.” Mrs. Potter nervously blinked.

  “He used to work at Douglas Aircraft, and she managed this building,” Mr. Potter said matter-of-factly. Cancer didn’t seem to bother him.

  “They’re just fifty at the most.” She grimaced. “He stays home taking care of her.”

  “Same as I’ll always take care of you.” Mr. Potter patted his wife’s arm.

  “I pray you never have to.” Her voice came out muffled.

  That night, with both beds down, Sheila heard through their shared wall (probably no more than a couple of inches thick) the elderly couples’ snores and snuffles and footsteps, followed by flushings of the toilet. Rumblings of indistinguishable conversation came next. Sheila smiled to herself, thinking of her father’s warning that she wouldn’t know anyone in California. She sniffed, I hope to make some real friends soon.

  “Let’s shift—put our heads down on the other end.” She rolled around to the foot of the bed. “Get as far away from the Ancients as possible.”

  “Okay, but do we have to keep this radio blaring?”

  “I don’t want them to hear us.”

  “We’re getting enough noise from their side. Maybe our sounds will bring back some good memories.”

  “Absolutely not!” Sheila insisted on the camouflaging Rock & Roll music, as well as all the lights turned out, before she relaxed into the moment.

  At 11:00 the next night, after time spent exploring their new neighborhood, walking on the beach, and tumbling back onto the Murphy bed for a last desperate coupling, Sheila and Jim stood in the doorway to their apartment, tightly embracing, as the taxi driver waited in the alley.

  He honked his horn.

  “Thank goodness the Ancients aren’t out here investigating,” she said.

  “They must have fallen off for a bit of sleep.” Jim carried his duffel bag.

  A longer blast of the horn.

  “You can’t go!” Sheila knew how ridiculous this sounded.

  “I have to … that guy’s going to leave if I don’t hurry.” Jim’s usually strong face sagged. His hazel eyes glistened.

  Sheila could barely see him through her own blur of tears. She leaned a cheek against his broad chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. For once, he didn’t say, “Watch out for the Whites.”

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He dropped the duffel bag and placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her shakes. “If I don’t return within a few days, and it gets too miserable, use your dad’s money for a ticket. Go back to Minneapolis.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I love you.”

  I’ll never leave you! “I love you more.”

  As Sheila watched him wave and step into the taxi, words from a reading at their simple wedding came back, Whither thou goest … She couldn’t go with him on this ship and wherever it might sail off to. She had to wait in this tiny apartment. Wait until he came back to her.

  After the taillights of the taxi disappeared, she locked the door, slipped the chain bolt into place, and all her fears surfaced. Would his ship pull up anchor as soon as he arrived? Would she never see her husband again? Would she really have to go back to Minneapolis alone?

  When he’d left for basics, she’d felt abandoned as a homeless kitten. But back in Minneapolis she had a job, an apartment, friends. Also, she had a family—full of problems, but still a family—as well as Jim’s mother and brother. Not people she wanted to spend time with, but people she knew. Here, she had this claustrophobic apartment rented for two months. No job. No friends. And, What do I know about California? Momentarily, she smiled remembering clips of Disneyland when she was a kid and watching “Spin and Marty” on The Mickey Mouse Club.

  She sat in the chair, wearing one of Jim’s T-shirts, her bare legs sticking to the beige vinyl. She peered from corner to corner—no more than fifteen feet. She got up and took a couple of steps into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator that held nothing but leftover pizza and Cokes. Empty handed, she returned to the chair and flipped through a stack of movie magazines on the wobbly coffee table. A photo of Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin, smiling and hugging, filled
the glossy cover of one. They looked so happy. She wished for her guitar. She wished for some decent books. Mostly, she wished for Jim.

  Under the magazines was a copy of The Feminine Mystique that friends had given to her at their going-away party. They also gave her a red negligee. Inside the book’s cover, Patty had scribbled, “Something for you to think about in sunny California, while we’re back here at U of M freezing and studying. Everyone’s reading it.”

  Sheila skimmed a few pages. She didn’t understand why they’d given it to her. All she wanted was to get this military part of their life over with so that she and Jim could be together forever. She wanted to start real grownup things. She wanted to go back to school, earn her music degree, and find a great teaching job. Jim would have to figure out what he wanted to do. Eventually, she wanted a house with lots of land, dogs, cats, horses. One of the few happy memories from her childhood was visiting farms where her cousins lived—riding ponies in the fields, playing with cats in the barns, and running with dogs down long gravel driveways. Kids? Sure, she wanted kids, when all the other wants were in order.

  She shoved this book back under the stack of magazines.

  She pictured the dorm rooms where her friends lived and talked about things like the strange book. It sure would be better to be with them rather than cooped up in this stifling apartment. Must splurge on a fan.

  Her mind made another jump. If only she had a television. What was happening in Peyton Place? With Allison and Rodney?

  And then, another jump. She had promised to write Jim every day, and he’d promised to do the same. Sheila crawled onto the open, messy Murphy bed that carried the faint odor of their lovemaking, and started a letter telling him about her past hour alone. Then, she started singing, in hushed tones so as not to disturb the Potters, a song for him, “The only truth I know is you,” a line from “Kathy’s Song.”

  When she’d first heard it, Sheila decided these words fit Jim’s thinking perfectly. He only went to church with her for counseling and their wedding, signing the document about children being raised in the Church, even though afterward he said, “What a bunch of bullshit! I don’t get a thing out of a musty old building full of crumbling statues.”