Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  She’d tried to explain what it meant to her, the peacefulness of sitting quietly, mesmerized by the ritual, when life with her parents and Tommy was anything but peaceful. The joy she felt, lifting her voice in song.

  He’d said, “You’re away from all that now.”

  At this minute, she’d give anything to be singing in church. Without the guitar, her sweet a cappella soprano would have to do. She finished “Kathy’s Song” and started “Ave Maria.” Her voice had gotten Sheila through many hard times. A memory of the little girl singing solos with the youth choir at St. Cecilia’s surfaced. Everyone loved her voice. Everyone except her parents. Her dad couldn’t control it. What she wore. Who she spent time with. Where she was going with her life. Those were things he’d tried to control.

  Father Murphy had told her mother, “Sheila’s music means a lot to the parishioners, especially the elderly.”

  Her grandmother, Sheila’s favorite person in the world besides Jim and Tommy, loved her singing—sang along with her.

  Lily managed to pass Father Murphy’s message along to Carl. How many times had Sheila waited after Wednesday night choir practices for one of her parents to pick her up? Father Murphy often drove her home, and later, Jim was there to drive her.

  Tommy listened to her sing with a spellbound expression. She had sung to him since they were little children. In turn, he clowned around and made her laugh.

  Jim loved it when she sang for him. He always praised her when she did the national anthem at his games.

  A few hours later, having finally dozed off, the door’s rattle startled Sheila awake. Someone’s trying to break in!

  Her eyes darted around the lit-up room, in search of a weapon. A kitchen chair?

  She bolted off the Murphy bed and grasped her hands to the chair’s rungs like a circus lion tamer. As the partially opened door pressed against the chain lock, she crouched and crept toward the intruder.

  “Sheila—doll baby—it’s me,” came a loud whisper.

  She peeked through the crack. There stood Jim, looking bigger and stronger and more handsome than ever. She tossed the chair aside with a thunk, released the chain with trembling fingers, and jumped into his outstretched arms.

  They never even considered the sofa or chair. He carried her straight to the Murphy bed, where they tore at each other’s clothes and made frantic love.

  Afterward they snuggled together, arms and legs entwined, him smoking a Marlboro while she memorized his tired face. He did a lot of talking about their recent short separation while she listened.

  “It’s going to be about four months until the ship leaves for Vietnam with supplies for the troops. You can find a job. We can build a life in Long Beach. I don’t have to report back until Monday because of the holiday.”

  Sheila had completely forgotten about the Fourth of July. All of a sudden, she couldn’t wait to go to the fireworks. “We have more time. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said prayerfully.

  “My superior’s a nice guy. He’s a yeoman first class. Told me that he and his wife would have us over tonight for dinner.”

  “That sounds terrific! What’s his name?”

  “Ted Rolly. He’s from East Texas. His wife’s named Brenda. She was his high school sweetheart—like us. They have two little boys, and he’s been in the navy over ten years. A lifer. Going for at least twenty.”

  “You sure learned a lot about him.” Sheila was amazed at how much her usually quiet husband was saying. The relief of being back?

  “He’s a real talker. Sounds funny.”

  Neither of them had ever known anyone from the South.

  “I can’t imagine staying in the navy that long.”

  “He makes it sound like a really good deal.”

  Sheila ignored this remark. “What else about him, besides talking a lot?”

  “Proud of his family. He showed me pictures.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  Jim took a drag of his cigarette, staring at the stained, once-white, ceiling. “About five foot nine, thin, dark hair, pink skin. He looked sunburned.”

  “How about his wife?”

  “Same height in the pictures. Same coloring. Kind of like brother and sister.”

  “And the kids?”

  “Really cute. Little guys. Four and three. Teddy and … Jerry.”

  Friends maybe? With this thought, Sheila fell asleep on Jim’s chest, comforted by the thump-thump-thump of his heart.

  It was 5:00 a.m., Saturday, July 3, 1965, the beginning of their fourth day in California.

  CHAPTER 3

  Friends?

  THAT AFTERNOON, JIM AND SHEILA TRUDGED A MILE TO THE ROLLYS’ APARTMENT FOR dinner. “At least we’re getting exercise,” she said.

  “I’ll buy a car before too long.” Jim’s tone conveyed his longing.

  “I’ll keep saving.” Another thing to think about. With all her worrying, Sheila had developed a case of hives. The itchy red welts covered her stomach but didn’t show under a pale yellow sundress. Since everything would be closed on Monday to observe the holiday, she would start her job search by going to the California State Employment Office on Tuesday. Skimming newspaper ads, she had circled anything interesting in red. This would be her first real interview. In order to stay in California, she had to find a job within weeks.

  I won’t think about that. She scratched at her waist through the fabric of her dress.

  Sheila wasn’t nervous about meeting the Rollys. She had moved around so much as a kid that every year meant finding new friends.

  The Rollys lived on the upper floor of a dirty beige, stucco duplex. As Jim and Sheila waited on the front porch after ringing the doorbell, a hugely pregnant woman opened the door to the first-floor apartment, perhaps thinking her own bell rang, or maybe snooping.

  Blond, with large, soft, brown eyes like a cow’s, she said, “The Rollys live upstairs.” She squinted those bovine eyes. “You’ll be their new friends.”

  Behind her a tall guy with dark-framed glasses and a wary expression that seemed to say, “Who are these intruders?” approached. Barely nodding toward them, he took the woman’s arm, none too gently, and pulled her back inside, then banged the door shut.

  “Jeez, what’s with him?”

  Jim shook his head and rang the bell again.

  A male voice from upstairs hollered, “On the way.” A minute later, the pink-skinned guy Jim had described shook his hand vigorously, before turning to give Sheila a once-over. “You didn’t tell me she was such a looker.”

  “Yeah, she’s a real little doll.”

  Sheila, at five foot two and less than one hundred pounds, knew she was pretty. Still, she felt heat rise from her hives to her blushing cheeks at this guy’s forwardness. She was used to Jim’s remark, and usually liked it. But this guy? Silently, she followed the two already-buddies up to the Rollys’ apartment. The stairwell reminded her of a dark, empty silo like on the farms she’d visited as a kid. It smelled of dust and grease from years of frying food. About twenty skinny steps ascended straight to the top landing. The backs of her sandals flopped over them. Does anyone fall? This brought to mind Scarlett O’Hara. She had purposefully tripped on a broad staircase in order to cause a miscarriage. Sheila didn’t want babies. There were too many other things to do before that could happen, but she’d never purposefully get rid of a pregnancy. So far, the recently available birth control pills seemed to be working. The Church expressly forbade them, so she was committing a mortal sin. Every month thankfulness outweighed her guilt.

  Light came from the Rollys’ open front door, and a pair of little faces peeked out. Almost identical, with mops of dark brown, Beatle-like hair, one child was a bit larger.

  “I thought you guys were helping Mom.” Ted sounded gruff as a bear.

  “We are.” The bigger
one saluted like a sailor.

  “They’re heeeere,” the smaller one turned and shouted.

  Delicious smells filled the living room. The table was simply set with paper napkins for adults as well as kids. Ted’s wife walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She looked so much like her husband that they really could have been mistaken for siblings. No wonder their children were so similar. The gene pool in East Texas never occurred to Sheila.

  “I’m Brenda.” She held out a hand first to Sheila, then to Jim. “Come on in.”

  “Can I help you with anything?” Sheila asked.

  “It’s almost done.” Brenda walked back in the kitchen. “Be out in a sec.”

  “Let’s sit over here.” Ted gestured to a lumpy gray sofa in the living room. He sat down on a scratched wooden rocker and picked up a newspaper to fan himself. “Hotter than he—” He looked at Sheila. “H … e … double toothpicks. I apologize.”

  “We’re fine.” Jim fumbled with the collar of his sport shirt.

  “So Sheila, you must have lots of questions about what’ll happen next.”

  “Jim told me the ship would be stateside for about four months.” She placed a hand on his thigh.

  “Probably. But it will be going on maneuvers.”

  “I’m just glad he’s not headed overseas right away.”

  “Word is we’ll be shipping out before Christmas.”

  “They won’t wait until January?” Our first married Christmas!

  “Nope. I’m hoping we’ll be here for Thanksgiving. By Christmas we’ll be gone.” He studied her.

  She was sure he expected tears or some other sign of upset. Taking a deep breath, Sheila refused to react.

  “It’ll be like Christmas when Jim comes home. Lots of presents from Japan and Hong Kong. The guys have to make up for all that time away.”

  “See this.” Brenda came into the dining area holding a hand-painted enamel bowl full of cut-up fruit. “Ted brought it to me a couple of cruises ago.”

  “Beautiful,” Sheila said, feeling hypocritical. She disliked shiny red and black Oriental-design objects.

  The wonderful smell turned out to be scalloped potatoes and ham. After Jim, who’d had nothing but fast food for days, agreed to seconds and then thirds, Brenda told Sheila, “I’ll copy the recipe down for you.”

  “You’ll have to tell me exactly how to do each step.” Why don’t I know how to cook? This was one of the few things her mother did well. She never wanted company in the kitchen, preferring to sip from her tumbler as she chopped and stirred.

  “Where do you shop?” Ted turned to Sheila after he forced another bite of meat into the smaller boy’s mouth.

  “There’s a market near our apartment.”

  “Sounds expensive. You can start going to the commissary with me,” Brenda offered. With a family and living off base, they had a car.

  “That’ll be handy,” Jim agreed. “Definitely cheaper.”

  Ted patted Brenda’s hand. “She manages everything around here real good.”

  Discreetly scratching the hives, Sheila thought, I want to go to my own market. They had stopped in there the day before. The couple who ran it looked about the same age as Mr. and Mrs. Grey, but a whole lot healthier. After smiling greetings, they questioned Jim and Sheila, about where they came from, and didn’t act like Minnesota was the end of the earth. Besides, wasn’t the commissary filled with career military?

  Both little boys behaved obediently throughout the meal, and when it was done, Teddy said, “Excuse me please,” and Jerry said, “’Scuse too?”

  “Thank your mom for a delicious meal,” Ted ordered.

  “Thanks, Mama,” they said in unison.

  “Very good, boys,” Brenda said. “You can watch The Munsters until bedtime.”

  Ted went back to stuffing in food. He ate with his elbows on the table, using his knife and fork like a shovel and a scoop.

  Later, while Sheila helped Brenda clean up the dishes, she said, “Are your kids always so polite?”

  “They have their moments.”

  “Ted treats you so nicely.” In spite of his lack of table manners and gruffness with his sons, he had been quite affectionate toward his wife.

  “He has his moments too.” Brenda headed for the bathroom. “Back in a minute.”

  While she was gone, Sheila looked around the kitchen at all the Oriental platters and vases. Ted must have been on many cruises.

  When Brenda returned, Sheila said, “The woman downstairs came to her door after we rang the bell.”

  “That’s Sharon Hill. Very pregnant.”

  “She sure is. The husband walked up behind her but didn’t say a thing.” Tentatively, she added, “He yanked her back inside.”

  “They’re our friends, but Larry can be a jerk. His ship leaves in a week.”

  “Before she has the baby? How horrible.”

  “Her mother’s coming tomorrow to take her home to Ohio. I don’t blame Larry for being impatient. Sharon really wants to stay here, and she’s making quite a fuss.” Brenda’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Yucky story—her milk came in already.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It’s because Larry sucks her boobs so much when they’re going at it.”

  What do I say? Sheila couldn’t fathom that aloof guy glomming onto his wife like an infant. Since she’d gotten married, older women often shared intimate stuff like this. Sheila and Brenda had just met. Wasn’t it awfully soon for such talk? There were plenty of things she could have spoken about with Patty and her other girlfriends back in Minnesota—how far they’d gone with boyfriends, worry about pregnancies that seldom happened. They all kept private concerns to themselves.

  When she didn’t respond, Brenda went on, “It would have been awkward if Sharon stayed here without Larry. When Ted’s stateside, we like to hang out with couples.”

  After clean-up was done, Brenda and Sheila rejoined the guys in the living room. As their program came to an end, Brenda said to the little boys, “Time to brush your teeth and off to bed.”

  They stood up and left the room without any argument. Brenda was gone for about fifteen minutes. The boys never came out to say good night to their father. Sheila found this to be strange. Maybe because there was company.

  During this time, Ted ranted about draft dodgers. “What’s with these guys? You’d think they’d be proud to serve our country. Bunch of traitors.”

  “I don’t know anybody doing that,” Jim said.

  “That’s because you come from good people. Americans with values.”

  Sheila wondered how Ted knew that Jim came from “good people.” He never talked much about his background. Before their marriage, he had lived with a divorced mother and a younger brother. There was a camaraderie between these two military men that might explain Ted’s remark. She picked up a basket of Brenda’s handiwork. It was a wall hanging with embroidered flowers and birds. From the front many colored stitches showed, neat and precise. A peek at the back revealed a jumble of stray threads and bunchy knots. As she heard Brenda coming back in the room, Sheila carefully replaced the piece in its basket.

  Ted began to talk about the first major offensive of the war. “They attacked the Vietcong about twenty miles from Saigon.”

  “Hope they got a lot of them,” Jim said.

  Sheila shuddered, glad when the conversation changed to recollections of East Texas.

  “Used to do a lot of hunting back home,” Ted started in.

  “Yeah, I’ve cooked plenty of squirrels and other critters.” Brenda grinned.

  “I’m glad you served ham for dinner.” Sheila tried to chuckle.

  It was a pleasant enough evening. When Ted offered to drive them back to the apartment, an hour or so after dessert of apple pie with vanilla ice cream, S
heila said, “I’d rather walk. I’m really full from all the tasty food.”

  Jim didn’t comment about the offer. He shook hands with Ted, and thanked Brenda for “the best meal I’ve had in months.”

  Sheila thanked them, too, but not so profusely.

  His remark brought home again how inadequate she felt in the cooking department, but Sheila chose to ignore it. Why set him up for a funk? She wanted to compare impressions of this new couple.

  “Brenda and Ted seem nice,” she said after getting out of earshot. She seems nice.

  Silence.

  “What did you think of Brenda?”

  “Okay.”

  “The kids are cute.”

  Silence again.

  “You really enjoyed the dinner.” If he has a gripe about my feeble attempts at cooking he can talk about it!

  Nothing.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Jim stopped walking and looked at her with his all-too-familiar cocked head.

  “What did I do? Or didn’t do?”

  “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

  She’d heard this so many times. Should she let it blow over? Play a guessing game?

  “Is it about my cooking?”

  Nothing.

  “Did I say something inappropriate?” What about Ted’s remark about my looks?

  Still nothing.

  “Did you want to take a ride with Ted?”

  He resumed walking, with a straight ahead stare.

  That’s it. “I’m sorry if you wanted Ted to drive us home.”

  Silence.

  I guess I should have asked what he wanted to do.

  They slept in late on Sunday, the Fourth of July. Sheila cuddled in Jim’s arms, glad that he hadn’t pulled weekend duty, something that would come up soon according to Ted. The tension during their walk home the night before had dissipated. She didn’t even think about going to mass. After better-than-ever sex (she came twice—Jim called this giving her “a main course followed by dessert”) and snoozing some more, Sheila started talking about her upcoming job search.