Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  Sheila had started typing right away and there was “Letter to” at the top of the page. Why hadn’t she listened for a minute? What was she going to do for another sheet of paper? Her heart pounded and her throat constricted. I can’t go ask that woman.

  She searched every drawer of the desk and finally found a few sheets in the bottom one. She pulled out a sheet and rolled it into the typewriter. Oh God, it’s crooked. She loosened the ratchet and made an adjustment. Now, there were thumbprints on the page. The platen made a clicking sound as she yanked the smudged paper out. She had forgotten to put tissues in her purse. She grabbed another sheet and rubbed it against her fingers, then stuffed it in back of the typewriter—to be retrieved when finished. She took another sheet, jiggled it straight, rolled it into place, and re-started the Dictaphone.

  “… son: This is to inform you that we have sent notification to your neighbor, regarding his fence …”

  Sheila lifted her foot. The letter had resumed where she released pressure. How to backtrack? It must be the other half of the pedal. She tapped left, then tapped right.

  “… his fence …”

  Not far enough.

  She pushed left a little longer.

  “… cation to your …” Still not far enough. Sheila held the rewind down a long while. She had to reach the beginning.

  “… look forward to seeing …” What happened to Mrs. Robertson’s problem fence? She had gone too far. It was a different letter. She gingerly touched the right side of the pedal.

  “With warm …” tap, tap.

  “… cerely,” tap, tap.

  “… ney at law.” This must be the end. Holding the forward half of the pedal down, she waited through a pause. Then, she heard Louise Hewett breathing, followed by, “Letter to …” She was at the problem fence.

  Sheila typed Mrs. Raymond Robertson, her hands shaking, dropped down a line to start the address, then she saw—no date. Should she put one above the name? That seemed appropriate. Centered? As if under a letterhead? That seemed right. She started to type July 19, 1965, and ended up with Julu. She searched the middle drawer. No White-out. No Correct Type. One gray, rough eraser. Working on the “u,” she pressed too hard. A hole! Why did I type the date?

  Sheila tore this sheet out. Clickety—clickety—clickety. She put another sheet in, and started over again. Her mouth filled with a sour taste, like she might throw up.

  She got down to “Long Beach” before making another error. Dad was right—I’ll never get a job.

  Next sheet, the mistake happened before she got through Mrs. Raymond Robertson. I’m going to have to go back to Minneapolis.

  She put the last sheet of paper in and started typing the date. As she pushed the return to begin the address, the door opened, letting in the fragrance of that expensive perfume—citrus-y.

  Louise Hewett said, “Time’s up. Give me your letter.”

  Sheila looked at the crisscrossed stack of messed-up papers, chewed her lip, carefully removed the last sheet from the typewriter and handed it, with the stack of others, to the office manager.

  “Well, I never!” Louise Hewett said. “Your application?”

  “It’s somewhere in there.” Sheila suddenly felt her failed deodorant. The cold, wet rings under her arms brought on a tremble.

  “Very well. Come to my desk.”

  Back in the reception area, two men stood talking near the entrance door—the guy with crinkly, near-black hair, and another much taller fellow with silver gray hair. They raised their eyebrows. Louise Hewett rolled her eyes and sat down, as if gliding onto a throne.

  After a minute scrutinizing each pathetic sheet of paper, she straightened the stack with a ker-plunk—ker-plunk—ker-plunk on her desk, and shook her head like she truly never had seen such a disaster. A long-suffering Louise Hewett wheeled her chair dismissively away.

  “Mrs. Gallagher, I’ll call if you should come back.”

  Sheila passed the attorneys, her eyes on the tile floor, and pushed open one of the heavy doors to leave. Approaching the street, she experienced a jolt. Huge raindrops hit her cheeks and she had three miles to walk with no umbrella. More terrible than this, she had forgotten her purse in that dinky room. For a minute she thought, Just forget it. You can’t go back there and face those awful people, before remembering a twenty-dollar bill tucked in the zipper compartment. It was enough to buy groceries for a week. I won’t cry. I’ll go in and politely ask for it and leave as fast as I possibly can. Crying’s for later.

  When she re-entered their reception area, the attorneys were laughing loudly and the office manager was saying, “… even in Minnesota …”

  Louise Hewett barely looked at Sheila as she relayed her problem. Meanwhile, the attorneys scrutinized her, seemingly in disbelief.

  Louise Hewett marched down the hallway and returned, carrying the purse between her fingers as if it were a dead mouse being held by the tail. In her other hand, she grasped the crunched-up paper with Sheila’s streaked fingerprints.

  “On second thought, Mrs. Gallagher, you are not a good fit. Forget about a call. Perhaps Douglas Aircraft is hiring.”

  Sheila took the purse, whispered thanks, and scurried from the building.

  As she made the soaking walk back to their apartment, tears mixing with the rain, she passed by buildings she had seen when they first arrived. She remembered those scary days. At least the town looked more familiar. There was that beat-up old hotel—the Seavue. Strange. She pursed her lips. Where’d they get the name with absolutely no view of the ocean? Instead, it faced the Pike where sailors went to pick up girls. The hotel should be called Pikevue, she thought, but couldn’t smile.

  At least she had Jim, even if his ship always was going out on maneuvers, and Van Dorn Apartments. That’s where she lived now, and she’d soon be there. She kept on trudging, water sloshing loudly in her sandals.

  Rent wasn’t due for over a week. Surely something would materialize soon. Maybe at Douglas Aircraft. When she had told the Potters she was looking for a job, the old lady said, “Douglas’ll start hiring soon.”

  Sheila cried for a long time that night, repeating to Jim: “What am I going to do about a job? I don’t even know how to operate the stupid machines they have in these California offices.” Then, “I’ve gotta find a job—I can’t go back.” Then, “I can’t leave you.” Then, “I’ll die if I have to go on another interview like that.” Then, “It’ll be okay. I know it’ll be okay.” Then, “Oh God. I feel sick—it’s just like my father said.”

  Jim, who was there until the next morning, reassured, “It’ll be all right, my little doll.” He brushed back her hair and kissed her forehead. “Everything’ll work out.”

  Sheila thought of the doll that she had always played with at her grandmother’s house. She had told Jim about this secret, imaginary friend from her childhood, and he started calling her his “little doll.” He knew how special her grandmother had always been to her, more special than most because, from a young age, Sheila avoided her overbearing father and her numb mother. Finally, she fell asleep, still in her homemade dress, snuggled in Jim’s arms, thinking of Grandma’s doll.

  Next morning, before he left for the ship and another three days of maneuvers, Jim said, “You need to rest for a while. Take the day off.”

  Sheila didn’t respond with her usual comment that it was time to grow up. As awful as she felt about not continuing her job search, peering into the mirror at her blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes, she decided to tumble back into the Murphy bed. When she did arise, hours later, looking and feeling a whole lot better, Jim was gone and she mentally kicked herself for wasting so much time. From the manager’s apartment, with his deathly ill wife sitting in her rocking chair, Sheila called the employment office’s receptionist. Another appointment with Mr. Bosanka, their fifth meeting, was set for the next afternoon. She had t
o do it but dreaded seeing him after her humiliation. What in the world had Louise Hewett told him when she got done laughing with Briggs and Newell?

  As soon as Sheila walked back to his desk, she saw that Mr. Bosanka beamed. “You’re in luck,” he informed her. “I still don’t have a phone number, otherwise I’d have called you. Douglas started hiring sooner than expected.”

  Sheila gave a silent prayer of thanks.

  For the rest of the week, she went through the testing, interviewing, and new employee indoctrination process, feeling comfortable with these people. The men reminded her of Mr. Bosanka, and the women had plain, clipped fingernails and no scarves. After waiting in many rooms and signing much paperwork, including a security clearance that made her feel important, Sheila was told to report on Monday, August 2. She had a job typing change orders for the DC-10, from hard copies not a Dictaphone, at a salary of $400/month—a great raise over her $325 at the bank in Minneapolis. And she had a carefree week before going to work.

  The Matthews wouldn’t be in until the next day, so she couldn’t tell Jim. That night, she used the apartment manager’s phone, again, to call Minneapolis.

  Her father said, “Big deal. You got a job. That doesn’t mean a thing. You belong here at home helping your mother.” It was late in the day, but his words were as forceful as ever.

  Her mother slurred something about “Your father’s right,” when she took her turn to speak.

  Sheila rapidly hung up. On the walk past doors of other apartments on the way to her own, she kept saying, “They can’t spoil this for me.”

  Once inside, she lay down on the Murphy bed, staring at the ceiling, promising herself, First paycheck, I’m getting a telephone … and then a television. It seemed like months since she’d seen a favorite, What’s My Line? She always pictured herself on the show as an accomplished music teacher—visiting New York City with her choir for a performance at Carnegie Hall. For now, she would be a typist in the Change Order Department of Douglas Aircraft.

  That Sunday she went to mass without any conflicted feelings. She thanked God for her new job. She’d be able to stay in California.

  As she listened and watched the comforting, familiar ritual, quietly participating, she thought of Luci Baines Johnson, who had recently converted to Catholicism on her eighteenth birthday. She had made a choice.

  This brought on a thought about President Johnson’s order to increase US armed forces in Vietnam from 75,000 to 125,000. Where will this end?

  She tried her hand at a spaghetti dinner that night. It turned out terrible—burned, bitter-tasting sauce and mushy noodles.

  Jim comforted her by saying, “Don’t worry, doll. It was a good try. Next time it’ll be better.” He wiped her tears away, and said, “I’ll go get some burgers.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Settling In

  THE SATURDAY BEFORE SHE STARTED WORK, SHEILA TOOK SOME OF THEIR DWINDLING funds and stocked up on groceries.

  Beforehand Jim said, “Brenda can take you to the commissary.”

  I’ll have more money to shop wherever I want. Sheila made an excuse. “I need to stay close by. To catch up on laundry.” She pointed to a three-foot-high pile in the corner behind one of the dingy, beige, vinyl chairs. Almost everything she had brought with her, as well as all of his whites, had been thrown in this pile. She’d be ironing uniforms for hours Sunday.

  On her way to the store, she stopped by the manager’s apartment to make arrangements for a late payment of her upcoming rent—after her first paycheck from Douglas.

  “Next month, I’ll be able to pay on time,” she told Mr. Grey, feeling horrible about this request, even though Jim had said, “What’s the big deal?”

  “Don’t usually do this sort of thing.” Mr. Grey’s perpetual frown deepened into cavernous lines.

  If she didn’t get the extension, what would happen? Would he use their last month’s payment?

  The door to their bedroom stood open a few inches. Sheila could see Mrs. Grey in the bed, her head bolstered up by pillows, her eyes barely open. She gave a slight wave, and Mrs. Grey gave a slight smile.

  Mr. Grey’s face softened. “You seem like a good tenant. Don’t want to take your backlog. Pay me as soon as you can.”

  Poor Mr. Grey. His name suited him. Lack of sleep, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and waiting for his wife to call out with her constant needs … and to die … made him look almost as sick as her. Sheila almost hugged him, but instead stepped back and merely said, “Thank you so much. It won’t happen again.”

  As she walked to the store, she basked in the sunshine, quickly forgetting about Mr. and Mrs. Grey. Sheila decided that once this job business got under control, she would spend as much time as possible at the beach. She planned to lay on a big towel, work on her tan, bring along a pencil and notebook. Even if she didn’t have her guitar to play, she’d figure out chords and memorize new songs.

  She rolled a two-wheeled wire cart that could carry three bags of groceries. This made her feel like one of the many hunched-over retirees who bumped along with similar devices on the extra-wide sidewalks. Spotting one, she stood taller. I’m never going to look like that! Some of the geriatric folks drove golf carts on these same sidewalks. Everyone else better watch out. On a first stroll alone, she almost got run down by a woman with purple hair and googly eyeglasses. She never even apologized, causing Sheila to assume the old girl never saw her.

  The shopkeeper and his wife always smiled broadly when she came in, and both would say, “Welcome, Sheila from Minnesota!”

  Their fleshy faces showed indulgence in plenty of snacks, and their ruddiness, from years in the California sun, made their skin look like they’d been trapped in a dehydrator. The one on a break would sit on a yellow-cushioned lounge chair outside and to the left of the entry door. A bell hanging by a red cord hung from the top. Its ringing announced when a customer entered. If the inside person was back by the storage area, office, or restroom, after a minute or so, Mister or Missus, whichever one sprawled on the chair, bellowed, “Customer!” then went back to eating Hostess cupcakes or potato chips and drinking a soft drink, eyes closed, face upraised to the sun. The inside person would hustle to the counter to help the customer. The two had reddish-brown arms covered in dark splotches. Sheila figured they must be shriveled white everywhere else on their bodies. Neither one of them seemed to care about getting an all-over tan.

  On this day, bypassing healthy items like ground beef and rice and salad makings, Sheila stocked up on Wonder Bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, chips, cheese and crackers, Hershey bars, and plenty of Cokes. She also splurged on four TV dinners—two fried chickens and two pot roasts. One of these was enough for her, and she could always fill in with an extra sandwich for Jim. It was time for her to start cooking at home instead of bringing in all the expensive pizzas and burgers, but she hadn’t gotten around to finding any recipes.

  Jim had asked, “When are you going to make Brenda’s scalloped potatoes and ham?”

  “I’ll get around to it!” she’d snapped.

  As Mr. Shopkeeper checked her items out, he said, “Having a party, huh?”

  “We sure are.” It might not be a party with a lot of people, but any time Jim returned from maneuvers was a party for them.

  Mrs. Shopkeeper said, “Come again. Perry and I always enjoy seeing you.”

  “Arlette’s right about that,” he said. “We don’t get enough young people coming into our place.”

  Perry and Arlette—two more people I know. After starting work on Monday, Sheila hoped to make some real friends. She wasn’t sure about the Rollys. She and Jim had been over to their apartment a few more times, to watch movies on their television. Ted always drove them back to their own place. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, but there was something about them that made her feel uneasy.

  Still, Jim said things l
ike, “Ted is such a good guy.”

  After putting her purchases away, she separated the dirty laundry. Some new clothes for work would be necessary after her first paycheck—washable clothes so she wouldn’t have to pay for dry cleaning. The people she would be working with were going to get awfully sick of seeing her in the homemade aqua dress, but she’d have to swallow her pride and pretend like it didn’t matter. Besides, she hadn’t seen any fashion plates like Louise Hewett during the long interviewing process at Douglas.

  Jim always said, “You look pretty enough. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”

  She’d try to keep his words in mind.

  Before heading up to the laundry facility, Sheila went in the bathroom and studied her reflection in the mottled mirror. It affirmed that, if anything, the California sun and all the loving when Jim came home really were making her look better than ever. Leaning close to the glass, however, she did see that a lot more freckles had popped out. Sheila pictured Perry and Arlette’s damaged skin and had second thoughts about spending so much time at the beach.

  The first people she saw upon entering the tarred sunroof, with the washer and dryer in a corner shed, were Mr. and Mrs. Potter. There they sat, holding hands atop a white enamel table, yakking away at each other. With a full plastic laundry basket propped on her hip, Sheila stopped to greet them.

  “I used to do my wash on Saturdays,” Mrs. Potter said in her twittery voice. “Worked all week at the insurance company. Saturday did laundry and housework. Sunday went to church. It’s too far for walking now, so we watch our service on television. It comes from the Crystal Cathedral, which is sure a fancier place than where we used to go—First Methodist of Kansas City.”

  “Beautiful music from the Crystal Cathedral,” Mr. Potter rasped.