Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  “We were talking about today’s sermon, a call to support our boys in the military.”

  “I was in the army,” he said. “Went to France in World War I.”

  “Mr. Potter and I didn’t know each other back in those days. My, oh my, how I would have loved to go to France.”

  Mr. Potter shook his head in sync with her remark, as if anticipating her words, as if this was a conversation they’d had many times. “Not in the war, Abby.”

  “Will your husband be going somewhere exciting?” She sounded like Jim had an upcoming vacation.

  “He’s shipping out to Vietnam around Thanksgiving.”

  “In the navy,” Mr. Potter nodded. “He’ll be safe.”

  “I hope so.”

  Mrs. Potter’s expression changed from wistful to wily. “You sure play that radio a lot when he’s home.”

  Taken aback, Sheila faltered for a moment. “Jim’s a great music fan. I hope it doesn’t bother you.”

  “It certainly never does.” Mrs. Potter’s smile twisted up on one side. “Clarence and I, we always have enjoyed music, even these new songs you young people listen to. The Beatles and all. I think those four are really cute.”

  “With their mop tops they remind her of the grandkids back home. When they were small.”

  I have to get away.

  “Nice talking to you.” Sheila spotted a mass of bleached blond hair. “Better grab that washing machine. The lady from next door to Mr. and Mrs. Grey is coming up the steps with a load.”

  She walked off as they both said, “Stop by our apartment … anytime.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” Sheila said over her shoulder, knowing that she wouldn’t. There was enough to be heard and imagined through their shared wall, and with these occasional meetings.

  The bleached blond gave her a dirty look—dark as her two-inch-long roots—as Sheila slipped in ahead of her and started stuffing clothes in the washer.

  She tilted her head to look at the three-story-high metal ceiling of the hangar-like building. Sheila felt smaller than ever beneath it. The Change Order Department at Douglas Aircraft was located in a fifty- by thirty-foot area abutting an outside wall on one side. It was divided from a maze of inner halls by a seven-foot-high wall on the other side. Row after row of similar departments occupied the hangar.

  Five other women employed in Change Orders were somewhere between thirty and fifty years old. Eventually Sheila learned that two were divorcées with small children, two were married with grown children, one was the head of the department and her boss—Jane Kleven, a widow with two older kids still at home.

  After the first four got to know Sheila and her lovesick ways, they’d say things like, “Wait until he comes back for good. You won’t be so excited about everything he says and does.” And, “I used to be just like you. It won’t last.” And, “One of these days you’ll figure out what life is all about.”

  She had nothing in common with them.

  Only Jane never said a word like this. She went to lunch with Sheila, listened to how lonely she got when Jim was away, listened to how much she never wanted to go home to her domineering father and drunken mother, listened to how she worried about her younger brother Tommy, with his many problems, and her concerns whether he would be able to get away like she had done.

  Jane said this kind of thing, “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Sheila. Life will work out for you.”

  When the Watts Riot went on for five scorching nights, Jane said, “Don’t worry. Nothing like that’s going to happen in Long Beach.”

  Despite her assurances, with Jim gone again, Sheila barely slept, listening to every stray cat yowling and car passing by in the alley. She thought, Things like this don’t happen in Minneapolis. Even though she spent so much time by herself, sometimes imagining the worst, she still was happy to be in California, even this close to Los Angeles. She told Patty this in letters she wrote every week or so.

  Jane was about fifty years old, like Mr. and Mrs. Grey, as well as Perry and Arlette. She looked healthy and seemed to enjoy her work at Douglas. Her plump, cheerful face reminded Sheila of Shelley Winters. She loved to talk about her kids, and Sheila loved to hear about them. Bradley was twenty and in college. Mary Beth was eighteen and working at Douglas after graduating from high school.

  One day Jane said, “It’d be nice for you and Mary Beth to really get to know each other.” Jane had taken Sheila to Mary Beth’s department in another part of Procurement, and introduced her the first day, but Mary Beth never came to Jane’s department. When Jane was gone extra-long from her desk, she always came back and said something like, “Mary Beth’s doing well. I’m glad she likes the job.”

  Now, she said, “Why don’t you call Mary Beth and see if she wants to go to lunch? I don’t mind if you take a little extra time.”

  “Good idea.” Sheila immediately called the number Jane gave her, and without preliminaries asked Mary Beth to meet her.

  Mary Beth said, “Sure. Not doing anything else.”

  They took the shuttle to the cafeteria in the middle of the plant, with Mary Beth chattering the whole way, and Sheila enjoying the role of listener for a change.

  “Mom was so excited when you got hired,” Mary Beth said. “I haven’t had any friends since I started at Douglas, and she figured we’d like each other.”

  “I haven’t had any friends my own age since I got to Long Beach.”

  “Guess it was meant to be.”

  They stopped at the cafeteria first, and Sheila ordered a Cobb salad and iced tea, skipping the roll.

  Mary Beth ordered the same thing, saying, “I should quit eating bread.”

  While they ate, Mary Beth talked about her high school, and how she missed her friend, Sally, who had gone to Seattle for college.

  “Didn’t you want to go to college?” Sheila asked.

  “Not particularly. I didn’t have anything that I planned to study … like Bradley … he’s into politics. He likes going to Long Beach State. I’d rather work for a while.”

  “I went to college. My friends are all at the University of Minnesota.” Sheila pictured Patty, and felt an unexpected tug of homesickness. “But I wanted to get married.”

  “I can’t even imagine being married.”

  Sheila wondered if Mary Beth had ever dated. She was quite heavy, had a sweet face and an easygoing disposition similar to Jane’s. She wasn’t at all like any of Sheila’s old friends, who had been cheerleaders and class officers and members of sports teams or were into music. Mary Beth didn’t have much else to say about high school, so Sheila assumed she was one of those kids who didn’t participate in anything. If it wasn’t for her music, she probably would have been the same way.

  After finishing their lunch, the two headed for the company store, where Sheila browsed through a rack of sundresses. “These are cute.”

  “All of them would look really good on you.”

  “Thanks. I don’t want to spend the money. Why don’t you try something on?”

  Mary Beth wore a dark blue skirt with a white blouse that was untucked in the back.

  “None of these would suit me.”

  “We can look at shoes if you want.”

  “I could use a new pair of sneakers.”

  So they tried on shoes for the rest of the time. Sheila found several pairs that looked nice on her narrow foot but again skipped buying anything. Mary Beth chose a pair of plain, white sneakers, and carried the box under her arm back to the shuttle.

  A little over an hour later, Sheila returned to her desk.

  Jane hung up the telephone. “Mary Beth told me you went shopping.”

  Sheila wondered about her calling Mary Beth so soon but said, “She found some shoes.”

  “It’s always fun to go shopping with a friend.”

&nbs
p; “Sure is.”

  After that, Jane suggested an extended lunch hour once a week, and before long, Sheila was counting on her time with Mary Beth, who seldom asked about her life, talking instead about activities at home with her mother and brother.

  Sheila liked Jane—so different from her own mother, and felt compromised when Mary Beth complained with words like, “Mom’s always trying to tell me what to do. Bradley’s the same way.”

  To Sheila, it looked like Mary Beth and her mother had an almost perfect relationship.

  On Friday, August 13, she received her first paycheck. Douglas had held back one week. In spite of the scary race riots taking place in Los Angeles, and feeling a bit superstitious because of the date, she considered this to be an extremely lucky day. After paying the rent, her spirits lifted with the prospect of extra money. She decided they should do something fun.

  “How about celebrating with dinner and a movie?” she asked Jim.

  He’d been nonchalant when she landed the Douglas job. “I knew it would only be a matter of time. Something would come through. There’d be plenty of money.”

  Glad you weren’t worried.

  After an Italian dinner with a bottle of Chianti (they didn’t ask for Sheila’s ID), she told him, “I like the port from Harvey’s better.” This was a steak place they used to go to back in Minneapolis, which also never carded her. “But this tastes okay. I’m glad to be out with you.” She grabbed his hand.

  They saw Georgy Girl and talked about it walking back to their apartment in the dark.

  “I don’t like that stupid British humor,” Jim said.

  “It was entertaining, but I sure didn’t understand the taking-care-of-a-baby business.”

  “That was the best part,” Jim said.

  To change the subject, she said, “It was wonderful being on a date. Really doesn’t matter to me what we saw.” She considered the character played by Lynn Redgrave, who wanted a baby so badly, to be slightly crazy. Every time Jim brought up babies, all she could think was, What about my school?

  Returning after 11:00 p.m., heady with the fragrance of night blooming jasmine, they passed by an unoccupied apartment to the right of theirs. Thinking of the Potters on the other side, Sheila felt glad that this one was so quiet.

  Mr. Grey had said, “For the time being it’s used for storage. You’ll get neighbors before too long.”

  Maybe someone like me will move in.

  As Jim unlocked their door, the screen resting against his shoulder, Sheila noticed Mr. Grey standing by his window at the other end of the building. She watched him raise a bottle to his mouth.

  “He gives me the creeps.”

  “He’s waiting,” Jim said.

  “I suppose that’s true.” What would it be like, counting the moments until your husband or wife left you forever? For about the millionth time since Jim had enlisted in the navy, she told herself, Thank goodness he’ll be safe!

  A few Sundays later, Jane invited them over for a barbeque in Belmont Shores. Sheila looked forward to meeting Bradley, and hoped that he and Jim would get along. That would mean they’d have friends apart from the navy. She went to early mass, lighting a candle for all her concerns.

  Their walk was only a couple of miles, in the opposite direction from where the Rollys lived. It was, of course, another beautiful day, and Sheila chattered as they looked at the sparkling water and the large, old houses on Long Beach Boulevard. Jane’s brown shingled bungalow, trimmed in green and white, was a couple of blocks in from the beach on a quiet street.

  She had made baked potatoes and a tossed salad. Mary Beth had cut up a bowl of fruit. Bradley, who was about five feet, ten inches and rail-thin, looked up to Jim when they shook hands. He had fine brown hair like Mary Beth’s, and wire-framed glasses that made him appear to be serious, kind of like John Lennon, Sheila’s favorite Beatle. Bradley cooked steaks on the grill. He didn’t talk at all, except to mumble something during their introduction.

  Sheila thought he must be concentrating on his barbequing.

  As they sat at a picnic table on the patio with pots of flowers and plants surrounding them, all of a sudden Bradley threw down his fork as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Our country is making a big mistake in Vietnam,” he said. “We never should have gone there.”

  Jim gave a start, and retaliated with, “They’re a bunch of Commies. We can’t take a chance on our country being put in harm’s way.”

  “That’s propaganda.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Bradley finished his steak, stood, and said, “I have a lot of studying to do.” He walked off and slammed the door to his room.

  Jane acted a bit flustered, her face turning pink, but she continued to be friendly enough toward Jim, while Mary Beth sat and listened. She asked about his ship and Minneapolis and what he wanted to do after he got out of the navy.

  Jim responded with curt answers. “The ship’s okay,” and, “It’s a good town,” and, “Don’t know.”

  Dessert was shortcake with strawberries from the garden. Jane took a plate in to Bradley. Sheila would have liked to sit and talk with her friends for a while, but as soon as he finished the last berry, Jim said, “I have to go too. Early muster tomorrow.”

  Sheila thanked Jane profusely for both of them.

  On their walk back to the apartment, Jim didn’t say much of anything, and after asking a couple of questions about how he liked the meal, Sheila kept quiet.

  When they were inside, he said, “I hope you never gain weight like those two.”

  “But aren’t they nice?”

  “That Bradley is a real jerk. I’ll bet you anything he’ll figure out a way to avoid the draft.”

  “Jane and Mary Beth are my friends. I feel lucky to have them at work, and I hope they’ll invite me to visit often when you’re gone on the cruise. As far as Bradley’s concerned … I don’t know why he was so rude.”

  “Hates the military. Fine by me if you want to go over there when I’m not around. I don’t want to see them again.”

  That night they slept with backs to each other, no lovemaking, even though the ship was going out for maneuvers again the next day.

  At about three o’clock in the morning, Jim rolled over, pulled Sheila to him, and whispered, “Hey, little doll, I don’t want to fight.”

  Sheila, who’d had another terrible night’s sleep, whispered, “I don’t want to fight either.”

  So, like an empty-headed doll, the satisfying lovemaking, as always, made her forget everything else.

  It wasn’t until the next day, after Jim had gone, that she thought, He never apologized.

  CHAPTER 6

  Waiting

  MOST OF THE OTHER TENANTS IN VAN DORN APARTMENTS WOBBLED ALONG WITH canes or on walkers. They made sporadic appearances in the courtyard, always concentrating so that they didn’t trip on the cracks of the cement patio. They blocked the pathway while stopping to yak with each other. If anything, they merely nodded at Sheila. She greeted them with a smile, but aside from the Potters, she did not know their names.

  In one of the downstairs apartments lived Tania, with whom Sheila did become acquainted. She never saw her talking with any of the other tenants but didn’t think this odd. Tania was a woman of about sixty, with frosted hair worn bouffant and shoulder length, lots of bright makeup that made her face glow as if from a spotlight, and a scrawny body covered by bright, multi-colored caftans. Nervous energy caused her garments to swirl as she hustled to the back of the building where her ancient pink Cadillac was parked.

  One Saturday around noon, Sheila ran into Tania sitting at a table in the courtyard, under a magnolia tree. After some casual conversation about the weather, she said, “I’m only living here until I can move to the Villa.”

  The Villa Riviera was a tall, beautiful old building
with a green copper roof that Sheila and Jim admired when going to the beach.

  “I used to work at MGM as a makeup artist. Lived in West Hollywood,” Tania also said.

  A month later, she did move to this classy building that had been around since 1929. Once she’d signed off on her rental agreement with Mr. Grey, Tania asked Sheila into her apartment for an iced tea.

  “I’d like you to visit my new place one afternoon.” She passed Sheila a plate of gingersnaps. “You can bring that handsome husband of yours if he hasn’t left for his cruise.”

  Sheila’s chest swelled, glad that someone else saw the same good-looking guy she loved. “That would be great! We both think your building is beautiful … and of course, it’d be nice to see you.”

  “The Villa is in a French Gothic style,” Tania said. “Quite a landmark here in Long Beach.”

  Sheila had no idea what “French Gothic” meant.

  Tania held up her paperwork. “Mr. Grey said I left this apartment in better shape than when I moved in. I did try to make some attractive additions. I’m leaving a few pictures.”

  Sheila looked at the photos with celebrities like Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter—all men. Of course she’d be taking them. Sheila didn’t recognize the Toulouse-Lautrec reprints and didn’t like them a bit. These were probably what Tania planned on leaving.

  “It’s really too bad about the Greys,” Tania went on. “Mrs. Grey used to be such a vital woman. I talked to her last year when Mr. Grey was still working at Douglas.”

  Sheila tried to imagine how Mrs. Grey ever could have been described as “vital.”

  A few Saturdays later, when Sheila and Jim arrived at Tania’s fifteenth-floor unit, she said, “I’ll take you on a tour.”

  A huge round bed with more plumped-up decorative pillows than Sheila could count filled one corner of the master suite. Mirrors hung from every wall, as well as the ceiling. Tania laughed and flittered her heavily jeweled fingers at Jim in their reflections.

  He gave a hasty salute.

  She offered them lemonade in cut crystal goblets and macaroons on a china souvenir plate from Beverly Hills. Jim declined, and she brought him a bottle of beer instead, saying, “I know you’ll prefer this.”