“What do you mean?”
“I made up my mind on the trip to San Francisco.” The friend she’d visited was living someplace called the Haight-Ashbury District.
“Yes …”
“I met some cool people. I’m going to move up there. Stay with them for a while.”
“Does your mother know this? Does Bradley?”
“No. She’s going to have a fit. Same with Bradley. I might not tell them.”
“Just leave?”
“Why not?”
Do I tell Jane? Do I keep quiet for Mary Beth? “When will you go?”
“I have a flight back on Saturday.”
It was Wednesday. Only a few days to figure this out.
She never told Mary Beth about her own job change that seemed insignificant in comparison to what her friend was about to do.
At 8:00 a.m. on Monday, October 31, 1966, Marcelle showed Sheila around, swishing ahead of her new assistant in a full-skirted dress of emerald green that emphasized her tiny waist.
She never mentioned that it was Halloween.
Rather than a large metal, Quonset hut-like building, this group of people (four now counting Sheila) had been relocated to a brick facade structure with wood-furnished offices in real rooms. Tastefully framed prints of New England seaports clashed with the view out the windows of palm-tree-lined sidewalks and red bougainvillea hanging from trellises.
Sheila didn’t notice.
Marcelle was thirty-five, fine-boned, with light brown hair styled into a French twist and tamed with hairspray. She stood about Sheila’s height of five foot two, but with Sheila in flat sandals, Marcelle seemed much taller in her high-heeled pumps. Demonstrating the morning routine, her hands glided through the air like butterflies as she did each task.
First, bring in opened, spread-out mail. Place it on the right side of Mr. Chadwick’s desk. Put the newspaper, folded in half, on the left side of the desk. Sheila noted that the worst naval accident of the war was still in the headlines. Forty-three seamen died in a fire aboard the USS Oriskany, an aircraft carrier cruising in the Gulf of Tonkin.
Next, she was to make coffee—hearty and strong. And last, Marcelle led her to buy breakfast from the food cart for Mr. Chadwick and his assistant. She had taken cash from a box in her top drawer.
Upon their return to the big boss’s office, Sheila studied a framed certificate behind his desk.
Marcelle observed this, and said, “Mr. C grew up in Boston and graduated from Harvard with a law degree.
Sheila’s “Wow!” brought a rise of pink to Marcelle’s pale complexion.
Mr. Chadwick, in a gray business suit, entered the office at 9:00 a.m. About six foot two with bronzed skin, the man looked as if he’d be masterly at the helm of a sailboat. “Welcome to our family.” He beamed at Sheila, then turned his attention to Marcelle. “This little lady works so hard that I figured it was time to call in help.”
Marcelle assumed a demure expression.
“I’ll do that,” Sheila said.
“Good morning.” A fellow of maybe twenty-five, with a bush of brown hair and a face already developing jowls, poked his head in the door.
Mr. Chadwick introduced him as his assistant, John McConnell.
After Marcelle set out Mr. Chadwick’s coffee, orange juice, and sweet roll, she brought the same to John McConnell’s tiny room, with Sheila following along. He hunched at his metal desk, sneezing into a rumpled, well-used tissue.
“Are you feeling all right, Johnny?” Marcelle rubbed his shoulders.
“Allergies,” he snuffled, never looking up from a stack of paperwork.
Back in the reception area, with a large wooden desk for Marcelle and to her right a small metal desk for Sheila, Marcelle whispered, “Doesn’t he look exactly like JFK?”
“He sure does.” Sheila found him to be shorter and pudgier and certainly more alive.
Marcelle rounded up a brown envelope file of copying at least five inches thick, and showed Sheila to the machine that would become her new best friend. At completion of this assignment it was already time for “the boys” to have lunch. Marcelle mimicked a café waitress, taking their requests with pad and pencil in hand. Sheila went to the food cart on her own this time, and juggled sandwiches, chips, cookies, and beverages all the way down the building’s long hallway. After that, she repeated the process for Marcelle and herself. Marcelle gave her money from her purse and Sheila had cash in her old black patent leather purse. Meanwhile, Marcelle set meals atop a table with gold cloth placemats and matching napkins in Mr. Chadwick’s office. She and Sheila ate at their desks. When they finished, Marcelle told Sheila to clean up, followed by, “Laundering and ironing the linens each weekend will become an outside chore for you to do.”
That night Sheila filled Jim in on her new, more impressive office.
When she got to the part about Mr. Chadwick’s Harvard education, Jim said, “Whoo—whoo,” wiggling his fingers above his head. Then, “You sound like a glorified servant.”
“Thanks a lot!”
She could have gotten angry, but still felt thankful that he had gotten shore duty and was home with her. The recent aircraft carrier accident, made Sheila realize, again, that Even the navy isn’t safe. She felt utter relief that Jim had made it back to Long Beach unharmed.
They’d purchased Milky Way candy bars for at least fifty trick-or-treaters, but disappointingly, no one came to the door of their apartment. This made her think of Teddy and Jerry, and wonder if they were out in costumes on the Yokosuka base. And she thought of Baby Boy and wondered how he was faring.
It took weeks to finish the candy by themselves.
Every day when she wasn’t getting directions from Marcelle, Sheila kept thinking of Mary Beth, and wondering how she was doing in San Francisco. She had decided that it wasn’t her responsibility to tell Jane and Bradley before her friend left.
When Jane called Sheila on that Saturday night, she asked, “Have you heard from Mary Beth?”
Sheila said, “I haven’t talked to her since last week. Why?”
“It seems she has flown up to San Francisco to stay with a girl from high school for a while. No notice at work. No communication for me and Bradley. I don’t understand why she would do such a thing.”
Sheila wondered, If I’d told Jane, could she have talked Mary Beth out of her plan? But if she had told Jane she would have been wondering, Was I disloyal to Mary Beth?
With the exception of that first day, neither Mr. Chadwick nor John McConnell paid much attention to Sheila. If either of them required something specific of her, he would hand it to Marcelle, and say, “Show her what I need,” tilting their heads toward the smaller desk.
Do they even remember my name?
Marcelle described appropriate office attire, and Sheila bought five business outfits, as well as a pair of black high-heeled pumps and a new matching purse.
Barely a day went by when Marcelle didn’t say, “Every time I look at you, Sheila-honey, I can’t help but picture Laureen back home in South Carolina. Same wavy auburn tresses. Same porcelain skin. Same sweet temperament.”
Did Laureen freckle?
Marcelle talked about Laureen’s marriage to J. C. Kirby, her after-high school sweetheart, and about the three darling little boys she’d birthed—bing—bing—bing. “J. C. doesn’t spend as much time with his family as he’d like since he’s keeping in touch with all his opportunities. He doesn’t have a permanent position yet.”
One day she dug out a packet of photographs from her black purse, similar to Sheila’s new one. A group shot showed all the people, including children, standing in church clothes as if they’d just returned from a service. J. C. slouched on the side wearing a service station shirt with initials on its pocket. He raised a bottle of beer. Marcelle rapidly put this photo back in the pack
et.
She often said, “They’re happy as can be, like a pair of newlyweds.” Laureen and her “little family” lived in the “big house” along with the widowed father. The only thing she ever said about him was, “Daddy never allowed Laureen or me to go out with boys, not until we were eighteen years old and graduated.”
When Sheila had told her father that she and Jim were going to get married, Carl said, “I wish I’d never allowed you to date.”
The constant descriptions of angelic Laureen finally caused Sheila to ask, “Doesn’t she ever get mad and blow off steam?”
“Never! She is the best girl on God’s green earth. Why, she took care of our dear, departed mother without a word of complaint.”
When Sheila had been working in the office for a few weeks, Marcelle started in on Mama. “The most beautiful woman in all of Beaufort, with the softest brown hair and the tiniest waist. I never saw her wear anything but a dress of some flattering shade.” She would end with her mother’s last year, dying of cancer. “I was able to get home a few days before she passed. Mama told me she’d be eternally grateful, and I can hear her now, looking down at me, saying, ‘Thank you, my dear Marcelle, for the loving attention.’ I deplored being witness to her suffering, but it did console me to bathe and garb her for viewing. After many hours going through her closet, pondering what she should wear, I settled on the prettiest negligee and peignoir set. Lavender. She looked like an elegant sleeping queen. I pinned a cameo to the ruching.” As Marcelle dabbed her eyes with a lacy white handkerchief, she took a photo from an engraved silver compact-like container—Mama in her casket.
The image of preparing anyone’s dead body gave Sheila a shiver, and how peculiar to dress the mother in a nightgown and filmy robe. Having never been to a funeral, she wasn’t sure, but didn’t undertakers do such things? Didn’t people wear Sunday best to their last social occasion? She couldn’t help but think of Mrs. Grey, and wonder if she had died and who had taken care of her.
Marcelle always continued this story with, “We can’t go back home for good—to be with Daddy. That would mean uprooting Christopher. And Clay’s never had such a splendid position.”
He telephoned once when she was out, and said in a pleasantly low drawl, “I’ve been away from my desk. Please tell my wife I’m back to Maintenance.”
Sheila returned one afternoon from an unaccustomed break outside, enjoying the sunshine and late-fall chrysanthemums, to find Marcelle sitting with two deep lines etched between her penciled-on brows, mumbling, “Why doesn’t he …?”
Looking up, she noticed Sheila, who stood there uncertain whether to go away or clear her throat or merely sit down herself.
“I’m leaving early.” Marcelle’s normally pleasant features had turned grim.
“Is there something wrong?”
“No, Sheila-honey.” The sweetness returned. “It’s that big oaf of a husband of mine. I need to have a few words with him.”
The next day she walked in wearing a bright red dress, and acting as if nothing had happened. When Mr. Chadwick told her how beautiful she looked, Marcelle said, “Oh you, an old lady like me? Feast your eyes on this pretty little thing in her new peach outfit.”
The look she bestowed upon Sheila felt like a strange blessing.
Mr. Chadwick gave her a token glance.
Minutes later he left for a meeting, with John McConnell tagging along behind, burdened down with a pile of folders.
As soon as they were out of hearing, Marcelle whispered, “I apologize for leaving with such haste yesterday. I expect everything went well here …?”
“There weren’t any problems,” Sheila whispered back.
“My mind is eased knowing I can count on you.” She patted Sheila’s hand. “Clay required a pep talk.”
Sheila waited, knowing Marcelle would go on.
“He doesn’t have the kind of constitution a man of his capabilities should possess. There’s an opening for manager of his entire department, and truly, Clay would be a tremendous asset.” Her shoulders raised in a huge sigh. “Do you think he’ll apply? I cajoled him all afternoon. He’s happy as can be managing five, and doesn’t want the hassle of more people. Sometimes, I cannot fathom what to do with that man. If Mr. Chadwick spotted a higher position, you can be assured he would grab for it.”
Sheila chuckled to herself, thinking of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, and picturing Marcelle’s husband setting a fleet of mops into action. But then she considered Jim, so happily entrenched in his new shore duty assignment. He didn’t want to talk about life after the navy, even though Sheila felt bursting with questions and wanted to make plans. He was on the downside of his enlistment. Should they go back to Minneapolis? What kind of jobs would they get? How would her father feel about him now? She wanted to talk to Jim about finally enrolling in night school now that they were settled for a while. When these kind of unaddressed concerns surfaced, she quietly took out his picture, to remember why she loved him so much.
One time at the office Marcelle noticed this, and said, “Oh, let me see!” Followed by, “What a strong jaw!”
It was a sweltering Monday morning the next spring. They’d had another argument the night before about the time Sheila spent at Jane’s house every Sunday after mass. Since Mary Beth’s departure, she felt it was necessary to visit as much as possible. Because of the barbeque fiasco, Sheila had never asked Jim to join her.
They awakened to clanks and hollers from a garbage truck. She had forgotten to set the alarm.
After Jim rushed out, skipping hugs and kisses and mumbling something about, “Thanks for making me late,” she hurriedly finished getting ready, going over their angry words of the night before.
He’d said, “We could’ve gone to the NCO Club for dinner, but you had to hang out with those oddball Kleven people.”
“They’re my friends. You’re welcome to come along.”
“I don’t want to see them.” His face darkened. “I don’t see why you do.”
“Jane is like a mother to me, and I don’t get to see her as much at work. She misses Mary Beth horribly. Besides, I like spending time at her house.” Sheila didn’t mention Bradley, who she continued to sing and play the guitar with every time she visited. She’d started to feel something troubling for him, more than friendship, when his hands showed hers unfamiliar chords. But the music was so wonderful, she couldn’t stop playing it, and Jane was always in the background, often singing along.
Jim had sulked the rest of the night.
As Sheila ran toward her bus stop in sandals carelessly thrown on, she passed a reeking truck. She ignored the garbage men staring at her bare legs in a short skirt. One whistled, and she could almost hear Marcelle, “If you dress in such a common way, you’re going to attract this sort of attention.”
Cutting through an alley, Sheila startled and paused. In the screened window of a ground-floor apartment, about a foot away, a woman’s face—large, flabby, surrounded by pink curlers—pressed against the mesh, skin oozing through in small bumps. Is she dead? Sick? What should I do? The woman grunted and rolled over.
“Thank God!” Sheila resumed her race.
She missed her bus and arrived at work late, disrupting the morning routine.
Marcelle critically scanned her attire with a disapproving expression.
Once simmered down and settled into her duties, Sheila couldn’t help but smile about that fat face pressed against the screen.
At last, Marcelle said, “What is so humorous? Your glow is gone, only to be replaced by a smirk.”
Reluctantly, Sheila explained.
Nostrils pinched, Marcelle said, “How could you find this to be amusing? Heavens, you should have ignored the woman. Instead, you gawked at every pore.”
“I didn’t mean to be intru—”
“Naturally, it was tacky of her. Yet, when
something offends your sensibilities, you have to turn away.”
“If it ever happens again, I will.”
The next week, Sheila kept quiet about a nasty man on the scorching hot company shuttle. She had received special permission to take her full hour in order to meet Jane at the cafeteria for lunch.
When Sheila had called, Jane said, “I thought you were drowned in Southern Comfort.” Then, “Forget it. You know I want to see you.”
They browsed in the company store for a while, appreciative of air-conditioning after stifling shuttle rides from different ends of the plant. While eating a hot dog, Sheila spilled mustard down the front of her lacy white blouse. “Oh …”
“Shit?” Jane said.
“How am I going to fix this?”
“You can soak it when you get home.”
“Are you kidding? Marcelle’s going to pitch a fit.”
“You are looking mighty fine these days.”
Sheila spent the rest of her lunch hour in the restroom scrubbing a ruffle. By the time she leaped onto her return shuttle, it was packed with other late-from-lunch riders—steamy bodies pressed tightly together.
Facing a short, black-haired man with shiny skin and a thin mustache, she couldn’t believe what was happening. His round belly rubbed on her thigh, and something else pushed against her. Panicking, she glared at him, but he turned his face away, eyes half-closed as if fighting off sleep. A tall man’s shoulder jabbed into the back of her head. To each side, women’s bodies hemmed her in. Sheila gave the little man a shove, which made him push all the harder. Squirming around the other way, she endured an irritated look from the tall man. One of the women hissed, “Stay still!” Undeterred, the little man rubbed more rapidly, with each jolt of the shuttle, like a jackhammer banging on a slab of cement. At the first stop, several people got off, and she heard the greasy little man moan as he skulked away.
She had to tell someone about this horrible experience, get a dose of sympathy. Jane wasn’t home when she called. So, Sheila decided to tell Jim.
Making It Work Page 15