Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  Astonished, she stammered, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!”

  He took her in his arms for a spontaneous embrace.

  As she breathed in the spicy smell of his aftershave her body relaxed with relief. Her eyes filled with tears. Her heart thumped like it hadn’t done since their first hug when he returned from the Vietnam cruise.

  After several moments, stepping back, holding her by the shoulders, Jim sized her up. “You’re different.” He studied the embroidery at the neck of her muslin top. “Did you sew that stuff?”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t you trip on the skirt?”

  She broke away from his grasp and held her skirt out as if to curtsy, rubbing her fingers over the rough India print. “Never.”

  “Can we talk somewhere?” He glanced through the pocket doors into the parlor, where Monk and Magdela lounged on their sofa, half-closed eyes watching them.

  Sheila didn’t know where to go except upstairs. Still a bit dizzy from his closeness, she questioned, Is that wise? She could take him for a walk. Go to the Ramble in Diner. Instead, after a pause, she said, “I have a room at the top of the house.”

  “Is it just yours?”

  “Just mine.”

  “Good. No audience.” His head tipped toward the pair of observers.

  Once they got to her landing, he said, “Damn, that’s a hike.”

  “Keeps me in shape.”

  “You’re looking skinnier … but pretty as ever.” Her father used to say she looked like a scrawny chicken. Sheila enjoyed being this thin, galloping up these stairs like a playful filly on those times when she’d had a particularly good day at the music store, playing and singing for appreciative customers, teaching her students, feeling carefree.

  “What’s that smell?” Jim said, upon entering the room.

  “Incense. Do you like it?”

  “Reminds me of church.” He wrinkled his nose. “There were kids on the bus coming up here saturated in that stuff.

  “It’s called patchouli. What were they like?” She stalled. Not knowing if she wanted to hear what he had to say or not.

  “The kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A couple of guys and a girl. They looked about fifteen or sixteen.”

  “Awfully young.”

  “Hippies. Running away from their families, I’ll bet.”

  Sheila ignored his scornful tone. “A lot of people are coming here from all over.”

  “The girl wore a baggy, long dress, and had skin light and freckled like yours.” His hazel eyes opened wider. “Big gray eyes like yours. Trusting like yours.”

  She used to have complete trust in Jim. “Things have changed. I’m not as trustful as I used to be.”

  “Since that shit about Ted and Brenda?”

  “Maybe some.”

  “I never should have told you.”

  “You did.”

  “I never cheated … Maybe I should have.”

  “That would have been horrible. We had something … it didn’t last … but we both tried to keep it.”

  His eyes moved from one poster to another, not stopping to read Desiderata or any of the other philosophical writings, but focusing on the “Lonesome Valley” poster. “You listen to that kind of music?”

  “Joan Baez and Mary Travis have a lot to say.”

  “Sure.” He lightly touched her cheek. “I like what you used to sing.”

  Sheila thought of Buddy Holly’s “Everyday,” and leaned toward Jim, mentally slipping back to the department store elevator she used to operate in high school—her first job. Some nights, toward the end of her shift, when no one was around, he had ridden with her, rubbing against her back, hands stroking her front as she went from floor to floor, at each stop announcing, “Going up,” or “Going down.”

  For the next hour or so, it was perfect. Like always. Sheila held onto him, breathless, and before she knew it they were on her mattress, clinging to each other, rolling off onto the floor, getting tangled in her yellow afghan. His dog tags snagged the yarn, but that didn’t hinder them. And soon, she was crying out, “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy” just like the old days. Everything else forgotten—the navy, Long Beach, the Rollys. Everything.

  Afterward, lying together, her cheek against his bare chest, Sheila felt more mellow than she’d felt in a year. I could stay here for the rest of my life. For a long time, maybe an hour or more, they remained wrapped together, barely awake, exquisitely enveloped in timelessness.

  Then, in spite of herself, she whispered, “What did you want to talk about?”

  “This isn’t easy.”

  You’re going to shut down? She recalled his long silences brought on by mysterious missteps on her part—talking too much about a friend at work, or not being excited about some movie he wanted to see, or being late. She never knew what caused them.

  He touched the guitar resting on the wall next to him. “Playing a lot?”

  “All the time.” Why are you here?

  “I’ve missed you.” His voice sounded muffled.

  She didn’t say anything. If you want to talk, it’s up to you …

  “Have you been lonesome?”

  “Lots of times.” Wasn’t that clear?

  “Do you ever think about coming back?

  “No.” She lied.

  “Would you think about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Coming back to Long Beach.”

  “I figured we were done.”

  “How could you think that?” He plucked a couple of strings on the guitar, looking wounded, as if she’d slapped him.

  What would it be like? Living in their own place. Having him to love again. What about the navy? “It’d have to be different.”

  “How?”

  “You’d have to talk to me for one thing. I seldom knew what you were thinking.”

  “You know nobody in my family talks.”

  That’s for sure. In all the years she’d been with Jim, Sheila had seldom figured out what his mother and his younger brother, Jack, were thinking. The closest to an intimate remark came from Mrs. Gallagher, who usually kept her lips sealed as if glued, after the wedding, “Welcome to the family. I’ve always wanted a daughter.” Then, “Jack, you’ve got a sister.” Jack didn’t bother to respond to this remark. Maybe their father left because no one spoke to him. Jim’s one-word description of his dad’s new family, none of whom came to Minneapolis from Boston for their spontaneous wedding ceremony, was, “Boisterous.”

  “That doesn’t mean you couldn’t try to talk more.” This sounded as if she was the one begging him. “But I’m sure lots of other girls would be happy with you, exactly the way you are.”

  Before he could respond, there was a tap on the door. The only one who ever came up to the attic was Mary Beth. “Better get that.” Sheila wrapped the afghan around her naked body and slipped over to answer it.

  She could feel Jim watching her move, and pictured her messy red curls. She tried to step gracefully as a ballet dancer. Then, she tripped on the afghan. Sheila glanced back at him with a grimace.

  He chuckled at her stumble.

  Mary Beth stood on the landing. “Is everything all right?” She glanced at Jim, covered to the waist with a sheet.

  He didn’t acknowledge her.

  “Everything’s fine, Willow. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Promise?”

  Sheila nodded.

  “You’re not leaving?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  After Sheila shut the door and came back to the mattress, Jim said, “What’s with Willow?” He looked disgusted. “A willow she is not!”

  “It’s a name she chose. She’s my friend. She’s concerned.”

  “Nothing to worry a
bout when you’re with me.”

  After that, Sheila quickly put on her clothes and beads and sat with legs crossed, leaning against the wall while Jim got into his uniform.

  Once dressed, he hunched with his back against the opposite wall, next to a peace march sign, and waited.

  You want some explanation. Sheila stayed silent. She wouldn’t apologize for leaving, or make excuses for how she was living.

  “Let’s get ready to head back to Long Beach,” he finally said.

  With the hot reception, you must expect this. Sheila felt her cheeks burn. For several seconds, they stared at each other before both of them lowered their eyes.

  “What, exactly, do you want?”

  “I want you to ride back on the bus with me tonight.”

  “I can’t leave my job. People are counting on me.”

  “At some music store? Playing your guitar? You’ve got a great voice. Why can’t you sing at church and go to work in Long Beach at a bank or a department store or Douglas?” He looked impatient, from having to say so much. “We can stop by and tell them you’re quitting,” he continued in a quieter tone.

  “How’d you know about the music store?”

  “Mary Beth said you were at work when I called.”

  “You called.”

  “Her mother gave me the number … Mary Beth said you really like it here.”

  “I do.” Sheila surprised herself.

  “You want to stay in this dump?”

  “It’s not!” She had painted and decorated her room in bright gold and orange and green. She had her guitar and her posters and her yellow afghan.

  “With these weird people?”

  “The people who live here are different. I don’t have much to do with them … except for Mary Beth. My friends at the music store care about things that I care about, things you probably wouldn’t understand.” She imagined them, some angry, all of them earnest, with a shared purpose, and always, Matthew in the background, encouraging them.

  “Like peace demonstrations and doing drugs and having sex with everyone?” He reached over and put a thumb and finger around her thin upper arm with a joint left over.

  “I don’t do drugs.” She pulled away. She’d smoked a little pot, but ever since the night she’d seen traveling shadows on the walls and everyone leering at her, she’d stopped. “I don’t have sex with anyone.”

  “Naw.” Jim gave a little smile. “I can tell, you’re not that way—free love, and all that—even if you do have on a skirt that looks like it was shipped to you in a Care package.”

  She ignored this remark too. “And yeah, I do march for peace. Something has to be done. To end this god-awful war.”

  “I’m in the navy, Sheila. How do you think that sounds?”

  “It should sound exactly right with two of your friends dead over there.”

  “Mark and Larry died honorably. Serving our country.”

  They were silent for a couple of minutes, as if praying for the young men.

  “We don’t have one thing in common,” Sheila said at last.

  “You’re saying I’m wasting my time?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes … I guess I am.”

  “Right.” He ran a hand along his clean-shaven jaw. “There is someone else, but I had to see you first.” And when she didn’t respond, “You’ve changed too much. I don’t even recognize you.”

  “I recognize you too well.”

  “We should have had a baby. We wouldn’t be in this fix.”

  “Sure. That would have made everything perfect.” Sheila cringed and hoped this reckless day wouldn’t result in one.

  “She—Teresa—wants to have a baby as soon as possible.”

  “Well, good luck to you.”

  They only spent a few more minutes together. Jim said, “The navy will take care of a divorce.”

  “I’m glad I won’t have to worry about that.”

  At the front door, she rested her weight on one foot, facing Jim. Should I hug him?

  The last thing he said was, “I’ve re-upped.”

  That’s my answer! “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

  “Would it have mattered?”

  Sheila thought about this for a moment. I’ve missed him so much. “You really want to stay in the navy?”

  “I like it. I can see myself spending twenty years.”

  “Well, good luck with that too.” Standing up straighter, she reached out, and they touched hands like two business associates ending a deal.

  Later, back in her room, strumming some chords, trying not to think that she would probably never see him again, it came to her. The navy would feel right for Jim. What did he have in Minneapolis? With his silent family?

  Mary Beth stopped by a short while later, her usual mood elevated, her smiling face shiny as a polished plate. “You’re still here. I’m so glad.”

  “How could I leave?” Sheila got up and gave her friend a huge hug. “We need each other too much.”

  During this time, Sheila never gave her father a phone number where she could be reached. The last thing she wanted to do was use the one telephone in the entryway to the old house, where everyone else could hear her talking. She didn’t have enough money to install one in her attic quarters, so when it felt like time to check in and see how Tommy was doing, she continued to go to the Ramble in Diner.

  During the conversation after Jim’s visit, her father said, “I don’t like this, not being able to contact you if I need to. I’ll pay for a telephone, wherever you’re living, if that’s the problem.”

  “No, Dad. I absolutely won’t let you do that.” It had become easier to be forceful with him the longer she stayed away. “I’ll keep checking in often. This is the best I can do.”

  Carl snorted, but he didn’t use any other strong-arm tactics. There wasn’t much he could do two thousand miles away from her.

  And true to her word, Sheila continued to call once a week, and then call Jane—always with no change to report.

  Since she had left Long Beach, Woody Guthrie died and Sheila started playing and singing “This Land is Your Land” every day. In the costliest battle of Vietnam, American troops captured Hill 875 near Dakto. Lynda Bird Johnson got married at the White House. Martin Luther King was assassinated. Robert Kennedy was assassinated. Pope Paul upheld the church’s ban on birth control. And the Gallagher marriage experienced its swan song.

  CHAPTER 19

  Candles

  SOMETIMES IT SEEMED LIKE THE WAR WOULD NEVER END. THERE WERE MORE BOYS Sheila knew from Minnesota killed. Every time she got a report like this from Patty in Minneapolis her resolve to continue with efforts for peace intensified. She assumed that Jim, now in the navy for a lifetime, was with Teresa, who, as soon as the divorce finalized, would marry him and start the family he wanted. Maybe they had a baby already. Even though Jim’s personality defined conventional, they might have a child without marriage. Lots of people were doing this.

  On their last phone conversation, thankfully, there were no death reports. Patty did say, “Charlotte has a three-month-old baby girl.”

  “Who did she marry?” Sheila felt so out of it. She didn’t even know that this friend was dating anyone.

  “Nobody. She won’t even say who the father is. She’s selling real estate, has a little house, and tells us she can take care of the baby on her own just fine.”

  Sheila pictured studious Charlotte with her award-winning science experiments. Was this a new research effort? Even though times were changing, Sheila would never, willingly, have a child without a stable marriage and a home to bring him or her into.

  Matthew had raised her to $50/week. With her lessons she was doing fine. And now, she had someone to play with every night. Bradley had come up to San Francisco. Presumably it was to rescue Mary Beth, bu
t it was also to avoid being drafted. They talked about going to Woodstock in August but didn’t feel that flush. They had another big trip planned.

  In the summer of 1969, the Manson murders occurred. Sheila recalled her fears during the early days in Long Beach, but felt reasonably safe—shocked like everyone else, but safe, and with a growing self confidence. She could handle what came her way.

  Mary Beth, as Sheila would always think of her, took up making candles. In addition to the kitchen being a clutter of pans with dried beans and rice and half-cooked vegetables, pots of multicolored wax filled the counters. Metal forms crowded the limited shelving. The fragrance of oils used to scent her projects mixed with the onion and garlic and marijuana smells.

  She stood in the middle of Sheila’s attic room holding three blue and red and yellow-streaked, misshapen tapers in her chubby hand. “Here’s some new ones. Can you use them?”

  “Sure. We burn your candles all the time.” Wonder when their appearance will improve?

  Looking around the room, Sheila noted several flickering and emitting the scent of floral bouquets along with musky patchouli. There had been so many changes made to this attic. Along with her decorative improvements, the floor and corners were swept and scrubbed clean. No more mouse droppings. Critters could be heard rustling around in the walls at night, but they stayed away from her. After Jim’s visit, she hand-sewed yellow and white gingham curtains and got up on a ladder outside to scrub the formerly grubby windows. These curtains weren’t necessary for privacy, but he had commented on the filthy windows distorting her view of the world. She’d also painted the walls with a mural garden of multicolored daisies. Bradley had moved in with Sheila, not caring what her room contained or looked like as long as it provided a place for him to write about the movement. Up against a wall, along with their guitars, leaned two battered signs. Sheila’s said: End the War in Vietnam. Bradley’s said: Hell No, We Won’t Go.

  He hunched at a table next to a small bookcase made of boards and bricks overflowing with anti-war material. Pencil in hand, long brown hair falling over his thin face, nervously jiggling his foot, he worked on an article for the Oracle about the Moratorium in Washington, scheduled for later in the fall. Sheila had done one edit of the article.