Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  “I’m starving.” Sheila decided to quietly accept Lucas’ reimbursement, and as far as Jane’s contribution … well, that was Jane. “Let’s have a feast. Remember, you’re eating for two.”

  It was late afternoon but they ordered eggs and toast and hash browns and bacon and Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce. No surprise, Mary Beth managed to clean her plate.

  “That’s the most full I’ve been since I left Mom’s,” Bradley said, as they piled back into the car. “Five more hours, give or take.”

  “She’ll wait up for us, no matter what.” Mary Beth’s voice rose in anticipation.

  Once they got through Los Angeles and drove past San Pedro, Sheila started to feel twinges. She recalled their bus ride from the airport when Jim first reported for duty. What if I run into him in Long Beach? She didn’t want to see him. Yet, the possibility made her stomach flutter like being on a Ferris wheel, like waiting for him to arrive for their senior prom, like watching his ship coming into home port after a nine-month Vietnam cruise.

  “You’re quiet,” Bradley said.

  “Just tired.” Sheila gazed at oil derricks sticking up like giant grasshoppers in the ocean.

  “Hope that’s all.”

  “It is. I’m going to sleep for a while.” She leaned her head against the window and concentrated on well-known landmarks. First, they passed the pier where Jim’s ship had been anchored. Ocean Boulevard came next, and the Pike with a smattering of people riding the roller coaster. Across from the amusement park was the hotel where they had spent their first night in this formerly scary town. When the car came within a block of their apartment on Medio Street, tears rolled down Sheila’s cheeks. Everything looked the same, except everything was so different.

  Earlier in the summer, two men had walked on the moon and put up a flag for the United States. Once in a while, she had surveyed the front room in the faded orange house, jammed with directionless people who had dropped out and landed in Haight-Ashbury. By contrast, in her top-of-the-house room, she scrutinized Bradley with his stonewall attitudes and unquestioning idealism. These polar opposites made her feel like she was somewhere out in space herself. Driving back to civilization, Sheila gave a tentative smile. I’m returning after my own trip to the moon.

  At last, the car turned onto Redondo, and she spotted Jane’s brown-shingled bungalow with its green and white trim. All the other feelings evaporated. She sat up and grabbed Bradley’s hand.

  “We’re almost there.” He uncharacteristically beamed.

  “I’ll wake Willow.”

  “I’m awake. Have been since L.A. And you guys … call me Mary Beth.”

  “That’s a relief! It’s nine p.m. We made great time.” Bradley turned his car into the driveway. Before he could even shut off the engine, the front door opened and Jane, looking like an older version of Mary Beth, ran to greet them, arms outstretched, slippers flapping.

  “You’re here! I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

  She embraced Mary Beth, saying, “My baby. Are you feeling all right?” After she patted her daughter’s tummy and ascertained that she was fine, Jane turned to Bradley. “I’m so glad you’re home,” and gave him a huge hug. Sheila came next. “Thank you for bringing my kids back to me.”

  “I’m really glad to be here.” Sheila’s words were muffled, lost in Jane’s talcum-powder fleshiness.

  Inside, the house smelled of fried chicken. While they sat at her kitchen table and gorged, Jane watched with a look of contentment on her soft face. Then, she said, “You’re all staying for a long while, right?”

  “Sheila and I are going to Washington day after tomorrow. For the big Moratorium.”

  Momentarily, Jane’s expression fell into many lines. She took a deep breath, regained her equilibrium, and went on. “These marches—they’re helping?”

  “Absolutely. Attitudes are shifting.”

  “When you started this demonstrating, I thought it was wrong. I didn’t want you drafted. Still, your father had served during World War II. I’ve come around to thinking that you’re exactly right. You and all these protestors. There’s no end in sight. We need to bring our boys home. All my friends at work are saying the same thing. We’re going to have our own march downtown.”

  “That’s great, Mom,” Bradley said.

  Sheila pictured Jane’s cronies at Douglas Aircraft. She had worked with these same people. A conservative bunch if she’d ever seen one. The thought of them opposing this war made her attitude soar. I have been doing something worthwhile.

  “After Washington, D.C., will you come back here?”

  “Not right away. I need to lay low. I thought about Canada, but, I’ve been in contact with a community of Quakers in Pennsylvania. I’m going there.”

  “Quakers?”

  “They’re helping people like me. To get conscientious objector status.”

  In an instant, Sheila’s good feelings plummeted. Pennsylvania? Quakers? She’d never heard about this. Bradley had spoken of Canada often. He knew she wouldn’t go there. This alternative, in the United States, was different. He would expect her to want to go.

  “When are you and Sheila getting married?”

  What is Jane saying?

  “We’ll get to it eventually.” Bradley shrugged.

  “If she’s moving around the country with you …” Jane looked completely out of her depth. “Sheila?”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “I see.”

  No, you don’t. I don’t see. “Please, let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the baby.”

  This caught Jane’s attention. “I have something for you,” she told Mary Beth and padded over to the counter and picked up a long box wrapped in pale green tissue paper.

  Mary Beth tore off the wrapping and brought out a perfectly shaped white candle with sparkly sequins and glitter pressed into the wax. Every half-inch there was a line and a number.

  “It’s for birthdays,” Jane said. “We can burn the first section when he or she comes home, and then at each birthday party after that for twenty-one years.”

  Where will I be when this baby is born?

  Later, by herself in the yellow guest room, Sheila lit three of Mary Beth’s crude candles. One for her friend and her baby, one for an end to the senseless war, and one for herself—to find her way. Next, she picked up her guitar and began to strum “Amazing Grace.” It took quite a while, but eventually, a familiar, mysterious peace, like what used to happen lying in Jim’s arms, rose from deep within her.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Moratorium

  ON NOVEMBER 15, 1969, A QUARTER MILLION PROTESTERS STAGED A PEACEFUL anti-war demonstration at the National Mall in Washington, D.C. It was similar to all the other protests Sheila had attended, same songs, same kind of speeches, just a whole lot bigger.

  Most of the crowd had drifted away, leaving trampled grass covered with litter, blowing in the wind. Sheila huddled on the cold ground, strumming her guitar. Now that the march was over, Bradley stood across from her by a couple of hundred feet, talking to friends about the subject he’d been on for days—their upcoming move.

  Sheila, who had feigned fatigue, searched for the right words to say when he rejoined her.

  Tomorrow, he would leave to be with a community of Quakers in Pennsylvania, and she had decided, absolutely, not to go with him. While sharing his opposition to the war, and understanding his need to become a conscientious objector, the time had come to be on her own. She had no idea where, but it would only delay the hurt if she stayed with him any longer.

  To distract herself, she started to sing, “How many roads?” After a few minutes, sensing the presence of someone behind her, Sheila paused mid-phrase. Nothing happened. She strummed her guitar and started again.

  “You’re good,” a quiet fem
ale voice said. This tall young woman in a long tan coat that made her look painfully thin stepped around to face her. “Do you play professionally?” She pushed orangish-blond wisps of hair out of her moist-looking, pale blue rabbit eyes. Red splotches covered her face as if someone had slapped her.

  Sheila, with sensitive skin herself, thought, Maybe she’s shy. Maybe speaking to a stranger made this woman blush. The idea bolstered Sheila’s confidence. “Some.”

  “Do you have a job playing anywhere? Do you even live around here? I know people came from all over for the Moratorium,” the woman babbled.

  “I don’t have a job and I’m from … California.” No more certain of where I’m from than where I’m going.

  “I should introduce myself. Eleanor Dillingham. I work for the Smithsonian.” She waved toward the red, castle-like buildings in the background. “Are you in town for a while?”

  “Maybe.” What does she want?

  “I plan performing arts events like the Folk Life Festival. We’re always looking for musicians, but they’re not full-time. In between programs they have to do office projects—typing, filing, that sort of thing. I need someone to play the guitar and sing in an upcoming Appalachia presentation.” These words came out in a rush as her voice took on a pleading tone. “Does this sound interesting at all?”

  The awkward woman seemed on the up and up. “I do need a job.” Can it be this easy?

  Eleanor Dillingham gave her a business card and said to come in the next morning to apply. Walking away, skirting trash, she looked like a dancing, multi-pieced, wooden puppet—arms and legs flopping as if each joint had a mind of its own. Sheila had seldom seen a young person so graceless. But she seemed nice and maybe … just maybe …

  “Who was that?” Bradley came up next to Sheila.

  “Someone who likes my music.”

  He brushed a leaf out of her tangled curls. “Your hair looks copper in this light.” The setting sun gave an illusion of warmth to the day and the Washington Monument carried a pinkish glow. “Aren’t you cold?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead pulling her upright. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  Sitting in a coffee shop a few blocks away, Bradley started, “What’s wrong? You’ve acted strange since we left Mom’s house.” His mouth took on a straight line that matched his brows. His eyes behind the wire-framed glasses narrowed as he waited for her answer.

  Sheila picked at lint on her poncho. “I can’t go with you. I can’t go to Pennsylvania,” she blurted out. Sitting back in her chair, she felt weary and small. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Have you heard from Jim?”

  She’d had no contact with her ex-husband since his surprise visit to the faded orange house. With the divorce finalized, she’d be surprised to ever hear from him again.

  “It’s not Jim.” This was a lie of sorts. While it wasn’t him directly, memories of their physical delight in each other, even though they had nothing else in common, constantly intruded on her time with Bradley.

  He put his hand on her knee. How Sheila wished she could love having it there.

  “What about Mom and Mary Beth?”

  “I’ll always care for them.” How she would miss these people. Would they ever meet again? And Mary Beth’s baby …? Does it matter if I ever see Bradley again? “I can’t stay with you because of them.”

  “Is there anything I can do or say to make you change your mind?”

  She needed someone who cared as much about being with her as he cared about his cause. She understood about wanting other things. She wanted to do so much more with her own music. But she also wanted someone to love in the way she had loved, still did love, Jim. “Nothing.”

  After Bradley made several more attempts to change her mind, all met with Sheila’s firm decision, he gave up, and went with her to check into a cheap motel.

  “I hate to leave you in this place.” He took a deep breath. “I guess the house in San Francisco wasn’t much better.”

  “You need to go. You have plans, and I don’t want to mess them up.”

  They hugged good-bye, like brother and sister, and he gave her a short kiss on the cheek.

  When alone, Sheila stood by another filthy window in this cramped room, watching dried leaves swirl behind Bradley’s old blue Ford as it rolled away, feeling like she’d been dropped into another void. After several pensive minutes, she lifted her chin. Someday, I’m going to have sparkling clean windows.

  “First thing, you need a place to live.” In her office, Eleanor spoke more authoritatively. She had completed the interview and without background checks, given Sheila a job.

  Feeling scruffy in her old wool poncho, she observed that Eleanor, wearing a gray dress that drooped over her body like it was thrown onto a bent-up hanger, didn’t look so great herself.

  Sheila couldn’t figure out why she was being so helpful. Maybe luck was on her side.

  Eleanor drove her to an apartment complex in Alexandria right after the interview was completed. “This is a short distance from my house.”

  As soon as the apartment manager saw Eleanor’s references, she said, with a smile that she hadn’t shown when they first came in, “We’ll dispense with the waiting period. Your friend can move in day after tomorrow.”

  This meant Sheila would only have to stay a couple more nights in the motel. She still had some of Lucas’s rent money, but she needed clothes. The furnished efficiency apartment wouldn’t need much, and it was going to be better than anything she had lived in for a long time. Located on the first floor with a basement below, it contained a Hollywood bed that served double duty as a sofa.

  “There’s a garbage room downstairs.” Eleanor tipped her head toward the basement. “You might have problems when hot weather sets in.”

  Sheila assumed Eleanor meant smells. She could put up with smells. She thought of Mary Beth’s scented candles, and, missing her friend, felt a catch in her throat. Those candles had covered up most of the odors in the San Francisco house. I’ll survive.

  “Why not stay with me until moving day?”

  “I can’t put you out any more.”

  “I want you to meet my husband, Nick, and he has lots of friends. You can start work tomorrow. It’ll be a pleasure to have someone riding in with me.”

  After they left the apartment complex, Eleanor drove her Volvo straight to the motel so they could pick up Sheila’s few things. Once in the room, she looked wary as her eyes traveled from one drab corner to another. At least the acrid-smelling spray, which left a film on the Formica furniture tops, guaranteed there weren’t any bugs.

  Sheila figured that Eleanor was near to her own age of twenty-three, and expected to see the starter house for a young married couple. Instead, the property she pulled up to was large and established-looking, with mature bushes and trees. She parked in the driveway, and they started toward the house. A white picket fence surrounded its yard, and an arbor with the remains of last summer’s pink climbing roses was situated over the beginnings of a flagstone path that led to the white house. There were two floors, each with a wide veranda. The dark blue front door boasted a brass knocker in the shape of an anchor. Had someone in the navy lived here?

  “It’s warmer than a few days ago.” Eleanor said. “Nick put on the storm windows this past weekend while I was at the march.”

  Sheila had wondered what Eleanor was doing at the Moratorium. She didn’t look like the type to be demonstrating. However, neither did Jane back in Long Beach, and she said, during a recent telephone conversation, “We’re working hard on our own protest. I think there will be hundreds attending.”

  Bradley told his mother, “I’m really proud of you. The people are speaking out with all these gatherings across the country.”

  On the second floor of her house was Eleanor’s pale green and white guest room. “Why don’t you r
est in here for a while?” She dropped Sheila’s duffel next to the bed. “Nick’ll be home in a couple of hours. We can have dinner before his friends come over.”

  After she quietly shut the door, Sheila shed her poncho, kicked off her beat-up clogs, and lay down, gazing at the white arch overhead. She’d never slept in a canopy bed. She burrowed under a white feather comforter. Curling up, with a hand at her freckled cheek, she looked out the shiny, paned windows. Limbs of a huge apple tree, with burnished falling leaves, filled up most of the view. Heavy, bright red fruit hung unpicked. As she dozed off, Sheila thought, I could stay here forever.

  A slamming door and heavy footsteps jolted her awake. For a second, she thought it was Lucas, before she remembered, I’m in Eleanor’s guest room. Delicious cooking smells that reminded her of Jane and caused another pang of loneliness, wafted up the stairs. Next, voices could be heard.

  A man rumbled, “She’s staying with us?”

  A higher woman’s voice proved to be unintelligible.

  “Another one of your projects … maybe this one will be a friend …” His voice faded away.

  After a few minutes, there was clumping up the steps. When a door, perhaps their bedroom, clicked shut, Sheila ran fingers through her hair, put on her clogs, and hurried down to the kitchen.

  Eleanor, in a white ruffled apron, stood at the counter slicing a head of cabbage. She didn’t turn when Sheila entered the room with its yellow and white and green, vine-patterned wallpaper. Behind glass-fronted cupboard doors rested stacks of dishes with a few plates standing up, showing complicated designs of colorful fruits and flowers.

  “I didn’t ask …”

  “Sheila! Did you have a good rest?”

  “I’m fine. Will this be okay with your husband?”

  “He always enjoys having a new person around.”

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, all right. Set the table. We’ll eat in there. It’s special having you visit.” Eleanor pointed to a formal dining room with dark polished wood furniture and a glittering chandelier. Along one wall was a china cabinet full of more dishes—these creamy white with gold bands. Crystal goblets of various sizes sparkled.