Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  When she heard him coming, Sheila, yellow cloth napkins in hand, braced herself. At the first sight of Nick, she felt relieved. A big guy—at least six foot four—he wore a tattered red and white football jersey with a number one, reminiscent of Jim’s favorite attire. His disarming grin reminded her of Jim too.

  “I’m Nick Duffek.”

  “Duffek?”

  “I use my maiden name at work,” Eleanor said.

  “Sheila Doty.” She had debated about taking back her father’s name, deciding that she didn’t want to be a Gallagher for the rest of her life.

  This was a much fancier dining room than at her parents’ house or at Jane’s house. Sheila perched on the edge of her chair soaking in all of Eleanor’s lovely possessions, rubbing a finger over the ornate design on the sterling cutlery. During their meal of New England boiled dinner, Nick led the conversation, asking where she came from, why she was in the area, all the polite questions.

  This made her feel more at ease, even when she told him she’d been living in San Francisco, and he said, “There’s some weird stuff happening out there.”

  All the people living at the faded orange house avoided this sort of conventional talk. Even Matthew and her friends from the music store had never spent time on this kind of conversation. It had been as if they dropped into the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood without history of any kind.

  After dinner, the best food she’d had since leaving Jane’s, as she and Eleanor did dishes, the back door opened and a couple ducked down the basement stairs. Three other couples arrived and disappeared in the same way. They congregated below, and Nick’s loud voice rose above the rest—talking and laughing. This was sure different from Jim, who seldom had much to say in a social gathering, except, Sheila remembered, at the Rollys’. The Baptist church service came to mind, how he had spoken quite freely. Other times, partying with the Rollys, always when he had been drinking plenty of beer, he had gotten every bit as loud as Nick was now.

  Once they finished the cleanup, Eleanor said, “Let’s go downstairs. I want you to meet his gang.”

  The knotty-pine paneled room, mostly carpeted in red and brightly lit, had a pool table, a new colored television that Nick was showing off to his friends, a bar circled with padded stools, a black leather sofa, and several soft-looking black leather chairs. A wooden dance floor, in shadows, took up one corner of the room, next to a sophisticated-looking console hi-fi.

  Everyone held a bottle of beer.

  “This is Nick’s special place.” Eleanor took a chair as he began introducing Sheila to his friends.

  They wanted to know the same things that Nick had asked. Sheila didn’t go into any more detail than she had with him, merely saying she’d been living in San Francisco. No one made a blatant negative remark like Nick’s, but there were several questioning expressions. She could feel the girls’ eyes on her jeans and peasant blouse and beads. About the third time through her stock answers, she asked one named Cheryl, with a dark pixie haircut and innocent-looking blue eyes, “What about you?”

  Her short plaid skirt was halfway up her thighs. She seemed friendly, but there was something about the twist of her mouth—more like a sneer than a smile. “I’m married to that guy over there.” She jerked her head toward Chad, a short, stocky fellow with a boyish face. “We’re from West Virginia. Came here for Chad to teach sixth grade. So they wouldn’t draft him.”

  Chad came up and put his arm around Cheryl’s waist. “Just call me ‘school marm.’”

  These four guys had met Nick at his car repair shop. Their wives had become friends because of them. There were no kids. Everyone, except Nick and Eleanor, lived in the complex where Sheila had rented her apartment.

  Toward the evening’s end, Cheryl said, “This is a great song for slow dancing,” and she pulled Chad to the corner.

  Strains of “Stand by Your Man” filled the room. Before long, all the couples swayed on the dance floor. Nick walked up to Eleanor, who still sat in the same chair, sipping a cup of tea. He gestured for her to join him.

  “Why don’t you dance with Sheila? She’s our guest,” Eleanor said.

  So, Sheila ended up in Nick’s arms, smelling his spicy aftershave, looking at his broad chest, and dancing to this song that she thought was really dumb, but also made her feel as sad as a bedraggled cat in a rainstorm.

  After it was over, Nick held her for a second. “Thanks. That was great.” And in a louder voice, “Work starts early in the morning.”

  His friends looked disgusted, but they agreed to call it a day.

  The couples left, holding hands.

  Sheila made a quick escape to the empty guest room. There, she stared at the canopy overhead for several hours.

  CHAPTER 22

  Renaissance Faire

  SHEILA’S NEW JOB PROVIDED MANY OPPORTUNITIES TO SING AND PLAY HER GUITAR IN addition to dealing with the unending paperwork, and for the first time in several years she had a group of like-minded people who were against the war, involved in their own music, but also participated in the ordinary aspects of life. At the faded orange house the people had ignored the holidays, considering them to be another symbol of a conventional, completely unappealing, way of life. Her friends at the music store went out of town to be with their families. Matthew closed the store for a week and flew back to Denver to be with his daughter. When Bradley came to San Francisco, he was so wrapped up in his work with the movement that the holidays passed him by.

  Sheila spent Thanksgiving, shortly after the Moratorium, with Eleanor and Nick and his friends, in their gracious surroundings. She called Minneapolis from the guest room in the afternoon before they ate, even though her father had made it clear that he didn’t want to hear from her.

  Her mother answered, and the first thing Sheila said was, “How’s Tommy doing?”

  “He’s having dinner with the new girl’s family. Practically lives over there.” Her voice was as jumbled as a scratched forty-five.

  Sheila felt relief that Tommy had someplace else to go. “Are you roasting a turkey for you and Dad?” She suspected the answer.

  “Your father picked up a couple of those Swanson dinners.” Lily stifled a hiccup.

  Will they be sober enough to get them heated?

  “Can I talk to Dad?”

  “Don’t know if he’ll come to the phone. I’ll check.”

  Sheila heard a crash. Lily must have tipped something over.

  “What do you want?” her father said after several minutes.

  “To check on Tommy. And how are you and Mom doing? Is she okay?”

  “We’re fine. She’s sitting right here. Tommy’s fine.” After a long pause, he said, “So what about Christmas? Will we see you then?”

  “I’ve decided to stay in D.C.”

  He slammed the phone down, causing Sheila to yank the receiver away from her ear.

  During the delicious meal at Eleanor’s, twirling a crystal glass full of red wine, she tried to erase the image of her parents in a darkened living room, passing out by the television. She shook her head and looked around the table. Everyone was talking and laughing.

  Sheila felt as out of place as her extra chair that had been shoved next to the crowded table. I don’t have a thing in common with these people.

  She turned to Eleanor on her right. She was eating slowly and being quiet too.

  Eleanor reached over and gave Sheila’s hand a squeeze.

  People at the Smithsonian went all out with stupendous decorations for Christmas. A brightly-lit tree looked to be about fifty feet tall, traditional red and green garlands and bows were mounted everywhere, and festive music played for weeks. Everyone hummed and smiled and greeted coworkers with enthusiasm.

  Again, there were social times with Nick’s friends, even though these were not people Sheila would have chosen to be around. But their
get-togethers at Eleanor’s house before Christmas made this time without Jim more tolerable. At evening’s end, all these couples went to their own places, while she went home to her empty apartment.

  On Friday, December 20, Nick’s gang left early to get ready for drives the next morning to their family homes in Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia. Sheila stuck around to help Eleanor clean up the mess after another meal—this time lasagna.

  “I wish you’d reconsider,” Eleanor said. “You can come to Connecticut and spend Christmas with my family. Actually, it would make everything a lot easier for me.”

  Nick, who was sitting at the table nursing another beer, said, “Yeah, that’d mean at least one friendly face.” From comments like this, Sheila knew that he felt as out of place with Eleanor’s family as she felt with his friends.

  Sheila also knew, from remarks Eleanor let slip, that she wasn’t particularly comfortable with her own family. Things like, “I feel funny sleeping with Nick in my old bedroom,” and “There’s never much talk at our family meals,” and “Mother decorates beautifully, always in silvers and whites. Not warm like what we have here at work.”

  It didn’t sound like anywhere Sheila wanted to go. “I’m sorry. I appreciate the invitation.” She considered how to proceed. “I’d rather be by myself than spending time with people I don’t know.”

  “I understand, even though I am disappointed.”

  In order to put a positive spin on the situation, Sheila thought, There’ll be extra time to practice my music.

  She sent gifts for her family—sweaters to keep her mother and father warm in case they, in a stupor, forgot to bundle up. They never responded. Somehow, Carl managed to operate an electrical business during the day, in spite of his own drinking that had escalated as he grew older. Lily, having quit her job at the meatpacking plant, stayed home most of the time. Sheila pictured her with an ever-present tumbler of whisky. Tommy did send Sheila a note thanking her for the Janis Joplin album—Cheap Thrills—but he sounded confused about its songs.

  Eleanor and Nick didn’t come back until after the first of the year, so there was no New Year’s Eve party. If Nick’s friends got together on their own, they didn’t invite Sheila.

  The beginning of 1970 Eleanor said, “You really need something alive to keep you company when you can’t be at my house. Let’s go to the shelter and find you a kitten.”

  “I’ve never had a pet.”

  “Well it’s about time for one.”

  They were sitting at Eleanor’s kitchen table, sipping tea. Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge over Troubled Water,” which had just come out, played in the background.

  “This is such a beautiful song,” Eleanor said.

  It made Sheila feel like weeping. She wondered if anyone would ever come into her life to make things better. When thoughts like this came to mind, she’d soon change them. I had something like this once … I don’t want another person to save me.

  Despite the soulful ballad making her feel sad, she wrote an arrangement to play on her guitar. She named the female gray tabby she adopted Silver Girl, and the apartment did feel cozier with the kitten purring in her lap.

  Sheila appreciated that Eleanor always included her in the many social gatherings, but she took a definite dislike for Cheryl, who laughed at Eleanor behind her back.

  She would poke Nick when Eleanor wasn’t around, and say things like, “Where’s the happy homemaker—off trying a new recipe?” A Southern Baptist, when Cheryl discovered that Sheila was divorced, she said, “According to the Bible, you’ll never be able to marry again.”

  Even though Sheila had never wanted children during her marriage to Jim, she did hope to someday find someone special to marry, to build a home with, and start a family.

  One time she heard Cheryl describing her to one of the other wives as “ … another of Eleanor’s strays.”

  Sheila’s face burned with shame, in addition to feeling offended. The remark made her wonder how many women Eleanor had dragged home. Since the couples were all Nick’s friends, maybe Eleanor felt inclined to “adopt” some of her own.

  During their many talks on drives to and from work, Eleanor did gradually reveal more bits and pieces from her past. She said that her parents in Connecticut had financed Nick’s car repair shop, and they had bought them the house. Nick’s unwed mother, who never revealed the identity of his father, had died in a car accident when he was only a toddler. His widowed grandmother, who died before he and Eleanor married, had brought him up. It seemed to Sheila that Eleanor possessed a need to make things right for him, to protect him.

  On the surface she seemed to have come from a charmed life. Hers was a stable, affluent family. She received every advantage. A photograph on her mantle showed a large white traditional house in Porterfield, Connecticut, with manicured grounds all around. In another, Eleanor and a group of girls in maroon blazers and gray skirts were lined up in front of her private school—an imposing stone building. Another showed her at a recital playing a violin. Another was at a desk, surrounded by books in floor-to-ceiling shelves. From these pictures, it seemed perfect, until Sheila learned about the family problems Eleanor had encountered.

  She was the middle child. Her older brother, Chester or “Chet,” was an avid rugby player. Her younger sister, Marjorie or “Marj,” was an accomplished horsewoman. The whole family, with the exception of Eleanor, loved to go sailing in their inherited boat, Sunny Daze. With eczema, Eleanor never enjoyed these outings, spending most of her time below deck in the girls’ cabin, playing her violin. A talented musician, no one in her family, especially her athletic mother, thought much of this ability. Her father, while loving toward Eleanor, deferred to her mother on matters concerning the family. He had been a poor, scholarship kid who married well—Elizabeth Porterfield—and was now president of the Porterfield Textile Company.

  Eleanor met Nick at the dermatologist’s office when they both were thirteen. Because of severe acne, the state had provided appointments for him. A chubby boy, he obsessed about cars. Nick and Eleanor, two ugly ducklings, fell in love and married early. While Eleanor didn’t expressly say this, Sheila could see that her friend remained homely and gawky, but beautifully expressed her interests and talents at the Smithsonian. In contrast, Nick, by the time he was in his late teens, had been transformed into the big, handsome guy who still concentrated on cars.

  He seemed to have an understanding of how dependent his life was on Eleanor. Nick said things like, “El came along and rescued this poor kid.” But he also liked the attention other women gave him. All his friends’ wives flirted with him, Cheryl being the most blatant. Sheila wondered how Eleanor felt about this, but Eleanor never said.

  In addition to piecing together her history, Sheila told Eleanor things about the Doty family and Jim that she had never told anyone. Consequently, Eleanor came to know her better than even Patty back in Minneapolis had known her. She knew about Lily’s drinking, about Carl’s dominating, sometimes violent, behavior, about her concern for Tommy, about Sheila’s escape to California with Jim, about the strange time in the faded orange house, about Bradley and why they had come to D.C., and about her plans to build a career in music.

  Neither woman had that much in common with the men they’d married—except for physical attraction. Eleanor needed to protect, while Sheila once had needed protection.

  It amused her to imagine how Nick and his friends would react to the marijuana-smelling rooms where she’d hung out back in San Francisco. She missed talk of flavors and colors and feelings and smells and sounds with her friends from the music store.

  Once Eleanor suggested, “Why don’t we have Sheila play some folk songs? We could sing with her.”

  “We don’t want any of that hippie stuff,” Nick said, and the others, of course, agreed.

  There was no conversation about the war, except to brag how ea
ch guy had avoided the draft. Sheila and Eleanor had both been McGovern supporters. When their favorite didn’t get the nomination, they voted for Humphrey. Both were disheartened when Richard Nixon won. Nick and his friends never bothered with the election.

  On a winter Sunday morning, Sheila walked over to Eleanor’s house with information for an upcoming Smithsonian event—a Renaissance Faire to be held in the spring.

  Eleanor had said, “Drop off the packet any time.”

  The anchor-shaped knocker was gone from the front door, replaced by a plain brass one with “Duffek” engraved on it. This had been one of Eleanor’s Christmas gifts to Nick. As Sheila stood on the entrance verandah, waiting for an answer, he came out of the garage carrying an empty box.

  “Sheila! What are you up to?”

  Even in a grubby gray sweatshirt and needing a shave, he looked handsome in a burly way—as handsome as Jim.

  “Can I leave this with you?” Sheila tried to hand him the folder, which he pushed away.

  “Leave it on the porch. El’s at the mall taking back some presents. Could be a while.” He looked at her sideways, with his eyes crinkly and his mouth turned up in a crooked, close-mouthed smile. “I’m pulling the Christmas lights down. Want to catch cords, wind ’em up, and put ’em in this box?”

  “Sure. I’ll help.”

  This task took about an hour with her on the ground and him up on a ladder. As she tucked the last string into the storage box, he said, “You must be freezing. How about a cup of coffee?”

  She agreed, in a way excited to spend some time alone with him, but also wary and hoping that Eleanor would show up soon.

  Nick brushed against her arm as he passed with the box of lights and headed back toward the garage. “Front door’s open. Meet you in the kitchen.”