Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  “Have you told Bob and Lucy?”

  “I gave them notice a few days ago. They were understanding. Said they hoped I’d be able to come back. Saturday will be my last time to visit. I’ll spend the night, and they’ll drive me to the airport on Sunday.”

  “I knew all about the horseback riding. Polly told me that Sparky is in great shape. She is appreciative of what you’ve done.”

  “That makes me feel good. She was pretty upset when I first started.”

  “I should have seen this coming years ago …”

  “Your split up?”

  This shifting to her own problems, more than anything else, showed the degree of Eleanor’s upset. She had always put everyone before herself, to her own detriment.

  “Yeah. I can’t get it out of my mind.” She shook her head, as if trying to banish the picture of the two of them together. Seeing your husband in bed with someone else would be horrible for anyone. For Eleanor, it must have been catastrophic. How could Nick have done such a thing?

  “That woman who came to the apartment …” Eleanor started telling the story that she had dismissed moments earlier. “Her daughter—Heidi, a pretty name for a pretty girl—was in a class Nick and I took together, before he dropped out. Blond and golden tan. Gorgeous skin.”

  “What happened with the woman at your apartment?”

  “The woman went on and on about how she didn’t want her daughter’s life ruined, how she had caught them about to go into a motel, how later she had gone to the car repair shop where he worked and told Nick to stay away from Heidi. She said to me ‘Keep your man at home!’ I had never thought of Nick as ‘my man.’”

  Maybe my little boy.

  “I refused to believe a word she said. ‘She’s delusional,’ I told myself. I didn’t even ask Nick when he came home. I made a special dinner for us that night. He put on some Beatles song and danced me into the bedroom, where everything else left my mind, including the roast beef I’d put in the oven. It was ruined, and we had to order pizza.”

  “Did you know about any other times?”

  “Never like that, but I’m sure all those ‘late nights at his shop’ were spent with girls. If you’d been different, he would have been cheating on me with you.”

  Sheila recalled how close she had come to letting Nick kiss her that time in Eleanor’s kitchen. Fortunately, her friend came home. And then there was the exterminator man who interrupted them when Nick came to the old apartment. Sheila wanted to think that she never would have allowed anything to happen. Still, even picturing Nick—big, tall, broad-shouldered, so much like Jim—made her catch a breath. Then, He’s a jerk!

  “This time with Cheryl, I knew right from the start that something was different,” Eleanor went on. “No matter what, Nick was always attentive … in bed. Concerned about making everything wonderful for me.” She sighed. “Lately, he didn’t want to make love at all. I thought he was sick or worried about the shop, something like that. And then, in our own bedroom! He knew I’d walk in. What a coward. Why couldn’t he just tell me? Oh Sheila, I feel so naive, so used, so, I don’t know, so incredibly manipulated all these years. Mother was right. El-e-a-nor. Poor dumb El-e-a-nor.”

  “You’re my smartest friend!” Sheila paused for this to sink in. “And you must be very angry.” I’d be furious!

  “I am, but also, I feel sad. If you could have seen him—the poor, orphan kid, living with his grandmother.” The anger rose again. Then the tone of her voice sharpened. “I thought I knew him better than anyone in the world. How oblivious. I never really knew him at all!”

  “I’m sure the early days were different.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything for sure right now.” She took a sip of tea. “That’s not exactly right. When we were young and first got together, he wanted me as much as I wanted him.” After a couple of reflective moments, she continued, “I do know, if you can’t move in with me, I’m going to sell the house.”

  “Your beautiful house?”

  “I don’t want to live there alone. I called Dad. He’ll help me get a place in the city. Maybe even in this building. It’s close to work.”

  Sheila knew there were many apartments available that were a lot bigger and a lot nicer than hers. Eleanor would easily find something. But her house, that lovely house, Sheila would have given anything to live in that house. Someday, maybe one like it …

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s done. I’m going to stay in a hotel until I can find somewhere permanent. For today, could you come over to the office with me? There are new programs scheduled, and I’d like to show you some of the material.”

  “I love that idea. A change of scenery will do us both good.”

  “We can have a nice going-away dinner somewhere you haven’t been.”

  “That should be easy to find.”

  “I’ll miss you so much, Sheila. There are many things in this city that we could have done together.”

  The reunited friends hugged again, for a long time, and the tears fell, and no one said they had to toughen up.

  After several minutes, Eleanor pulled herself together, wiped her eyes, and said, “We’re doing a Gaelic exhibit. I haven’t found anyone with a voice like yours.”

  Feeling good at these words, Sheila said, “You will.”

  Sparky nuzzled Sheila, seeming to sense something strange. He stood absolutely still at the mounting block, unlike his usual restlessness. This had been one of the few things she had to discipline him about during their times together. Not today. He seemed to want to please her in every way.

  She started off slowly, warming him up with walks in both directions around the arena. Even though several folded metal tables that had been used at their Labor Day picnic stood against one wall, Sparky walked by, ignoring everything but Sheila’s legs and voice.

  “You’re such a good boy,” she said softly.

  Sparky’s ears twitched back and forth as he listened to her.

  “Polly will start riding you before long. You’re going to do well in the shows. There’ll be a bunch more ribbons on her wall.” She patted his shoulder.

  Gradually, they went into a posting trot, and after a few times around, both ways, she asked for a canter. It was smoother than ever. She took him over several cavalleti poles. This is how it would be to fly over the stable, over the red brick house, up to the sky and off to the moon.

  There were three two-foot jumps set up in strategic spots. This time, we’re going to do all of them, she decided, bringing Sparky into a collected canter and moving toward the first. They covered it effortlessly. And then, there was the second. Taking a deep breath, pushing her legs back and forth into his sides to make sure he approached straight on, then letting go, she felt amazed by the ease with which they soared over it. And then, there was the third. Without a second’s consideration, she positioned Sparky toward it, cantered … one—two—three, one—two—three. Reins taut. A stride before he pushed off, she loosened her hands, raised herself up, and they flew.

  “Perfect!” Bob hollered from where he had been watching.

  For a moment, transitioning down to a posting trot and moving toward him, Sheila rubbed Sparky’s neck and basked in Bob’s praise.

  Then came his next words: “I’m sorry. It’s time for us to go.”

  Sheila had pictured herself taking three-foot jumps, maybe even higher. Will I ever ride again?

  On the airplane going back to Minneapolis, she read about Jimi Hendrix. He had died, most likely of a drug overdose, in London at age twenty-seven—not that much older than herself. By now, she wasn’t afraid of airplanes. It even crossed her mind, If it crashes, all my problems will be solved! She immediately corrected this thought. Another setback. With each bump of turbulence, she felt her own resentment fueled. It isn’t fair. Sheila thought, over and over again.


  Two weeks later, on October 4, 1970, Janis Joplin died of a heroin overdose. Saddened by the loss of another talent, Sheila didn’t give her own death a moment’s notice. She had too much to do. She helped with Tommy, who was still bedridden, at night. He seemed to be listening to her when she said, “You need to go to counseling.” And, “Once you’re up and about, I’ll go to some AA meetings with you.” She’d found a job at a downtown Minneapolis bank. She’d found a furnished, one-bedroom apartment walking distance to Lake Calhoun and would move in the next month. By that time, Tommy should be more self-sufficient. And she’d ordered a catalog from the University of Minnesota. She planned to start a night class in January.

  The highlight of Thanksgiving that year was a telephone call from Eleanor. Her friend did move into the same apartment building where Sheila had lived, and was liking it a lot. She said, “Silver Girl and Scamper are doing well. They’re sending hugs and purrs your way.”

  Later, the Dotys gathered around Lily’s new table. Business had been good for Carl, in spite of his own increased drinking. Months before Tommy’s accident, Lily had redecorated the dining room. On this day she made a good, old-fashioned turkey dinner with all the trimmings—perhaps in some attempt to help the family feel happiness at being together.

  “Can I have more cranberries?” Tommy slurred his words. Against his doctor’s orders he had started drinking again. He also had vehemently refused to go to counseling and the AA meetings Sheila suggested, saying, “I can take care of this myself.”

  Soon after his accident, the girlfriend had broken up with him, so he sat with an empty chair in the corner behind him. Another empty chair stood in the corner behind Sheila. The four in their family sat at this table like the old days. Sheila kept thinking, I can’t wait to get back to my place. She passed the faux-crystal dish over her glass of water. As Tommy reached for it, the dish slipped, making a bell-like ping on the table’s edge. It fell on Lily’s new, cream-colored, wall-to-wall carpet.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” Sheila said.

  “I dropped it,” Tommy said. “Sorry, Mom.”

  Carl, who’d drank more than a bottle of wine himself, slammed his fist down on the table, rattling all the dishes. “Can’t keep a damn thing nice around this place!”

  Lily lurched toward the kitchen.

  “It was my fault,” Sheila said. “I’ll pay for cleaning.”

  “No way. You never mess up,” Tommy said. “Things always work out right for you. Even though you split up with the greatest guy ever.” His eyes shifted from Sheila’s to the empty chair behind her.

  As Lily knelt to clean up the cranberries, which left a dark red stain, the rest of the family silently stared at their food.

  CHAPTER 25

  Setting Goals

  SHEILA HAD BEEN IN MINNEAPOLIS FOR OVER A YEAR. THE NEW YORK TIMES BEGAN publishing excerpts of the Pentagon Papers, a secret study of America’s involvement in Vietnam; prisoners seized the Attica Correctional Facility near Buffalo, New York, claiming forty-three lives; and Jim Morrison died in a Paris bathtub at the age of twenty-seven. Another lost talent. She felt justified in her peace movement involvement. She felt like her own sense of imprisonment was ending. And, she often hummed “Light My Fire,” wondering if anyone, ever again, would come along and light her fire. After indulging for a short while in meditative thoughts, she would push them away and start to play an upbeat song on the used piano she had recently purchased.

  During this year she stayed with her family for a couple of months—trying to help Tommy, but soon realizing he didn’t want her help. The apartment she rented was far enough from the Dotys’ house so that she didn’t have to visit more than once a week to check on his wellbeing. She always went on Sunday, instead of going to mass. In the early afternoon all three would still be sober. Lily went to early mass. Tommy hadn’t been in years as far as Sheila knew. Carl still stayed home on Sundays, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking cup after cup of coffee, reading his newspaper, and talking to himself about the country’s messes.

  Tommy, who had experienced seizures since the accident, didn’t have one when on proper medications. However, every time he drank he risked another, perhaps a seizure that would kill him.

  “Don’t you realize how dangerous it is to consume alcohol of any kind?” Sheila said to him. She told her parents the same thing. No one listened. Many nights, in her apartment’s comfortable double bed with the old yellow afghan from San Francisco, she lay awake wondering how long it would be until a crisis occurred, probably with Tommy, but perhaps with one or both of her parents. Carl consistently drove under the influence of alcohol, while Lily blithely sat in the passenger seat. Will there be another accident? Sheila prayed no innocent people would be involved. She also thought about approaching the police, trying to have her father’s driver’s license revoked, but what would that accomplish? He has to go to work.

  Life wasn’t all a series of concerns. She did begin classes that January, in order to fulfill her requirements and at some time, she hoped it would be soon, to start concentrating on her music classes.

  When she’d applied for admission to the University of Minnesota night school, the counselor said, “You are planning to build on your business credits, right?”

  She’d vigorously shaken her head. “No, I want to major in music.” There’d been a sidetrack once, and Sheila would have stuck with business if she could have continued working for Robert Newell.

  “Oh, I see,” the counselor frowned and tapped his fingers, showing Sheila that he obviously didn’t.

  As far as her job at the bank went, it paid for her apartment and her classes. She didn’t hate the job, but was so ready to begin working at something that she did love. Sometimes she gave a guitar or piano lesson in her apartment, but there wasn’t enough time to do this regularly. She had found the piano for only $200. It was beat up, but once tuned, sounded pretty good. People walking by her apartment could hear her playing favorite inspirational songs like “The Impossible Dream” and “Climb Every Mountain.” She hoped it wasn’t too loud, but from remarks other tenants made at the mailboxes, she knew they enjoyed the music coming from behind her door.

  On this weekday, in the midst of a telephone conversation with a lady from First Federal, one of her friend Sully’s accounts, Sheila stiffened like a suddenly disturbed cat, hackles raised, as Ronald Lindquist, another banker she worked for, strode up to her desk.

  She watched him standing there, trying to appear patient. She imagined waves of frustration rippling below his seemingly calm surface. Even though he annoyed her, she felt for his general impatience. Ronald was waiting for his life to move on. With a pen in her fingers, she formed circles as if coaxing information out of the caller. Sheila turned to Ronald and shrugged, but didn’t end the conversation.

  “Yes, Mrs. Cleary. You are certain that Mr. Sullivan took the paperwork with him after his last visit? All right, Mrs. Cleary, it should be later this afternoon. Certainly … thank you.” At Sully’s name, Sheila caught Ronald’s sneer.

  Replacing the receiver, a hand still resting upon it, she said, “I have to jot this information down while it’s still fresh in my mind.”

  Ronald hunkered closer, as she added lines to her already long note, under the heading: Wednesday, October 20, 1971.

  Despite negative feelings about him, Sheila found Ronald to be a good-looking guy. He had the still-toned, albeit heavier, body of the college basketball star, a forward, that he had been twenty years before when playing for the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers. His light brown, slightly graying hair sprouted from his head, thick and wiry. Youthful, even features and ruddy outdoor skin deceptively suggested a fun attitude. She’d overheard men in the office, who played with him on a Saturday morning team, call Ronald a “ball hog.” They said that once he grabbed it no one else had a chance. They also said that his bank shot, with the
right angle on the backboard, always hit the mark.

  Moving even closer to Sheila, he inadvertently rubbed a thigh against her arm and jumped back. Still scribbling on her note, she chuckled to herself. Ronald Lindquist would never come on to one of the secretaries in the bank—not in the bank. Leonard Petersen, their department head, abhorred office gossip. Even if Ronald was interested, Sheila didn’t frequent the Top Hat where bank employees stopped for drinks every Friday night. There, flirtations could happen. Petersen didn’t care what went on outside the brass twelve-foot high entry doors of Metropolitan National. Often in earlier days, rumor had it that Leonard and Ivy cozied-up in a back booth.

  Any intimacy with a secretary in the bank would jeopardize Ronald’s progress toward the back desk. That desk had mahogany-colored faux wood and Plexiglas walls surrounding it. These walls rose only seven feet, with an open space between panels where visitors came and went. Nevertheless, this area, set apart from the other desks, clearly showed anyone entering the department that the Important One sat there.

  Sheila could feel Ronald’s eyes drill into the top of her head. This made her scalp feel like it might send up electricity to sizzle her curly, red hair. Seconds later, she sensed his attention shift to the back of the department. In the special enclosure, a guest’s green simulated-leather chair faced the large mahogany desk. Everyone in the department thought of this as Ronald’s chair. Its arms and legs perfectly lined up with the right edge of the desk, behind which sat silver-haired, bespectacled Leonard Petersen, Senior Vice President of Correspondent Banking. At sixty-four years old, Leonard still performed his duties confidently.

  While Ronald refused to budge, Sheila sensed him willing Petersen to witness his present predicament. With a glance, she saw that Petersen’s attention never strayed from a page in his hand. She slowed down her writing, going back over points already covered. She felt a small thrill of power, continuing to make Ronald squirm.