Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  “I could offer you a nice raise right away … it’d be good to get away from Ron …”

  “Poor Ronald. He’s decimated.”

  “Got what he deserves.”

  “Yeah, but he’s been counting on this promotion for so long.”

  “He’ll make it. The Ronalds always do. Probably end up with something better than this situation.”

  “You think he’ll quit?” Sheila felt hope.

  “Probably. I’m sure there’s another bank that will put him up a step right away. The guy may be a jerk, but he’s a dedicated jerk.”

  “I’m glad you’re getting the promotion.”

  “Thanks, kid. I’m going to miss you, but this is going to mean a lot for my family.”

  Sheila turned back to her typewriter. She wanted to be working on her reports when Ronald returned. Her steno pad notes blurred as she tried to start an entry.

  “You’re doing fine,” Sully said. “You’ll be working with the music in no time at all.”

  “I know I will.” Sheila lifted her chin.

  While she never learned to like Ronald Lindquist, after this episode Sheila understood him even better. Wasn’t he working as hard as he could to achieve his goals? Hadn’t he been disappointed in what the bank handed him? Didn’t he keep right on trying in a committed way? He never gave up.

  Maybe she didn’t have a folder with pictures that she pored over, but Sheila had goals in her mind, and she was making progress. In addition to her classes and homework, she played her music every day—folk songs on her guitar, dreamy works by Chopin that had to be done with exactly the right expression on her piano, even a little boogie-woogie when she needed a lift.

  CHAPTER 26

  Small Town Boy

  PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON HAD VISITED CHINA FOR EIGHT DAYS IN FEBRUARY OF 1972. He and his wife, Pat, walked along the Great Wall. It was hoped that improved American-Chinese relations would lead to a settlement of the long and costly Vietnam War.

  That summer, Sheila visited Bill Warmuth’s hometown of Ardenville, Minnesota, population 2,500, about one hundred miles south of Minneapolis, for a wedding. Ending the Vietnam War was still important to her, even though Jim was not uppermost in her thoughts. It seemed that Bill might be taking over the place that Jim previously occupied. Bill had served two years as an army second lieutenant in Vietnam, and came home unscathed to start his career at the bank. With military experience in common, Bill, like Jim, supported the action. Sheila decided, It’s been discussed enough.

  Now, Bill placed a hand in Sheila’s, to help her out of the car. Always polite, he had been even more attentive today—ever since he came to pick her up for this wedding, and said how fantastic she looked in the new dress he had chosen.

  I get to see where he’s from, she thought. Bill Warmuth’s small town would be important to her. She was sure of it.

  They stood in the parking lot next to his new red Mustang.

  Bill straightened his tie, took Sheila’s elbow, and sauntered toward the group of people waiting in front of Our Lady of the Lake Church.

  These guests mingled like a flock of crows, then silenced and craned for a better look.

  Sheila had anticipated attention. After all, this was the first time Bill brought a girl from The Cities to Ardenville, but suddenly, as women’s heads moved closer together, whispering, she couldn’t help but think, I wish this dress was at least down to my knees.

  All these women’s dresses hit mid-calf. One lady with over-permed, blue-gray hair that blended perfectly into the threatening sky, put a hand up to cover her mouth. A man in a baggy black suit, leaning on a cane, gaped at Sheila as if she was some bizarre exhibit at the county fair—like the bearded woman.

  Her shell pink dress brought out the rosiness of her skin and didn’t clash with her dark red hair. Its polyester fabric would never wrinkle no matter how long she sat during this hot, humid Saturday afternoon. She realized that the length, even though it was common in Minneapolis, shocked the Ardenville folks, and felt as out of place as on a long ago spring day when she had worn a short, white skirt and strappy sandals to the drag strip with Jim. There’d been only a few other women watching. These few took plenty of time to stare at her and make snide remarks. They had on jeans and oversized shirts and sneakers. On that day, Sheila felt almost as awful as at that horrible interview when she first went to Long Beach. Then, she wore a homemade dress with a crooked hem that did, at least, come down to her knees. The snooty woman in charge of the attorney’s office where she was applying … What was her name? … Louise something or other, made her feel like a tiny, invading mouse. On this day, Sheila knew, after only a few minutes standing in front of the church, that she would always remember it in the same way as those other uncomfortable times.

  Bill guided her to a middle-aged couple off to the side of the crowd. The woman, who had glittering blue eyes, seemed to be enjoying the stir Sheila caused. What a relief! This woman’s mint green dress barely hit her kneecaps. The man next to her frowned judgmentally, fitting right in with the flock of crows.

  “Mom, I’d like you to meet Sheila Doty, from the bank.”

  Mrs. Warmuth’s fluffy blond hair seemed bleached. Her bright, eager expression was like a Springer waiting to chase a tennis ball, and it made Sheila like her immediately. “Billy’s spoken of you often,” she said.

  His father, William Warmuth Sr., a stocky guy, about Bill’s height of just under six feet, had once dark brown hair, graying, and once dark brown eyes that had faded. They looked like a wash of white paint and water had been brushed on to tone them down. His lips pressed together when he gave a slight nod toward Sheila. His face looked twisted in pain. He never lost the measuring-up squint, as if looking at a nail to make sure it had been pounded straight. This was not at all like Bill’s movie star grin that had first attracted Sheila to him. He would flash a beamer at her, and she would think, Maybe Minneapolis isn’t so bad.

  This kind of thought was rare. Her brother continued to drink with their parents. This often resulted in episodes when he blacked out. No matter what Sheila said to their parents, and to Tommy himself, no matter how she tried to get him to counseling or AA, he continued on his downward spiral. Even though he had recently eloped with a sweet girl named Beth, who was expecting a baby in a few months, Tommy hadn’t changed. Sheila felt the most sorry for his new bride and the baby. She had about given up on trying to help him, in the same way she had given up on her parents years before.

  “We better go inside.” Mr. Warmuth grabbed his wife’s thin arm.

  Sheila noticed she had a bruise right where his thumb grasped her flesh.

  Mrs. Warmuth flittered her fingers at several people as they passed by. These people, both men and women, exchanged knowing glances behind her back as Mr. Warmuth dragged her along.

  After entering the church’s carved double doors, he encountered an imposing man with thick hair and eyes like his own, but a whole lot darker. “Good day for a wedding,” he mumbled to the man after a second or two.

  Mrs. Warmuth’s features dropped as if pulled down by a weight. She followed her husband more docilely, big-eyed, like a little girl who has come face-to-face with a scary stranger.

  “That’s my uncle. Father of the groom,” Bill whispered.

  No wonder everyone’s so uptight. According to Bill, an argument several years before had led to his father buying out his younger brother’s share of Warmuth Builders, the family construction business. Feelings were still strained, even in this church that Bill’s grandfather had built forty years in the past.

  Sheila watched Mr. Warmuth bless himself with holy water from a marble font next to the wall, then go deeply down on one knee, crossing himself again before entering the pew. Mrs. Warmuth skipped the blessing and the genuflection, slipping in after her husband. Sheila followed along next, skipping the preliminaries too. Bi
ll quickly tapped his fingers to forehead, chest, and shoulders as he brought up the rear.

  “Where are all your brothers and sisters?” Sheila whispered when they were seated.

  “They don’t want to sit with Dad and Mom.”

  As the oldest offspring, with a date, this must be the expectation, Sheila decided.

  Mrs. Warmuth, her smile turned back on, started talking loudly to a woman with frizzy, orange hair who sat down in front of them. This woman looked genuinely happy to see her.

  The organist played Bach quietly, while guests prayed, or whispered to each other, or shuffled through their purses, or read the programs. An altar boy lit the candles, and soon a smell of burning wax, along with white roses and chrysanthemums thickened the air.

  Bill’s father knelt and said a long silent prayer, crossing himself again.

  Mrs. Warmuth said, “Jeanne, you always have such great ideas.”

  Mr. Warmuth slammed the kneeler into place. After he sat back, Sheila caught him glancing with a look as sharp as a knife at his wife.

  When the groom entered and stood with the attendants, waiting for his bride, Sheila saw that he resembled Bill’s uncle. Equally big and equally dark.

  “That’s my cousin, Larry,” Bill needlessly said.

  This was the first time Sheila would meet Larry and his bride, Amy, and assessed that he looked like a nice enough guy. In spite of their fathers’ falling out, Bill and Larry maintained a close relationship. Larry and his father had successfully gone into their own construction business. Bill told Sheila that many of the old customers went to the new company, and his father wanted him to go to work in the original family business.

  He often said, “I’d never do that. I like living in The Cities and being a banker too much.”

  The last guests to arrive, an old man and an old woman, were led to the front. Hooked up to an oxygen tank and in a wheelchair, the old man was pushed by an usher. Shuffling along behind, the old woman was bent over, garbed in a navy blue dress, with a spotty hand clutching the crooked arm of her own usher. She was seated at the end of her pew. The old man’s wheelchair was on the aisle next to her.

  Even though her dress was a lighter shade of blue, the groom’s mother, as well as the grandmother, blended right in with the storm cloud ladies. The groom’s mother had stiff, tightly permed brown hair showing streaks of gray. Sheila never saw her smile during the service.

  After they were situated, Bill stood and walked over to greet the old couple. He leaned down to say a few words, a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder.

  The heavy, old woman, despite her stoop and hair that had lost all its brown, looked very much like Bill and his father. Mr. Warmuth’s belly stretched the front of his gray suit jacket. Bill, trying to keep his weight down, had recently taken up jogging. The uncle and Larry’s tall, lean frames must have taken after the old man, but he was so scrunched up in his wheelchair it was hard to tell.

  At Sheila’s apartment, Bill often stood in front of her full-length mirror, and rubbed his hands over his sucked-in middle. He’d say, “Do you think I’m getting fat?” Sheila would cringe as she responded, “You’re fine. Don’t worry about it.” She couldn’t help but think of Jim, who had taken his great build for granted.

  The organ sounded several loud chords, announcing “Here Comes the Bride,” as the congregation stood and turned toward the center aisle. Amy clung to her father, a bespectacled, balding man. Tall and thin, it was hard to see what she looked like under yards of veiling. Being a nurse at the local hospital, Amy must be used to wearing a lot of white, Sheila supposed. The cloudy women around her ooh-ed and ahh-ed about how beautiful she looked. As the bride and her father passed by, Sheila saw Amy’s pinched face and that her dark brown hair was pulled tightly back. In another few years, would she be exactly like this flock of women?

  Before long, vows dispensed with, it was time for Communion.

  Bill’s mother leaned over and said to Sheila, “You can take too.”

  “Twyla, she can’t do that. She’s divorced!” Mr. Warmuth’s expression seemed to cut into Sheila.

  Bill’s mother shrugged. “Well, Father Phil …”

  “Be quiet!”

  What a grouch! If alone, she would have taken Communion without thinking about it. This was between her conscience and God.

  In her short pink dress, she felt more conspicuous than ever when the others filed out from the hard pew and left her exposed, sitting alone. Where her bare knees came together, Sheila placed her folded hands. She sensed what seemed to be hundreds of eyes upon her, probably speculating about what she had done to warrant non-participation in Communion. She could imagine them thinking, Maybe this flashy girl of Bill’s isn’t even Catholic. The man with the frizzy-haired woman ahead of them left her sitting alone too. Sheila concentrated on this woman’s orange tendrils, shooting in every direction. They looked like there’d be a tingle if she touched one. This woman, Jeanne, didn’t seem the least bit ill at ease by herself, skimming announcements in the previous week’s bulletin as she cracked her gum.

  At the end of the ceremony, with Mendelssohn’s March, of course, the bride and groom joyously rushed toward the doors. Sheila saw that Amy, with the veil pushed back, looked quite pretty. Both she and Larry were flushed and seemed pleased with themselves, probably relieved to have this part of their wedding complete.

  During the reception, Sheila stayed next to Bill, giving polite, short replies when she was spoken to. Most of the talk centered around the weather and what a blessing it was that a storm had held off for the ceremony.

  When Bill said, “Let’s get out of here,” an hour later, Sheila readily agreed and put her plate holding a couple of deviled eggs on a nearby counter. She couldn’t wait to remove the stiff, armor-like dress.

  This was the first of many trips to Ardenville during that sultry summer. In July, Jane Fonda began a two-week visit to Hanoi, where she denounced the Vietnam War through radio broadcasts, visited American POWs, and was photographed sitting behind a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gun.

  Bill called her a “strident bitch!”

  Sheila felt forced to say, “She’s brave to do this—to come out against the war.”

  “That sounds like the people you knew in San Francisco.”

  These remarks brought on their first serious argument, despite Sheila’s vow not to discuss Vietnam. It ended with them agreeing not to pursue the topic any further.

  To change the subject, Bill joked, “Next year’s Mustangs’ll be out in the fall. My car won’t be brand new anymore.”

  Despite his flippant tone, Sheila sensed it was really a big deal for him—to have the newest car in his hometown.

  With each visit to their house on Lake Arden, Twyla grew more friendly. And if possible, Mr. Warmuth’s furrows in his face grew deeper every time he happened to look Sheila’s way, apparently to counteract his wife’s enthusiasm. Bill’s younger siblings, some blond and thin like their mother, others brown and round like Bill and his father, avoided even greeting her. They seemed to be watching to see which of their parents would win out. Sheila wasn’t used to this. With younger girls, there had always been a desire, bordering on adoration, to emulate her. They loved to comb her hair, trying to tame the curls into a ponytail. Bill’s sisters, one a striking blond of seventeen, the other at twelve, plump and brown like a plain little hen, mainly ignored her, even though Sheila shared a bedroom with them. The other boys, one fair, one dark, acted as if she was nonexistent, but she could feel them stealing looks at her.

  Every Saturday, the family had a picnic lunch on the beachfront yard. After barbequed hamburgers and potato salad, and cleanup with Sheila helping, she sat by Twyla on blue-webbed lounge chairs, chatting, and smoking her Salems.

  After one of these times, when they were alone, Bill remarked, “My mother doesn’t even know how to smoke. She
never inhales, just blows it out. Only reason she does it is to infuriate Dad.”

  This reminded Sheila of the first time she had smoked marijuana at the faded orange house in San Francisco. She decided not to mention this.

  Another time, he said, “Why do you smoke, anyhow? You’re so pretty, but your clothes and hair smell of cigarettes.”

  Too bad! Sheila felt amused by his concern over his mother and father, and annoyed by his criticism. She wanted to fit in with his family, but everyone, except his sometimes rebellious mother, made it difficult. Besides, she had started smoking when alone in Washington, D.C. Somehow, having that cigarette, or cuddling with her two cats, or playing her guitar while she thought about songs to learn, helped with the sadness. Smoking felt like being close to Jim. She didn’t like it that much, had always hated the smell on her father, but it seemed to help her think. She never smoked that much, but in a situation like this, with so many people who didn’t like her, sitting and smoking and watching the others gave her something to do

  One time as they sat in their chairs, gazing at the others playing badminton, Twyla told her, “Each summer, at the end of the regular semester, Jeanne and I go to Lyndale College for a week of dormitory living and classes to stimulate our minds and revitalize our lives. That’s what Father Phil tells Bill so that he’ll give his consent. Lyndale’s also a Catholic school, so that helps.”

  “I love being back in school,” Sheila said. “I really want to graduate and start teaching music, but I’ll miss my classes. Still, I’ll be glad to leave the bank.”

  “You don’t like the bank?”

  “It pays my bills.”

  Twyla didn’t pursue this. “Father Phil says that women taking these courses at Lyndale will return with good things for the parish. I don’t know about that, but it’s almost like being a girl again—back in Chicago.”

  She had come to live with relatives in Ardenville as a teenager, after her long-widowed father died. “I always planned to return to the big city, but Bill Warmuth convinced me to stay and marry him. I was someone brand new and he wanted me for his own. I didn’t have anyone. I wanted a home. It was easy to let him take over.” Then, she added, with a mischievous twinkle, “He bitches no end about these college getaways.”