Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  Sheila pieced together details of Twyla’s life, assuming that she partied on her trips, and wondered if she did anything else. The “escape” for that year had been right before the wedding. “St. William is still fuming!” Twyla said, and took a long sip of her G & T. “It’s a whole year before I can go again.” Her eyes lost focus as she looked to the farthest shore of the lake.

  Sheila always refused a G & T, drinking Cokes instead. She might have started to smoke, but she seldom drank. There had been the times with her office friends in Long Beach, after she and Jim split up. She’d sit in bars with them, making a glass of cheap wine last all night, occasionally dancing with some guy who approached her. None of it had been fun. None of the guys compared to Jim. And Bradley, despite their interests in common, would never have been able to replace Jim. She often wondered about Bill. Would I be happy with him?

  “I’m sorry about your friend’s party. I really have to study tonight and tomorrow. This test on Monday is important.”

  “That’s fine, Sheila. I understand.” And Bill really did. “You have time to make up. You weren’t able to go to college when your friends did at eighteen. You have to prioritize this.”

  “Thanks. You’re great!”

  They were in her apartment. Bill had spent the previous night. He wanted to make his famous dinner for her—broiled steaks, baked potatoes with all the trimmings, green salad. Sheila laughed to herself about this. It was a pretty simple menu, but he was proud of his efforts and it did taste delicious. Always on a budget, Sheila didn’t treat herself to steak very often. He had opened a bottle of red wine for them, and she also treated herself to one glass.

  Then, he said, “Will you play your piano for me?”

  This surprised her. She didn’t think Bill was that interested, but he sat on the sofa, sipping more wine, his eyes closed, tapping his foot to catchier pieces like “The Entertainer” and nodding his head to moodier pieces like “Moonlight Sonata.”

  After about an hour of this, Sheila said, “I think that’s all I can play for now. I’m getting a bit drowsy … the wine, I guess.”

  “Next time I come over, I’d like you to play some more for me. You play well, and your voice is beautiful too. I think you will be a terrific teacher.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate you saying that.” This appreciation carried over into the bedroom that night. For the first time, things were pretty good for Sheila.

  CHAPTER 27

  Engaged?

  AFTER WARMUTH PICNICS, THE YOUNGER ONES KEPT ON PLAYING YARD GAMES, OR waterskiing on the back of Mr. Warmuth’s boat. He never invited Sheila to water ski. Once, Bill cajoled her into playing lawn darts against Larry and Amy, who sometimes attended these get-togethers without his parents.

  It was important to Bill that they beat the other couple. For encouragement, he said, “You should see how well Sheila plays tennis. She can volley for ten minutes, at least.” They played often at Bill’s apartment complex, but she’d never played lawn darts.

  At first the game went okay. But then Bill got a critical look like his father’s, and started harping about how they were falling behind Larry and Amy because of Sheila’s terrible aim. The next thing she knew, growing annoyed with his remarks, she carelessly tossed her dart, and it landed mere inches from where the elderly Mr. Warmuth trundled along, concentrating on his walker. Bill grabbed Sheila’s arm, yanking her away from Larry and Amy.

  Through gritted teeth, he said, “Damn it, you almost killed my grandfather!”

  “You’re hurting me!” She pulled her arm away, wondering if it would bruise, and hurried back to her chair by his mother. “Play by yourself!”

  In the beginning of that fall, 1972, Larry and Amy came to Sheila’s apartment in Minneapolis for dinner. It was important to Bill to show his cousin that the city girl knew how to cook.

  She had gotten to know Amy fairly well by this time but still was caught off guard by how their conversation developed.

  Sheila made her special chicken and rice that Bill always raved about, written on a tattered, much-used recipe card from Brenda Rolly. After dinner, which received many compliments, the guys watched football and the girls headed into her bedroom, where she showed Amy a new dress, a mini red one, that Bill had picked out.

  “He told me not to wear it in Ardenville.”

  Sheila stood holding the dress against her front, while Amy sat on the bed, observing. “It is awfully short. The folks back home would criticize.” Then, with her eyes turned down, looking at her fingers that fidgeted with the yellow afghan, she began questioning Sheila about, of all things, sex! “Did it take you a long while to … really enjoy it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sheila hedged. Where is this going?

  “You being divorced and all, I know you can tell me what I should do.”

  “You’re not liking it much?”

  “It’s all right.” Amy smoothed the afghan. “I like hugging and kissing and snuggling. I love Larry. It’s me.” She raised teary blue eyes to Sheila’s. “I sure don’t feel the way he feels.”

  This is a nurse? Sheila wished she could ignore the question and go back to the messy kitchen.

  “We waited so long, like we were supposed to do, and I kept thinking it would be out of this world spectacular … and it’s not.” Amy’s face clouded, reminiscent of the old ladies at her wedding. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Sheila’s experience with Jim had been too exciting. And then there was Bradley. Uninspired and not very often.

  Bill prided himself on his “staying power,” and, hinted that all the girls he had been with were pleased that he could “hold off” for so long. Sometimes lately, Sheila wished that he would get with it, and started to find his need to always have her on top disconcerting. Sometimes, sure, but always? She wondered if he thought being a passive participant, having everything done to him, made it right. So that getting it on with someone who’s divorced won’t be a sin?

  Amy’s hand on the afghan quieted. “I talked to Father Phil, but all he wanted to know was what we do. I didn’t feel like talking about that. I wanted to know what was wrong with me!”

  Sheila chuckled to herself. Bet he got his jollies from imagining their moves. “Sometimes it doesn’t happen right away. Be patient. You’ll figure it out.”

  Amy’s face grew darker, obviously disappointed that Sheila couldn’t provide keys to the kingdom.

  In most ways, Bill seemed almost perfect, except for the trips to Ardenville. They usually laughed and had fun. He was so proud taking her to dinner and dancing at in-spots around Minneapolis. He had a well-paying position at the bank, with a future. Even her overbearing father, who’d always disliked Jim, saying he came from scum because he lived with a single mother, was impressed when he met Bill.

  One night, Tommy had called and said their mother was really sick. Sheila told Bill, and he insisted on driving her to their house. By the time they got there, Lily had passed out in bed, and Tommy had left for the evening. Bill and her father, despite being a bit incoherent, talked for an hour about banking and his electrical business.

  On the drive back to her apartment, Sheila said, “I don’t want to spend a lot of time with my family—I’m sure you understand.”

  Bill nodded his head and reached out to hold her hand.

  “It does feel good to have my father’s approval for a change,” Sheila said, ending the conversation.

  In addition to encouraging her night classes and her future as a music teacher, they’d started talking about what a future life together might look like—a home, children. He liked dogs and cats, and wanted a place with enough property so she could have a horse.

  Sheila hoped to be accepted by his family, and that their intimate times together would improve.

  Am I in love with Bill? She had loved Jim so much, and it hadn’t lasted. Sheila di
dn’t think she could ever care about anyone like that again. But I care about Bill for what he is and the life we can build.

  On a drizzly October day, Bill pulled Sheila over to a jewelry store window on their way back to the bank from lunch. “Let’s go in,” he said, smiling his movie star grin.

  It didn’t take long for Sheila to find a one-carat solitaire set in gold. Her hand trembled trying it on. She couldn’t help but remember the tiny band that Jim barely had been able to afford. It was tucked away in her jewelry box. Pushing this to the back of her mind, she gazed at this glittering ring.

  After they left the store, Bill said, “I’ll surprise you with it soon.”

  “Are you proposing?”

  “Sure. Do I have to say the words exactly?”

  It’d be nice. “No. As long as we have everything clear between us.”

  Rain started coming down harder, and traffic jammed the street as they waited to cross. Car horns blared. Bill put up his big black umbrella to cover both of them. After they had huddled at the corner for a minute, he said, “Before I give you the ring, we need to talk to Father Phil about a wedding.”

  “We’re going to get married in your church?”

  “I can’t get married anywhere else.”

  “How will that work? Since I’m divorced?”

  The light changed to green, and they rushed across the street.

  When they reached the curb, he said, “Don’t worry. My mother assured me that Father Phil will take care of everything. He’s young and progressive.” Bill threw his free arm over Sheila’s shoulders.

  She had never before noticed how heavy it could be. “You’ve already talked about this with your mother?”

  “Yeah. She’s making plans for the wedding. Wants to send off a letter to your mother right away.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Mom’ll take care of him. She always does.”

  Sheila pictured years of looking at Mr. Warmuth’s glaring expression, and trying to bring some levity to Twyla’s life, and felt relieved that they would be a hundred miles away, at least most of the time. They hadn’t visited Ardenville since Labor Day.

  The study where they met with Father Phil contained loaded bookshelves closing in from every wall. A dark wooden, particularly graphic, crucifix was mounted behind his chair. Trying to make Sheila feel welcome, he asked about her position at “Bill’s bank.” He was about thirty-five she figured from his smooth face. He played the guitar, which appealed to Sheila, and recently had introduced “folk masses” for a service once a month.

  “Some of the older parishioners are disgusted, but I figure it does them good to change their routine.”

  “Maybe you’ll have one next time we’re home,” Bill said.

  How often will we have to come back in order to plan a wedding?

  “So, you two want to get married.” Father Phil folded his hands and leaned forward with a conspiratorial expression. “But there’s a problem …?”

  “Sheila’s been married before,” Bill supplied.

  “Were you married in a church?”

  “Yes. St. Cecilia’s in Minneapolis.”

  “Divorce and re-marriage in the Church is forbidden.”

  “You’re saying we can’t get married?” Bill used the forceful tone that he took on when challenged.

  “I didn’t say that. There are wa—”

  “What ways?

  “Sheila would have to get an annulment from her first marriage.”

  “What does that mean?” She moved closer.

  “You’ll have to go to you ex-husband. Have him sign a paper that proves there never was a real marriage. Some impediment.”

  “An ‘impediment’?”

  “Most people use the reason that one of the parties in the marriage did not want to have children.”

  “It’s not true. He wanted children more than I did.” Sheila remembered many times when Jim had said, “Wouldn’t a baby be great? Having little kids to play with?”

  “That’s how you can get an annulment and get married again in the Church. Unless there’s some other impediment.”

  “Such as?” Bill took over.

  “He couldn’t perform the marital act …”

  Never a problem!

  “Take this literature. Go talk about it. Pray about it. I’m sure everything will turn out for the best.”

  During the next week there were several times when Sheila, having found a telephone number for Jim in Long Beach, almost called him. Yet, her reasons for splitting up stood in the way. She had said, “You’re completely different since going to Vietnam. You sound exactly like them.”

  His eventual decision to re-enlist made her glad about her decision to start a new life, even though she had felt guilty because she couldn’t be what he needed. They’d been together since junior high! Sheila thought of all the times missing him so horribly. Sometimes, she still missed him. How can I ask him to help me?

  A few days later sitting at a café having an early dinner before she had to head off to class, Bill said, “Did you talk to your ex?” He took a bite of steak.

  “I couldn’t do it. I tried, but I just couldn’t bring myself to call him.”

  “Pick up the phone and dial the number. I don’t understand you, Sheila. Don’t you want to get married?” Bill threw his fork on the table.

  “Sure. I want to get married. But making up a story to do it is wrong. I loved him. I thought I would be with him forever. I left because we both changed.” She paused. “It wasn’t because of the ‘impediments’ your priest needs.”

  The rest of their meal was spent in silence. Sheila left most of her seafood salad untouched.

  The next weekend in Ardenville, they went to a movie—Love Story. Her eyes were still blurred from crying as they walked out. Bill put his arm over her shoulders, and this time it didn’t feel the least bit heavy. It felt good to lean into him.

  Once they were in the Mustang, he said, “Are you going to call Jim?”

  “I’ll do it Monday.”

  “That’s a promise?”

  “It’s a promise.”

  Sunday morning, one of his sisters asked Sheila’s advice on the color of lipstick to wear with a mauve dress, and a brother told her about his drama club, and Twyla talked about where to have the reception. By Sunday afternoon, Sheila felt reassured that the lie she had to tell would be for their greater good.

  Until dinner with the family before leaving for the cities.

  Bill Sr. said grace, carved the roast beef, and served a portion to each person at the table. After this, he sat back in his chair for a moment, looking at no one in particular. “I heard that Jeanne Osbourne left Charlie. They’re getting a divorce.”

  Sheila bristled at the word “divorce.”

  Twyla’s face flushed. “I don’t know if they’ve decided anything definite.”

  “If you hadn’t cut out early, you’d have heard the talk after mass.”

  “I’m sure they had a lot to say.” Twyla’s jaw set.

  Sheila pictured a group of cloudy ladies with their husbands frowning—sipping coffee and hashing over this news.

  “Good thing they never had any children,” Bill’s father continued. All Bill’s siblings rustled in their chairs.

  “What difference does it make? She never converted. She can do whatever she wants,” Twyla said.

  “You’re right about that. If she’d been Catholic, this wouldn’t be happening.” He paused in order to let his words sink in. “We know what will happen next. When someone’s been divorced once, it’s that much easier to do it again.” With this remark, he looked straight at Bill, who sat stoically next to Sheila.

  Mr. Warmuth took a bite of roast beef. “Not as tender as last week.”

  Twyla didn’t bother to c
omment, instead looked out the window, and said, “It’s going to storm,” followed by a rumble of thunder.

  She had never mentioned her friend’s marital problems. Sheila wondered if this meant that Jeanne would soon be leaving town.

  Once the tension of a possible argument eased, all the siblings, with the exception of Bill, started talking at once, like bolts of lightning.

  At last, the meal was over so Bill and Sheila could be on their way. Before the Mustang rolled out of the driveway, Mr. Warmuth came to Bill’s window. “You need to seriously consider what we talked about yesterday. Warmuth Builders is going under if I don’t get your help. That’ll kill your grandfather faster than anything else.”

  “I’ll move back in a few months,” Bill said, eyes directed to his hands on the steering wheel.

  Twyla stood on the front steps, her damp dress stuck between her knees, waving limply, calling, “Good-bye, good-bye.”

  This was the last time Sheila saw Bill’s mother, a blurry figure barely visible through the windshield, every time the wipers scraped the moisture away.

  I want to be in my own apartment—by myself. She thought of Chopin’s simple, haunting “Raindrop Prelude,” and yearned to be at her piano, playing it.

  The American bombing of North Vietnam was halted on October 23, 1972. Three days later, Henry Kissinger announced that a cease-fire agreement was being worked out and “peace is at hand.”

  There was no Nobel Peace Prize awarded in 1972.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Doll

  BILL DID NOT TAKE THE BREAKUP WELL. AT HIS DESK, TWO AISLES OVER FROM SHEILA’S, he would sit turned toward Sheila’s desk, staring at her as he made telephone calls. His brown eyes narrowed, his movie star smile absent, replaced by a scowl reminiscent of his father’s. Bill acted like he was making notes on a report. She wondered how he ever got any work done, and became completely focused on her own, as if she’d put on blinders. If a man stopped to ask for directions or to leave something for someone in Correspondent Banking, as soon as he left, Bill called her or made an excuse to stop by her desk.