Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  One Thanksgiving we did find actual Thanksgiving food—turkey with all the trimmings. We happened upon a cafeteria where the food had already been portioned into small plates and bowls and lined up behind a sneeze guard. First we took a plate with a tissue-paper-thin sheet of turkey draped across a mound of dressing that tasted like formaldehyde. I’ve never actually tasted formaldehyde, but if I had, I believe it would have tasted like that dressing. On top of the turkey-dressing combo, there was bright yellow gelatinous gravy. On the edge of the turkey plate was a thimble-size container of cranberry sauce. I thought I liked cranberry sauce, but I didn’t get a good enough taste to be sure. Next we took teeny bowls of creamed corn and green beans swimming in lard. For dessert we had slick pumpkin pie with soggy crust. When we passed through the check-out, a big woman wearing a plastic apron and a rubber glove on her serving hand placed a dinner roll on each of our trays.

  We spent the entire meal making up stories about the rest of the diners: “That man’s wife, Matilda, died last month. All of his selfish, thoughtless children are snorkeling in the Bahamas. That’s why he’s eating alone. Those two men just robbed a bank and are on the lam. That family was on their way to Grandma’s house when they smelled the yummy odors coming from the cafeteria and just couldn’t resist.”

  The cafeteria Thanksgiving food was really quite delicious, except, perhaps, the formaldehyde dressing.

  Albemarle Thanksgivings were never traditional, except for our tradition of uncertainty. We were just never sure where or what or when we were going to eat. But I loved those uncertain days; they were always adventures.

  I decided not to wear my usual sweats or jeans to the Brooks Thanksgiving dinner but, instead, squeezed into the navy skirt that went with my suit. (Those late nights of fried chicken and biscuits were starting to show.) I wore a red turtle neck sweater and navy flats and held my flip away from my face with a navy hair band. I even struggled into stockings for the holiday. I looked like a very respectable daughter-in-law.

  Ma’am had always told me that one must never visit a home without bearing a hostess gift. A bottle of wine is always a welcomed gift when Ma’am is the hostess, but I certainly couldn’t take the devil’s brew to my in-laws. I settled on a yellow potted mum, wrapped in green foil and tied with a big orange bow. It looked very fallish and Thanksgivinglike.

  When we arrived at my inlaws’ home, Mrs. Brooks greeted us at the door with, “Hello, Son. Welcome to our home, Lydia.”

  There were no smiles or slaps on the back or boisterous holiday greetings.

  I said, “Mrs. Brooks, I brought you a mum.”

  She eyed it and said, “I see. Just leave it on the porch.” And that was the extent of her thank you.

  Mrs. Brooks was wearing a brown jacket dress identical to her black cookout dress and her purple wedding dress. I was beginning to see a pattern. For Christmas she would wear a red version of this uniform, which, of course, would double for Valentine’s Day (if, in fact, Dr. and Mrs. Brooks acknowledged Valentine’s Day). I was guessing her Easter uniform was either lavender or baby-chick yellow. Over the brown Thanksgiving uniform Garth’s mother wore a frilly apron with pumpkins and turkey appliqués.

  Garth’s mother ushered us into the sterile living room where Dr. Brooks was sitting at his game table, assembling a puzzle. Puzzle assembling on Thanksgiving? I thought men watched TV football on Thanksgiving. Well, this was Dr. Brooks.

  When my father-in-law saw us, he stood, shook Garth’s hand, and said, “Hello, Son. Hello, Lydia.”

  Garth took the seat across from his father and began helping him with his puzzle while Mrs. Brooks disappeared—to the kitchen, I supposed. I was left standing, not knowing my role in this family. When no one offered me a seat or a drink or their attention, I wandered toward the odors of food cooking. I came upon Mrs. Brooks, furiously stirring pots on the stove.

  When she saw me, she said, “I’m sure you’re accustomed to turkey on Thanksgiving at your house. We don’t care for turkey—too dry for our taste. So I prepare a standing rib roast instead.”

  I laughed and said, “Mrs. Brooks, I’m not at all picky. Anything is better than what we get at Ma’am's house. And I love roast beef.”

  Mrs. Brooks turned from her stove, got that snooty look that I’d come to fear, and said, “What a disrespectful thing to say. Your mother would be hurt if she knew you’d said such a thing about her cooking.”

  Once again, I laughed, waved my hand, and said, “Mrs. Brooks, my mother doesn’t cook at all, and she’d be the first to tell you she can scorch water.”

  “But, Lydia, your mother makes those delectable desserts.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Brooks, she didn’t make that lemon dessert. She got that from a bakery. The Colonel was just pulling your leg, making a joke.”

  The snooty look got snootier when she said, “Well, Dr. Brooks and I don’t appreciate being made the butt of a joke.”

  “But, Mrs. Brooks, my father wouldn’t make you the butt of a joke. He is a very gracious host and would never intentionally make his guests feel uncomfortable.” (I didn’t add, “…like you’re making your guest feel uncomfortable right now!”)

  “Well, I find his behavior boorish, and I think I’m due an apology.”

  Had I told Colonel Tom that Mrs. Brooks had demanded an apology, he’d have turned the air blue with expletives, so I decided to end it right there by saying, “I’m sorry your feelings are hurt, and I apologize for The Colonel’s boorish behavior.”

  She sniffed, “Well, okay then,” and returned to her furious pot stirring.

  And I thought, “This is going very well.”

  Still, when no one would define my role, I said, “Mrs. Brooks, would you like for me to set the table?”

  She answered over her shoulder, “If you wish.”

  I wished to get the hell out of there, but setting the table was my second choice, so I did.

  When dinner was ready, we took our places at the table. Everything was beautiful. Mrs. Brooks’s china had big red roses on it, and her silver was ornate and finely polished. Her crystal caught the light of the chandelier and cast prisms of color across the white linen tablecloth. The food looked delicious and was presented to perfection. It looked almost too good to eat.

  But we did eat: tender, juicy roast; mashed potatoes so creamy they brought tears to my eyes; green beans with almonds; carrot soufflé; ambrosia; homemade rolls; homemade apple pie with ice cream. It was the most beautiful, most delicious meal I had ever tasted.

  And I said, “Mrs. Brooks, this is the most beautiful, most delicious meal I have ever tasted. Will you please teach me how to do this?”

  And my snooty mother-in-law melted before my eyes. Her stern glare softened, and she said, “Why, Lydia, thank you. I would be pleased to teach you to cook.”

  That day Mrs. Brooks and I found our common ground. As long as we stuck to food, we were fast friends. But if we ever veered off course, her nostrils flared, and that prickly feeling crept down my neck.

  Thirty-four

  Percy was sitting Indian style on Lydia’s Cookie Monster mat in the corner of the garage. Lydia was nestled in the hole Percy’s crossed legs made, and the two of them were reading—for the trillionth time—Lydia’s favorite book, The Giving Tree.

  They were just getting to the cutting-down part of the story, which always made Lydia sad, when in walked a stocky, masculine-looking woman with short-cropped gray hair, a boxy-looking navy suit, and lace-up shoes.

  She strode over to where Percy and Lydia were reading and said, “Mr. Albemarle?”

  Percy said, “That’s me. Need your bike fixed?”

  The stocky woman said, “Mr. Albemarle, I don’t have a bike. I’m Marilee Truelove from Social Services. It has been brought to the Agency’s attention that you are raising a young girl in a motorcycle repair shop. Usually I have to fish for clues, but you’re making my job real easy. The evidence is right before my eyes.”

  Percy began to st
and, but Miss Truelove said, “Keep your seat; this won’t take long.”

  And, with that, she pulled up a stool, plopped herself down, perched a clipboard on her knees, and started scribbling.

  Percy looked down at Lydia. Although he could pull his own hair back into a ponytail, he still hadn’t gotten the hang of making ponytails out of his little girl’s fine, red, curly hair, and it was a mess. One side of her hair was still in its tail, but the other side had come loose, the rubber band dangling from the ends. It was hot in the garage that day, and Lydia had wet curls stuck all around her little face. And, because of the heat, Percy had allowed her to take off her tee shirt and wear only her overalls. She had just eaten a grape popsicle, and she still wore a purple ring around her mouth. He had not noticed until a social worker was sitting in front of them that his little girl looked like a neglected rag-a-muffin. But Percy knew that his little girl was not a neglected rag-a-muffin. Lydia was the most important thing in Percy’s life, and he took his parenting very seriously. Sure, he had had his share of screw-ups and couldn’t make good ponytails, but he didn’t doubt his parenting skills for one minute.

  Miss Truelove glanced over at the fenced-in area full of toys and asked, “Is that where you keep your daughter?”

  Percy responded, “Miss Truelove, you act like I keep Lydia in a cage. She is free to come and go, but she knows she has to stay in her play area when we’re working on bikes. She has her dolls and dollhouse, her trucks, her books, her snacks. She even has her sleeping mat and pillow for naptime. That’s more than lots of kids have.”

  Then Miss Truelove narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and said, “Mr. Albemarle, what about that calendar hanging on the wall over your child’s play area. Do you think that is appropriate?”

  There had been a pin-up calendar on the garage wall since the beginning of time. And, truth be told, it was pretty racy. Miss January wore earmuffs and a long scarf around her neck. Her bare bottom was perched on the seat of a huge black Harley. Miss February wore a red feather boa, and one of her red satin do-me stilettos rested on the same Harley seat that Miss January’s bare bottom had occupied just a mere month earlier. Miss July had sparkers…well, you get the idea. And Miss Truelove clearly didn’t think it was a fitting wall decoration for a child’s play area.

  Percy said, “Miss Truelove, this is Mr. Peterson’s business, and he has always had a pin-up calendar in his garage. He was kind enough to allow me to raise my little girl on the premises; I wouldn’t think of asking him to change one thing about this place. Now, those are just naked women, and, quite often, my child is a naked woman herself—a small naked woman, but a naked woman, just the same. She can just look at that calendar and see what she has to look forward to.”

  Lydia had not looked up from her book since Miss Truelove had entered the garage nor had she said a word, but when she heard the social worker mention the calendar, she said, “Those ladies look like my mommy, but they’re not as pretty as my mommy. One day, when I grow up, I’m going to be a pretty lady like my mommy.”

  That having been said, Lydia returned her attention to her book.

  Percy said that Miss Truelove seemed quite taken aback by Lydia’s matter-of-fact remark about the calendar, so she decided to engage his child in conversation, saying, “And just what is your daddy reading to you?”

  And Lydia replied, “My daddy isn’t reading to me; I’m reading to my daddy. It’s my favorite book, The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.

  Miss Truelove gave Percy a conspiratorial wink and said to Lydia, “Then why don’t you read a little of The Giving Tree to me?”

  So Lydia turned back to page one and began reading her favorite book to the social worker.

  Miss Truelove said, “Are you sure you’re reading? Perhaps you’ve just memorized the words.”

  And Lydia replied, “No ma’am. I didn’t rememberize it. I read it.”

  When Miss Truelove asked how old Lydia was and she answered that she was three and one-third years old, Marilee said to Percy, “I don’t believe a child her age can read that well. Are you sure she’s not just repeating what you’ve read to her?”

  Without a word, Percy reached for the Time magazine on his desk, opened to a random article, and handed it to Lydia to read. She was doing just fine until she reached the word legislative.

  But when she patiently and correctly sounded out all of the syllables, Marilee said to Percy, “How did she learn to read so well at just three years of age?”

  Before Percy could answer, Lydia said, “My daddy taught me.”

  Percy said, “No one read to me when I was a kid, so I never was a very good reader. I like to read, though, and I want my little girl to like reading, to be a good reader. That’s why I’ve always read to her. That’s why she knows how to read well at her age.”

  Marilee looked quite impressed with that accomplishment but said, “I notice your child isn’t wearing shoes. Isn’t it dangerous for a child to walk around in a repair shop in her bare feet?”

  With that, Percy picked up two little pink tennis shoes that had been hiding beneath his leg.

  Before Percy could reply, Lydia said, “I’m not allowed to walk around barefooted, but I can’t read with my shoes on. I have to take them off so my feet can breathe and my head can think better.”

  Miss Truelove tried to stifle a grin, but it was damn near impossible to keep from smiling when Lydia said stuff like that.

  Percy was confident that his impeccable parenting credentials were showing until Snake and Turtle roared up on their hogs, hopped off, and strode into the garage. Lydia squealed when she saw them and jumped up into Snake’s ample, tattooed arms and gave him a big kiss on his scruffy cheek.

  Both bikers wore leather vests over bare chests, tight shredded jeans, long ponytails, and bodies full of tattoos. From the flare of Miss Marilee’s nostrils, it was apparent she wasn’t too taken with Snake and Turtle.

  Snake bellowed, “The tickets have arrived! The event is on.”

  Hoping to draw Miss Truelove’s attention away from the tattoos and focus on his friends’ fine qualities, Percy said, “Miss Truelove, I’d like for you to meet our friends, Snake and Turtle. They are in charge of the event to save the USO room at the airport. Gentlemen, meet Miss Marilee Truelove.”

  And Marilee said, “The USO room?”

  And Snake bellowed, “See there, that’s the problem. No one even knows about it. You see, the USO has a room out at the airport where servicemen and -women can rest and have a bite to eat and see a friendly face while they are traveling. The volunteers serve sandwiches and donuts and coffee and make our men and women in uniform feel appreciated. But it takes money to keep the program going.”

  For the first time Turtle spoke: “And that’s where we come in, Miss Marilee. Our bike club holds benefits throughout the year to help support the room. The tickets we’re selling now are for our black-tie soiree up at the Hilltop Inn. We’ll have a fancy dinner with lobster and steak with two drinks included. Now, me, I don’t touch the stuff, but some folks find those two drinks an important part of the package. Then after we eat, we’ll dance till midnight to the tunes of the Sweet Swings. You look like you’d be quite a dancer, Miss Marilee. Buy a ticket and put on your fancy party dress, and I’ll personally squire you to the dance on my hog.”

  Percy said that by this time Miss Marilee was blushing from head to toe and having a hard time talking.

  Finally, she said, “Well, I could probably help. How much are the tickets?”

  Turtle told her that they were forty bucks.

  Miss Marilee said it sounded like a lot of money for a dinner-dance but that she was pretty sure she could manage it for such a good cause.

  Once Marilee had written her check and given it to the bikers, Turtle said, “We sure do appreciate your generosity, Ma’am. You’ll make a lot of servicemen and -women mighty happy. I know cause I was once a serviceman myself. Now, you just leave your number with Percy here, and I’ll
be getting in touch with you.”

  With that Snake and Turtle turned on their heels, and Snake yelled, “And we’re off to find more good-hearted souls.”

  Miss Truelove just stood there with a faraway look in her eyes until Percy reeled her back in to the issue at hand.

  “Miss Truelove?”

  “Oh, yes, excuse me…. Now, tell me, Mr. Albemarle, where is Lydia’s mother while Lydia is here in this garage?”

  “Her mother goes to school. You see, when Lydia was born, her mother, Vickie, was a student at Middleburg College. She had a 4.0 average and a full academic scholarship. Didn’t make sense for her to quit. So we worked out a schedule so she could keep studying for her degree.”

  “And she’s still in college?”

  “Well, now she’s at the University, working on a graduate degree.”

  “And what kind of graduate degree is she pursuing?”

  “Miss Truelove, Lydia’s mother is just a thesis away from getting her Master’s in Social Work.”

  And Miss Truelove’s scowl turned into a very large grin.

  Percy continued: “Miss Truelove, Lydia’s mom was a child of the foster care system. She has always wanted to go into social work in foster care so she can help children find parents like the mother she found.”

  Miss Truelove said, “Mr. Albemarle, I can see that you and Lydia’s mother have faced some tough decisions but have come up with the ones that suit your family best. It may not be a conventional lifestyle, but it seems a lifestyle that works for you. You are raising an extraordinary child; her parents must be pretty extraordinary, as well. I still find the calendar hanging over your child’s play area vulgar and inappropriate, but it doesn’t seem to have had a negative effect on her. Thank you for your and Lydia’s time, Mr. Albemarle. I wish that all of my calls had such a positive outcome.”

  As she shook Percy’s hand and turned to leave, Percy said, “Miss Truelove, could you tell me who thought it was necessary for you to investigate my parenting?”