Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  Oops, too, had black-framed glasses, only hers were of the cat-eye variety. The two of them had matching goofy grins full of silver braces and rubber bands, the braces and bands that were supposed to have been mine.

  My little sister was glowing and smiling bigger than I’d ever seen her smile. And Geek was looking up at her—he was much shorter than she—with a look of adoration in his eyes. I didn’t know what this goofy kid was doing to make my little sister so happy, but I loved him instantly.

  The two had met in the Math Club where they had battled for first place in Mathletes competition. Martin had beaten Oops, something no one else had ever done. She was most impressed.

  Martin and Oops were on their way to his house so that Oops could meet his parents. They were nervous, so they had stopped by my house to practice introductions on me. I tried to relax them with a Coke and a Twinkie, only to send them on a sugar high that had them giddy and giggling. Once they had calmed down, I spat on my hand, slicked down their cowlicks, and sent them on their way. They walked down my sidewalk holding hands, Martin looking up at my lanky, flat-chested little sister as if she were a movie star.

  I watched the happy couple until they rounded the bend in September Road and disappeared from view. As I turned to go back in the house, I heard the screech of tires and the thud of impact. I will hear that thud with my dying breath.

  Martin was inconsolable at Oops’s visitation: “Oh, Mrs. Brooks, I didn’t take care of her. I should have been able to save her. I’m so, so sorry. You trusted me to take care of your little sister. I promised you I would! How can you ever forgive me?”

  They just weren’t paying attention. Well, they were paying attention only to each other. As they reached the corner, Oops stepped from the curb without even realizing she had reached the curb. The car pulled her from Martin’s grasp. It was over so quickly. No one’s fault. These things happen.

  My one consolation: I am confident my little sister left this world at her happiest moment. She knew that someone loved her without pretending. And she knew that she belonged to her brother and sister and that they would always have a quilt corner for her.

  “Oh, Martin,” I said, “I am so very sad for all of us. But I don’t blame you at all. You made my little sister the happiest of her life. I will always love you for that.”

  I put my arms around him and let him sob shamelessly.

  My mother requested a family service, something private and dignified. The Colonel, however, didn’t know how to do anything small. Ma’am did not push her agenda for fear, I’m certain, of having a clumsy spell and showing up at her daughter’s funeral with a shiner. Her discomfort at the huge gathering of mourners was palpable. She was such a private person, and she was repulsed by public displays of emotion. So we were prohibited from shedding tears at our little sister’s funeral. We behaved like a family of wax figures, accepting condolences and comforting, dry eyed, those who cried at the pain of my sister’s death.

  Father John said what a special child Oops had been—so smart and kind and thoughtful and that we were all blessed to have had her in our lives. Had anyone ever told Oops what a blessing she was? It broke my heart to think that no one had. Silent tears welled in my eyes, spilling over and dripping from my chin as I thought of the isolation of my little sister’s life, an isolation for which I was partially responsible. She seemed most comfortable in her own little world, but I had never bothered to ask if she really were. Sensing my unspeakable display of grief, Ma’am, without looking my way, reached over and pinched my thigh to stem the flow of my tears.

  I wanted to slap her and call her an icy bitch. But was she really? What mother is not moved to hysteria by her child’s death. Perhaps she needed for me to be strong to keep her from breaking down. Maybe she held it together until she returned home, where she dissolved into a puddle of grief. I will never know because all she would show me was the icy bitch.

  Garth sat to my right, Percy, Vickie, and Lydia beyond him, out of Ma’am’s range. They, too, shed silent tears but were not subjected to Ma’am accusatory pinches.

  The Colonel was stoic, brave in the face of the worst pain our family had ever experienced. He had cried like a baby when his disgusting, slobbering dog had been hit by a car. He was dry eyed when his child reached the same end.

  Forty-six

  “What the hell did you say?”

  “Hold on, Babe. No need to get all upset with me. We’re just having a discussion here.”

  “Oh, no, we’re not! This is not open for discussion. I’ve held up my end of the deal; now it’s your turn.”

  “But circumstances change, Babe. Let’s be practical.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Garth. I have typed my goddamn fingers to the bone in that concrete hellhole for eleven years, and that’s it!”

  “Now, you’re just being selfish. It would be foolish for you to quit your job. Look how far you’ve come.”

  “How far I’ve come? I’ve come from the back of the concrete bunker to the front of the concrete bunker. I’ve hardly climbed the ladder of success!”

  “But look at the benefits we would be sacrificing if you were to leave your job.”

  “You knew I’d be giving up benefits when I took that job, Garth. You knew I had no plans to stay permanently so that I could keep the paltry benefits!”

  “Paltry? Why, Babe, the insurance coverage alone is great—and cheap. And what about your retirement plan? You’re fully vested.”

  “Garth, I don’t give a crap about climbing the corporate typing ladder or retaining the vast array of benefits at Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham. I took that typing job so that you could go to dental school and get your practice off the ground. Well, you’ve finished dental school, you’ve started your dental practice, you’ve joined every expensive club you could find so that you could network and build your patient base. Now, goddamn it, it’s my turn! This discussion is over!”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Girl. You act like trailer trash with that vulgar language. I just can’t carry on a civil, adult conversation when you’re behaving so unladylike.”

  And with his arrogant Brooks nose in the air, Garth turned to leave.

  But he wasn’t getting away with it this time. That’s how our discussions always ended. He’d make his point, and just as soon as my point began making sense, he’d divert the attention to my vulgar language or my shoddy appearance or my uncouth family and say that the discussion had come to an end, with only his point having been made. Well, Garth had played that manipulative, condescending card for the last time. It wasn’t going to work on me ever again!

  I had done everything I had been expected to do to help Garth’s practice prosper—or so I thought. I typed while he studied. I typed while he met his fellow students for coffee and study group. I typed while he met his fellow students for beer to celebrate the end of a semester or the end of exams or the end of a research project or the end of any other thing they felt was worth celebrating.

  Once Garth started his practice, I typed as he joined the tennis club and networked on the tennis court. I typed as he joined the country club and networked on the golf course. And I typed overtime so that he could afford the club dues. I typed weekends to buy a home we could ill afford. I put my foot down when Garth told me that he had been invited to join the Gentlemen’s Club downtown, but did it do any good? Hell, no! Garth joined the Gentlemen’s Club, and I typed furiously while he entertained prospective patients with cigars and brandy before a roaring fire.

  What’s more, my little sister’s death had showed me that life’s too fleeting and uncertain to spend it on mindless tedium. I’d done all I was going to do for Garth and his practice. It was my turn. I wasn’t letting him walk away before this issue was resolved. I was pretty sure what the outcome would be if I didn’t let it go, but I just had to take my chances—because I felt this was my last chance.

  I screamed, “Goddamn you, don’t you dare walk away from
me!”

  And in his calm, I’m-just-so-mature-and-in-charge tone Garth said, “I refuse to lower myself to your gutter talk. This case is closed.”

  And I responded, “You’re right, Garth, it is closed. I’m quitting my job tomorrow.”

  The last thing I saw before the world exploded was Garth’s sneer framing his pearly white teeth. Then everything turned black.

  Forty-seven

  So there we were in the counselor’s office, the counselor, of course, having been hand picked by Garth. And the counselor, Dr. Reuben, was, naturally, a male. Garth probably felt that, with the help of another male, he could convince me that I was being foolish, selfish, and stupid to consider leaving my perfectly wonderful husband.

  I still was unsure why Garth wanted to stay married to me. Certainly it wasn’t for the pitiful salary I earned typing, especially since I had told him that I was giving up my job. But when I regained consciousness and started packing my bags, Garth picked up the phone and made an appointment with Dr. Reuben. Garth said he still wanted to try.

  Garth started the session with the words “Baby Girl.” With that Dr. Reuben’s eyebrows shot up into arches so severe I could have graphed very large quadratic equations on them. For fifteen minutes Garth filled Dr. Reuben in on my problems and told him what the two of them needed to do to fix me. And all the while Dr. Reuben’s eyebrows were screaming to be graphed.

  After fifteen minutes Dr. Reuben raised his hand in the universal STOP! sign—only in counselor speak I think it means shut the fuck up. At the sign Garth’s tirade fizzled and was replaced by a quizzical look.

  Dr. Reuben said, “Dr. Brooks, you have just spent twenty-five percent of our very expensive hour together telling me what the problems are and how we need to fix them. Isn’t that what you’re paying me to do?”

  Garth started to answer him when Dr. Reuben said, “That was a rhetorical question. You’re paying me to help you, Garth. Please let me guide the session.”

  And with that Garth’s eyes were reduced to slits, his lips became as skinny as a string; and, although I was sitting at the far end of the sofa from him, I could feel the heat of his anger blasting me. For the first time in his life, Garth was not in control.

  Dr. Reuben turned to me and began asking me “How did it make you feel?” questions. But before I could respond, Garth would answer each question.

  After about five questions, Dr. Reuben said, “Garth, Lydia is a grown woman; she can speak for herself. Please let her answer the questions.”

  Once again Garth got squint eyed and string lipped and spewed anger from his pores.

  And each time I answered one of Dr. Reuben’s questions, Garth would say, “That’s not how it happened,” or “That’s not right.”

  I finally turned to Garth and said, “Dr. Reuben asked how it made me feel, not how it happened. I have told him how the situation made me feel. Now, don’t tell me again, Garth, that my feelings are not right. They are right because they are mine!”

  When I turned back to Dr. Reuben, I could tell by the look on his face that he liked my response. I believe he felt I was already making progress. I could also feel Garth’s anger.

  Dr. Reuben said, “We’re out of time for our first session. I have some ground rules I want you to follow between now and our next meeting. First of all, do not discuss anything we have talked about today. Also, no sex until we resolve some of your issues. Now, I want to begin meeting with you separately. Lydia, I’ll see you first. Make an appointment with my secretary for next week.”

  Once we left Dr. Reuben’s office, Garth turned on his heel and said, “How dare you embarrass me in front of that stranger. You had no right to defy me when I tried to set you straight.”

  I said, “Garth, you chose Dr. Reuben as our counselor. We are going to abide by his rules. Now, don’t mention our session again.”

  And, with that, I turned on my heel and headed for the car. I was acting bravely, but my insides were jelly.

  The following week was bumpy. By day Garth filled teeth and I typed, as I had put my resignation on the back burner. We came home to strained conversation and sleepless nights. Garth tried to talk about our session with Dr. Reuben, but I just walked away. Several times he raised his hand to me but, somehow, managed to control his anger.

  When the day of my first one-on-one session with Dr. Reuben arrived, Garth walked me to the door as I was leaving home. He grasped my arm just above my elbow, and as he leveled his gaze on me, his grip began to tighten.

  Just as I opened my mouth to tell him that he was hurting me, he said through clenched teeth, “You’ll be sorry.”

  Wincing in pain, I asked, “Sorry about what?”

  “If you leave me… If you leave me, you’ll be sorry. Who the hell would have you? Look at you. You’re a fat slob. And look at that tacky bargain-basement sweat suit. You’re married to a dentist, for god’s sake. You act like you don’t know how to dress or behave. You’re lucky I’ll still have you. You should be grateful.”

  I wrestled my arm free and said something I did not realize I had wanted to say for a long time: “Fuck you, you arrogant asshole!”

  I knew it was coming—knew it and didn’t even raise an arm to protect myself. Garth’s pinky ring glanced my left cheek, opening a wound from my ear to my chin. I turned, walked out the door, and headed for my car as the blood dripped from my chin onto my shirt. I didn’t even attempt to stem the flow. I felt as if I were bleeding Garth out of my system.

  When I arrived at Dr. Reuben’s office, I ducked into the ladies’ room to see the damage Garth had done. The wound on my cheek had stopped leaking, but the blood had spread across the front of my shirt, creating a red Rorschach test.

  “Mrs. Brooks, what do you see in this picture.”

  “A red cloud?”

  “Oh, come now, Mrs. Brooks. You can do much better than that.”

  “Hmm, pain?”

  “Better…”

  “Anger?”

  “Much better.”

  “Manipulation?”

  “Very good.”

  “Control? Out of control?”

  “Getting warmer…”

  “Despair. Futility.”

  “Hot…”

  “The End.”

  Forty-eight

  Once I had told Garth that it was really over, really over, I had to break the news to my family. I wanted to head straight to Percy, but I felt that I needed to tell my parents first. Why, I don’t know, but it just seemed like the thing I was supposed to do.

  Colonel Tom thought Garth was the Second Coming—well, I guess he thought he was the First Coming since he didn’t believe in the actual First Coming—and I dreaded telling him that I was walking out on Dr. Wonderful.

  “Good god, Baby Girl, have you lost your mind? Garth is the best thing that has ever happened to you! You’ll not find better. What in the hell do you want that Garth doesn’t have?”

  “He beats me,” is all I said.

  I looked at my mother and found that her hands were clenched to the white-knuckle stage, and her eyes were trained on her lap. She said nothing.

  But Colonel Tom said, “Well, Baby Girl, what in the world did you do to make Garth do such a thing?”

  His reaction stunned me, but I don’t know why. I could have responded, but anything I said would have called into question his life with my mother. So I just stood and walked out the front door without looking back. Neither of my parents uttered a sound; neither comforted me; neither tried to stop my leaving.

  I had done my duty; I had told my parents first of my separation from Garth. Now I was free to run to Percy. I jumped in my car and sped straight to the garage where I found him working alone.

  He saw me pull into the parking lot and came out of the garage to greet me. By the time I reached his open arms, I was sobbing—sobbing for my marriage, sobbing for our parents’ marriage, sobbing because I couldn’t get the comfort from my parents that I needed, for they, themselves
, needed comforting.

  For the past eleven years I had put on a happy face, hoping that everyone who saw my marriage thought I had made a good choice. I may have fooled others, but I had not fooled Percy for one minute. He told me that he had hated that arrogant son-of-a bitch Garth from the moment he laid eyes on him. He said that he had never met a bigger phony and that he was disgusted that our father had orchestrated my leaving school and marrying Garth. Percy told me that he was certain my marriage had problems, but who was he to interfere in others’ lives and criticize their decisions, in light of his poor personal choices?

  Percy said, “But now that you’ve decided to leave that son-of-a bitch, I’ll be more than happy to kick his sorry ass if you want me to.”

  Then he folded me in his arms and let me cry myself dry.

  Forty-nine

  For the life of me, I just couldn’t figure out why Garth wanted to hang on to me and our marriage. According to him, I was uneducated, a lousy cook, boring in bed, a poor conversationalist; and I had gotten fat, unkempt, and frumpy. It wasn’t until I finally filed for divorce that I discovered why Garth wanted to stay married to me.

  Did you know that a dentist who has been in practice for seven years and networks at every expensive club in town makes a lot of money? A whole lot of money!

  For the duration of our marriage, Garth had insisted upon paying the bills, preparing our taxes, and taking care of any and all things that had to do with our finances. I was just an uneducated girl, and uneducated girls are not capable of understanding such things and, furthermore, shouldn’t worry their flighty little heads over such technical tedium.