Spare Change

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Spare Change

  A Novel

  Bette Lee Crosby

  Cover Design: Michael G. Visconte. Creative Director

  FCEdge, Stuart, Florida

  ú Copyright 2011 by Bette Lee Crosby

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages for a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.

  ISBN #978-0-9838879-1-1

  BENT PINE PUBLISHING

  ort Saint Lucie, FL

  Also by Bette Lee Crosby

  CRACKS IN THE SIDEWALK

  2010 Royal Palm Literary Award

  First Place Winner

  GIRL CHILD

  2007 First Place Fiction Award Winner

  National League of American Pen Women

  To read more about this author, visit:

  www,betteleecrosby.com

  For Mom…

  Who inspired my love of Southern Storytelling

  and taught me how to look at life

  with a sense of humor.

  Olivia Westerly

  I don’t suppose there’s a person walking the earth who doesn’t now and again think if I had the chance to live my life over, I’d sure as hell do it differently. When you get to a certain age and realize how much time you’ve wasted on pure foolishness, you’re bound to smack yourself in the head and ask, what in the world was I thinking? Everybody’s got regrets; myself included.

  Some people go to their grave without ever getting a chance to climb out of that ditch they’ve dug for themselves, others get lucky. Of course, the thing about luck is that you’ve got to recognize it, when it walks up and says hello, the way Charlie Doyle did. But, that’s a long story and to understand it, you’ve got to start at the beginning.

  Coming of Age

  At an age when most of her friends had settled into routines of knitting sweaters and booties for grandchildren, Olivia Ann Westerly got married for the first time—and, to a man ten years her senior. “Are you out of your mind?” Maggie Spence shouted when she heard the news, “You’re fifty-eight years old!”

  Of course, doing the unexpected was something which could be expected of Olivia. In 1923, when she was barely twenty-five years old, she went off on her own, even though her father insisted it was scandalous for a single woman to be living alone. “What will people think?” he’d moaned as she tossed her clothes into a cardboard suitcase; but that didn’t stop Olivia. She got herself a two-room flat in the heart of downtown Richmond and a job working at the switchboard of the Southern Atlantic Telephone Company. “That’s shift work!” her father said, “Some of those girls come and go in the dark of night!”

  “So what,” Olivia answered, then she volunteered for the night shift because it paid an extra sixty-cents per day. Long after any respectable woman would have been snuggled beneath a down comforter, she’d paint her mouth with red lipstick, pull on a cloche hat and trot off to the Telephone Company.

  “Have you never heard of Jack-the-Ripper?” her friend Francine Burnam asked. “Have you never heard stories of women alone being accosted?” Francine, a girl who married before her sixteenth birthday, already had three children who clung to her like bananas on a stalk and a husband insistent about supper being served at six-thirty on the dot.

  “That girl will be the ruination of our family!” Mister Westerly told his wife; but Olivia still stuck her nose in the air and went about her business. One year later when she was given a three dollar raise and appointed Supervisor of the night shift, her father disowned her altogether. The last thing he said was, “I want nothing to do with a girl who carries on as you do; a respectable daughter would be settling down with a husband and babies!”

  “I’ve plenty of time for that,” Olivia answered, but by then her father had turned away and refused to look back.

  “How much time do you think you have, dear?” her mother asked. “You’re twenty-six years old. What man would want to marry a woman of such an age?”

  Olivia knew better. With her green eyes and a swirl of honey blond hair curled around her face, she had no shortage of boyfriends. Herbert Flannery, District Manager for Southern Atlantic Telephone had on three different occasions proposed marriage; the last time being in the spring of 1929. That particular proposal followed on the heels of the worst winter Richmond had ever seen—months and months of ice crusted to windowpanes and milk frozen before you could fetch it from the doorstep. In late December, Olivia crocheted herself a wool scarf, so oversized she could circle it around her throat three times and tuck her nose inside. Although she’d bundle herself in layers of sweaters, boots and that scarf, she’d come in from the cold with her nose glowing like a stoplight and her feet near frozen. That winter there were few parties and people did very little socializing; so Olivia spent most of her evenings at home, swaddled in a chenille bathrobe as she tried to stay warm.

  In March, a month when she expected the crocuses to pop up from the ground, there was a six inch snowfall and the wind rattled the windowpanes so loudly that sleep became impossible. When it seemed that spring would never arrive, Olivia began to question the emptiness of her life. Three weeks later Herbert went down on one knee and offered out a small velvet box, she nodded and allowed him to slip the diamond ring on her finger.

  Olivia was genuinely fond of Herbert and when she promised to marry him it was with the utmost sincerity; but, that was before they started to discuss the aspects of their forthcoming life together. “Won’t it be wonderful,” she said, “we can walk to work together every day.”

  Herbert circled his arm around her waist and pulled her to him in a way that tugged her blouse loose from the band of her skirt. “Umm,” he hummed in her ear, making the same sound as a bee when it drains the nectar from a flower. “We’ll do just that,” he cooed, “until you’ve a bun in the oven.”

  “Bun in the oven?” she repeated.

  Herbert grinned and affectionately patted her stomach. “A baby,” he said, giving her a sly wink, “you know, a little tyke, a Herbert Junior.”

  “I know what it means,” she replied testily, “but aren’t you rushing things just a bit?”

  It was impossible not to notice the downturn of her mouth, so Herbert smoothed the situation over by claiming he was, of course, referring to such a time as they were ready for the thought of raising a family. He kissed Olivia but when she closed her eyes, there in back of her eyelids was the image of a woman with the look of hopelessness on her face and a bunch of babies clinging to her skirt. Olivia’s eyes popped open and she snapped her head back. “What if I don’t want babies?” she asked rebelliously. “What about my job? There’s a good chance I’ll be promoted to the central office.”

  “Babies are something every woman wants,” Herbert said. “It’s the natural way of life. Men work and women have babies.” He gathered her into his arms and held her close. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, “when the time comes you’ll be itching to grab hold of a baby just like every other woman.”

  Although she let it go at that, a feeling of uneasiness started to settle in and Olivia couldn’t dismiss it. Three days later she telephoned both of her older sisters and asked if such a thing was true. Yes, indeed, they’d each answered. She then telephoned her mother and asked the same question. “Of course it’s true, sugar,” her mother said. “As a young girl
I used to imagine that someday I’d be singing at the Opera House in London, England; but after I married your daddy I got the itch and then along came Robert. The following year it was Albert and after him Bernice.

  “But, Mama,” Olivia interrupted, “Didn’t you think you’d missed out on something you truly wanted?”

  “Think?” Her mother laughed. “With eight little tykes hanging onto me I didn’t have time to think!”

  It seemed that no matter who she asked, it was the same story. “Bounce a baby on your knee and you’ll forget about everything else,” Sara Sue said.

  “But,” Olivia questioned, “weren’t you planning to be a newspaper reporter?”

  “At one time, maybe,” her friend said, “but once Willie came along…”

  As the days went by Olivia started to imagine a heavy weight tugging at the hem of her skirt and at night when she closed her eyes and waited to drift off to sleep she could hear a baby crying. One night she dreamt of sitting at the switchboard with a stomach so large and round that, try as she may, she could not reach across the tandem board far enough to connect a call.

  The following Saturday Francine Burnam, who had eight months ago added another one to her litter, stopped in for a visit—accompanied of course by all four children, the youngest of them howling like a banshee. “He’s teething,” Francine apologized and jiggled the baby from one shoulder to the other. Olivia was about to suggest that Alma Porter used a piece of ice to soothe her baby’s gums; but before the words were out of her mouth, Francine, who already looked like a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown, started to wail. “Oh, Lord,” she flopped down onto the sofa, “what have I let myself get into?”

  “The baby crying has probably got you a bit frazzled,” Olivia suggested, “…once his tooth comes in everything will be just fine.”

  “Fine?” Francine exclaimed. “Fine? Maybe for you! You’ve got a job where you’re appreciated! Try taking care of four kids and then see how you feel!”

  Olivia was taken aback by the outburst. “But, surely Joe helps?” she said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Francine answered. “He helps—helps himself to a piece of pie and tells the kids to shut up because the noise is giving him a headache. He’s got a headache—ha, that’s a joke! He’s concerned about his headache; never mind that I’m the one that listens to their carrying on every hour of every day.”

  “But…”

  “That’s not even the worst of it! Now that he’s got me knocked up with a fifth kid, I find out he’s carrying on with some redhead who works in his office. He bought that little whore a fur coat,” she moaned. “Imagine that! A fur coat, when I’m wearing dresses older than the kids.”

  “If I were you, I’d divorce him,” Olivia growled once she’d heard the story.

  Francine started to cry even harder. “Oh, yeah,” she sobbed, “and just what am I supposed to do with all these kids?” Just then Joe Junior, the eldest of the bunch, punched his brother in the face and a new level of wailing ensued.

  Suddenly Olivia could see the bars of an invisible cage and she told herself that this was the truth of what happened. First came the itch, then the babies, then a woman was forever locked into a lifetime of drudgery. It happened to Francine; a woman who’d once worn chiffon dresses and polished pink fingernails, a woman who’d read poetry and loved music. It happened because Francine allowed it to happen. She’d donned a white satin gown and pranced down the aisle like a happy cow unknowingly headed for the slaughter house. If it happened to Francine, it could happen to anybody.

  Two weeks later, Olivia slipped the diamond ring from her finger and returned it to Herbert. She claimed that although she cared for him, marriage was simply out of the question.

  “But, sweetheart,” he said bewilderedly, “have I offended you? Have I done something to cause such a change of heart?”

  “No,” she answered, “I’ve simply come to the realization that marriage and children are not for me.” She then kissed poor Herbert and escorted him to the door saying it was her hope they could remain friends.

  “Friends?” Herbert replied, but by then she’d closed the door.

  Olivia Ann Westerly

  I told people the thought of being tied down to a man who expected a clean shirt every morning and dinner on the table at the dot of six was something I simply couldn’t face; but the real truth of the matter is that I’ve grown petrified of babies. They look all cute and cuddly in their little pink and blue buntings, but I’ve seen what they do to women.

  Just look at poor Francine, and Alma, and Sara Sue, even my mama—every single one of them, left without dreams, without hopes, bent like apple trees heavy with fruit and yet still expected to bear more. The thought of such a life gives me hives and makes me itch from head to toe. Why on earth, I ask myself, would any woman want babies stuck to her like so many leaches?

  But, even with feeling as I do, I miss Herbert something terrible. Many a lonely evening, I’ve lifted the telephone from its hook when I was on the verge of asking him to come back; then I remember poor Francine with those five kids hanging onto her. After that, I put the telephone back and find myself a book to read. A year after we’d said our goodbyes Herbert married Polly Dobelink; and when that happened I cried for weeks on end.

  Never too Old

  In the years that followed, Olivia had her fair share of suitors, but whenever the issue of marriage came up, she’d disappear leaving them flat as a run-over nickel. That was until the spring of 1956, when she met Charlie Doyle, a man with silver hair and a powder blue Chevrolet convertible.

  Charlie had eyes the color of spring blueberries and twice as tempting. “Now, wouldn’t I just love to have him slip into my bed on a cold night,” the women of the Wyattsville Social Club whispered to one another. Women who had been married for forty years would start thinking of divorce when they looked at Charlie. Widows showered him with baskets of homemade cookies then giggled like school girls when he planted a kiss on their cheek. Some were out-and-out flamboyant in vying for his attention. The widow Mulligan on more than one occasion indicated that she would be willing to add his name to her sizable savings account were he to ask a certain question. And, Gussie Bernhoff, daring as ever you please, invited him to spend the night at her apartment. Yes, you could easily say Charlie had everything a man could wish for in Wyattsville; and he probably would not have gone over to Richmond, were it not for his pal Herbert Flannery’s retirement party.

  As he and Herbert were sipping martinis and reminiscing, Olivia swished by in a rustle of green silk. “Who’s that?” Charlie whispered into Herbert’s ear.

  “Her?” Herbert replied, “Forget her. She’s a career woman with no interest whatsoever in men.”

  “We’ll see,” Charlie said; then he marched over and introduced himself. From afar he had believed her to be a woman in her thirties but close up he could see the cluster of lines crinkling the corners of her green eyes. Of course, by then it was already too late, he’d been captured by a smile that made him feel younger than did the powder blue convertible.

  Suddenly Charlie developed an overwhelming need for the excitement of Richmond and he began driving to town three times a week, even though it was seventy-seven miles each way. He’d start out thinking he’d go to the museum, or shopping for a new suit, or any of a dozen other destinations, but he’d always end up standing in front of the Southern Atlantic Telephone Company office at the very moment Olivia walked out. “Have you seen the new movie at the Strand?” he’d ask nonchalantly. If she’d already seen the movie, he’d suggest the ballet at the Civic Center or a concert over at the Music Hall. They’d start with dinner then stroll across the park so engrossed in each other that they took no notice of time. On numerous occasions they missed both the coming attractions and the newsreel; and on one particularly starry evening they missed the entire first act of the ballet.

  Olivia was as taken with Charlie as he was with her. A full hour before quitting time, she
’d begin to powder her nose and smooth back her hair. She’d get to wondering whether or not he’d be there and miss a meeting or forget to post a report that was scheduled to be sent off in the day’s mail. In the midst of dictating a letter about employee benefits or training programs, she’d drift off to picturing his smile and the way he’d stroke her face with his fingers. Day after day she walked around with a goofy-looking grin curling the corners of her mouth and her heart beating three times faster than usual. “It must be love,” the office clericals whispered to one another; but, oblivious to their gossip, Olivia simply continued to float around looking happy as a Fourth of July parade.

  This continued on for three months until one night in late July. After a particularly romantic evening at the Starlight Lounge, Charlie, lost in the green of her eyes, blurted out a proposal. “Marry me,” he said, at the very moment she was about to swallow a chocolate truffle.

  Olivia gasped with such a huge intake of air that the chocolate became lodged in her throat. “Well?” Charlie said as she sat there turning red-faced. When the chocolate melted to the size of a penny and slid down her throat, she told him that she was a bit shaken and needed to go home.

  “But, what about marrying me?” Charlie asked.

  “We’ll talk about it next time,” she answered ruefully.

  Charlie, looking square into the face of possible rejection was flabbergasted. He sputtered, “You mean to say you’re undecided?”

  Olivia wished she didn’t have to say anything, she wished they could go on day after day, week after week, year after year, never asking any more of each other; never mentioning the one thing that ruined every relationship. She found it virtually impossible to look into his eyes with what she had to say, so she fixed her gaze fixed on a single truffle—a truffle that had fallen from the edge of the plate, a truffle that stood as alone as she herself. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she mumbled tearfully, “if I were going to marry anyone it would be you, but I’m simply not a marrying woman.” As the words fell from her mouth, she could feel her heart breaking, shattering into a hundred million pieces, each smaller than even a grain of sand. She loved Charlie more than she’d ever loved any man before. Why… her heart was screaming, …why does falling in love always have to end this way?