by Sheila Evans
The Delta trip sent me into a depression. The levee road twisting through the autumn mist; the peach, pear, walnut trees throwing up gnarled skeletons against the gray sky, their crops long harvested. Fields of barley, wheat and safflowers now reduced to stubble. Down through an edging of shrubbery, I saw the river flowing sluggishly, a khaki-colored avenue, uninviting.
This is Emmett country. Near here: Courtland, land of the Pear Fair. Around another bend in the road: Isleton and the Del Rio Hotel, home of the Crawdad Festival—Emmett had yearned for them while in Vietnam. And right there at the point: the Deep Water Channel emptying into the Sacramento River on its way to the Bay. I imagined Emmett aboard the River Rat returning from the South Tower race; I could hear his triumphant whoop as he popped the red and gold spinnaker, the prevailing west wind parachuting him home to me.
I’d wait for him at the sailing club in Stockton, where his buddy docked the River Rat. Emmett would arrive like Odysseus, consumed with desire for me, Penelope. But then he’d suffer a falling off in the car on the way home. He’d get moody and cross. I put it down to fatigue. The South Tower race took thirty-six to forty hours, sometimes longer.
However, in Helen’s VW, I tried to jolly myself out of dejection, chattering away, filling the car up with a load of bullshit. No point in bringing Helen down, too. That’s what Bruce does, and I hate it. I wonder what Helen loves, or hates. Does she burn with hidden fires, buried passions? If she does, I don’t detect it. I like her well enough, but there’s something missing. Almost as if she’s had a lobotomy on her emotions. She’s exempt from my kind of devils; can I count on her as a member of the support team? I’m not sure.
So, if I already have the feeble beginnings of a support group, although I’m lukewarm about it, why do I need to do what I’m doing? Which is checking out my pseudo-Chinese outfit in the mirror on the back of the closet door. Have I seen An Unmarried Woman too many times? Am I waiting for a handsome, sensitive, artistic creampuff to fall out of the sky to rescue me? Would I believe it or accept it if such a thing were to happen? I am not Jill Clayburgh, I’m not thin or beautiful—although I do think this Chinese getup is attractive. It’s a shiny cranberry red sheath dress with a high collar, a diagonal line of frog closures from collar to cap sleeve. I found it in the thrift store, a bargain that pleased me. I add my pinecone earrings, the coolie hat, some perfume. I am ready for my first “date” in twenty-five years.
I hear a car door slam out front; then steps up the drive. I glance back into my own golden living room—I’ve left a light on for myself—and I wonder why I’m voluntarily leaving my safe cocoon. If Frieda hadn’t come up with what I now consider a harebrained plan, I would stay home tonight, eat popcorn, watch TV in my sweats. Heaven.
Some of my TV people have become more real to me than the actual people I know. I’m going to miss my Friday lineup—Jim Lehrer, Bill Moyers in his reassuring crew-necked sweater; then David Letterman, who makes me slightly uneasy with his gap-toothed sarcasm, or Jay Leno, who I really depend on to put me straight. Is it possible, is it allowable, to count your TV viewing as a “support group”? No.
A tentative knock … I take a deep breath, my hand shakes as I open the door. He’s taking a deep breath, too, a random sort of fellow, an ordinary guy you’d have trouble picking out in a lineup. Square face, small pale eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses, blondish hair that is not golden like Emmett’s, but washed out, the color real blond gets when it grays. Square jaw, jutting chin. He reminds me of Donald Rumsfeld, has a pugnacious, belligerent look about him. I am immediately on my guard. But that’s crazy, and when he holds out what I discover to be a smooth hand, soft as a woman’s, we exchange a cool shake. He introduces himself, Zack (another Zack) Phelps—even his name has a snap to it. I think I’m too harsh, too quick to judge, because we both laugh when we begin to speak at once, saying, apparently, the same thing—something about Frieda “fixing us up.”
I grab my jacket, a black velvet blazer borrowed from Amy, and my purse, and we make small talk shuffling our way out to his car. It’s then that I realize we are eyeball to eyeball. I am too tall for him; I catch myself reviewing my collection of flats. Ridiculous! I rephrase the situation: he is too short for me.
He says he likes my outfit, and I tell him the same. He has gone Hawaiian, a gaudy flowered shirt, strings of plastic leis. He nervously fiddles with a straw hat, obviously feeling silly about it. He opens my door and I’m ushered in, encapsulated in a deep bucket seat whose plush upholstery grabs onto my velvet jacket like Velcro. As my house recedes, as Mr. Purdy’s house recedes, I throw a longing look back. Mr. Purdy has left his porch light on. He watches out for me. I should be doing the oyster stew routine instead of this foolishness. I cast a glance at this guy next to me, wondering if he has reservations, if he too has given up a customary Friday for me. I probably owe him.
He’s seen me look back, and says, “You’re not concerned about being away from home tonight, about missing the trick-or-treaters? No mischief-makers’ll soap your screens, throw an egg or two?”
I tell him most of the kids around here have grown and gone. The ones left are more apt to parade in a warm lighted mall than canvass the neighborhood in the wet. Merchants give out treats to these future, or current, customers, well aware of making an impression. “How about you?”
What I’m asking about are his trick-or-treaters, but he says in a stern tone, “Judy, my ex, she loves Halloween, goes all out. Lines the walk with pumpkins, big one on the porch, battery-operated with an electric eye, that gives out this phony laugh. She drapes the place with these fake spider webs you spray out of a can. Coddles the little freeloaders, treats them to caramel popcorn balls, candied apples. Costs her a fortune cooking and decorating because she allows for nothing but the best, and plenty of it.” Then he realizes how he sounds, because he adds in a lighter tone, “Well, the neighborhood kids make a point of stopping to show her their costumes. I suppose it’s worth it. To her.”
“Child support, eh?”
To his credit, he grins sheepishly. “Yeah, but not for much longer. She’s remarried, and the kids’ll turn eighteen one of these days. At least you don’t have that hassle.”
For a second I wonder how and what he knows of my situation, but then Frieda will have told him. Seen from her point of view, or his, I’m not a bad deal. No kids at home, which I own free and clear, I have a job and a car that runs, sometimes. I shuffle in my seat, and cross my legs. My skirt hikes up, and I realize that this is a hard dress to sit in. I pull it down; I consider my nylons, the money I spent on this sexy pair of sandalfoot stockings. Then I see him glance over, so I tug again at myself, rearrange my hem into its lowest possible position.
Progressing across town, we make stiff small talk. The rain, which we agree we need; the lack of traffic; the early push to Christmas—some stores already have decorations out. Then he says, “How well do you know Frieda?”
“Not well at all.” Then I add cautiously, “But she’s a good neighbor.”
“Ole Lyle, he’s a kook, that weird end-of-the-world stuff.”
I am encouraged. “Really? You think so?”
“Yeah. But I play along with him. When I’ve had enough, I say so, and he’s got the sense to back off. Lyle and me, we understand each other. I keep in good with him so I get invited for a venison roast every now and then.”
Just when I’d begun to thaw, he adds this last remark, and I stiffen again. “She makes great coffee.” Mentally I compliment myself for my adroit tact.
At the BPOE hall, he parks, helps me out of the deep plush seat. I take heart again when he confesses he’s not much of a dancer, but he’ll do his best. I say the same, and we laugh nervously. This will be okay, yeah.
The lobby reminds me of the office at Mountain Valley Cable, the splintery wood paneling, spotlighted showcase of grotesque trophies (Mountain Valley Cable’s for “community service,” “customer satisfaction,” etc.). Tacked up around the room, th
e same collection of incomprehensible information/symbols—membership rosters, bulletins, pennants, certificates. The collection reminds me vaguely of Emmett’s wall, which I’ve dismantled. The air is full of what must be ancient cigarette smoke, because no one’s been allowed to smoke in here for years. It has soaked into the woodwork, like a coating of shellac.
A guy behind the counter collects from Zack whatever fee is charged. I look away in case there’s a secret handshake. The dance is upstairs; the ceiling reverberates with the pulse of music. The racket of a party in full swing leaks down to us, like audible rain. I feel Zack’s eyes on me, like cold little prickles through my clothes, as he follows me up the narrow wooden steps. But at the top, when I turn around, he’s not looking at me. He’s eyeing the dancers, sorting through them and the couples seated at tables around the dance floor. Aha! He’s looking for someone, there’s a history here, a former girlfriend, and I have been brought to throw in her face. Well, never mind.
There’s been a perfunctory attempt at decoration. Orange and black crepe paper streamers twist from corners to fluorescent fixtures that look like shop lights suspended from the high ceiling. These lights are now off, thank heaven. Adorning the walls: cutouts of black cats with arched backs, dancing scarecrows and skeletons. Each table has its own centerpiece of an accordion-pleated pumpkin.
Big Band sounds issue from a disk jockey-type setup. Chattanooga Choo-Choo plays, and there’s a punishing echo in the room. The people seem elderly to me, but I can’t really tell how old they are. They’re in costume, and it’s very dark—what light there is comes from little spots in the ceiling, and a couple of wall sconces. Zack threads us through dancers to a table, then leaves me to hang up my jacket, get drinks at a bar at the end of the room. Alone, I try to arrange a pleasant expression on my face, while I study the crowd.
Something by Fleetwood Mac plays while a buccaneer swings by with Snow White; a hobo struts his stuff with a Little Bo Peep. There are some outrageous costumes that took real work to put together, and are hard to dance in: a spaceman, a robot, even a computer, the wearer staring out of an opening cut in a box. Only a man would dare wear such a getup. But most outfits are restrained and make-do, like mine and Zack’s. I see a recycled bridesmaid’s outfit, a Robin Hood in tunic and leggings, a clown with ruffled collar, a ghost trailing a sheet—also hard to dance in. In fact, impossible. A couple of bums, couple of hula girls. By now Zack has our drinks, but he’s laughing with a group of guys at the bar, and I see his glance follow Raggedy Ann dance by with Raggedy Andy. If that’s her, Zack has his work cut out for him, because she’s into it enough to coordinate their costumes. Most costumes are the woman’s job, although that hadn’t been true with Emmett. He’d been the dress-up expert, the aficionado. The chameleon. But aren’t I one, too, reinventing myself as I go along?
Zack arrives with my drink. I asked for a gin and tonic, and this one’s so strong it threatens to dissolve its plastic cup. However, I gulp it, grateful for the warm steadying rush. I tell myself to slow down, but I ignore my own advice. Zack is doing the same with his Scotch and water, which is the color of tea. I begin to worry about getting home, and I express this. He says there’s a midnight buffet, which will soak up the alcohol. Midnight! I sneak a peek at my watch: it’s nine-thirty.
We shout more small talk over the music, postponing the inevitability of dance. However, when a slow number plays, good old threadbare Star Dust, we take to the floor. He steers me around as if I’m a boat, and we pass the island where Raggedy Ann sits anchored to her Andy. On a turn, which Zack grants me, or executes to make a point of presenting to her his indifferent back, I get a good look. She’s watching us, all right, with an expression I can read. On this admittedly flimsy evidence, I confirm my suspicions that these two have a history.
Next they play Cyndi Lauper’s Time after Time, which I happen to be fond of, but it’s tricky, so we return to the table. We have new drinks, and I ask for a basket of pretzels—on our cruise around the room, I’d seen other tables with them. Zack jumps up eagerly, glad to be sent on an errand (and to be temporarily quit of me). He’s gone for some time, talking to his buddies along the way. He returns, flourishes pretzels, as if they’re a hard-won prize. He becomes animated, talkative, a hot glow lights his cheeks and especially his nose. He expounds on his philosophy of family life, which is a vehement statement of outrage. Women should know their places, the courts are slanted in favor of the feminists, etc. I manage to hold my tongue, which has become untrustworthy, slippery, and slurry. Then he talks about his kids, a girl and a boy in their teens. He lets on that the girl, Tami, enrages him with her whiny self-absorption, her disregard for his rules.
“How so?” I lean forward: this is familiar territory.
“Well, she has this boyfriend, I can’t stand the kid, but he practically lives at our house, or at Judy’s house. Judy allows them to go in Tami’s bedroom, and shut the door. I tell Judy not to permit this, but she doesn’t listen to me.”
“Ah, but does she listen to them? See, I’ve been through this, and it’s when they get quiet that you should worry.” Amy and Matt Butterworth giggling in her room, turning up the stereo to cover their mischief. “Be glad they’re at your house. Protect your daughter and hope for the best.”
His jaw tightens, he aims his bullet-shaped face at me. “I will not allow any messing around, not under my roof, by God … or under what used to be my roof.”
“What I’m saying is don’t turn her off.” But I can see that he already has. I see why, too, and how. Another old-fashioned parent with the new kid.
He frowns, then his face clears. “Now, my boy, Zack—he’s named for me—Zack Junior, or Zack II, how would you say it? He’s a pure pleasure. Here, I’ve got a picture of him.” He opens his wallet, sorts through. “This is him, he’s just shot his first bear. He didn’t go out for bear, but this bear charged him and he brought it down. Emptied his shotgun, but he got ’em. Big guy, isn’t he?”
At first I don’t know if he’s talking about the kid or the bear, but after squinting at the photo in the dark, then reaching for my glasses, I understand it’s the bear. Because the smirking callow kid in the camouflage suit, about fifteen or so, is not big; but the bear is. Zack says, “That sucker went four hundred pounds. Here’s another one of my boy holding up one of its paws, lookit the size of it! Talk about a thrill!”
I am horrified. The kid is covered with blood, which is also all over the animal, clotting its fur. It bleeds from its nose, ears, one of its eyes is jelly. The paw the boy holds up for the camera is enormous. The claws look four inches long. I seem to smell the gamy scent, the odor of blood, its mangy coat. “Terrible!” I mutter.
“What’s terrible? What could have happened to my kid? Or that my kid had to kill it? Well, it was Zack or him, and it turned out to be him. What would you have done?”
“I wouldn’t have been out there to begin with. Where is this place?”
“Alaska. Judy’s brother lives outside of Sitka, and there’s a helicopter you hire to take you into the backcountry. Expensive, but that was what Zack wanted for his birthday, and they guarantee you a kill.”
“No business being there.” I snap off my glasses, snap the pictures back. He clears his throat, looks around. I tell him I have to use the john, collect my purse, and try to trot off. I’m surprised at how unsteady I am on my pins, as if I’m used to walking on the rolling deck of a ship. Once in the restroom, I sit on the toilet for a couple of flushes. I’m sifting through my situation, grasping for any debris that will keep me afloat. That man out there, I’ve alienated him as badly as he has me, and how will this play out? Could he refuse to take me home? I should have been more politic, but he’s a jerk.
I see clearly that I’ve begun to enjoy my widowhood, I’ve begun to wallow in it. The power of being alone. I see that my support group needs me, and not the other way around. Oh, pshaw … what a thought. How arrogant … but it’s true. I sense a new certainty;
I’ve built myself a new foundation.
This is when I should be careful. I’ve got to cover my tracks. I’ve got to go back out there, and act a certain way to get what I want. And what I want is to arrive home with self-esteem, and not let this fool rob me. I practice smiling a couple of times, flush again, then take my time washing my hands. I have never washed my hands so thoroughly.
Plus, I want to give him a lengthy absence so that he can connect, or reconnect, with Raggedy Ann, or anybody else he wants to. Because I am through with him.
Reluctantly I leave my safe harbor, my refuge of the bathroom and reenter the hall. Zack is talking to another man at our table. They glance at this door I’m coming out of. They see me and draw apart, affect a casual posture, and I know that I’ve been discussed. But I smile when I sit down, shake hands with the new fellow. His palm is tough as a baseball mitt (later, on the dance floor, he tells me he works with sheet metal). His costume is his old army uniform, even down to the helmet, and the tunic fits him too snugly—he’s put on weight since Korea, or Vietnam or wherever—so many wars to keep track of. I want to urge him to keep in shape. After all, here he is at a singles’ dance. What’s the matter with him?
He takes off the helmet, and I realize he’d put it on to impress me with the effect of the whole picture. He has dark curly hair sprinkled with gray, a high bulging forehead. I don’t think he’s going bald, he just bulges. Dark eyes under a heavy uni-brow, and his eyes are too close together. In fact, his features all crowd together in the center of his face. In the helmet he’d looked sort of cute, like a small animal peering out of a hole. Without it, he’s … odd-looking. But his manner is tentative, uncertain, and I like it. The uniform becomes him. It strikes me as a true expression of who he really is. Zack, on the other hand, Zack the Ripper wears a shameless façade with his lighthearted playful Hawaiian shirt. He’d admitted, earlier, that he’s a cop on the homicide squad, which had bothered me. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but I asked. He got defensive, said the most common occupations represented here, at this singles’ dance, are policeman, and teacher. In both occupations, you have the final say-so, and on your own turf, too.