We lasted about a month before he quit. I celebrated a little for every session he missed. When he’d missed two sessions, I resigned as a tutor. Although short lived, I felt my experience as a tutor qualified me to attend the city sponsored barbecue celebration for volunteers. It’s a good thing I did too, because that’s where I met John. John of the lavish body and of the even more lavish bank accounts.
John was in his first week of training on how to tutor someone in reading, not as a volunteer for the library, but to implement a literacy program in his company. John headed the Keenford Corporation, which manufactured equipment for oil refineries, something to do with environmental regulations. I could give you all the gory details if you wanted them. They were fascinating when I first met John, but it didn’t take long for them to become a real yawn. But John, with his dark good looks, now he was another matter.
John loved racecars and I loved racecar drivers. Just the thought turns me on. Danger can be better than sex. Two nights after meeting, I moved in with him. Just like that. I don’t regret it for one minute. I had the time of my life. The sex took us a long way. After that went stale our mutual love of racing, antiques, and entertaining carried us for a long while.
One of the best things about our marriage is that it gave me the chance to really entertain in just the way I’d imagined since I’d been a young girl. Did I tell you that I could do a dinner party for twenty without batting an eye? What glorious fun. John and I were well equipped for entertaining. He had all of his grandmother’s crystal and china. I had a talent for cooking.
People scrambled to get invitations to my dinner parties because mine were simply the best. I could cook the pants off anyone I’d ever met. And unlike most women, I understood the importance of presentation. I had a natural gift for it. On the best, the best wine, the best cuts of meat, trendy upscale desserts. The only drawback was that although my dinner parties were spectacular, I hated to talk to my guests. After the “ooh and ahs” over my house, my liquor, and my food the guests began to bore me. That’s why I insisted that Bertha and Sam come. Even though they didn’t belong in our ritzier social circle, Bertha could listen anyone into a good conversation, and my God, who didn’t like Sam?
Now talking about Sam, that’s one man who’d joke and laugh with me, but only at a distance. He never did warm up to me the way other men did. I got the feeling that Sam suspected my motives about Bertha, and ,well, about him given the least encouragement. The man loved Bertha, I’ll give him that. So I used caution when I talked about Bertha if Sam was around, not sure he’d understand my normal teasing. He never actually said anything to me. I just got a feeling about him.
John and I did pretty well together during what I call our “acquisition years.” The frenzy of buying kept us entertained for longer than most people predicted. But John had a roving eye, then a roving everything else. No problem if he’d had the good sense to be discreet, but men lose their heads so easily, especially when she’s twenty-three, blonde, and her implants could float a sinking ship.
The divorce wasn’t unpleasant. John didn’t mind paying for his new bauble.
And I didn’t mind being paid. But time doesn’t treat women as nicely as it does men. Just because you start out pretty doesn’t mean you don’t worry about how long your looks are going to last. And by the time John left, mine had a definite tilt south.
It’s sad now to think of the time investment that John and I put into a marriage that never really had a prayer. But by the time I realized we had a problem, even suggesting counseling, it was too late. John had moved on to his new love. Of course, a fifty-year-old man had prospects that just weren’t available to me as a woman. That made me mad as hell too.
I do admit I went a little crazy after we split. It’s just that, me, without a man, didn’t make sense. It never should have happened to someone like me. I’m mean I’d never been alone before, ever. I don’t recommend it either. I did feel a little guilty about going to Bertha for comfort and support. You know that Sam hadn’t been dead for long when John and I split. I asked her if it really was all right for me to cry on her shoulder. She told me that it was just fine. I didn’t see the harm in it, after all, even though she may have missed Sam, she’d had him all those years. They’d been so “in love” she just couldn’t feel as sad as I did. But even with me in the throes of pain Bertha couldn’t resist giving advice. It hurt my feelings when she told me that I’d been selfish in my marriage and that now I’d have the opportunity to experiment with “giving.” You see don’t you, that she had a critical, cruel streak to her.
I can tell you when she wasn’t prissy about my sex life or my aggressiveness with men; Bertha could make me feel better than anyone else. Time with Bertha helped me remember what a confident woman I could be. It was good to have a friend.
Speaking of friends, Bertha and I made reservations for a Caribbean Friendship Cruise. Before long we’ll be sipping umbrella drinks and sunning on the deck while ocean waves rock us to sleep. I’m a little worried because the cruise is about a month past the anniversary date of Sam’s death. I don’t want to travel with a morbid, depressed woman. I also have no desire to travel with a woman who’s thinner than me. Bertha’s lost so much weight since Sam died. She says walking is the only thing that gives her peace. I swear the woman has walked herself thin. It’s time for me to lose my extra pounds. No telling how young the women on the cruise will be. Competition could be tough. I don’t intend to come in “second best” either.
Chapter 5
“BERTHA”
What Pandie told the general public and what Pandie told me were two different things. When she and John got divorced she told everyone how thrilled she was to be alone. That public party line had nothing to do with the Pandie that stayed at my house day after day crying her face into a red-blotched mess. They didn’t see the woman, who between hiccup-breaths asked me, “Bertha who am I without a man? I didn’t want it to be this way,” she’d sob as she reached for another tissue to add to the knot of tissues in her tight-fisted hand. Then Pandie would look at me with her beautiful, watery eyes as if I ran the ‘universe of answers to questions.’ Lord knows how I tried to bolster her.
It wasn’t like I didn’t wonder all those years ago when I had no expectations of ever marrying, much less marrying someone like Sam, just who I was without a man. But something in me believed that I had value whether or not some man came into my life. It was that belief that spurred me to college, not to get a Mrs. Degree, but to quench my thirst for learning about people. I’d intended to use that knowledge to help someone else, and I didn’t mind if I could make a good living while doing it. Although my degree in psychology didn’t bring any income to Sam and me, it did enrich our lives with understanding and compassion. It helped me to be a better wife, mother, and friend. What I learned sprouted within me the desire be true to myself. Now it didn’t take away my feelings of ugliness completely, but it had started a process of softening them.
When Pandie cried and carried on, what I had learned gave me the vision to see the little girl that she must have been at one time, a child full of life and confidence that she was valuable. A confidence that had been squelched by a mean old grandmother who begrudged Pandie every breath she took. Status, wealth, prestige, and men gave Pandie a sense of safety. I understood that it was what she counted on in the world.
But even compassion requires energy, and my reserves of energy were depleted. Sam had only been gone for six months. I felt dead inside myself between moments of excruciating sorrow. I found it harder and harder to keep up with what I thought were the demands of our friendship. Looking back I see that I blamed Pandie for so many of the choices I’d made. I’d been jealous of her good looks, her lively personality that inspired everyone to like her, and for her success. A victim mentality, I’ve heard it called. Back then it didn’t seem to have anything to do with my choices. Of course, I hadn’t chosen my looks, but I was in charge of developing my personality
and of working for my own success.” I used my “good girl mentality” as a reason to take care of everyone else at my own expense. Had I stood up to Pandie, had I insisted on taking care of myself first, I could have been a better friend in the long run. I wish I’d been more honest with myself and with Pandie. She certainly had never pretended to be something she wasn’t. She would be the first to tell you that she was selfish and preoccupied. If I hadn’t wanted a friend with those qualities I could have walked away at any time. But I saved each hurt in a secret account. I waited to cash it in all at once. These insights came much later.
Now I try to live who I am and what I need out in the open. Age does that for you, doesn’t it? Age is disgusted by pretense. Pandie taught me to be more honest. She pushed me into a corner forcing me to push back. After that our friendship became as volatile as gas. I pushed when there was no reason too.
* * *
Pandie’s divorce was traumatic to both of us. She lost all sense of identity without a man. She lost all confidence in herself as a woman. Did I just say that? Well it’s not true. Pandie had never been a confident woman. Looking back I’d mistakenly credited Pandie with confidence because she liked to be in front of people. But that type of confidence was miniscule in comparison to the kind of confidence one needed to make her way in life. A woman of confidence lived from a center core of genuine caring that started with herself, but extended itself to all those lucky enough to cross her path. That kind of good will was a verb not a noun.
Pandie seemed to be missing something essential, that steadfast faith in who she was had been so stifled and damaged that she looked to other people for what she already had somewhere deep inside. Pandie took on the personality, interests, and opinions of the most recent person in her life. It got so that I could tell who she been with last by what music, sport, food, or hobby she was “just crazy for.”
It didn’t take a degree in psychology to realize that Pandie was woefully short of a self that was solid and true. But that took me years to discover for two reasons. She was a terrific actress. And because I was so woefully short of a self that was solid and true.
Over the years with Sam, and perhaps with age and experience I came to trust my own instincts, to follow the path that felt right to me, which I could not have done if I’d not been able to see mine and Pandie’s interaction in a new light. Oh, but that was hard. In order for you to understand the beginnings of this gradual insight into the problems with our friendship, take a look at the last time I had Pandie and John over for dinner, before their divorce and right before Sam died. It should give you an idea of what I mean.
I’d lighted the candles, not ones on the dinning table because this was just a casual burgers, potato salad, baked beans, and lemon cake dinner. But I did love candles so I’d lighted the ones that I kept around in the den and the kitchen. I expected John and Pandie about sevenish and I was loading the dishwasher, all of the pots I’d used in preparing dinner. I heard the back door open and yelled, “Pandie I’m in the kitchen tell John that Sam’s out back fiddling with the grill.” Now why couldn’t I have told John that Sam was out back instead of telling Pandie to tell him? I have no explanation. It’s just a woman thing I have, a subtle recognition of boundaries, he’s your husband and I won’t be interfering with what’s yours.
I looked over my shoulder as Pandie came in the kitchen taking the wool scarf from her neck and dropping it over one of the chairs to our breakfast set. Just minutes before I’d taken the baked beans from the oven. I loved the aroma, the breakfast smell of bacon mixed with the dinner smell of beans. The bacon strips on top of the beans were covered with a light glaze of ketchup. At least to me they looked and smelled wonderful. I just knew they would be good. I didn’t have a lot of experience cooking gourmet, but I wasn’t bad with home-style favorites.
“There’s beer or cola in the frig if you want something to drink,” I said as I rinsed the potato pot. Pandie grabbed a cola. She loved cola like I loved coffee.
“Sam already grilling the burgers?” Pandie asked as she opened a drawer and got a spoon. Going directly to the beans, she scooted one of the bacon slices over to get a bite. “Mmn, not bad. Not as good as mine though. More ketchup I think.” Pandie told me as she stuck the unwashed spoon back in the beans for a second bite. I’d noticed that about people who thought of themselves as stars. They’d stick their spoons into everyone’s food, as if they were doing them a favor. It happened to remind me of a dog marking his territory by lifting his leg. The people I’d seen with the intrusive spoons needed to make their mark on everything.
“Yeah that’s it—your beans are too sweet. You might try—well hell,” Pandie got the ketchup from the refrigerator. My eyes teared up and as my body deflated I turned to watch Pandie. I leaned against the counter for support. She used her long nails to lift the bacon, strip by strip, which she then placed on the bare butcher block. She licked her fingers after moving each strip. Then she poured ketchup in the bean pan and stirred. Not satisfied with the slight drizzle, she popped the bottom of the upturned bottle. Ketchup spewed violently from the bottle mouth like lava from a volcano.
“Oh damn, Bee!” That’s what Pandie called me when she was in that “I screwed up, but we’re such loving friends that nothing could disturb the equanimity we share mode.” In other words, the use of Bee as opposed to Bertha was the signal to me to keep my mouth shut and smile. I just didn’t notice that at the time.
Pandie tasted the beans again, “Well, I’d say better than they were. But I admit, probably a dash too much ketchup.” She said this after putting the spoon down then lifting the bacon, strip by strip, to place back on top of the beans where they now looked out of place. Now in addition to the beans tasting bad they would also looked awful just like someone had been eating them from the pan. My heart sank when I heard the refrigerator door open and watched as Pandie stuck the bean spoon in the potato salad. Before she had a chance to grab the mayonnaise I snatched the plate of vegetable kabobs from the counter and handed them to her.
“Pandie, take these to Sam. I’m sure he needs help, you know how men are about cooking.” I had no doubts about Sam’s ability to take care of himself, even with the likes of Pandie, who by the way laughed when she took the tray of kabobs. “Bee, you’re trying to get rid of me so that I don’t pour ketchup in the potato salad.” She winked at me, which made me laugh, too, for a minute. I turned back toward the sink and stared at the small candle burning on the window ledge. My hands shook as I wiped water spots from a glass. Everything inside me felt tight and hard until I reminded myself that it wasn’t personal really. Pandie just couldn’t bear for someone else to be the star, even if it was only a hamburger get together with old friends. I feel that even then I understood, as much as one person could understand what caused Pandie to act the way she did, but I had to admit that sometimes I felt faint with effort to accept it.
Time to remind myself of the good stuff, the way she’d surprise me with a pot of beef stroganoff she’d made. Or the fun things she brought me every time she traveled. She had a knack for getting me something that made me laugh. I loved that about her. She knew that I was a woman who really needed to laugh and she did her part. Pandie was a good friend. It took several deep breaths before I could join the others.
Chapter 6
“PANDIE”
I’m telling you seminars are magic. The place, San Francisco. The season, summer. Oh, and the man, the man was Tobias Richards. You know the one. He produced and directed that haunting, documentary “Genital Mutilation: What Women Do To Women and The Men Who Benefit.” Tobias spoke at the conference on children that I attended for the library. Did I tell you that I was now Director of Library Outreach? I initiated programs designed to help children and their parents. Of course the library didn’t need programs about genital mutilation, but Tobias Richardson had a lengthy career addressing the multitude of issues facing children not only overseas, but also here in the States. Our outreach had more
to do with issues of poverty, violence against children, drug use that sort of thing. I hadn’t really given children all that much thought before I took the job. I’d never wanted children myself, but having taken the job, to my surprise I did began to care. Personally, I didn’t like caring all that much, better to leave that to someone else. Besides the problems were overwhelming and I didn’t intend to get bogged down in something that didn’t have a solution.
I hadn’t looked forward to the sad seminar topic, but hell, San Francisco is San Francisco. Besides, I wanted to get to know Tobias Richards. I’d always wanted to do a documentary. I needed a change in careers. The library had lost all appeal. The same old programs every year, the same old boring people. I needed a new, exciting, bold career.
“Bertha, come to dinner.” I tucked the phone under my chin so I could check on the cake in the oven. “So don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Come have a glass of wine, or two, or three.” Bertha laughed. She needed to do more of that. “Besides I’ve got a problem, I need to talk to you about.” I heard Bertha sigh heavily. “Oh come on Bertha. At least it’s an exciting problem!”
It was like pulling teeth to get Bertha over to my house these days. I’d asked her if something was wrong but she told me no. Still I could sense a growing distance between us. Bertha had been short with me lately, kind of snappy. Even when I teased her and called her Bee she never seemed to relax with me. Maybe she was still grieving over Sam. Maybe that was it. Speaking of Sam. A month or so after Sam’s funeral, I’d gone to Bertha’s to water her plants while she and Beth went to a resort for a few days, trying to deal with their grief.
Chik~Lit for Foxy Hens Page 23