“I jumped to a conclusion. I was so very wrong…”
“And you apologized. I picked James up from school the next afternoon. He was flying as high as a kite. He told me about your apology. He said no teacher had ever done anything like that before, not in front of the entire class. He thought you were wonderful before. Now…” He laughed.
Jennie took her latte, thanked James’s father again, and settled herself in her chair. The drizzle had turned back to rain, and she watched as sheets of it blew down the street. She hoped it would stop before she had to go out. Her mind began to wander. How could a three-dollar latte possibly have overdrawn her checking account? She hadn’t had any unusual expenses.
A man bumped against her arm as he moved toward the table next to hers, and her latte sloshed onto her pants.
“Oh no. My pants.” She snatched a napkin from the table and dabbed at the coffee.
“Sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“It’s all right. I was just surprised.” Jennie hurried to the counter for water to use on the stain.
She resumed her seat and sponged the dark spot. “On my new pants too,” she mumbled, then remembered. “That’s right,” she said to herself. “Clothes.”
Her thoughts ran back to her shopping trip with Tasha and Alexis.
But I only bought a couple pairs of pants…
She bit her bottom lip as she visualized the closet in her bedroom. Five new pair.
Her old ones were…well…old. She’d bought them at least four or five years ago. They were faded and threadbare, and she’d really needed new ones.
There were new tops to go with the new pants, seven new tops. She’d needed those too.
And, actually, she could mix them any way she wanted, so she’d really gotten something like thirty new outfits for the cost of a few. She couldn’t wear the same thing every day, could she? No. Not even to school. The other teachers bought new outfits from time to time, she was sure of it.
And dresses. Those were for Thomas. She couldn’t keep wearing the only nice black dress she’d owned. She had purchased…Jennie closed her eyes as she thought…four dresses, not counting the long black skirt and the frilly blouse to wear to dinner. And the leggings, and the boots, and the—Jennie was not sure whether it was technically a long shirt or a short dress, or a tunic, but it was like the outfit Tasha had worn to dinner that night. It was a loose-fitting knit, with a drawstring neckline, fingertip length. It was definitely meant to be worn with the leggings and her new boots. She’d had to buy the whole ensemble.
She worked hard. She should be able to go shopping once in a while.
Jennie stared at the streams of water running along the street. Except now she had no money. What was she to do? She would not be paid for ten days, a week and a half. She almost always took her mother to dinner on Saturday, and she was going to Charleston for Thanksgiving and…
It simply was not fair. Why could she not have a few nice things, a few new clothes? She pulled out her check register and thumbed through it.
She spied the entry for the new set of dishes she had purchased a couple of days earlier. Several plates from her old set had broken and, just that morning, she’d dropped a cup, smashing it on the floor, tossing coffee all across the kitchen.
I needed those dishes…
Her old ones were second-hand, six years old, and they didn’t really match. She deserved new ones.
Her eye fell on another entry. What did I buy at the Home Store? She looked at the ceiling as she thought. That’s right. The screen for the hearth. The old one was tarnished and one side was bent. She had been embarrassed for Thomas to see it when he visited. Her mother had given it to her when they had bought a new one. Five years ago.
The new one she’d purchased was solid brass. It was a perfect match for the andirons in the fireplace. It had been rather expensive, but it was so pretty and she could use it forever, and…and…why couldn’t she have something nice, something new. Something of her own?
She slapped the register closed and stuffed it back into her pocketbook. Looking up, she scowled at her reflection in the window. How was she going to live until the end of the month if she couldn’t even buy a cup of coffee?
Suddenly, she smiled. She had a Visa. She had it strictly for emergencies, so there was no balance on it. She would have to use it. This was an emergency, wasn’t it? Having no money is definitely an emergency.
She would be really careful, buy only what she needed, and she wouldn’t spend much. Just dinner tomorrow night and gasoline for the trip. She had food in the refrigerator. And she would be sure to pay the balance off on the first.
Jennie eyed her latte and wrinkled her nose. Coffee wouldn’t cut it tonight. At least not all by itself. She recalled the taste of the cheesecake she and Tasha had ordered. If she added Baileys Irish Cream to her coffee…now that would be a good cup. True, it contained a little whiskey, just enough to taste really…
She thought again about Tasha’s birthday dinner. The glass of wine hadn’t hurt her—two glasses, actually, by the time they had finished, she couldn’t leave a half-full glass of wine on the table. She’d paid good money for that, and it had tasted good, reminding her of when she and Thomas had been married. They’d each had a glass of wine before dinner almost every night back then. Thomas still did.
She closed her eyes and recalled how the wine had tasted. She smiled. She had half-expected an alarm to sound, like a bell summoning the alcohol police, when she had taken her first sip, but of course nothing had happened. After dinner, she’d felt better than at any time since tossing her meds, and she needed the same feeling tonight, not stress over her finances.
She checked her cup. It was almost empty. If she wanted good coffee, she would need to order another cup. She surveyed the coffee shop. James’s father was just leaving. The barista who had run her card was removing his apron, so his shift was over. She would not want either of them to know that she’d had a Visa in her wallet when she had claimed to have no money.
She ordered a grande, a medium-sized drink, and asked the barista to serve it in large cup, leaving plenty of room for what she planned to add.
The rain had stopped. She picked up her coat and her books and headed for her car.
***
A warm cup of special coffee by the fire…
Jennie’s mouth watered with anticipation. She thought about the Rusty Anchor, how she had learned to drink whiskey, how she had become dependent on it, a glass upon slipping out of bed, another before turning in, multiple glasses in between. After she’d had the wine with Tasha she had half-feared that, having tasted the forbidden fruit, she would grab for the bottle and chug the wine like beer. But she hadn’t done anything like that. She was stronger than that. She’d proven it to herself.
She recalled how Preacher had directed her into AA…
She had attended AA for years, but she had not been to a meeting in a couple of months. Her mentor had phoned several times, but she had not accepted the calls. He would drop by to check on her before too long. He would tell her alcohol is alcohol, regardless of its name. He would remind her that a single drink would put her on the path back to that pit from which she had crawled over a decade before, that the drink with Tasha had poured oil on the path, and that this afternoon she was beginning to slide…
But her mentor would be wrong. This was different. This was only something to sweeten her coffee and help her relax. Stress could lead to angry feelings and this was merely helping her stay on track. It was a liqueur…not pure whiskey, it was mild enough to serve over a slice of cheesecake. It wasn’t as though she was taking shots of Jack Daniels from the bottle. She checked her wallet and located her Visa.
A quick stop at the liquor store on the Newnan Road, that’s all it would take. She turned in that direction.
***
It had been almost fifteen years since she’d walked into one, and Jennie hesitated just inside the entrance to the liq
uor store. She took a deep breath and approached the counter.
“I’d like a couple of those mini bottles of Baileys Irish Cream, please,” she told the clerk.
The clerk shook his head. “We don’t carry those two-shot bottles. I think it’s a law, maybe.”
He crossed the store and pulled a large bottle off the shelf near the front door. “This is all we have.”
Jennie gave an exasperated sigh and slapped her car keys on the countertop. “Dumb law.” She wanted to add the cream liqueur to the warm coffee waiting in her car, not to a cold cup when she reached home in half an hour. She could open the bottle, of course, but the open container law…
Then again, who cared if she had an open bottle in the car? She hadn’t seen a sheriff’s patrol on the Whitesburg Road in months.
“I’ll take it.”
As she opened her wallet, Jennie knocked her keys down onto a display of wine. Maybe she should buy a couple of bottles for the next time Thomas came to visit. Surprise him. It would be just like old times. That caused her to smile.
She left with the bottle of Baileys and two bottles of wine. Thomas’s favorite.
Climbing into her car, Jennie checked her coffee.
Good. It was still warm. She checked the parking lot and then cracked open the bottle of Baileys, topping off the coffee almost up to the rim. She swirled the liquid to mix it. Then she settled back to drink.
Oh, it tasted good. What could possibly be wrong with a drink like this? Surely it had less alcohol than wine, and it was so much better tasting. When her cup was half-empty, she added more Baileys and gulped it down before starting home.
An hour later, Jennie had settled in front of a fire in her family room. Her clothes lay in a pile on the bedroom floor, and she sat, loosely wrapped in her robe, the bottle in one hand and a ceramic coffee mug in the other. Everything was going to be fine. More than fine, even.
She glanced around her. Everything was the same as before. Nothing had changed. She hadn’t changed. Unless you counted the fact that she was no longer boring old Jennie. She was a better Jennie. An improved Jennie. A fun Jennie. She raised her cup in salute. “No problems,” she shouted to the empty house.
***
Jennie awoke the next morning, her head throbbing. She had changed from her robe into a lacey nightgown and was lying sideways across her bed. She didn’t recall changing clothes or moving to the bedroom. How could a few sips of liqueur make her head hurt so badly?
As she wandered into the living room, she spied the bottle of Baileys lying empty on the hearth. Okay, so she’d had more than a few sips, still, she used to drink more than that in an afternoon shift at work. “Guys at the Rusty Anchor would laugh me out of the bar,” she mumbled as she checked the fire. It was out and the embers were cold. She hoped she had not left it burning.
Then, as she crept into the kitchen to start coffee, she noticed the two bottles of wine, both empty, stuffed into the trashcan, partially hidden under some other trash.
The clock indicated it was past noon. Jennie rubbed her temples. She didn’t remember the last time she’d had a hangover. While she had worked at the Rusty Anchor, she had stayed buzzed, never coming down completely. Other than another drink, coffee was the only strategy for recovery she had.
She made her coffee and took it to the living room, then she lowered herself into her chair.
She sipped the coffee.
“Yuck.” She hated it black, but conventional wisdom held it had to be strong if it was going to help. She checked the Baileys bottle, but not even a drop remained. “Too bad. Would have added some flavor.”
Early December
In Jennie’s mind, the Christmas season began when “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” floated through the school auditorium during the students’ annual concert. Each year, Jennie looked forward to the carols, and she often had difficulty refraining from singing along.
As much as she loved the music, though, she most enjoyed watching the students.
She was always amazed when she saw them entering the school dressed for the concert. Even the most rambunctious little boys resembled angels once they had been scrubbed clean and dressed in white shirts, dark ties, and shiny black slip-ons rather than in the school uniform of khakis and polo shirts, generally accompanied by scuffed running shoes. The students always sang so sweetly, and they appeared to be so serious, standing on stage as if frozen in place, their eyes seldom straying from Ms. Johnston, the music teacher.
She could always count on one student to steal the show. This year it would be James Agee, Jennie was certain of it. He was one of three students slated to sing a short solo, four or five lines from one of the carols. He had run all of the way back to the classroom the day Ms. Johnston had assigned him the part, eager to share the news with Jennie, and she had heard him practicing by himself several times over the last week.
As they walked into the auditorium together before the concert, his father told Jennie that James had been practically swinging from the chandelier at home.
His mother shook her head. “He might have eaten two bites of his dinner and I almost had to sit on him so his dad could knot his tie.”
“I do hope Ms. Johnston can calm him down,” his father said. “Otherwise…”
Jennie laughed as he rolled his eyes.
“He’ll do fine,” Jennie assured them as they took the two vacant seats on the front row.
She waved to Kara, who was saving a place for her. “I’ll see you later…Oh, and I have a gift for James. I’ll give it to him tonight, if you’ll come by our classroom after the program.”
She joined Kara just as the lights dimmed and the curtains swung open. She spotted James in the middle of the first row. She chuckled as he stole glances at his parents and waved to them when he thought no one was watching. Not an ounce of anxiety in that child, she thought.
Toward the end of the program, when the pianist began “Away in a Manger,” the three soloists stepped forward. James was the youngest and smallest of the three, but his sweet, little-boy voice filled the auditorium, and Jennie fumbled in her purse, searching for a tissue for her tears. When the carol ended, she was on her feet, leading the ovation. James smiled and pumped his fist in the air, his shout of “yes” eliciting laughter, even from Ms. Johnston, as well as a second surge of applause.
The concert took place during the December meeting of the parent-teacher association, and the teachers were expected to be available in their classrooms for a few minutes afterward to talk with parents. A number of them came to see Jennie immediately after the performance, most of them bringing presents. The Agees dropped by, and Jennie gave James a Christmas tree ornament to celebrate his performance—a silver star with “You are the best!” engraved on it.
One parent, Amy Sutton’s mother, did not appear until almost nine o’clock, just as Jennie was slipping on her coat, ready to leave for home.
Amy’s interim report had been dismal and her mother wanted an explanation. Jennie sighed. Amy’s most recent report mirrored the earlier ones, and she’d had multiple encounters with Ms. Sutton throughout the fall. Tonight, she harangued Jennie for a full twenty minutes, blaming her for her daughter’s lack of progress.
“I intend to speak to the principal,” Ms. Sutton threatened. “Amy is not learning, and this entire semester has been a waste of her time. She’d be better off with another teacher, one who might actually lower herself to teach. I’m going to request she be transferred to another class.”
Jennie was not even sure Ms. Watkins, the principal, would transfer a child halfway through the school year. If she would, though, it would be taken as an acknowledgement that Jennie had failed as a teacher. “Teacher of the year” one year, “failure” the next. She could not prevent Amy’s mother from requesting a transfer, but she certainly did not have to allow her criticism to go unchallenged.
Jennie was already feeling angry. She had used the coping methods Dr. Wilson had taught her, tensing her
muscles and then letting them relax, but they were not working. Now, she wanted to hit the woman.
“So, it’s my fault your daughter isn’t learning?”
“Of course it—”
Jennie clenched her fist so tightly her nails were digging into her palm.
“It’s my fault she arrives at school with only five hours of sleep and no breakfast? It’s my fault she never cracks a book outside of class? That she has never once brought in her homework?”
“Our lifestyle…”
“Is it my fault Amy was not ready to do third-grade work, that you insisted on her promotion while refusing to enroll her in summer classes?”
“Children should not be cooped up—”
Jennie slammed her fist on the desk. The woman jumped.
“Let’s place blame where it belongs, Ms. Sutton.” Jennie stared directly into the woman’s eyes. “With you. Your daughter is failing, and all you will do about it is bitch at the teacher.” Jennie paused, glaring at her, daring her to respond. “I’d call it neglect.”
She scooped up her books and strode toward the door, turning to see Ms. Sutton trailing behind her, a look of disbelief on her face.
“Ms. Watkins will hear about this,” the woman exclaimed as she pushed past Jennie. “You can’t talk to me like—”
“Fine. Tattle to the principal. It’s about time someone told you the truth.” Jennie slammed the classroom door and stomped down the hall leaving Ms. Sutton alone. “I ought to call Family Services,” she shouted over her shoulder. “What Amy needs is a mother who cares.”
It was almost nine twenty, the parking lot was deserted, and Jennie asked the janitor to walk her to her car. She did not know where Amy’s mother was, and she didn’t care, but she didn’t want another confrontation outside.
As Jennie drove away, her stomach rumbled.
She needed dinner, a chance to relax…and a good cup of coffee.
Once and Future Wife Page 17