by Ellen Dye
And, although I’d failed to gain meaningful employment, it had been a learning experience. I’d learned there were more ways to be turned down for employment than I’d previously imagined.
I’d been told I was too old, under qualified, not quite what they were looking for, and one poor, misguided soul even pronounced me to be overqualified. I was still a bit muzzy on this last. How can one who has no definable job skills whatsoever be overqualified to sell shoes?
However, I had pulled out all the stops and was still determined to succeed.
I’d raided the local library, checking out each and every one of their career books. I’d fashioned an attention-grabbing resume—not an easy task when one has no attention-grabbing skills. I’d dressed for success in power suits of only the most appropriate style and color. I’d even gone to the trouble of trying to determine what color my parachute actually was.
And after today’s less than stellar success I was beginning to think that not only was my parachute of no discernable color, but the damned thing didn’t work, either.
Or, I realized sadly, maybe I was just an unfortunate soul doomed to go through life without a parachute.
“Hang in there. Your day’s coming.” Sam tossed several bands to a pile on the ground.
“Thanks,” I returned, knowing good and well Sam had seen through my lie with the clarity that can only come from an old friendship. Perhaps we hadn’t grown so far apart after all.
“How’s Roan doing?” I asked, a bit embarrassed for not inquiring about Sam’s father much sooner.
“Great. Loves his retirement and loves all that Florida sunshine. Did you hear he remarried?”
“No. When did that happen?”
“A few years ago now, I suppose. Dad met her at a shuffleboard shindig. She’s a terrific lady, really keeps Dad on his toes.”
I laughed and was about to reply when I heard another twig snap behind me.
Shit.
“Well, don’t you just look slick,” Jamie Sue, dressed in her poultry plant uniform, announced as she rounded the corner of the house, making her way toward the fluttering invoice. She snatched it up with a malicious chuckle and bounded up the porch steps.
Her eyes rapidly shifted from left to right as she scanned the paper. When her lips curved upward, I knew she’d reached the bottom line.
“Your share comes to…” Jamie Sue then quoted a figure which, if true, would cut my meager funds roughly in half. She extended the invoice, a most unattractive smirk on her face.
I accepted it with a shaking hand and plastered a frozen smile on my face, all the while hoping she’d been mistaken.
Upon reaching the bottom line, I gasped. My sadistic cousin had been completely serious. I was wondering if the lumber had been dipped in gold instead of the standard pressure treating. For this price, I felt the stack of wood should be able to assemble itself into a front porch.
Sam materialized at my side. Goodness, for such a big man, he sure could move quickly. “I’ll be taking care of this.” He plucked the invoice from my numb fingers. “It’s the least I can do.”
I nearly sank to the floor in relief.
Jamie Sue snatched the invoice. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She flipped the pink sheet very near my face. “Wanda Jo’s the one who needs to grow up and accept some responsibility.”
Before I could think of a suitably scathing reply, Sam once again rode to my rescue.
With deliberate calm Sam plucked the invoice from Jamie Sue’s fingers. Then he took his sweet time carefully folding the paper, making sure it was perfectly creased before tucking it into a shirt pocket. “I’ll take care of it. It’s the least I can do for all the meals I eat here.” Sam made his way down the steps toward the tool shed out back, walking with slow, determined steps that effectively cut off my cousin’s tirade before it could actually begin.
I heaved a second mental sigh of relief and clutched my purse, and the enclosed checkbook now safe from immediate harm, close to my chest. Blowing out a silent breath, I made an equally silent promise to pay Sam back as soon as Reed came to his senses.
Jamie Sue snorted. “Saved again. Tell me, Wanda Jo, what is it you do to men?”
Ah, sibling rivalry once again raises its ugly head. And this time it seemed to have taken a detour.
I chose the opposite path. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. It’s some kind of gift you’ve always had. Like a Super Power.” She rolled her eyes heavenward, batting lashes furiously while clasping both hands to her chest. “I’m just a poor, helpless, little thing. Oh, come rescue me,” she drawled out, adding a phony lisp.
I hadn’t slapped my cousin since I was eight years old. And now, standing on the remains of the front porch, I found the urge to smack the living tar right out of her almost overwhelming. My right palm fairly itched with the possibility. But, I realized as sweat began to soak through the back of today’s power suit, it was too hot—and my cousin was simply too pathetic—to bother.
I turned away without a word. This time my hand made contact with the doorknob, and a quick twist had me inside and on the way to our air-conditioned room.
Exchanging my rumpled power suit for a crisp, pale peach linen Liz Claiborne shorts set improved my mood tremendously. I turned the air conditioner Sam had so thoughtfully installed in our window up to High and stood still, gratefully soaking up the frigid blast.
I would survive this, I vowed. And once Reed came to his senses, I swore, I’d never take central air conditioning for granted ever again.
I turned to offer my back the same arctic rejuvenation therapy and caught sight of something most unpleasant-looking resting on my pillow. The blue-and-white priority mailer gave me a chill that had nothing to do with the joy of air conditioning.
It’s been my experience the only kind of news that travels this way is of the bad variety. Let’s face it, folks can keep all kinds of good news to themselves for days. But these same folks are in a heated sweat to make sure all bad news is delivered in twenty-four hours or less, if at all possible.
With a deep sense of impending doom, I reached for the cardboard envelope and quickly pulled back the tab. Sucking in a deep breath and mentally preparing myself for the worst, I removed the thick sheaf of papers inside and quickly glanced down the first page.
I sank down on the corner of the bed as the room began to tilt slowly, threatening to take me along for the ride.
Oh, God, it’s really over, I thought as I rapidly flipped through the rest of the pages. It seemed only one thing was missing—my signature. A final scrawl of my name across a blank line on the back page would formally end my twenty-year marriage to Reed Trews.
I stacked the papers neatly, squared the edges on the footboard, and started at the beginning. Reed’s legal career had certainly come in handy. I had to give it to him, he hadn’t left a single loose string dangling.
Politically correct words and legally arranged phrases jumped out as I read. “Mr. Trews,” coupled with “reduced circumstances” and “unable to provide,” preceded the ominous words “formal settlement.” These disheartening phrases seemed to repeat with alarming regularity throughout the entirety of the document.
In a nutshell, Reed’s only responsibility would be a few years’ worth of child support to Olivia. And said support would, after one initial bi-annual payment, be doled out in monthly increments so small they wouldn’t purchase a week’s worth of groceries for Olivia, let alone me.
I glanced through the sheets I’d read, scanning them a second time, desperately searching for some mention of alimony or even temporary support. There was none. No spousal support, no provision for my future whatsoever. Nothing.
Twenty years. I’d spent twenty years raising a child, making a home, entertaining Reed’s clients, hosting corporate events and chairing fundraisers. For exactly half my years on this planet I’d devoted myself to being the perfect mother and corporate attorney’s wife, all the
while thinking what I was doing was of the highest importance.
Apparently I’d been wrong.
According to the documents I now held in my hands, my devotion was worth precisely nothing. I’d been judged, weighed, measured, and found utterly worthless.
I reached the final page and noticed a check had been affixed with a paper clip. Bi-annual Support Payment was noted on the memo line. Depressingly, I noticed the amount was equivalent to what I’d previously spent on a good day’s shopping at Niemann Marcus for one of Reed’s events.
And this, plus my pitiful checking account balance, was all Olivia and I had to our names.
Think, think, think, I commanded as I drummed my fingertips on the cardboard mailer. My every instinct screamed, Fight! Don’t let this man treat you and Olivia this way! But at the same time I knew there was nothing to be done.
I had no illusions about hiring a lawyer and getting back what, by rights, should have been ours. Reed was one of the top men in his field—during the course of his career, he’d taken to the cleaners more than one corporation foolish enough to oppose his client. And even though these papers were signed by one of his contemporaries at Burn and Wainright, I knew Reed had been the one to actually prepare them.
No, if I hired an attorney, the only thing I’d accomplish would be draining our funds—the only thing standing between Olivia and myself and the poorhouse.
What in the hell was I going to do?
Olivia would graduate from high school in just two short years. And that meant college, which would call for serious money.
But more pressingly, we couldn’t go on living here in the family nuthouse. Jamie Sue’s open hostility grated on my daughter’s nerves—the moment my cousin arrived in a room, Olivia made a quick exit. And Nettie’s fermentation disaster had taken a toll; every time someone opened a soda, Olivia practically threw herself under the nearest furnishing.
No, we couldn’t continue to stay here.
I had to find a place for us. Soon.
Which once again brought me back to the problem of employment. Or more correctly, the lack of employment for a person with no skills. Namely, me.
I flipped open the paper I’d purchased on my way home. The classifieds hadn’t improved much from yesterday. Work at home and door-to-door selling dominated the columns—both citing pay rates that caused me to question their validity. A few legitimate jobs were sprinkled throughout. I noted an ad for a welder with five years’ experience, and a driver with commercial license wanted for long distances.
And advertisement after advertisement for hairdressers. Every payment option seemed available. Rent a booth, fifty percent commission, and several boasting both salary and benefits for motivated individuals.
Time to take official inventory of all available assets. I owned a dependable and, more importantly, paid-for automobile. I had a killer wardrobe, a small check, and I was currently holding a paper filled with job opportunities in a profession I knew I could do. Adding them up, I arrived at a somewhat unpleasant, however doable, sum.
First thing tomorrow I’d pay a call to Dixie Beauty School and sign up for a refresher course. A few short weeks, a State Board examination, and then I’d be behind the chair once again.
Shit.
A knock sounded a split second before the bedroom door cracked open just a bit.
“Wanda Jo?”
“What’s up, Sam?”
“Thought I’d tack up that mirror Olivia told me about.” He stepped through the door, a hammer in his large hand.
I nodded and swallowed down the large lump of tears lodged in my throat. I would not cry, I vowed. Not one single tear would I shed over Reed Trews.
With deliberate precision, I gathered up the Dixie Beauty School brochure, all the assorted divorce paperwork, and the check. I stuck the lot into the blue-and-white mailer and tucked it beneath my pillow.
A few short taps later and Sam was finished affixing the full-length mirror to the door’s back.
“Sam?”
He looked toward me.
“Could I see that for a minute?” I gestured toward the hammer.
“If you need—”
I cut him off with a shake of my head.
“What’s going on?” he asked, placing the hammer in my outstretched hand.
“I need to see a horse,” I said, stepping neatly around Sam and through the doorway.
“Huh?” His brows pulled together, forming a deep V in the center of his forehead.
“It’s about a man.”
Chapter Six
Unless I was very much mistaken, I was witnessing a most advanced case of Chronic Perkiness. It was terminal, I feared.
“And these are our chairs!” Gwen, the registrar of Dixie Beauty School, gestured with a flourish worthy of Vanna White toward a black vinyl hydraulic held together with vast quantities of duct tape.
I plastered a look of what I hoped would pass for polite interest on my face and gave a nod.
It was a fairly standard, simple setup.
Individual gray Formica stations with locking cabinets lined three walls, each with a mirror affixed above. Two rows of similar stations were freestanding in the room’s center. Each mirror held a name plaque and the usual collage of cherished photographs. The counter portions were taken up with standard-issue Barbisol jars, styling aids, and personalized tip containers.
The fourth wall was filled with several shampoo sinks and matching chairs, all done in mauve, and also what looked to be a very nice pedicure station complete with padded chairs and foot-massage whirlpool.
Compared to the cosmetology clinic at Buckston High, where students gave pedicures while sitting on the floor, with the aid of a plastic dishwashing tub, Dixie was indeed a paradise. But compared to the last salon I’d frequented as a paying client, it ranked due south of the heavenly equator.
Turning sharply to the left, Gwen rested a chubby hand on a more than ample hip, striking a pose. “This is our pedicure station!”
“You were a cheerleader, weren’t you?” I blurted without thinking.
Her heavily mascaraed eyes widened, and despite layers of pancake makeup, Gwen smiled. “Why, yes. How on earth did you know?” She leaned close and gave a conspiratorial wink. “I guess it still shows. People are always asking me that very question.”
“Mmmm.” I made the noncommittal noise in response before taking a small step backward.
I’d never known Chronic Perkiness to be contagious, but this time I wasn’t taking any chances.
For those unfamiliar with this social malady, Chronic Perkiness is a disease which compels one to go through life mentally wearing saddle shoes and waving pom-poms instead of leaving the damn things in the high school gym upon graduation. Truly sad to see, especially in middle-aged women who are surely at least a hundred pounds heavier than they’d been during the days of their card-carrying membership of the Rah-Rah Sisterhood.
Gwen, still smiling, straightened and continued her tour of the school’s clinical arena while I followed, trying my best to feign interest as I mentally calculated our Financial Survival Rate. Namely, how quickly I could finish up here and get to work against the paltry balance in my checking account.
“The dispensary!” Gwen stopped abruptly. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked, her voice a breathy sigh.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, quickly shifting my weight from the ball of my right foot to the heel. Damn, another sliver.
“I know, isn’t it just the most exciting thing you’ve ever seen?” Gwen gave my arm a squeeze. “And just think, you’ll actually get to use them all.” She sighed once again while giving a wave toward the shelves jam-packed with hair color, developer, perms, and all other manner of chemical beauty supplies.
“Imagine that,” I managed, curling my toes inside my Jimmy Choo pumps.
Note to self: In the future when smashing ceramic figurines with a hammer, wear shoes. Gosh, who knew the little devils would explode on impact like that?
Gwen’s face hovered very near mine, her thickly coated lashes batting furiously. I felt a slight breeze ruffle my hair.
“Yes?” I ventured.
“Do you have any questions?”
How in the hell did I end up here? “No,” I answered.
“Well, then, it’s time to see the Theory Room!” Gwen grabbed my upper arm and gave another friendly squeeze. “I know you’ll just love it here!”
I groaned inwardly as I followed Gwen’s large, magenta, double-knit-covered form.
Olivia had taken the divorce news with only a slight shrug of one shoulder. Even the financial news hadn’t surprised her. She’d flipped open her laptop and immediately set to creating what she referred to as our New Life Plan. Before I’d batted a lash, she’d typed her way from stop one (school registration) through to the last item, which she’d titled Suitable Housing.
Having already arrived at all the same conclusions earlier, I’d sat quietly tweezing ceramic slivers from both feet. Before I’d finished de-slivering my right foot, she’d sifted through the newspaper’s advertised housing, pronouncing the lot much too expensive. As I was starting on my left foot, Olivia had an epiphany.
The cottage. We’d renovate. While perhaps not the solution we’d choose, if we were free to choose, it was affordable.
It was then I’d made a silent choice not to tell Olivia the particulars about the cottage. Chiefly, the deed was in Mama’s name and likely to stay so until the end of time. No, the cottage wouldn’t be an option for our future. But I saw no reason to completely disillusion Olivia with the reality of our housing dilemma.
A loud cough erupted next to me.
I turned my attention back to Gwen, the current embodiment of that first step of our New Life Plan.
“Sorry?” I smiled.
Gwen favored me with what I was fairly certain she often thought of as a million-watt smile. “This is our Theory Room.” She paused, leaning closer. Her eyes sparkled with glee. “This will be where you start!” she exclaimed with the enthusiasm usually only seen when the home team scores a touchdown.
I settled for another of the polite nods which were fast becoming the most efficient means of communicating with Gwen.