by Karen Tuft
The particular crazy art Natalie had planned for this evening involved an old lamp she’d rescued from an estate sale the week before that had grabbed her visually and hadn’t let her go. It was a Tiffany knockoff, not great as it was, but Natalie had seen dual potential in it. The base was a dark bronze, a rough, knuckled sculpture that reminded Natalie of roots or fists. She could envision it perfectly next to her bed on the nightstand. The bedroom furniture, a large arts-and-crafts-style, woody, and welcoming set that Wade had actually allowed her to keep after their divorce had been her favorite furniture, so she’d been content. The lamp would blend in well with it after she found a different lamp shade for it. She would either get one cheap somewhere—something simple that wouldn’t detract from the strong lines of the base—or she’d find an old one at a thrift shop and refit it with a new covering. Maybe she’d do something funky with it. She’d follow her muse.
It was the original stained-glass lamp shade that now sat on the worktable in her garage that held her full attention. It was a huge garish thing that had even overpowered the amazingly strong and sturdy base. But Natalie had seen beyond the lamp shade itself to the potential it offered for her to create something entirely new. She had seen colors: greens from the many Tiffany-styled leaves, blues and purples from the pansies that flourished around the rim, butterflies and dragonflies that could be taken apart for their pinks and deep golden yellows. The ugly lamp shade on the table was already transformed in her mind into a wonderful, abstract flash of brilliance that would adorn the arched transom window above her front door. She had briefly dabbled with stained glass years earlier in high school, and she had kept the tools and the few supplies she had purchased at the time. She had also harvested interesting glass from previous thrift shop finds.
She picked up the lamp shade and ran her fingers back and forth over the images, then slid it carefully over the narrow strip of plywood she had clamped to her work board. The first step was to cut the individual pieces of glass carefully from the solder holding the lamp shade together, salvaging as much of each piece as possible. Natalie had studied the shade carefully, determining which pieces to remove first. She put on her safety glasses and picked up her glass cutter. The thought crossed her mind that maybe what she was doing was a waste of time. Wade would have thought so, would have told her so in no uncertain terms. But she always found she felt better and was more focused when she’d had a chance to create something from nothing. Or recreate something from something else. A silk purse from a sow’s ear, her mother would say when Natalie would present her with her crude little bits of handiwork as a child.
She remembered a particularly awful T-shirt she had decorated for Mother’s Day when she was nine. Natalie had seen a book on modern art at the library and had been fascinated by the boldness she’d seen reproduced there. Works by Jackson Pollock and Wassily Kandinsky had leaped off the pages. She hadn’t understood what she was looking at, but the images had gripped her. She had done her own Pollock interpretation on the front of a big old yellow T-shirt she’d found in her bottom drawer, using acrylic paints she’d purchased with allowance money. The result was less than spectacular, but her mother had exclaimed it was the best gift ever and had worn it all day long. Of course, after that, Natalie thought with a wry grin, her mother had worn it to weed the vegetable garden. Still, her mother’s enthusiasm and encouragement had outweighed her diplomatic handling of the worst of the pieces. Natalie’s creative efforts had improved since then, she believed. She’d even sold them occasionally, usually to friends. They knew she needed money, she figured. Well, it was true. She did. And there was always another mad creation, another art piece waiting to spring to life in her hands, so she parted with most of them easily enough.
Natalie worked carefully, cutting each glass shape from its soldered bond. When she eventually pulled off her safety glasses and wiped the sweat from her forehead, she realized her stomach was growling. She pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt to look at her watch. Nine thirty. No wonder she was hungry. The time had flown by. She quickly sorted the glass pieces into small boxes and cleaned up her glass-cutting tools.
Natalie fixed an easy dinner of leftover picnic chicken and tossed salad and then washed her dishes. A quiet soak in the bathtub would be relaxing and help her sleep, she decided, so she grabbed her old chenille bathrobe from the bedroom closet and headed for the bathroom. She poured a generous amount of her favorite bubble bath into the rushing tap water, its steamy fragrance immediately filling the small room. She breathed in deeply, then rounded up a few extra candles and added them to the few she kept on hand in the bathroom already. Money was admittedly scarce, but a candlelit bubble bath was a treat she’d decided she could afford—and deserved—occasionally. So in celebration of surviving the Lisle-twin disaster and the most unusual blind date she’d ever had, not to mention her run-in with Wade, she allowed herself to indulge. Candles now lit, she turned off the light and stepped into the hot bubbles that frothed to the rim of her old tub. She slid in up to her chin and let the soothing heat seep deeply into her aching muscles. She was used to sore muscles; she didn’t take on the physical challenge of heavy housework day after day and not expect to have them, but today she also noticed a pull in her lower back and thighs and a tightness in her arms that came from matching wills with a four-wheeler. She closed her eyes and sighed heavily, breathing in the lavender fragrance from the bubbles as they blended with the vanilla scent of the candles.
She lifted a leg above the bubbles and soaped it from thigh to toe. It always surprised her to see some definition in her calves and quads. It was ironic, really. She’d never been athletic. In fact, after marrying Wade and having the girls, she had put on a little weight. While she had referred to it jokingly as baby fat, Wade had bluntly told her it was unattractive. Dieting and exercising were hard enough under normal circumstances, but after Emma’s birth, nursing had made her ravenous, and exercising had been next to impossible in her sleep-deprived state, between the baby’s regular nightly feedings and keeping a then-four-year-old Ryan out of mischief during the daytime.
Still, she’d tried hard to diet and exercise as soon as her doctor gave her the okay. But Wade had already begun to lace their conversations with subtle digs about her appearance, and though she hadn’t consciously realized it at the time, she’d allowed the weight to remain as a deterrent to Wade. She’d discovered the hard way that a handsome man could actually be rendered unattractive by virtue of his behavior and comments.
By the time Callie had been born, the comments had expanded to include all of her general inadequacies, of which Natalie apparently had an overabundance. She had responded by gaining more weight, neglecting to do her hair and make-up, deferring to Wade on all decisions involving the household, and immersing herself in her art projects and her children’s lives.
Natalie dragged a big soapy loofah down her arms. They too had muscle definition that surprised her. She should make an online exercise video and call it “Body by Bissell” or “Mop and Tone.”
She remembered the anniversary she and Wade had celebrated when Callie was about five months old. Natalie had decided to work hard, despite nursing, to try to fit back into her regular clothes, realizing that even those were two sizes larger than she’d worn when she’d married Wade. Her relationship with Wade had been in a serious downslide, and she’d felt it was her fault. If only she had eaten less, hadn’t let herself go as badly as she had. If only she had kept the house cleaner, ironed his shirts just right, made his favorite meals more often. If only she’d gone to college. All of their extra money had gone to getting him through school, and by the time he’d finished, she’d had two kids at home. Then Callie had arrived on the scene, and there had been three. Wade had worked long hours, and she’d been so tired after a long day with three little kids that she hadn’t given him the attention he’d needed. He’d become distant all of the time, and they’d stopped talking to each other. He would come home late and eat his
dinner alone (it was hard to make the kids wait until after eight to have dinner with him); she tried to convince him to come home earlier and spend a little time with them, but he always insisted his work was too demanding.
So she resolved to make this anniversary special, show him she loved him and was committed to making their marriage a happy one—although, at this point, she really suspected she was just attempting to keep it alive. She reserved a table at Cedars of Lebanon, where Wade had taken her on their first date. She fit herself into a borrowed dress she hoped made her look sultry as opposed to simply fat and spent the day doing her hair and make-up so Wade would be impressed. If he was feeling neglected and that was causing his indifference, she wanted to make it up to him.
Wade was late coming home from work again, and Natalie was concerned they would miss their reservations. He didn’t comment on her appearance when he walked through the door and threw his keys unceremoniously on the table. He simply asked, “When’s dinner?”
Natalie forced a smile. “I made reservations for us for our anniversary. Cedars of Lebanon,” she added expectantly, hoping he’d remember.
Wade slumped into a kitchen chair and thumbed through the mail. “I’m a little tired. I wasn’t expecting to go out tonight.” Natalie watched the realization dawn on him and saw a muscle twitch near his left eye. “I didn’t forget,” he said. He was scrambling for cover. “It’s been so busy at work—you know that—and I assumed you wouldn’t be able to get a babysitter on a school night. You caught me off guard.” He rose to stand next to her and shot her his mildly irritated look. “You could have reminded me. You know how much I have on my mind right now.”
She had tried to remind him—at least she’d tried to encourage him to come home early. But she’d also learned that his work hadn’t been too busy for him to take a two-hour lunch with a client, as she’d found out when she’d called his office at different times that afternoon. At the time, Natalie had wondered just who the client was, especially since Wade’s secretary had sounded nervous over the phone.
“Give me a minute to unwind, and we can hit the road. A little lamb and couscous sounds good, I guess.”
No comment about her hair, her face, her dress. No words of love or even affection. They hardly talked during the drive to the Cedars. Natalie stared at the menu, mentally resolving to leave the conversation up to him; she had been the one to do everything else, after all. He drank his spiced herb tea, dug into his lamb tagine, and tipped the belly dancer five bucks, slipping it into the waistband of her harem pants. Natalie noticed the harem pants of sheer black silk and the gold bangles attached. She also noticed Wade noticing as well. He hadn’t looked at her that way—or in any way—for months now. Trying not to sound hurt or petty, Natalie suggested taking belly dancing lessons. “Maybe you’d like it if I could dance like that,” she offered shyly.
Wade had looked at her over his cup as he’d sipped his tea. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe it would help you lose all that disgusting weight you can’t seem to get rid of.”
Natalie stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in her towel. That anniversary, that event meant to celebrate the joining of two people forever as one, had been a major turning point. Life was full of turning points, moments of epiphany, when the clouds parted and illumination shone forth. And there had been events to follow, events that had eventually culminated in the end of her marriage to Wade, leaving two bereft daughters and a son who had guessed at the inevitable and still had felt betrayed.
Tucked into her favorite fleece pajamas and wrapped in her robe, she grabbed her latest read and curled up on her bed to relax. Cleaning houses for others had freed her from her unwanted pounds and had also given her at least partial freedom from Wade. But what she really craved was the ability to care for her and her children without having to rely on anyone but herself. She’d been the little daughter at home, then the reluctant, remorseful, pregnant bride of her so-called high school sweetheart, then the dutiful wife of a distant, critical husband. She’d learned the hard way that she could trust no one else. If Wade was going to pull his child support, then let him. She would not ask again. She would not depend on anyone, any man, ever again. She would get her education somehow. She would go to school and find a career that would support her family.
Wade threatening to stop financial support for the girls wasn’t a complete surprise, considering what a deadbeat he’d already been, but it complicated things; she would have to use her carefully saved tuition funds to pay for things she had presumed would be taken care of by the girls’ father. So be it. She would not see her daughters or Ryan go without, nor would she be stopped from her course now that she knew what she had to do. That meant finding another house to clean, and soon. She opened her book, feeling resolved on the matter, read one paragraph, and fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 4
The Indian summer of September continued into October, and with it came a summons from the firm to return to New York. Ross’s flight back East was an uneventful one. He rode in the business-class section beside a silver-haired gentleman reading the Wall Street Journal, and they had nodded a polite greeting to each other before settling themselves into the comfortable disregard of seasoned commuters.
The minute they were at cruising altitude, Ross dragged out his tablet and scrolled through his notes. The prestigious old law firm of Rogers, Goldman, Clarke, and Janofsky had done their best to dissuade him from returning to Utah. Frankly, he himself had been reluctant to leave after fourteen years in the Big Apple and over a decade at the firm. His entire professional life had been there. The agreement they had struck was that he would continue to do work for them, long distance, while he attached himself to a Salt Lake City firm with whom they dealt regularly. It had been easy for Ross to gain entrance there; it had been an inconvenience trying to juggle both locations. At least he was earning plenty of frequent-flyer miles.
Amazing, the things one does for one’s family, Ross thought. He shook his head slightly as he skimmed through his notes. He had disrupted his career and uprooted himself all because of a couple of promises he had made to his parents the day he graduated from law school and announced his intentions to take a permanent position at Rogers, Goldman, et al.
“Hmm,” his mother, Dorothy, had murmured as he’d walked her across the manicured lawns of Columbia University, her hand neatly tucked into the crook of his arm. “They made you an offer, then?”
“They’re giving me a week so I can escort you and Dad around town while you’re here; then I’ll be putting in regular hours until my bar exam results are in.” He’d had no doubt he would pass the New York bar exam. He’d been on law review and was in the top ten of his class, even with the distraction Liz had been that year. He’d worked for his accomplishments, but he’d worked with the confidence that brains and talent provided. He had always succeeded at whatever challenge he’d faced.
“I will guard every minute that you are with us greedily, then,” Ross’s mom said. Ross watched her glance over at his dad, who’d been sitting on a bench on the vast campus lawn, a cluster of sparrows hopping around his outstretched feet. Delbert McConnell had always attracted birds, animals, and small children like the Pied Piper.
“I’ve had twenty-eight wonderful—not perfect but wonderful—years with that quiet, tall timber of a man,” she said to Ross. “Your dad and I are so proud of you, son. Will you be able to come home for visits very often?”
Ross knew she’d hoped he would move back home to Utah after his schooling in New York came to a close.
She sighed heavily and hugged his arm.
“I’ll be sure to come home a couple of times a year, Mom. You know I can’t live without your meatloaf. Or your bad jokes,” he added dryly.
She chuckled. “You know full well my jokes are bad and my meatloaf is even worse.” She waited a beat, and Ross sensed what was coming. “So, are you seeing anyone special?” The sun broke through the billowing white clouds that ga
thered at midday. She avoided looking at him by digging her sunglasses from her purse.
Ross could still see everything like it was yesterday.
Oh no, he’d thought. Here comes the inquisition, concerned-mother version. The inquisition—concerned-father version—included discussions of finances, Church responsibilities, and family duties. First-son duties, or in his case, only-son duties. But inquisition—concerned-mother version—dealt with hearth and home. Daily-life issues. Dating, marriage, and morals. Was he eating well? Getting enough sleep? Did he have a doctor, a dentist? Was he seeing anyone?
He’d been living on his own or with college roommates and mission companions for roughly seven years at that point. But she was his mother, and invariably, every conversation he had with her arrived at this juncture. There were occasional variations on a theme, maybe, but the theme was solid and straightforward: she worried about him and always would. She couldn’t be there to take care of him; that meant she wanted him to marry so someone would be there to take care of him.
“I’m not seeing anyone currently, Mom, but I’m not worried. There’s still lots of time for that.” He had never been inclined to burden her with his problems. That year had been a tough one, but he’d buried thoughts of Liz as carefully as he’d buried the engagement ring in the back of his dresser drawer. He gave his mom a reassuring smile, placed his hand over hers as it rested in the crook of his arm, and waited for his gentle inquisitor to go into full swing.
“Ross, that makes you twenty-six with no viable prospects. Brigham Young said single young men were a menace to society at age twenty-five, you know. By now, you’re a menace and a half.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward. Only in Utah would a twenty-six-year-old single man be considered a societal menace. “I know I’m a menace, Mom. It’s a natural gift. That’s part of the reason I went to law school. Being a menace is a résumé item most firms look for in prospective attorneys.”