by Robert Price
Chapter Sixteen
“Shell, pack up the kids and come on over. Tom’s reception has turned out to be an open house, kind of a party,” Ted Dorsey told his wife.
“Should we?” Shelly could hear the crowd through the telephone receiver.
“Yeah, it’s like everyone’s here. Billy and Jeanine Quinn brought their kids.”
“But they’re family.”
“That doesn’t matter. Besides, I think Mrs. Hubbard would love to see ’em.”
Shelly agreed to go, but in truth she was reluctant to stop what she was doing, ready their two children, pack them into their car seats and drive across town. After her father had reneged on a promise to baby-sit, and after Ted left to pick up Neil Bingham, she spent the morning cleaning house. Not that the house was dirty or disorganized or even needed the thorough attention she gave it, but she was angry—mad at her father for backing out, jealous that Ted got to go to the funeral, the gravesite and the memorial reception while she was, once again, stuck at home with the children. But more than the anger toward her father, more than the jealousy of Ted, she felt as if staying home and cleaning were penitence to God for having been secretly and selfishly excited about attending all the affairs of the day.
When she thought about it, it was obvious: She had let excitement and anticipation about spending a day out amongst adults override the tragedy behind the circumstances. The previous evening, for example, after putting the children to bed, she weeded through the fancier clothes in the back of the closet—clothing stored in long, clear plastic bags since before her second pregnancy. Some outfits she’d almost forgotten she owned.
Standing in front of the dresser mirror she tried on smart dresses, sophisticated skirts and tasteful blouses. At first she limited the choices to dark colors, but soon she was putting on a personal fashion show, like a child playing dress up. At one point, she even practiced mock adult conversations about politics, careers, books and restaurants. She pictured herself dining in London, New York and Paris—“Reservations for Dorsey?” “Two, please, yes.” “Why, thank you. You are so kind.”
Although Shelly had never traveled to London, New York and Paris, and figured she never would, still, she missed the freedom that she and Ted had enjoyed before marriage and before the birth of their children had refined her dreams. And for a moment she fancied herself living a different life—a life like she had always imagined Tom Hubbard had led. In the end, however, she decided on a conservative but definitely stylish, dark green, close-to-black blazer, black slacks and a matching sweater. The lack of color would complement Ted’s suit. Her fashion assessment: “Respectful of Tom, and perfect for a damp November day.” Then she laid the ensemble over the back of their bedroom chair.
Later that evening, after choosing her outfit, Shelly kneeled at the foot of their bed and folded her hands to pray.
“God, please bless my family and Tom’s heroic soul. God, of course I’m grateful for all that I have … my children and my husband, our family. But, God, so few things change in my life, so little happens. And I know this is wrong … I’m ashamed of myself for feeling this … But—I am all jumpy and excited, like I’m going to a wedding, or like something special will happen tomorrow. Bless my family. Bless Tom’s soul. And please, God, forgive me for my selfishness.”
The following morning the phone rang while the two children were arguing over toast and soft-boiled eggs. Her husband, dressed in his suit, paced the kitchen floor, aimlessly grumbling about his ‘hyperactive sense of responsibility’—not only had he offered to pick Neil Bingham up at the airport, a fifty minute ride each way, but he had promised to drive him back as well, that same night, so Neil could catch a return flight to Chicago. Before even answering the phone, Shelly correctly guessed it was her father calling to cancel. She knew she’d have to stay home because, God is always watching us.
“Thanks, Dad,” was all she said. Then she commenced with a thorough cleaning of the house.
Now, moments after hanging up with her husband, who had not only said to come to the memorial reception but to bring the kids as well, Shelly thought aloud, “I guess I’ve paid the price and learned my lesson: Today is Tom’s day, not my day. Thank you, God, for helping me see that.”
Shelly was unaware that her son, five-year-old Teddy, had heard her speaking out loud.
“Are we going out?” Teddy looked up at her with inquisitive brown eyes. After dressing the children in their best play clothes, clean jeans and a blue button down shirt for pudgy Teddy and an attractive pink jumpsuit for her bubbly four-year-old Tammy, Shelly changed her own clothes. For herself, she decided on a different outfit, one more fitting for the occasion than the one laid out the night before—this time it was a pair of simple slacks and a plain blouse. Definitely less flashy, she thought. She got Teddy and Tammy into the family car and arrived at the Hubbard farmhouse just a few short minutes later.