The Way It Happens In Novels

by Kathleen O'Connor

  Richard was restless. He raised himself by pulling on the metal triangle over his head. Then he slid down a bit; and by pushing with his good side, managed to grab the left bed rail. Throughout all this activity he watched her steadily. “What did Brown say?”

  “When I told him my husband was sick? Oh, just a lot of phony sympathy.” The vinyl on the visitor’s chair squawked as she sat down and pushed herself backward. “My back and neck are killing me. All that type, type, typing.” She ducked her head. “Brown! He’s such a phony. But God, Richard, there was a time when I wanted to impress him so damn bad. I used to pretend some derelict broke in and Derr—Brown defended me. But finally I got to pretending a band of terrorists came in and that I was the one who saved both Brown and Gray.” Richard was gazing at her with such rapt attention, she thought he must have experienced similar emotions, must have constructed similar desperate daydreams, hoping to win a surrogate father or substitute mother. “Guess you went through the same thing with somebody. Huh?”

  He shook his head gravely. “No, never.”

  She stood and took his left hand. A mosquito had bitten him, and the skin around his large white knuckle was red and swollen. To Cheryl, the mosquito bite emphasized how defenseless he was. Her inability to protect him made her feel even more exhausted. “Richard, I’ve got to go home. Good night.” It was a cold exit, she reckoned, but she never called him sugar, sweetie, or such endearments because the staff used them so effusively.

  Cheryl went home to her book. At work she was still reading the Regencies, but in bed at night she had gravitated toward medical tomes about cardiovascular disease. It disconcerted her that she always read the paragraph about resuming sexual activity before reading the chapters on therapy and depression. The paragraphs were never conclusive: some could; some could not. The books were helpful in other ways, though. Studying the analyses of prestroke symptoms, combined with what Richard had told her, increased her confidence for the performance that lay ahead.

  “How’s Stu?” Derrigo asked again.

  “Still having the headaches and acting funny. Wants to go on vacation. Doesn’t want to go on vacation. Feels dizzy a lot.”

  A week later it was Raymond she told first—mainly because he arrived at the office before Derrigo. Her eyes, after a night of poor sleep, were in a state appropriate for delivering tragic information. “My husband’s had a stroke. I’m going to have to request a leave of absence.”

  Raymond set down his cigar, then looked at her for a moment without comprehending. He stared at her empty hands as if they might provide some clue to this interruption of the morning routine. Finally he said, “Of course. Whatever you need.”

  When Derrigo heard the news, he offered to drive her home. “Oh, no,” she told him bravely. “He’s in the hospital and being well cared for.”

  Later that afternoon Derrigo heard her on the phone ordering a hospital bed. Both he and Raymond were deferential. They tightened up their prose to keep letters and memos brief and they put callers on hold in order to pull out a file for themselves. Cheryl reviewed these developments with a degree of amusement; it seemed a shame to start her leave just as the office was turning civilized.

  On Wednesday an office temporary, who was to fill in for her, arrived. The agency had said the woman’s name was Lucy. Cheryl approached the reception desk expecting to meet a middle-aged woman. But Lucy was young—very young. She wore high-waisted black slacks and a tight pink knit top pulled over a firm chest. As they walked back to Cheryl’s desk Lucy’s high-heeled sandals made a slap, slop, slap, slop sound. Cheryl noticed that Lucy’s toes were painted the same shade of pink as her top. She felt the beginnings of a headache but carefully explained her responsibilities and showed Lucy the phone and files. Lucy smiled constantly and asked only one question: “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

  When Cheryl made introductions to her coworkers, Lucy said hello sweetly but almost inaudibly. As they were leaving Derrigo’s office she batted her artificial eyelashes and asked, “Would you like coffee or anything?”

  With no little trouble Cheryl had cured Derrigo of his dependence on her for coffee. The task had been all the more difficult because the woman who had preceded her had been the motherly type eager to perform such personal services. And here was this office temporary wrecking it all. She would get their coffee, bring their lunch, type sloppily, scramble phone messages, and they would love her, absolutely love her. Fortunately Derrigo was on his way to a meeting, so he declined Lucy’s chirpy offer of coffee. This time, Cheryl reflected.

  Whir, whir. The child was stuffing pencils into the electric sharpener. She had found something she liked to do. “Lucy, would you like coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink it.”

  Cheryl pulled her large leather purse out of the bottom desk drawer. Lucy’s tiny vinyl disco bag was wedged in front of it. What a waste, Cheryl thought. For all these years, she had bought professional-looking, well-tailored clothes when she could have shopped at discount stores like Lucy and been equally appreciated. But that was not really true. Her pear-shaped frame required expensive clothes. It was all so unfair.

  Lucy answered the phone and scribbled a message on the green memo pad with her own purple felt-tip pen. Then in fine secretarial style she repeated all the information to the caller. When Lucy gave Derrigo the green slip of paper, he said “Thank you, hon,” an endearment Cheryl once thought she had earned by years of devoted service. Cheryl’s own phone started ringing, but before she could answer Lucy picked it up. “Mrs. Freedman’s line. Yes, she is. She’s right here. May I ask who’s calling?”

  Lucy finally handed her the phone with an eager-to-please smile. “It’s a Mr. Johnson.”

  “Thank you, Lucy.”

  “Cheryl?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Jetlag Johnson. I’ve got the dog.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Heinz. Richard’s dog.”

  “Oh, well, good.”

  “The kids will miss him, but if Richard wants him, I’ll put him on a plane.”

  It was inconceivable to Cheryl that a man named Jetlag had children.

  “But I’ve got just one question. What’s your relationship to Richard?”

  “Wife.”

  “Recent development?”

  “Very. Starts this Sunday.”

  “You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

  A tiny sigh escaped from her. How perceptive of Jetlag Johnson! She had only seen Richard sitting up once. He had been in his wheelchair with a sheet tied around his waist, looking as disembodied as Dan Rather on the seven o’clock news. Besides not knowing Richard that well, she also knew very little about his illness. All her medical reading had not prepared her for that terrifying time when she approached his bed and he looked at her with hard, flat eyes and demanded, “Take me back to bed.”

  “You are in bed, Richard.”

  “No, I’m not. Take me back.” She had known better than to summon help from the nurses or aides. They could not deal with symptoms that were neither overt nor measurable. So she had slowly walked down the hall, and when she returned, Richard was blinking and all right. Was it occasions like this that had driven away all his friends? Or had he been violent, too? Right now she could not ask Jetlag because Lucy was poised over the pencil sharpener waiting for her to finish her conversation. “We’ll be all right.”

  “Well, I’m glad he found you,” Jetlag concluded. “Consider Heinz our wedding present.”

  Wedding present! It sounded so strange, Cheryl thought, as she put the phone back on the hook. She had been so busy before her last wedding—with presents, photographers, florists, the catering service. Perhaps society insisted on this overpreparation so the participants would be too tired, dazed, and dizzy to know what they were doing.

  The arrangements for this ceremony had been few. The event would take place in the nursing home chapel. There would be no
honeymoon. She had ordered a hospital bed at $118 a month. Home health aides were available from an agency for ten dollars an hour. Since she made only $8.25, they would be dipping into her savings and inheritance right from the start. But she had really expected more obstacles.

  Her mother must have read about the banns in her church bulletin, but she had not mentioned it. Cheryl did not know why she was surprised. Her mother never interfered. For months after Cheryl had dropped out of college, she had followed her mother from room to room asking, “Are you upset?” Rose steadfastly refused to betray any emotion. “You are an adult. It is your decision.” Actually that was one of the few decisions in her life she did not regret. It had given her two more years to be near her father.

  Stuart, the one person she had told about this marriage, had been totally unfatherly. He had called her and babbled on about supremacy and magic of love without ever finding out if Richard could express that love. There were a few days a month when that did matter to her. Stuart had been no help.

  Neither had the Catholic Church. The Church placed obstacles in everyone’s path but hers. She was a woman whose first marriage had been annulled. Richard’s sexual competency was in question. But the young Italian priest who would marry them asked no unpleasant questions and made everything as convenient as possible.

  Cheryl moved the freshly sharpened gray pencils from one side of her desk to the other. Somebody should be putting a stop to this marriage. She was a woman who could not take care of an African violet. (The leaves always got jaundiced-looking and she had to rely on her mother’s plant-resuscitation powers.) Cheryl moved the pencils back again. But the thing was: somebody ought to love Richard. And somebody also ought to love her. It was too late to change anything anyway. As soon as she had accepted the ring, it had all become as irreversible as a mailed parcel.

  Lucy’s doe eyes were fixed on Cheryl as she sat there, unmoving, purse in lap. “Would you like me to get the coffee, Mrs. Freedman?”

  “That’d be really nice.” Cheryl opened her wallet but found nothing but copper. She should be organized like her mother and occasionally roll her pennies. She pulled out a bill but Lucy shook her head and reached for the disco bag. Her gold leaf earrings swayed as she bent down. “I want to get them. You’ve been so nice and all.”

  Cheryl sat back, waited, and began to understand men a little better. It was very pleasant to have an attractive, ungrudging young person fetch the coffee.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The ring was under his right leg. The ring was under his right leg. He had to remember that. He hoped he would. There was this whole Mass to sit through first, and when the time came he might not remember.

  He did not remember much anymore. All week long the Mouse had been asking him what color dress Cheryl would be wearing. He never remembered to ask her. Finally Mouse said, “Will she be wearing white?” He had told her no and been right. Cheryl was wearing a lime-colored dress. It was pretty enough, but he had seen it before. It hurt him that she had not bought a new dress. But it was her second wedding and he supposed that made a difference.

  Her long red hair was shiny. She probably slept on hair rollers every night. Women, he had noticed, who were not beautiful sometimes went in for self-mortification—always washing their hair and starving themselves. MacLogan was beautiful, and she had not gone in for self-mortification. Lord, no! When she was in the mood, she could eat like—stop! Stop! What was he doing thinking about another woman on his wedding day? Still he wished Cheryl had wound a ribbon through her hair or stuck some dried flowers in it—anything to denote that today was special.

  The one who had gone to some pains was the Mouse. She had worn a white two-piece dress with large gold buttons. Her hair had just been worked on by the beautician and each curl was separate, molded, and distinct like a small hill or a new grave. She was standing at the altar to the left of Cheryl. They had let her be a witness, but she was calling herself a bridesmaid.

  Al was standing to the right of Richard. He had not officially asked Cheryl’s stepfather to be a witness or his best man, but Al had been attending to him all day and continued to do so. It was Al who had bought him the clothes he was wearing. The navy slacks and white shirt were painfully stiff, and the new canvas shoes felt like weights attached to his feet. It was not the time to be thinking about his feet. He looked over at Cheryl and smiled, but she was piously watching the priest.

  May the Lord God accept the offering from your hands

  For the praise and glory of His name

  For our good and that of all His Holy Church

  His back ached. His feet hurt. But what was the alternative? If he weren’t here in the chapel getting married, he would be in the upstairs lounge staring out at filthy Birch Lake. “Lord God have mercy.” He must have slid forward and said it out loud, for Al suddenly grabbed him under the armpits and boosted him back in the chair. Cheryl’s face turned crimson as she stared at him. He had shamed the woman and himself. If only Vernice would come and take him back to bed. He searched the two rows of spectators but did not see her. She was always snooping around when he did not want her. Why couldn’t she just once be around when he needed her?

  The altar cloth had eighteen tassels on his side. He counted twice to be certain. Then he double-checked with multiples of six and, sure enough, the total was one hundred and eight. Sixteen subtracted from one hundred and eight was ninety-two. No, it was not. No, God, no. It was. It was. He looked up. Cheryl was still staring at him and mouthing something—four words—“Blah, blah, blah, blah.” She did it again: “Blah, blah, blah, blah.” Then she looked at him inquisitively. “Are you all right?”

  He finally figured it out and nodded. “Yes.”

  It was a stupid question. But at least she was asking. For the last two years people had been constantly telling him he was all right. When his body had first started causing him petty humiliations, he had gone to the team doctor. Eckert told him he was fine, just getting older. He had been twenty-seven years old at the time. Then after he had the stroke, the physical therapists dragged him around while the pain shot up and down. When he screamed, they took his blood pressure and pronounced, “You’re all right, Richard. You’re all right.” He was not all right; but at least the woman asked rather than told.

  The priest lifted the host. “This is my body.” Richard raised his head then bowed it. Christ had died on the cross and his own body was half-dead. In the land of the living they call it crippled.

  The crippled Connecticut Clippers. That’s what the new team had been called before he was drafted. He had gone with the hapless Iowa Hawks to the Rose Bowl, and the Connecticut owners had wanted him to turn things around for them. Even if he had stayed in good health, he never could have. He had been a worthy player—conscientious, consistent, and sufficiently strong-willed—but never capable of magic. Tony Travano, the high-school quarterback he had followed at Flagler High, had been capable of it. The guy would stare at himself with loathing in the lavatory mirror before games quietly muttering, “Wop, greaser. You stink! You suck!” Occasionally he could work himself up into an emotional frenzy sufficient to go out and perform the impossible. But Travano had lasted only one year in the pros. The fans, the press, had wanted his magic to be consistent. They did not understand that you had to choose.

  The press had been kinder to Richard, constantly labeling him amiable, though he was not all that amiable. He just possessed a slightly protruding arc of upper teeth that made him look as if he were always smiling.

  When he was a kid, there had been no money for orthodontia. His father, a minor-league ballplayer, had deserted his mother when Richard was three years old. He did not remember his father, only the portable ironing board his mother had used during their vagabond time as a family. His mother was rightfully bitter, and Richard knew he had to excel at football and make it up to her. But with his sickness he had broken the deal. And now he was becoming a man just like his father—a man who lived off women.


  He looked over at Cheryl, and there she was dazed and walking toward him. The overhead lights bounced eerily off her red hair. She passed right in front of the altar without stopping to genuflect or anything. You weren’t supposed to do that. Was she nuts? She must have decided she could not go through with it and was stopping the ceremony. He could understand. Ten minutes earlier he had wanted to do the same thing himself. When Cheryl got right in front of him, she extended her freckled hand and said “Peace of Christ be with you.”

  The kiss of peace! He tugged at her upper arm. Apparently thinking he wanted more than a handshake, she bent down and brushed her lips against his hairline. “Genuflect on your way back,” he whispered.

  “Ahh.” She covered her mouth with her hand in an embarrassed oops gesture. But on the way back she respectfully, almost gracefully dipped down in front of the altar. When they were facing each other, she gave him an anxious look.

  He smiled approvingly. You did fine. You are all right. The woman needed confidence.

  Playing football was supposed to give you confidence, and in isolated moments during actual games it did. But between times you were everybody’s monkey. You could get cut or traded, and the press badgered you with unanswerable questions.

  The one time you did want to speak to the press and explain a questionable action in a complicated play, they dismissed you with a “Know you want to get to the showers, Richard.” It was not much different from his relationship with Vernice. Playing football probably prepared you for being a stroke patient as well as any vocation.

  And through it all—one good, one fair, and one poor season—he had received the bubble gum. The gift’s very constancy moved him. It was so nonjudgmental, he figured it had to be sent by a small child. Every time he spoke at the grade schools on the importance of warming up, he would look for the child, whom he had named Chucky Freedman.