Wife-In-Law (2 page)
“Mind your manners, Zach,” Kat scolded. “This is our new neighbor, Betsy … sorry, I didn’t catch—”
“Betsy Freakin’ Callison,” I said, smooth as my smile, “of Greg and Betsy Callison, your only freakin’ neighbors in the subdivision. So far.”
Zach grinned with a definite spark of intelligence. “I like you,” he said, extending a callused hand with grease under its nails. “Glad to meet ya.” He followed the flick of my eyes to his nails, then hastily withdrew his hand. “Sorry. I’m a plumber. It’s hard to get ’em clean.”
Embarrassed that he’d noticed my reaction, I shifted to the food. “I hope y’all like fried chicken and stewed corn and pole beans.”
“Do we ever.” Zach eyed the cake keeper with alacrity. “And cake.”
“It’s devil’s food with seven-minute icing,” I couldn’t resist bragging. “My specialty.”
Zach plopped down into a chair, untying a set of utensils. “Man, oh man.” He grabbed a paper plate, then pulled back the checkered dishtowel and helped himself to a chicken leg. “Maybe you could teach Kat to cook,” he said as he heaped on a pile of pole beans with the slotted spoon. “She doesn’t even make coffee.”
“I kin make vegetable soup,” Kat defended, clearly feeling at a disadvantage.
Zach guffawed through a mouthful of chicken. “Only if somebody dies or
seriously
screws up.” He waggled the half-consumed chicken leg my way. “You ever see her making vegetable soup, head for the hills, ’cause there’s a funeral or a tongue-lashin’ in it for somebody.”
seriously
screws up.” He waggled the half-consumed chicken leg my way. “You ever see her making vegetable soup, head for the hills, ’cause there’s a funeral or a tongue-lashin’ in it for somebody.”
Kat shifted uncomfortably. “Hush up, Zach. We just met this woman. She don’t care why I make soup.”
I felt sorry for the girl, married to such a mannerless man who looked like a hobo and told their secrets to strangers. Or not married to him. Or whatever.
“Well, I guess I’ll just head home,” I told them. “I have to go visit my mother and take her some supper.”
Kat brightened with interest. “Your mama live nearby?”
I knotted up inside the way I always did when anyone asked about Mama, but didn’t let my expression show it. “Down in town.”
Kat eyed my clothes. “Buckhead, I bet.”
I just smiled, a master at avoiding awkward questions. “Y’all use the tray and the dishes as long as you need, but the dishtowel is a housewarming present.” I started edging toward the door. “Don’t get up,” I said with more than a hint of sarcasm as Zach shoveled in the food I’d made. “I know you must be tired. I’ll just let myself out.”
Kat followed me, suddenly shy. “Thanks so much for the food and all. Maybe we’ll see each other around on the weekends.”
“I’m sure we will,” I said with a warm smile and a wave good-bye, silently dismissing the couple as potential friends.
The other four houses on the cul-de-sac were almost finished. Surely somebody with whom Greg and I had more in common would move in soon. Kat and Zach just weren’t our kind of people.
But God, as He so often does, had other plans.
T
hanks to Atlanta’s ever-present road construction and traffic, I was almost an hour late getting to Mama’s that afternoon. If I didn’t do a fast turnaround, I’d end up stuck in rush hour. I parked on the crumbling pavement in front of Mama’s tiny house and unloaded the food. When I got to the chain-link gate to her tiny yard, her next-door neighbor appeared on the other side to let me in, hoe in hand.
hanks to Atlanta’s ever-present road construction and traffic, I was almost an hour late getting to Mama’s that afternoon. If I didn’t do a fast turnaround, I’d end up stuck in rush hour. I parked on the crumbling pavement in front of Mama’s tiny house and unloaded the food. When I got to the chain-link gate to her tiny yard, her next-door neighbor appeared on the other side to let me in, hoe in hand.
“Afternoon.” He went back to weeding the tomatoes Mama let him plant all the way around the inside of her fence.
The guy hardly ever spoke. Mama said that gardening was his only escape from taking care of his wife, who was dying long and hard of Alzheimer’s. But Mama’s motives weren’t completely altruistic: she loved home-grown tomatoes, and his were prizewinners. His own little yard was crammed with gorgeous vegetables, which he also shared with her.
I noted that some of the tomatoes were almost ripe. “How do you get them to ripen so early?” I asked him.
He beamed. “Plant ’em early, in March,” he said. “I cut the bottoms out of gallon jugs and cover them. On warm days, I take off the jug tops. Only way to get tomatoes in June this far north.”
It was the most he’d ever said to me in fifteen years. “You’re a real wonder-worker in the garden.”
He hesitated, frowning, as if he owed me a compliment in response. “Your mama’s lucky to have you lookin’ out after her.” His face flushed with embarrassment.
“Thanks.”
He went back to his hoeing, so I headed inside with the food.
I didn’t bring up our brief conversation because Mama would analyze it to death, and I didn’t want to talk about the man behind his back.
“Hey, Mama!” I called over the blare of
The Match Game,
carrying the food down the narrow path to her TV tray.
The Match Game,
carrying the food down the narrow path to her TV tray.
“Hey, yourself.” She didn’t turn down the TV. She never did. “What’d you bring?”
“Fried chicken, pole beans, stewed corn, and devil’s food cake.” I set the containers on her tray. “What did you pick out for me to take?”
“For heaven’s sake, Betsy, you just got here,” she deflected. “Can’t that wait? I haven’t even eaten.”
I stood in the small space in front of her recliner, my nose twitching at ancient dust and decaying paper. “Mama, pick something. Now,” I said over the TV, “or I’m taking this food home with me and not coming back for a week.” We both knew it wasn’t an empty threat.
Mama went canny. “How did I raise such a cruel child?” she repeated in cultured Southern tones. Despite her arthritis, she rose gracefully from her recliner and pulled a middle-sized box from atop the heap of stuff beside the TV. It was a miracle she could move at all, since her only exercise was going from the bathroom to the refrigerator and the sink and the microwave, then back to her chair. How she kept her figure was beyond me.
Still, Mama was a striking older woman—beautiful even, if she’d just take some care with her hairstyle or makeup, but she refused to let me make her over with just as much vehemence as she refused to let me clean her house. Ironically, she kept herself squeaky clean.
She thrust the box at me. “You want this so bad? Take it. It’s pieces of me.”
It wasn’t pieces of Mama; it was pieces of soap—five pounds of the dying slivers of a jillion colors and textures—and they hadn’t been there when I moved out to get married two years before. Right after I left, she’d piled the one shower-bath full of junk, so she must have been washing from the sink, which couldn’t account for all that soap. Lord knows where it had come from. I shuddered to think.
“Good job, Mama. Good job,” I encouraged, still grasping at the illusion that behavior modification might work with total insanity.
I leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t stay, or I won’t get home in time to have Greg’s martini ready.” I gripped the box of slivers hard against me, in case she tried to take it back. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“Go on, then,” she grumbled, waving me away. “Leave me alone here. See if I care.”
Why that kind of talk still got under my skin, I couldn’t tell you, but it did. Was it too much to hope for at least a little gratitude?
Mentally ill. She’s sick, not deliberately trying to drive me crazy too. “See you Friday, Mama.”
Thanks to her delays, I barely had time to get home and set the table, warm up dinner, and have Greg’s martini made before he drove into the garage. Glass in hand, I exhaled a cleansing breath, then put on my best Total Woman smile.
The door from the garage opened and Greg shot me a smug look. “That’s my girl.” Kissing me on the cheek, he took the martini. After a hefty slug, he headed for the den with his
New York Times
(expensive, but deductible).
New York Times
(expensive, but deductible).
“Hard day at work?” I asked lightly.
He paused just inside the den, but didn’t turn around. “Crazy.”
Normally, I gave him time alone to detox from work, but I’d learned to read the nuances of his posture and inflection, and there was definitely something wrong. So I broke with protocol and followed him into the den, where I found him behind the financial section in his tasteful wingback leather recliner. “Want to talk about it?” I asked.
“Not till after dinner,” he said through the paper. “I need to unwind first. With another martini.” His eyes never leaving the news, he shifted the paper to his left hand, then slugged what was left of the first drink and extended the glass my way.
Must have been a
very
bad day. Whatever that meant. I had no idea what kind of problems he faced at work. Greg never talked about them. He said it just made him feel worse to rehash the negative.
very
bad day. Whatever that meant. I had no idea what kind of problems he faced at work. Greg never talked about them. He said it just made him feel worse to rehash the negative.
“Martini, coming up,” I said. After I delivered that, I retreated to the kitchen. Though Greg often said that a man’s home was his castle, a woman’s kitchen is
her
domain, so I always found confidence there. Keeping an eye on the martini by his chair, I waited till it was almost gone before transferring the corn and beans into serving dishes.
her
domain, so I always found confidence there. Keeping an eye on the martini by his chair, I waited till it was almost gone before transferring the corn and beans into serving dishes.
Greg loved my fried chicken and pole beans and stewed corn, so surely dinner would cheer him up. I poured his sweet tea and my plain, then lit the candles and said, “Supper’s ready.”
Looking gorgeously rumpled with his collar open and his tie loosened, Greg took his place, rolling up the sleeves of his pinpoint oxford button-down. Finally, he looked at me. “So, what’s the story with the new neighbors?”
Uh-oh. Not a topic to cheer him up. “Why don’t we eat first?” I deflected.
A brittle gleam reflected in his dark eyes. “Why? What’s wrong with the neighbors?”
When my husband looked at me that way, avoidance only made him angry, so there was nothing to do but spit it out. “They’re hippies.”
He frowned in disbelief. “Hippies can’t afford to live in Sandy Springs. And anyway, why would they want to?”
“Beats me.”
Fork poised, Greg voiced the very thought that occurred to me in that instant. “What if they’re drug dealers?”
“But this is the suburbs,” I protested, still firm in the belief that our location protected us from such awful things. The South has always lagged behind the social cutting edge—maybe because we’re weaned on the Bible and the importance of our heritage—so the “tune in, turn on” movement was pretty much limited to the go-gos down on Tenth Street.
Greg took a bite of chicken and mulled on that.
“You’d think drug dealers would want to blend in,” I went on, “but those two are gonna stick out like a sore thumb out here,” I said. “He looks like that hairy guy from ZZ Top.” We in the South knew all about ZZ Top long before the rest of the country caught on. “And he has
tattoos
.” I took a bite of corn.
tattoos
.” I took a bite of corn.
“What’s
she
like?” Greg asked, assuming there was a she. In our world, single people didn’t buy houses in the burbs.
she
like?” Greg asked, assuming there was a she. In our world, single people didn’t buy houses in the burbs.
“She looks like a kid. Frizzy red hair, no makeup, freckles.” I leaned closer to confide, “I don’t think they’re even married. She said they’d been ‘together’ since they met at a love-in at Piedmont Park when she was sixteen.”
Greg’s proper Presbyterian genes got in a wad. “I’m gonna kill the developer. And those agents in the sales office. We have covenants to keep out riffraff.”
Like me?
I sighed. “I checked the covenants. There isn’t a ‘no hippies’ clause. Or ‘no tattoos.’ And not a word about having bad furniture.”
“Damn.” Greg slammed his tea to the table with such force, it sloshed onto my white cutwork cloth. “Just damn.” Glaring into the middle distance, he shoved in a mouthful of beans and chewed with excessive force. When he finished, his eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s certainly a restriction about doing anything illegal. One of my clients is a captain with APD. I’ll have a word with him. Get him to check them out.”
“Great.” Greg was one of the most connected men I’d ever met, so I gladly entrusted the matter into his capable hands. “But in the meantime,” I cautioned, “it’s our Christian duty to be nice to them. They might not be drug dealers, and they are our only neighbors.”
“I don’t suppose he plays tennis,” Greg said.
“I doubt it. He’s a plumber. And his beard would definitely get in the way.”
“Just damn.” Greg fell silent, focusing on his food for the rest of the meal, with only an occasional burp of profanity between bites.
Maybe dessert would help a little. He loved my devil’s food cake. So did I, which was why I’d gained fifteen pounds since we married, but Greg said it only made me more voluptuous.
I waited to pick up his plate till he laid his silverware across it, the signal he was done. “Would you like some coffee? I made your favorite for dessert.”
He lightened up a little. “Tea’s fine.”
Sure enough, a big slab of my moist, sweet confection did the trick, and he came out of his funk.
I cleared the rest of the table while he ate it. Greg had never touched a dirty dish, a matter of pride with me. “Why don’t you go stretch out and watch some TV after you finish?” I suggested over my shoulder as I started loading the dishwasher. When I got no response, I turned to find him frowning again.
“Honey, come sit down,” he said gently. He never called me honey unless it was something awful. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
My heart contracted to the size of a walnut. Oh, God. Was I going to lose my house? Had they fired him? Was that what had happened at work?
I don’t remember sitting down, but I did.
Greg took my hand in his and said, “I had a hell of a day till I opened my mail this afternoon and found out I passed my CPA,” he said as if he was telling me he had cancer, instead of reaching one of his most important goals.
Thank God, thank God! He hadn’t lost his job. But why wasn’t he bursting with his usual pride of accomplishment?
“So they’re promoting me, two years early,” he told me with a look of pity.
“Oh, honey, that’s amazing.” I gave his lips a congratulatory buss. “I’m so proud of you.
Nobody
passes their CPA the first time. You worked so hard for this.”
Nobody
passes their CPA the first time. You worked so hard for this.”
He took a leveling breath, then said, “The bad news is, they want me in Chicago tomorrow.” Tomorrow? For how long? “A new client, and a big one, but the account’s such a mess that our guy up there just quit and walked out, so we fired him.”
But this was a promotion for Greg. If anybody could slay this dragon, he could, and what a coup that would be. “You’ll be able to handle it,” I said. “I know you will.”
He glanced to the floor. “It will definitely make me or break me.” His gaze met mine. “The trouble is, I’d thought we’d have at least another year before this happened, time for you to make some friends, so you wouldn’t be all alone out here. I don’t like leaving you in this situation.” He scowled. “Especially with those
hippies
across the street.”
hippies
across the street.”
“Honey, don’t you worry about me for one instant.” There would be other neighbors soon enough. “I’ll be fine. At least four of the houses on our street are almost finished, and lots more all around us. I’m sure they’ll sell quickly. More people will move in before we know it.”
I paused, then ventured, “How long will you have to be gone?”
“Normally, I’d get two weekends a month off,” he said, “but the mess they’ve got up there … it might be longer than that. I’ll just have to see.”
How would I fill my time without a husband to care for? Greg was adamant that no wife of his would work. “I can do some charity work, meet some people there. Take bridge lessons,” I told myself and him. “Get more active at church. Learn needlepoint,” I said with forced cheer. “I’ll be fine.”
And I’d make sure his weekends home were memorable. My innards did a flip just thinking about it.
Grateful, he cupped the side of my head in his palm, stroking my temple with his thumb. “You’re such a trouper. I know you can manage. God knows, you managed worse than this growing up.” For the first time in quite a while, he really
saw
me. “I’m just sorry that you have to.” His expression sharpened. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m calling the alarm people and having one put in. Top-of-the-line.”
saw
me. “I’m just sorry that you have to.” His expression sharpened. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m calling the alarm people and having one put in. Top-of-the-line.”
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