By Liz Zuercher
The first time I saw Jen MacGregor she was working the crowd at the Elmhurst Junior High PTA get acquainted luncheon, greeting one mother after another, as if she were a receiving line of one and they were guests at her party. She wasn’t the best looking woman there, but she was so stylish in her brown tweed suit, so put-together in her burnt orange silk blouse just a shade brighter than her perfectly coifed auburn hair, so vibrant with her sparkling eyes and encompassing smile that every eye in the room was drawn to her. I pegged her as old guard Elmhurst and a PTA stalwart, maybe even the president. One thing for sure, she appeared to be the one everyone wanted to know or be seen with.
It was 1956. My husband, Ed, had been promoted again, and our family had just moved to the Chicago suburbs. After four moves in ten years I had learned to take things slow, so at this PTA meeting I was following my usual practice of standing back and sizing up the situation before plunging into a new group. My natural wariness held me back from joining the women surrounding Jen, but I couldn’t seem to stop watching her.
After a while she made it to my corner of the room, and boy was I ever surprised when she sat down next to me and introduced herself as new in the neighborhood. I’d never known my radar to be so off. I would have sworn she’d been queen bee here forever. Before I left that meeting I had learned that Jen, her husband, Bob, and daughter, Kate, had moved in a few doors down from me and that Kate and my Sarah were classmates and becoming friends. For some reason Jen was determined we would be pals, too. I don’t know why, but something about her made me let down my guard and I was swept into Jen’s crazy world.
* * * * *
Three years later I was still trying to keep up with Jen. One October Saturday the phone rang and Jen’s bubbling voice greeted me.
“Betty, drop what you’re doing and come on down here. We’re going to have some fun this afternoon!”
Part of me sagged as Jen issued my marching orders. Beside the fact that I bristled at her command, Jen could be exhausting. Most of me, however, could not resist the lure. If Jen MacGregor said we were going to have some fun, we were going to have some fun. I was hooked.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll be there right after I finish these lunch dishes.” What better did I have to do?
Ed was settling into his recliner with a beer to watch the Illinois/Purdue football game, and the girls, Sarah and Beth, had just left for the York High game with Jen’s daughter, Kate, so I was free as a bird. I grabbed my cigarettes and headed down the street to Jen’s house.
We lived in one of the many tracts of new homes going up in the area, where rows of ranch style and split level brick houses lined curving streets. Like swarms of pesky gnats these burgeoning new communities buzzed around the stately old homes and towering elm trees of the long-established core of the town. I often wondered what the upper crust of Elmhurst society on their tree-lined streets thought of our invasion of their territory.
Upstarts all of us, I guess. And like our new cookie cutter homes, we were most of us alike in our suburban lives. The men were climbing the corporate ladder, while the women supported them by keeping the house tidy, hot meals on the table and the children in line, not to mention looking presentable at corporate functions and entertaining with grace, even on short notice. Jen and I weren’t much different from the rest. We just liked to think we were.
As I walked the half-block to Jen’s house, I waved at Jim Sanders across the street mowing his lawn and his wife, Sue, who was weeding the flowerbed that hugged the front of their house. The air was crisp and smelled of burning leaves, and I could hear a baby crying somewhere. Probably Marilyn Rogers’ daughter, Cindy, resisting her nap again. Maybe she felt the tingle in the air, too, the tingle I always felt when Jen was up to something.
Jen opened the door before the doorbell finished ringing, her hazel eyes alive with excitement. I couldn’t wait to find out what was going on.
“Oooh, this is going to be so much fun!” she crowed as she pulled me inside. I wondered if she’d already had her nose in the Scotch, but she seemed too clear-eyed for that. Even on Saturday she was dressed in style – a white fisherman’s knit sweater with gray wool slacks, perfectly pressed, and shiny black loafers with nylons. I glanced down at my old navy gabardine pants, bagging at the knees, and sighed.
“C’mon in the kitchen and I’ll fill you in. Want a Coke?”
“Sure,” I said as I followed her to the kitchen. “What on earth are you up to now?”
“Look at this,” she said with a smirk, sliding a shocking pink flyer across the counter. She put some ice in a glass and poured me a Coke while I read the flyer.
GRAND OPENING
GRANT’S HOBBY SHOP
Models, Crafts, Art Supplies, Magic, Costumes, Games
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 9am – 5pm
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 12, 12Noon – 5pm
CALL FOR INFORMATION
“What’s so funny about this?” I asked, wondering why Jen was so worked up over a hobby shop. It wasn’t exactly her style.
“Look at the phone number,” she replied
“Oh, Lordy! It’s your number!”
“Yes, and I’ve been getting calls all week. It’s driving me crazy, and no one will do anything about it. I called the phone company and they said it’s out of their hands. Then I got the real number from information and called the hobby shop. All the guy could say was too bad, I’d just have to deal with it. Well, I’m gonna deal with it all right!”
As if on cue, the phone rang. Jen grinned at me and said, “I’ll show you.” She picked up the phone and said hello. I could only hear one end of the conversation, but that was all I needed to get the gist of her plan.
“Why, yes, this is Grant’s Hobby Shop.
“Yes, we carry Revell models. Everything’s on sale for the grand opening, and as a special promotion for our Halloween costumes, if you’re here at 4pm, we’re giving away free Indian suits to the first 25 children through the door after 4 o’clock.
“Great, then we’ll see you at 4. Bye.”
I sat agape as she hung up the phone and looked up at me with the devil in her eyes. We were silent for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Is that legal?” I asked when I recovered my wits.
“Hell, I don’t know,” she said. “But he deserves it, and besides, it’s so damn much fun getting even that I don’t care if it’s legal.”
The phone kept ringing all afternoon, and as Jen promised Indian suits to one and all we progressed from Coke to Scotch and water. It got funnier and funnier to us with each call. At about 4:15 the phone rang again and Jen held the receiver between our ears so we both could hear Mr. Grant.
“Lady, you’re killing me! What do you think you’re doing? I got at least a fifty kids here screaming for their prize and I ain’t got an Indian suit in the place.”
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to deal with it,” replied Jen, throwing his own ill-chosen words back in his face. “Now will you do something about this phone number?”
“What can I do?” he shouted. “What the hell can I do about it?” Desperation filled his voice.
“I don’t know, but you’d better figure something out,” she said, “because tomorrow we’re giving out TVs!” And she hung up with a flourish.
I had tears in my eyes and my sides hurt from laughing. By this time we were half looped and decided to fry up some hamburgers for everyone’s dinner and celebrate Jen’s triumph. We were all celebrating that night. The Fighting Illini and the York Dukes had both won and Bob had broken 90 on the Medinah championship course. It seemed like all was right with the world.
But later, after the buzz had worn off and Jen and I were doing the dishes, I turned around to get another plate to dry and caught her with her brow furrowed, turning something over in her mind. For a moment my heart quickened and I felt a sense of fear grip me.
“Is everything okay?” I asked cautiously.
“Oh, sure,” she said with a false brightness, straightening her body up as tall as it would go. “We did have fun today, didn’t we?”
“A ball,” I answered cheerfully. “We had a ball.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling things were not so fine as she wanted me to believe.
* * * * *
The holidays were upon us, and I didn’t see too much of Jen for a while. We both had our rounds of parties to go to, and each of us was required to entertain company people. I was getting really sick of trying to come up with new things to feed these obligatory guests. The last thing Ed needed was for his boss’s wife to comment on the way home that Betty served that same dead tired cheese ball again this year. Our family’s future might depend upon whether Loretta Miller liked the cheese puffs or Harry Jansen’s steak was riddled with gristle.
I’m a pretty good cook, but I wasn’t coming up with anything inspiring for my annual Christmas extravaganza. I needed to give Jen a call to see what she might have up her sleeve that would wow Loretta Miller. Jen wasn’t her usual chipper self.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied curtly to my request for ideas. “I’m having trouble figuring out my own damn party. I might as well serve weenies and beans to these pinheads for all the good it will probably do. Say, how about the shrimp de jonghe? I can’t do that again this year. You might as well try it.”
“Sure, that sounds great,” I said, a little curious as to just what she meant by the weenies and beans remark. “You sound like you’re about ready to jump off the deep end.”
“Oh, it’s just this holiday rush. I’m in charge of the hospital auxiliary Christmas Ball next weekend, and I haven’t finished up the dress I’m making for Kate’s Winter Formal, and that damned company has Bob traveling all over hell, so he’s not much help with anything around here. I’ll be fine when December’s over. Hang on, I’ll go get that recipe.”
When I hung up I looked over that recipe real well. Jen had been known to leave out ingredients or double up on the salt or otherwise alter recipes she gave out. I guess she needed to be the only one who could make a dish come out right. She’d pulled that stunt on me once, but she hadn’t figured on the fact that I had a degree in Home Economics, too. When I confronted her, she made up some excuse about how she must have gotten distracted when she was copying the recipe. I was more than a little irked that she’d do that to me. But now I was wise to her and I always double-checked her recipes. I thought this one was right, but I decided to give it a trial run anyway. I didn’t want anyone choking on the hors d’oeuvres.
As I funneled the inexpensive Scoresby Scotch into the Chivas Regal bottle for the party (no one ever knew the difference and it sure saved money), I thought about Jen’s strange mood. I didn’t buy for a minute that she was just too busy with the holidays, but I guess she wasn’t about to let anyone know what was on her mind.
* * * * *
We survived Christmas and New Years and trudged through the January and February snows to be rewarded with an early spring. March brought us balmy breezes, clear skies and a host of corporate functions to attend. Ed and I had a big retirement party for the Chairman of the Board, Charles Steiner. With his departure to a better life on the golf courses of Florida, and the elevation of the company president, Grant Russell, to chairman, everyone was holding their breath to see who would be anointed president. Of course, there would be a whole string of promotions, as each vacuum created would be filled. Like the swoop of a giant brush, the entire corporate landscape would be repainted.
Ed hoped to be one of those who were swooped up, which meant that I had to look ravishing at Steiner’s retirement party. I figured a new outfit was warranted, and that meant a trip to the Loop for serious shopping. All the best stores were downtown, and I don’t mean Marshall Field or Carson’s on State Street. If you wanted to make a good impression at the company party, you’d better be shopping on Michigan Avenue for your gown.
I called Jen to see if she wanted to go with me. We always had fun shopping, and I decided I could use some help picking out just the right dress. I’m not saying I didn’t have any fashion sense, but Jen was always so coordinated, a complete package. In summer even her Keds matched her shorts and top. She had a real flair for style, and occasionally I bowed to that altar and enlisted her aid.
“Hey, how about coming downtown shopping with me on Saturday?” I asked Jen. “I need to be dressed to the nines for Steiner’s retirement party, and that means a trip to Saks.”
“Sure, sounds great,” she replied instantly. “I’m in the market for a knockout frock, too. Bob’s boss is hosting a big dinner dance in honor of the new executive vice president. I guess it’s a command performance for us, if you know what I mean. I’d just as soon stay home and watch TV, but I suppose I’d better get out there and strut my stuff.”
“Why aren’t you whipping up one of your Vogue creations?” I asked. Jen almost always made her own clothes, as well as Kate’s. She was so good at the sewing machine, tailoring Bob’s suits, creating her own patterns from scratch, everything always flawless. I considered myself clever to sew a couple of poodle skirts for my girls.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, a hint of sadness in her voice. “I just need to go all out this time.”
“Shall we take the train or drive?” I asked.
“Drive, by all means. I can’t stand that train, and carting packages all around is a pain in the rear end.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine, then,” I said. As I hung up the phone, I found myself questioning what it was about Jen’s tone of voice that was giving me the willies. Oh, well, it would be a fun day.
When Saturday came, Ed took off at the crack of dawn with the nice company car to play golf with customers. He’d been out of town all week, and I’d forgotten to check with him about using the car. I called Jen to see if she could drive, but Bob had already taken one car and Jen had promised Kate she could use the other. What we were left with was our train car.
Now, train cars were so named because their sole purpose was to transport a commuter (in this case, Ed) to the train in the morning, sit at the station all day, then drive home from the train at night. These were not nice cars. They were serviceable relics meant to be left out in the elements, vehicles at the end of their useful lives. Ours was an ancient sickly beige Chevy rusted in spots from exposure, one of those clunky old rounded jobs that had seen many better days. It ran when you put gas in, and that was its only virtue.
Of course, we could have taken the train and used the train car as it was intended, but Jen was adamant. We were driving. So off we went, Jen and I all dolled up to rub elbows with the high rollers at Saks Fifth Avenue in our rust bedecked Chevy. It must have been quite a sight when we pulled into a prime parking spot on Michigan Avenue in front of the exclusive Andrew Geller shoe store and emerged as two fashionable ladies from our rattletrap buggy. I thought Jen would be mortified to be seen in such a rundown car, but apparently in her mind anything was preferable to public transportation.
After our false start, we had great luck shopping that day, each of us finding the perfect evening gown. Hers was a deep green chiffon number that brought out her hazel eyes. Mine was black taffeta with a strapless top and a train inset with deep red. There was a matching taffeta shawl, black lined with red. I’d gone over my budget, but the dress was gorgeous, and I was sure Ed would approve.
“You need some shoes to go with your dress,” Jen decided. “Why don’t we put these things in the trunk and go into Andrew Geller?”
“I can’t afford Andrew Geller shoes,” I answered. “I’ve already spent too much on the dress, and Ed will be furious if I get fancy shoes, too. I’ll just have to make do with what I’ve got.”
“Oh, come on, it won’t hurt to look. And besides, you can’t wear old shoes with that knockout dress. It won’t look right. What would people think? Let’s at least see what they’ve got.”
I thought about it for a moment and had to admit it would look tacky to wear worn out shoes with such a dress. The whole effect of the gown could be ruined, and the company president’s snooty wife, Verna Russell, would be sure to notice and look down her nose. I’m not usually one to care that much what other people think, but there was a promotion for Ed on the line here.
“You’re right,” I said. “I need new shoes.”
We stowed our things in the Chevy trunk and headed into Andrew Geller.
“May I help you ladies?” a distinguished looking salesman inquired cordially. I figured he must not have seen us come from the Chevy or he probably wouldn’t have been so nice.
“We need some very special evening shoes,” Jen said, adopting a haughty tone that matched the salesman’s. “Something to go with my friend’s exquisite black gown.” She had taken over and appointed herself my fashion coordinator.
“We have many lovely things,” he said, “but I believe I know just the one. What size to you require?”
“7 double A” Jen jumped in before I could open my mouth. We wore the same size, so I guess she felt safe providing this information.
“If you’ll have a seat, ladies, I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the back room.
“Oh, Jen, I think we’re out of our league here,” I whispered as I sank back into the plush cushioned chair. “I feel like an impostor.”
“Baloney,” she said. “It’s just a shoe store, and we belong here as much as the next person.”
I wished I had her confidence. I was used to having nice things, but they were middle class nice things, not high society who-cares-what-it-costs nice things. I was embarrassed, a fish out of water, but Jen acted like she shopped there every day.
As I squirmed in my chair, the salesman returned with three boxes. He sat down in front of us and opened the first box.
“This is our most unique evening shoe,” he said as he peeled back the tissue paper. “Certain to complete your ensemble beautifully.”
Jen and I gasped when we saw the most perfectly elegant shoe ever made. It was a timelessly classic pump with a slender three-inch heel, the whole shoe totally encrusted with rhinestones. Verna Russell would drool for these shoes.
Gently cradling the pump in his hands, the salesman asked, “Would you like to try them on, madam?”
Breathless, I could only nod. You’re damn right I was going to try on these shoes!
I felt like Cinderella as he slipped the right shoe onto my foot, and when I had both shoes on, I rose from the chair and glided across the carpet to the mirror. I was walking on a cloud. Not only were they fantastic looking shoes, they were comfortable, and my narrow foot wasn’t an easy fit. It was as if they were custom made for just me. By the time I got to the mirror, I knew I had to have these shoes, and one look in the mirror clinched it. How something that sounded so flashy, so over-the-edge could be so tasteful and graceful looking was beyond me. They were magic shoes, I thought. I could dance all night in these shoes. I neededthese shoes!
“How much are they?” I heard Jen ask. I braced myself for the answer.
“One hundred fifty dollars,” the salesman replied.
Boy, did my bubble burst. What was I thinking? There was no way in hell I could afford to spend $150.00 on a pair of shoes no matter how magical they were. That was a mortgage payment for crying out loud. My shoulders sagged and I made my way over to the chair and drooped into it. I took off the shoes and handed them back carefully to the salesman.
“I’m sorry. They’re lovely and perfect, but they’re too much,” I told him with regret, wondering how I’d ever let Jen talk me into coming in here in the first place. How humiliating this was.
Jen had seen me floating on cloud nine in the pumps and watched me deflate on learning the price. She knew how disappointed I was, but for some reason she couldn’t resist urging me to buy them. Maybe she was still playing her role as wealthy-enough-to-be-here.
“Don’t be silly, Betty. If you want them bad enough, you should have them. It’s only money. Go on.” She was so insistent I figured she must be joking. She knew I couldn’t spend that on a pair of shoes. But her jaw was set and her eyes were focused intently on the pumps. I searched for her little grin that always signaled a zinger on its way, but it was nowhere to be seen. It scared me a little and aggravated me to no end that she could be so insensitive.
“Jen,” I growled at her under my breath and gave her the evil eye. I was hoping she would be quiet and we could beat a hasty retreat from this situation. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The salesman was staring at me expectantly, and I was glaring at Jen while I put my own shoes back on and got ready to bolt out the front door.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Her face wore a vacant expression as her glance traveled outside. Suddenly she lit up like one of those comic strip characters with a light bulb over their head.
Uh oh, I thought. She’s got an idea. I felt a tingle coming on.
“Say, Betty, how much is that train car worth?” She winked at me. “About $150.00? What do you say you trade the Chevy for the shoes?”
Then to the aghast salesman, whose eyes had followed hers out to the heap on the curb, she said, “What do you think? That’s an even trade, right?”
The look on his face was priceless. Better than the shoes. The tension of moments before evaporated, and I’ll never forget how hard we laughed as we left the store and climbed into our waiting chariot.
On the way home we were spent from shopping and laughing. We rode in silence down the Eisenhower. Jen seemed unusually quiet, her eyes closed and her head resting against the seat back. Given her odd moods over the past few months, I was beginning to think maybe she was sick or something. I was getting a little worried about her, but was afraid to ask again if everything was okay. Finally, she spoke.
“Maybe I should have plunked out the money and bought those shoes myself,” she said as if to herself.
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, shit, I’m not supposed to talk about this,” she said angrily. She looked absently out the window at the old warehouses fronting the expressway. Turning back, she said, “What the hell, I’ve got to talk to somebody. Bob might get transferred. The company has been working on a reorganization plan for months and no one is saying how all the chips will fall. We’ve been trying to do all the right things, and this dinner dance could be the most important party of my life. Since October I’ve been on pins and needles waiting to find out. I just don’t know if I can stand moving again.”
The sadness was back in her voice, and the confident, resilient, lively Jen I knew was nowhere to be seen. Well, I could sympathize. Like the MacGregors, Ed and I had done a lot of moving, a lot of starting over. If you weren’t starting over someplace new every three or four years, your career was dead in the water, with one exception. The promotion that brought us back to Chicago also brought us to the home office; so unless Ed’s career took a downturn, we’d be staying a long time. I felt like I could finally put down some roots.
The same was true of Bob MacGregor’s company. Chicago was the corporate headquarters; so I knew that this potential move would not be a promotion for Bob.
“Well, nothing’s settled yet, right? You have every reason to believe you’ll be staying here, don’t you?” I was trying to be hopeful, but I didn’t know if I was selling it.
“Sure,” she said without conviction. “There’s still a chance.”
* * * * *
A couple of weeks later Jen knocked on my door. I’d never seen her so upset.
“They’re sending us to Minneapolis,” she was crying now. “What on earth will I do in Minneapolis? I’ve finally gotten everything here worked out just right. And what about Kate? She’s a junior in high school. What a lousy time to have to pick up and move. I’ve worked my behind off in all the right clubs and charities so she can make her debut next year. Now that’s all wasted. And Minneapolis of all places. I won’t go! They can’t make us go.”
I thought she had some of her priorities goofed up, but I knew how she felt about moving. I’d gotten really good at starting over, but it wouldn’t be my choice to do it again any time soon. I commiserated with her, trying my best to make her feel better.
“Well, I hear it’s beautiful in Minnesota, with all those lakes. It might not be as bad as you think.” My lame attempt to soothe her fell on deaf ears.
“I don’t care. I’m sick of all this kowtowing to that company. They decide our whole life for us. And Bob is such a pushover he won’t standup for himself. I told him to just quit, but he’s afraid nobody else will hire him because he’s too old. Bullshit!” She was on a rampage now.
I decided to let her rant for a while and get it out of her system. She didn’t want to hear what I had to say anyway. Bob was probably right about finding another job. He was over 50 and not exactly a go-getter. Companies preferred to hire the young lions. If his career was headed south, he was probably better off staying with the company that felt they owed something for his years of loyal service.
I’m sure there were many heated discussions down the street as the MacGregors prepared to move. Jen had stopped crying the blues to me, but I knew her well enough to know she had not given up. She was most likely hatching a plot to keep them in Chicago, at least until she could get Kate introduced to society and off to college. I knew she would try anything to keep them from having to pack up and head out of town with the unspoken disgrace of Bob’s demotion left in her wake. I felt like I was waiting for a time bomb to go off.
Late one afternoon a couple weeks later, I was starting to fix dinner when the phone rang.
“Betty! Betty! Come help me!” It was Kate, and she was hysterical.
“Calm down, Kate. What’s going on?”
“Mom took some pills and I think she might be dead. What should I do? Oh, jeez, what can I do?”
“I’ll be right there.” I dropped the phone and ran out the door.
“Damn you, Jen,” I muttered to myself as I hurried down the street. “Damn you!”
Kate ran out to meet me and led me to the basement rec room. There was Jen, sprawled out on the sofa, one arm dangling off the edge. An empty bottle of sleeping pills was overturned on the floor next to a half-filled glass of water. I went over toward her, my heart pumping wildly. I could see that she was breathing evenly and let out a long breath myself.
“She’s alive, Kate. Go call an ambulance.” I wanted to keep Kate busy, and I wanted her out of the room. This was all a little too dramatic. I smelled a giant rat here.
Relieved that her mother was alive, but still terrified, Kate hurried up the stairs to call an ambulance. I stood quietly at the foot of the sofa and watched Jen like a hawk. As Kate’s footsteps faded, I saw one of Jen’s eyes open carefully and scan the room. It lit on my stern face and shut real tight.
She was faking it! My God, she was faking a suicide!
“What a hateful thing to do,” I said into her ear. “Kate is out of her mind with worry. Why on earth would you do such a thing to your own daughter? How selfish can you be?”
I was so furious I was about to explode. At that moment I despised her. But Jen was playing a role. Her eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes as if she were groggy with drugged sleep. I suspected that if her stomach were pumped, there’d not be a single pill.
Kate was coming back downstairs and I was relieved to see that Bob had gotten home and was with her.
“She’s awake,” I called to them. “I think she’s going to be fine. I’ll go wait for the ambulance.” I gave Kate a big hug before I headed up the stairs.
“Where am I?” I heard Jen say in a heavy slurred voice as I climbed the stairs. I had to get out of there or I’d say something I’d regret. Goddamn, I was mad at her.
The ambulance arrived and Jen continued her Sarah Bernhard routine until they all decided she didn’t need to go to the hospital after all. It was just a big “mistake”. Right. I excused myself as soon as I could and went on home to my family, leaving Jen to deal with hers on her own.
I stayed away from Jen for a while. I had some thinking to do. I should have seen it coming, I guess. I did notice she wasn’t herself, but never in a million years would I have imagined she’d go so far. I thought she could handle anything. She always looked like she had it all under control, her life, Bob’s, Kate’s. The rest of us were amateurs compared to her, so what did it say for us if she couldn’t stand the pressure? I’d spent nearly four years trying to keep up with her. Why? What was the point?
She steered clear of me, too. She knew I was too angry with her to play her game and fawn over her. Finally, she called to apologize.
“I’m sorry,” her sheepish voice said. “I got a little carried away. I was just frantic about this move. I had to do something.”
“What kind of mother does that to her child?” I asked. I was still seething. Whatever else Jen was, she’d always been a good mother.
“I know. It was supposed to be Bob that found me. Kate wasn’t supposed to be home until much later, and then when she came downstairs and screamed and ran and called you, it just seemed better to play out the scene. It was really stupid.” What a weak excuse.
“It was still a shitty stunt to pull on anyone. No move could be so bad as to warrant that.” I had a death grip on the phone, I was still so angry.
“I just didn’t think I could do it again. I thought moving here would be the last time. Bob promised me it would be the last time.” She sounded spent, used up.
I was about to give her my lecture on making the best of it, about how we’d moved around a lot, too, and how we left friends behind and had to begin again in a new place more times than I thought I could, and how we always made new friends. But I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. She knew that speech already. She didn’t need to hear it again. Neither did I.
After a strained silence she said softly, “Can you ever forgive me?”
I struggled to find an answer to her question. Finally, I said, “I honestly don’t know. Can you forgive yourself?”
“I don’t know either,” she whispered and hung up the phone.
* * * * *
They moved a few weeks later, right after school let out for the year, and I didn’t hear anything for quite a while. One day as I was just about to refill the Chivas bottle with Scoresby, the mailman came to the door with a package from Jen. I couldn’t imagine what she would be sending me and checked to make sure it was for me and not something for Sarah from Kate. But my name was on it big as life and I opened it up. A note from Jen was taped to the gift-wrapped box:
Dear Betty,
I found these when I was unpacking and thought maybe you’d have more use for them than I do. I went back and bought them the week after our little excursion, but didn’t want to tell you, since you were so crazy about them. Guess they weren’t magical for me. Maybe you’ll have better luck.
We’re getting settled in our new home, and I couldn’t be happier. Our house is great and I’ve just finished sewing up the last of the draperies. Kate’s met some darling girls, and they’ve invited her to join the most exclusive high school sorority. The boys are ringing the phone off the hook. We’ve joined this fantastic country club, and I’m on the committee for the New Year’s Eve party. You’ll have to come visit some time. You’d love it. We’re here to stay. Bob promised. Give me a call if you feel like it.
Love, Jen
P.S. Don’t you dare send these back!
I shook my head as I put the note down. It sounded like the old Jen was back, putting a positive spin on everything. I hoped she was right and they’d found their home at last. For her sake. For her family’s sake.
I opened the box to see what she’d sent and was stunned to see the rhinestone pumps. I couldn’t believe she’d actually spent the $150.00 to buy them, and I found myself getting angry that she’d gone behind my back to get these shoes I was dying for. What kind of friend did that? If this was meant as a peace offering, it was a dud. But here they were in my hands, and I couldn’t resist trying them on. I slipped off my loafers and put the pumps on. They didn’t fit quite as well as I remembered. I walked into the bedroom to admire them in the full-length mirror and as I studied them, turning my feet this way and that, it dawned on me that they really were pretty gaudy. I took them off, walked barefoot back to the kitchen and put the shoes back in the box.
As I put my own shoes on I noticed the Chivas bottle sitting on the table next to the jug of Scoresby. I picked up the empty Chivas bottle and threw it in the trash. I had a beautiful cut glass decanter with an etched silver “Scotch” label that would do just fine for the Scoresby.
