The Lady Business

Another scene from my ongoing coming-of-age novel called The Lady Business.

 by Susan Matthewson     

Since I started my period last month, mama’s project of turning me from a tomboy into a young lady has intensified. She’s always scanning me like radar, alert for unladylike behaviors—like biting my nails, screeching at the top of my lungs, slumping when I walk, laughing too loud, and sitting on the couch with my legs spread eagled (somehow that one really gets her going).\

Mama never raises her voice or loses her temper, but you can always tell when she’s mad or serious because her soft Southern accent that sounds like honey puddling over hot biscuits takes on a flat, harsh edge like dried up brown sugar. I’ve been hearing that dried up tone too often, most recently this morning when she was annoyed because I wasn’t wearing the starter bra she just bought. Mama says my bosoms are blooming and I need to wear a bra. Mama always refers to breasts as bosoms. She says it’s more polite. But my daily inspections in the mirror reveal a chest flat as a board. I see no signs of bloom. I don’t even see a bud. I cannot be bothered by all the extra equipment and aggravating body processes involved with this lady business.  Considering menstrual periods, sanitary belts and napkins, shaving legs and underarms, cleaning fingernails—well, it just seems an unfair burden.

Hoping to avoid putting on that bra, I slipped out the back door into the alley and out of mama’s sight. That’s how I met Indy Jo Della Rippa.

The Della Rippas are new to our neighborhood and a hot topic of conversation. Mama never gossips, but I’ve heard other neighbors refer to Indy Jo as “cheap,” “flashy,” “fast.” Most women on our block don’t work, except for Mrs. Clarke, a music teacher, and Mrs. Harmon, the school nurse. Indy Jo works and it’s what she does that has everyone in a tizzy because she’s a cocktail waitress at the Airport Lounge. I don’t understand the uproar about this, although I guess it could catch you off guard to see Indy Jo prancing out her front door on the way to work in our sedate little neighborhood wearing high heels and black fishnet stockings with white ruffled panties peeking out from under the short satin skirt of a French maid’s costume   . Still, I think she’s kind of interesting. She’s definitely different.

                

So I was surprised when I passed the Della Rippas backyard to hear another Southern accent calling out, “Hey, sugar, what y’all up to today?”

                

A flash of bright color caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Indy Jo strutting toward me wearing hot pink short shorts and a halter bra. She had a pink silk scarf tied around her platinum blond, shoulder-length hair that was all puffed up on the top and sides and turned up on the ends like a country western singer. She had on sparkly silver sandals and wore hot pink lipstick with rose-colored eye shadow.    

                

I couldn’t help but notice she had the biggest bosoms I’d ever seen in my life. Watching her jiggle around, I finally saw how a bra, which seemed so extraneous to me, could be of major significance to someone like Indy Jo. When she invited me in to have a soda pop with her, I knew right away that Indy Jo, different like me, just might be a kindred spirit.

                

To Tree or Not to Tree

by Liz Zuercher

We just moved into a smaller home and I can’t figure out where to put the Christmas tree.  I asked Gary what he thought about one spot in the living room and he nixed it.

“It would block traffic,” he said. “We’d knock it over every time we walked into the room.  Don’t bother with a tree.  Just put a wreath above the fireplace.”

“Wouldn’t Eric be sad not to have a tree for Christmas?” I said.  Gary shrugged.  Obviously, it doesn’t make any difference to him, but I feel a duty to make a nice Christmas for everyone.  Shouldn’t that include a tree?

I get that from my mother.  She worked hard to make Christmas special for her family, something I never appreciated until I became a mother.  What used to be a fun holiday became a stressful task with a firm deadline.  There were little people with great expectations, and I couldn’t let them down.  But it was always worth the effort - the kids putting their special ornaments on the tree, seeing their faces on Christmas morning when they saw their presents under the tree, the whole family sitting around the tree unwrapping gifts, the kids playing with their new toys next to the tree.  See?  It all revolves around the tree.  How could we not have a tree?

I admit that in recent years, our Christmases have been out of the ordinary.  Our boys are now thirtysomething men.  Greg lives two thousand miles away and rarely gets back for Christmas.  There are no grandchildren whose eyes light up on Christmas morning.  It’s become a low-key adult affair unbound by tradition except for the crab dip, sandbars, almond roca and lottery scratchers in our stockings.  We have a nice meal, then Gary naps while Eric and I tackle a puzzle and watch something on TV.  One year we watched a whole season of “Dexter”.   I call it the Christmas of Murder and Mayhem.

So, yes, we buck tradition – we are the ones who have Chicago deep-dish pizza for Thanksgiving dinner after all - but to go without a Christmas tree?  Really?

I long ago ditched the real trees in favor of pre-lighted artificial ones.  The last real tree we had was twenty years ago when my sister and her family came from Colorado to spend the holidays with us and to surprise my mother for her 75^th birthday.  That was one magnificent tree, made most memorable by the fact that our whole family gathered around it.

That’s the key, isn’t it?  It isn’t really about the trappings of Christmas.  It’s about the experiences shared with loved ones.  Gary would nod in agreement and tell me to eighty-six the tree.  But wouldn’t Eric be disappointed?

On Thanksgiving I asked Eric where he thought the tree should go.  Without hesitation, he said, “Just forget the tree.”

Gary threw both arms up over his head in victory.  “Yes!  See?” he said.

I felt defeated.  Had all my Christmas efforts been in vain?  Didn’t they care about any of it?

Then Eric said, “But, Mom, there’s no mantle on this fireplace.  Where will we hang the stockings?”

Ah, Christmas lives, with or without a tree.  But I’d sure better find a way to hang those stockings, the ones with the lottery scratchers.   

            

Unpredictable

by Susan Cameron

Unpredictable, that's what life is. We do the best we can with our plans and projections, but there we are -- driving along on our usual route on an ordinary day, when an incoming meteor blasts through the clouds, a hurtling fireball screaming through a previously untroubled sky, and it explodes and sends shock waves that shatter our windows and send us reeling. We like to imagine we're in control, but -- meteors happen.

How about the friends who blow hot and cold, or the spouse who does the same? A career that rolls along, predictable as the tides, until a tsunami of layoffs comes crashing onto the beach? The shadow on the X-ray? The money invested with Bernie Madoff? The Enron pension?

I read the news, check the bank balances, get the latest news on my stock holdings, go three times a year to www.annualcreditreport.com, fix all the problems that I can see or anticipate; but despite all my proactivity, there isn't one damn thing I can do about life's meteors.

Susan Cameron
copyright 2013

Love Street - Cassie and The Webers

by Liz Zuercher

 I broke my biggest fattest rule when the Webers first walked into the Bella Vista sales office:  Never get personally involved with a customer. 

I want my buyers to feel like I’m their friend.  But, even though I really care about them, I keep a professional distance, because after they move into their new house, our paths will rarely cross again.  If we do run into each other, we will have a sincerely cordial conversation where they will fill me in on their lives – how old the kids are, if they have a new job or a new dog or a new baby.  They will ask me where I’m working now and if I’ve gotten married yet, since most of them wanted to fix me up with their good friend Bill or Jack or Dave or Paul.  I’ll say no I’m not married yet and I’m working at the new neighborhood up the road a ways.  Then we’ll say it’s been great seeing you – and we’ll really mean it – and we’ll go our separate ways.  That’s the way I like it. Close, but not too close.  Professional.  No one gets hurt that way.

But when the Webers came in the front door, the rule went out the window.  Yes, they were physically beautiful – young, blond, tanned like Barbie and Ken – but the beauty ran deep in both of them.  Somehow you could tell right away that they were good people.  They radiated love, happiness and sincerity.  I know, they sound too sugary sweet, like one-dimensional Disney characters, but I couldn’t see anything not to like about them.           

As beautiful as John and Kristen were, their daughter, Missy, was the one who stole my heart.  John held Missy, her head resting on his shoulder, her fine blond hair damp against her forehead.  She rubbed sleep out of her eyes and kept quiet while I talked to her parents.  I felt Missy’s eyes on me.  Then she reached over and touched the single carved sterling silver bead of my necklace and said, “Ball.”

That gentle touch of her warm fingers sent a shock of regret through my whole body.  It took me back over twenty-five years to the baby boy I’d given up for adoption. It had seemed like the right thing to do.  I had no husband, no boyfriend, and no way to raise a baby. I thought I had plenty of time for babies later, when the situation was better.  But that time still hadn’t come, and my doctor had just said my childbearing years were almost gone.  My insides ached.  I held back the tears that threatened to betray my feelings to these perfect strangers, and I put one of my best salesgirl smiles in place.

“Yes.  It’s a silver ball,” I said to Missy, not taking her hand away from the necklace.

“Pwetty,” she said, moving her tiny hand to my cheek, stroking it softly.

“I’m sorry,” John said, taking Missy’s hand in his own and kissing it.

“No problem” I said, even though I knew right then I had a big problem.  I was already well on my way to breaking that big fat rule of mine.  I was head over heels in love with Missy Weber and her parents, and I would never be able to keep a professional distance from them. 

Most of the time when I meet a couple like the Webers who seem to have the world on a string, something turns out to be wrong with them.  They’re beautiful on the outside, but ugly on the inside.  They make unreasonable demands or they are flakes who can’t do anything in a timely manner or they lie about their income.  The ones you fall for as customers can also break your heart when they can’t qualify for a loan or when they decide to buy somewhere else after you’ve invested weeks of your life with them or they can’t make a decision to save their souls.  There are so many ways the patina of a perfect buyer can be tarnished, that I tend to be wary of the ones who seem too good to be true.  I’ve found I need to protect myself that way.

But John and Kristin Weber turned out to be kind and decisive and cooperative and honest and just plain fun.  Even though my years of experience still fanned a little inner flame of wariness, I gave in to them and believed they were the real thing, a family I wished were my own.

They got on the priority list right after the grand opening, but unlike the hordes of greedy investors, they didn’t want just any home as long as it was in Phase 1.  They got on the list early so they could work their way to the top by the time Phase 3 was released and have a good shot at buying Lot 52, the Plan 4 on a big pie shaped lot - the one on a cul de sac with the ocean and hillside views.  They wanted the big yard for Missy and their golden retriever, Riley.  They wanted the biggest house for all the children they were going to have.  And they wanted the ocean and hillside views for themselves to enjoy when the children were grown and gone and they had time to sit on the deck together and watch the sunset.  They were the exception in those days.  They weren’t looking for a quick profit in two years.  They were looking for a home, a place to raise their family, to create memories, to grow old together.  Such a breath of fresh air.

They sold their townhome early and moved into an apartment, so they’d have their down payment money ready.  That was another way they were different from most of the customers then.  Instead of financing their home to the hilt, they were putting 20% down.  So responsible, so solid.  The only blemish I could find with the Webers was Kristen’s low credit score, but it wasn’t because she had been reckless with her money.  She’d had some serious medical issues before she and John married, and even with insurance, the bills were more than she could handle.  But John’s credit was excellent and his job even better, so he was able to qualify for the mortgage by himself.  Everything was on track.

Every weekend while their house was being built, John, Kristen and Missy came to see me in the sales office.  We’d jump in the golf cart and drive down to their lot and stand at the edge of the wide back yard and stare out at the ocean.  I was always holding Missy, because she always reached for me when the cart stopped in front of their new home.  I began to feel like I was part of the Weber family, like I would be spending time with them for years to come, long after I’d closed all the escrows in Bella Vista and moved on to another community.  When Kristen got pregnant, they came to tell me, Missy sporting a “Big Sister” tee shirt, so excited about the baby on the way.  When Kristen miscarried, she called me to cry with me, to warn me not to say anything about the baby to Missy.

I had to call John right after the miscarriage to confirm his loan arrangements.  When he said he had changed lenders and he was financing 100% instead of 80%, something inside me flip-flopped.

“I thought you were putting 20% down,” I said.

“We were,” he said.  “But I changed my mind.”

Something about the way he said that – “I changed my mind” – raised a red flag.  Had steadfast, reasonable John been bitten by the investment bug?  Did Kristen know?

“Are you sure?” I said.  It wasn’t my place to advise him about this, but I wanted to scream a warning at the top of my lungs.

“Yep,” he said, an excitement in his voice that scared me.  “Let’s do this!”

I’ll always remember how I felt when I hung up the phone – like someone had just told me my child was sick and no one knew the cure.  Helpless.  But hanging on to a slim hope that somehow it would all work out anyway.  When I look back at everything that happened, I go to this one moment.  I should have said something to change his mind.  I should have protected my family.