Good Days Bad Days: A Novel, page 13
“Uh, yeah. I think so.” I shut down the camera and collect my tools as she continues to ask questions while submerging various items in the off-white goo and placing them onto a sheet of wax paper to the left of the bowl.
“Did you go to school for that, or are you a natural with mechanical things?”
“A little of both.” I shrug, not wanting to sound too cocky, though it’s true. Ever since I was a child I’ve been good with my hands, whether playing piano or fixing Ma’s vacuum or helping Pop with the Oldsmobile. Ma used to say I had an eye for beauty, an ear for poetry, and a hand for fixing things. Pop didn’t agree. When he was still around, he said I was a bumbling idiot, a mama’s boy, a kiss up, a sissy boy. It’s always been easier to believe my father’s criticisms than my mother’s glowing report.
“What school did you go to?”
“Beloit.”
“Oh, that’s fun. My friend went there.”
“Yeah, it’s a good school,” I say, loading the tools onto a work cart on the far side of the studio.
“She got married after her first year. Got her MRS degree, as they say. She and her husband live in Boston now. I think she had a baby not too long ago.”
“Fairly common,” I say, wiping my greasy fingers on an already dirty terrycloth towel on the cart.
“I guess.” She blows at a lock of hair that’s escaped from under her headscarf. “I mean, I get why they do it. I paid my own way through school working two jobs the whole time. That’s hard. Getting married looks easy compared to all that.”
“So, you don’t want to be a ‘classy homemaker’ after all?”
“I’m not saying that,” she says, turning on the faucet with her elbows. “It’s just—I have a family back home to take care of, and this gig pays better than being a real homemaker.” She rinses her hands before aggressively rubbing a bar of soap between them, and changes the subject. “Come here. You’re next.”
Her hands are coated in suds as she beckons me over. I have black grease embedded in my fingernails. I’m embarrassed, but I do her bidding. It’s hard not to.
Once I’m at the sink she orders me to roll up my sleeves. Obediently, I unbutton my cuffs and fold them up.
“Good. Now, in the water.” She urges my hands into the running water. It’s cold and I remember we decided to only run one pipe through to the stage. Just as I’m getting used to the bone-aching chill of the tap water, her hands take mine, luxuriously warm, smooth as silk, and slippery with soap. I flinch, but she keeps them in place with a light tug as she scrubs.
“They want us to use that Ivory soap on air, but Lava is the only kind that really works.”
The bubbles turn dusky gray and then the color of storm clouds. It’s a strange and delightful closeness after keeping a measured distance. Now I can smell the baby powder scent of her hair and notice the fine lines around her eyes, along with the way her face powder rests lightly on her skin. My heart rate rises and I become increasingly aware of each brush of her palms, her nails dragging against the fine hairs on the back of my hand, and how her hips sway into my side with each stroke.
“And now rinse.” She shoves our joined limbs under the spout. The freezing water does little to cool my boiling skin and take down my exploding body heat. But then she lets go, drying her hands on a dish towel as I finish rinsing. Hands dry, she leaps up onto the counter, her legs dangling, Keds sneakers crossed and swinging.
“You’re a kinda quiet guy, aren’t you?” She watches me intently, making my heart race like I’ve walked up ten flights of stairs.
“Not really,” I say, knowing I’m lying. I turn off the water and take the towel she offers me. “I like to think things through.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” she says. “I think the world could use a few more shy guys.”
Shy. I hate that label. It’s been my moniker since I was a little boy who’d rather hide behind his mama’s skirt than go play with the other kids. It’s taken a lot of effort to muscle past those inborn anxieties that kept me silent as a child. I feel exposed by her use of the term.
“I don’t know about that.” I shrug, wiping down the chrome on the sink and then starting in on the linoleum.
“I do. Most men talk too much and think too little. I like that I can, I don’t know, breathe a little when you’re around. Like, I can hear myself think, you know?”
She says it like we spend hours together every day, which we do, but it’s in a room with a dozen other people. It’s not like this. To know her opinions on me and my personality sends pinpricks of electricity across my flesh and into my joints.
“And when you do have something to say, I really listen ’cause you must mean it. I like that. It’s more honest, like, no BS.”
“I . . . I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Well, I do.” She hops off the counter and takes the damp dish cloth out of my hands. “Like, how you brought up the idea for a new opening song. It’s so catchy.” She hums a few bars of the new theme song as she arranges the drying flowers in rows. “Where in the world did you guys find that tune?”
“I . . . I wrote it.” I know I’m blushing.
“You did?” She looks at me with wide sapphire eyes like I’ve admitted to being the president of the United States. “It’s so good. I didn’t know you were musical. What instruments do you play?”
“Piano. Since I was five or six. My mom was a piano teacher.”
“So she taught you?”
“Yeah, and my brother and both of my cousins.”
“So you were like the von Trapp family?” she asks, putting the now-empty sticky, dirty metal bowl to the side. I place it in the sink, filling it with water and adding soap.
“No, no. Not even close.” I laugh a little easier this time. “I’m the only one who really took to it. My cousins stopped taking lessons after grade school, and my brother . . .”
My brother. I don’t talk about my brother, not since that call and definitely not since his funeral two months later.
“Your brother quit, too?” she asks, laughing. I turn off the water and start drying the bowl, the ache in my chest as monumental as the day I tossed dirt on his grave.
“No. He died, actually. Two years ago.” I blink away tears. Crying in front of Betty is completely unacceptable.
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She touches my arm. No butterflies this time.
“It’s the way it goes sometimes.” I put the bowl on the counter, my empty hands cold and damp.
“It is, but it shouldn’t be. We lost my youngest sister, Eliza, when she was only four. My mom made a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, Eliza’s favorite, on her birthday for years after she died. We’d gather round and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and blow out the candles for our baby sister. It was nice and all for a while, but at some point I think I came to dread it, you know? It was like I was watching the rest of us grow, which only reminded me of all she missed.” She slips the loose lock of hair under her scarf, untying her apron and folding it on the counter. “Then we lost Mama, and that year we let Eliza’s birthday come and go with no cake. I thought it’d feel better to let her go, to let her birthday become just another day, but I felt like I was betraying her and my mother. So, the next year, I made Eliza’s carrot cake, put a candle in it, and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ all by myself.”
“That’s really sweet.” Somehow, I’ve been leaning against the counter and watching her without a touch of anxiety. “I wonder how many cakes I’d be making by the end of it all.” My father, my brother and—my mother.
“That’s true. We all are gonna die one day. Can’t make cakes for everyone,” she jokes ruefully. “Not unless you want to gain twenty pounds.”
She grows quiet and lets out a little sigh. I don’t know what it means, but I want to ask. I think of touching her shoulder comfortingly, letting her know she’s not alone. But as I try to will my hand forward, grappling for the right words, the silence expands between us and she finishes her arrangement.
“By the way, I know you saw me,” Betty says, rinsing out a paintbrush covered in Mod Podge. She picks at the bristles with her long nails, staring at the column of water pouring over them. “At the club.”
I blink, her unexpected confession hitting me like a sucker punch. I’d nearly convinced myself I’d been hallucinating that night.
“I didn’t tell anyone . . .”
“I know. Thank you,” she says, shaking out the brush. “I didn’t know they were coming, and if Don had seen me . . .”
She looks at me with worry in her eyes.
“I know,” I say empathetically. I know her job is on the line.
Without letting on why, I’d casually questioned Mark about the club, how they treated the women who worked there, and what would happen if one of the Bunnies tried to get a job here in Janesville. After winking and grunting and making all kinds of jokes, he confirmed what I already knew—the men of EBN and WQRX could happily visit the club, but there’s no possible way they’d allow a woman who’d worked there to join their self-righteous and clearly hypocritical staff.
She frowns and starts to gather supplies in her arms.
“Look at me going on and on. Thanks for keeping me company and trying out the Lava soap. You made my prep fly by.”
It’s felt like a wonder, this conversation, this moment in time where I could talk freely and listen comfortably. I have a lot more I’d like to say, especially about her unexpected gratitude. And she’s unlocked a lot of thoughts inside of me as well. I open my mouth to try and put some of them into words, when the studio door opens with a clank.
Don Hollinger’s deep booming voice interrupts before I can tell her how much I’ve appreciated this conversation, too. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with no tie, the top button undone, a cigarette in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“Not ready yet? I gave you an extra twenty minutes. I’m starving.”
Betty slings the bowl onto her hip.
“Sorry, Don. Almost done. Let me put a few things in the back.”
“All right,” he says with an annoyed sigh.
Hollinger’s entrance is even more unexpected than Betty’s earlier appearance. When we moved to a full hour show, Martha petitioned Don to release Betty from her secretarial duties. And Hollinger finally hired a new girl from the technical college.
I move from the lights of the stage area to tidy my workstation. The unavoidable clanking of tools draws Hollinger’s notice.
“Tin Man! Hey! Didn’t know you were here.”
I give him a friendly greeting, hoping it’s unfriendly enough to keep him from engaging me any further, but I’m not that lucky. I toss my Bucheimer leather bag across my body and head toward the exit. He stops me as I try to squeeze past him in the doorway.
“You working late?” he asks.
“Yeah. Camera three had a busted connection.”
“You fixed it?”
“Yup. Found the part in the workshop. Patched it up.”
“Damn. Didn’t know you were so handy.”
I shrug, wanting to leave. His compliments mean little to me. Don Hollinger knows nothing about cinematography or journalism. He’s a businessman who was hired to make this station profitable. I’m sure once he succeeds or gives up, finding his task impossible, he’ll move on to bigger and better things. He doesn’t care about Janesville or WQRX or even EBN. As far as I can see, he’s nothing more than a mercenary, a hired gun with zero loyalty and very little integrity.
“You should come out with me and Mark sometime. We’ve been going to Pub Cellar. It’s a shithole, but the waitresses are nice, if you know what I mean.”
Mark’s been trying to get me to go out with them for weeks now. He insists Hollinger isn’t that bad, that he’s a guy’s guy. They go to the YMCA together, play basketball once a week, head to the local clubs to pick up girls.
“Sure,” I say, knowing I likely never will. According to Mark, getting in with the man in charge would help my career, but I can think of about a million things I’d rather do than watch Mark and Hollinger scam on girls in smoky clubs with bad music and even worse drinks.
Hollinger looks at me with a raised eyebrow like he knows I’m BS-ing him.
“What? You got a girl already or something?”
“No. I’m just not into the bar scene.”
“You don’t have to drink. It’s one thing to live without alcohol. It’s another to live without women.” He winks. I snicker like I’ve learned to around other men, even though it makes me feel disgusting.
“I think Martha Smith would go for you, if you like that kind of girl. A little mousy for my tastes but some nice curves if you can put up with her mouth.” He makes his hand holding his cigarette look like a puppet and rapidly flaps it open and closed. A flash of indignation strikes me between the shoulder blades. Martha keeps the lights on in this place. She should’ve left forever ago for a bigger market where she might actually be appreciated.
“Martha’s a talented producer,” I say protectively as Betty finally emerges from the back room. She’s let her hair down and tied up her shirt, exposing a small triangle of her translucently white abdomen. She’s slipped on heels, lined and colored her lips, and looks like a runway model swaying our way.
“Oh, so you do have a soft spot for her,” Hollinger says, referring to Martha. “I thought so. Hey, man. To each his own. Go for it.” He smacks my shoulder.
“I . . . I . . .” I’m grappling for a way to defend Martha but also put an end to his matchmaking when Betty reaches us, blushing and a little out of breath. She looks at me first, her smile familiar and welcoming, like we’re now friends who keep each other’s secrets.
“Look at you all prettied up. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Hollinger says, crushing the nub of his cigarette into the cement floor and wrapping his arm around Betty’s waist. A knife of outrage stabs through me at least ten times more intense than when he mocked Martha, and I want to tear his grubby hands off Betty like he’s some guy at the Playboy Club breaking the “no touching” rule.
I expect Betty to recoil from his touch, look at me with panic and embarrassment, signaling me to save her from the lascivious boss man taking advantage of her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans in, giggling, putting her arm on his shoulder, placing a light kiss on his cheek, which he rubs at like he’s trying to remove a lipstick stain.
“Sorry, sweetie. I needed to prep for tomorrow’s crafting segment, and it takes twelve hours for the flowers to dry properly . . .”
“Blah, blah, blah. You know that stuff goes right over my head. But seriously, you should use production assistants for that kind of thing. Right, Tin Man?”
I feel more like a rusted-out character than ever. My jaw is locked shut and my limbs are frozen as I begin to understand what I’m witnessing.
Don Hollinger is dating Betty Wilkens. It’s a common enough thing, a man dating his secretary or at least his former secretary. And it’s not uncommon for a man of power to give preferential treatment to the woman he’s seducing, something special like giving her a show. I never expected it to happen with Don but especially not Betty.
“Uh-huh,” I manage to grunt. Hollinger smacks me on the back as he and Betty walk away. He embraces her waist, his thumb tracing a sultry line on her bare skin. I shudder, bile rising in my throat as I recall her soft hands caressing mine as she scrubbed them, and I wonder how delicate her back, her sides, and her belly must feel under Hollinger’s touch.
“You got the lights?” Hollinger asks over his shoulder. I clear my throat and steady my reply.
“Yup,” I shout back, the p bouncing off the cinderblock walls in an eerie echo that sounds like I’m chasing them down the hall.
“Bye, Greg,” Betty calls out, and I watch as she walks off with a man she’s keeping secrets from and leaves behind the man she’s asked to hold them.
Chapter 15
Charlie
Present Day
“And she wrote a book,” I tell Olivia through the phone’s screen, holding up the blue-and-white hardcover. The Classy Homemaker is in playful lettering across the front, with drawings of a perfect-looking housewife in a tidy skirt and low heels doing various chores by each line of the title. “Tina, Dino’s wife, she found it in a pile of books and, God bless her, remembered that I’d asked her to set aside items with Betty’s name on them.”
It was basically a miracle she saved anything coming out of the house at this point. The upstairs is nearly cleared, and after a weekend off, the crew will start on the main floor, pending an inspection from the city.
“My God, that’s wild,” Olivia says, squinting at the cover. It’s good to see her face and listen to her voice at the same time. It’s been a month since I got here, and though I’ve seen the boys on FaceTime, with Ian looming in the background, I’ve had inconsistent communication with Olivia since our disagreement.
To keep the questions about my relationship with Ian at bay, I’ve been sharing little tidbits about my mother and the enigma of her past. Only a picture or detail here or there until tonight. We’ve been on the phone for two hours already, catching up.
“I know, right?”
“I can’t believe she had her own show, too. Does that mean I have to take up the family business? I’m not really up for being any kind of on-screen guru.”
“You don’t choose the guru life, Livy, it chooses you,” I say, taking a sip out of my wineglass, more settled than I have been in weeks, maybe even years. “From what I can tell, it was this Holly Homemaker kind of a show. Like, how to be a perfect housewife kind of a thing. And the book looks like it’s about that same old misogynistic stuff like ‘Do your hair before your husband comes home’ and ‘Never, ever show any emotion other than joy at cleaning toilets and changing diapers,’ and that’s just the first two chapters.”
