HH4 Don & Jane. Adele Kurtz House on the Hill,

The narrator is in the dining room of a house on a hill in Chicago with a rich history. The room holds significance for her parents, who slept on a mattress on the floor in this room following an impulsive quick marriage and general discharge from the Marines. The narrator reflects on the details of how her parents met and a series of rash decisions that led her mother feeling foolish as she slept on the floor with a man she barely knew, torn from a place she loved to a city in which she never wanted to live. Let's pick up our story of the house on the hill in the dining room. I brought the trash and dishes from my mother's room into the kitchen and took a place in the next room at the dining room table. This room had hosted many celebrations, Christmases, Thanksgivings, christenings and birthdays as well as thousands and thousands of evening meals. The stories told here would be filled with joy and sorrow, tears from family arguments as well as heartfelt laughter. It felt lonesome now, although I could feel stories bubbling in the stillness. What was this room to her, to my mother, and what did she want me to figure out? This room was filled with history and significance for my parents, far beyond the meals it served. Since inheriting the property from Don's parents, Peggy and John, both had invested heavily in redecorating it. The table I sat at was a luxurious veined marble, mostly cream with gray and green streaks selected by my mother. A large chandelier hung overhead, a beautiful antique piece of the finest Strauss Austrian crystal, which my father acquired. The room was surrounded on three sides with original oak built-in cabinets with stained-glass insets that had all been professionally stripped and reconditioned to a beauty that can only come from fine woods aged over one hundred years. The heavy wood beams and crown moldings were oil-painted in white, and the original plaster ceilings and walls were various shades of lightly dusted colors like peach and mint green, which set off the table and chandelier to dramatic effect. It was a stunning room now, befitting upper class professionals, which neither my father nor his ever was. Don's dad, John, my grandfather, was a machinist for Western Electric his whole life, yet his life would reflect a refined sensitivity that you would not expect in a man of a lowly station. The house on Longwood Drive was the ultimate example. The Beverly area was considered the finest neighborhood for raising a family, and his wife Peggy expected no less than the best. She did not mind putting on airs, as she called it. It was all part of the fun, keep them guessing. The dining room had served as my parents' first bedroom back in the early 1950s, right after they married. Don had been discharged from the Marines and brought his new bride and her son to his hometown of Chicago. Since other families also lived in the house at Longwood Drive, the threesome was given a mattress on the floor of this room. It looked nothing near as elegant as it did today. I thought about how my mother might have felt sixty years ago in this room, sleeping on the floor with a man she barely knew in a tiny cot for her three-year-old son. I recalled her story about how she met my father and how they married. She had told it to me many times, and I relived it in lavish detail. Here we go. My mother tended bar in Fort Lauderdale in the early 1950s and served a lot of servicemen on shore leave. Two of her favorite regulars were a pair of Marines named Joe and Don, who always showed up together in snappy uniforms. My mom loved a man in uniform, as did most of the dames in the town. Joe was the more sociable of the two, with dark eyes and long lashes. Always quick with a laugh and a long story, my mom said. Very good with the ladies, she told me. Don was the quiet man, stronger-looking and blonde, with crystal-blue eyes and broad shoulders. Just my type exactly, the right height, right up to here, she said, raising her arms in that high dancing position, the strong, silent type. She smiled, but he never asked for anything more than a shot and a beer, so I figured he wasn't interested, and I started dating Joe on occasions when he was in town. One day, Joe ran into the bar in a panic, asking if she had seen Don. He's AWOL, and the ship's ready to take off. He's in a shitload of trouble. This is the stuff you get court-martialed for. He ran out as quickly as he came in, clearly concerned about the well-serviced friend. He left Jane to wonder about whatever happened to that tall, good-looking marine. Well, a few weeks later, Don showed up at the bar, grinning ear to ear, totally nonchalant, as if he hadn't a care in the world, my mother said. I told him everyone was out looking all over for him, very worried. Where in the hell had he been? He ordered his regular without answering the question. And then he asked me out. She thought it was uncharacteristically disloyal for Joe's best friend to make a move while the guys were out on maneuvers. Where Don should have been, she told him so, though maybe not in so many words. He just smiled, looking down at his beer. He drank his shot quickly in one swoop, cocked his head sideways, and looked up at her with his baby blue eyes. His one eyebrow arched over a cockeyed grin with a shrug that said, so? Well, she answered yes, she admitted, and sighed. Well, maybe it was a long story and he needed time to tell it, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to enjoy his company, she said, but it sure took him a while to get around to it. Everything seemed to be going well, although she could not recollect exactly what they did or where they went. She felt wondrously safe and beautiful just walking next to this Gary Cooper in his starched tan uniform. She felt like they made a movie star couple. The glances and smiles from passersby confirmed this. She felt proud to tuck her hand around his elbow and stood up straight and proud, taking long-legged Jane Russell strides on the April Friday streets of Fort Lauderdale. Up until this moment she had been somewhat ashamed of her height. Women in the movies were so petite and delicate. By the 1940s they appeared to get stronger, more willful, but actresses were still a head shorter than the men, so that they could just look up into their eyes and put their rosy cheeks on their shoulders to cry and throw tantrums if need be. There, there, now, little lady. Everything's gonna be all right. Sometimes you need big shoulders to cry on, and my mother had never had that before. She took up smoking because she had been warned that it could stunt her growth, and she wanted that. She asked Don to light her cigarette and held it high to show off her delicate wrists and long manicured fingertips. He did. She blew smoke into circles in the air. She observed that he had the habit of holding his cigarette rather sideways and low. She liked that. It looked more like something Humphrey Bogart would do. From that she surmised he might be a little tough on her, but by now she felt confident that she could handle herself. She could be a Lauren Bacall kind of lady. She had the opportunity to take on this role by the end of the evening when he pressed himself upon her and made his moves. Oh no. After all the enchantment of the evening, and how special he made her feel. She did not want him to be just like the others. She did not want to feel worthless this night. So I just let him have it, she told me. I really laid into him. I told him to keep his goddamn hands off of me, and that I knew he wasn't going to marry me. So keep your hands off Buster. What did he do? I asked. He gave up quickly enough, she admitted. Then he turned to me and said something like, well, that's how much you know. He was taunting me, but I finally got him to tell me where he had been for the past week. Don went on to explain that the reason he went AWOL was to spend time in Chicago to find out how his family would feel if he married a divorcee with a three-year-old kid. He said he did not wish to start something with her unless he was certain that he could carry through with honorable intentions. He would need the full backing of his Catholic family, and although he did not tell my mother the full story when he asked her to marry him, if that is what this proposition was really all about, he actually needed the time he went AWOL. Anyway, now that he was back, he was in a hurry, she explained, because his ship was coming in the very next day, and he needed to answer to his captain, no delays. And I had heard this story before, too, or other versions, you know, good marine heading off to maneuvers, doesn't know when he'll be back, or if, oh, honey, please give me something to remember you by, oh, Jesus, oh. She begged in earnest imitation of scenes that she recalled. But this bit, you know, about the big strong Catholic boy actually going home to mom and dad to ask their permission to marry, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that's the icing on the cake. Nothing could top that one, I just didn't think he had it in him. I guess I thought I just needed to challenge him. Stupid, stupid, huh? She asked me. I mean, we barely knew each other. Or rather, you know, he knew a lot more about me than I did about him. From hanging out at the bar, seeing how I handled the customers, he liked that I didn't take any shit from them, didn't flirt, didn't wear clothes that showed off my figure. And he knew a lot about me from whatever it was that Joe said. I didn't take any shit from him either. There's no hanky-panky, none of that going on. He complained about not getting past first base with me. I think Don kind of liked that, thought that gave him a chance. But what did I know about him? Not a goddamn thing, really. I liked his looks and the way I felt with him that day. And he said, you know, I'd marry you tomorrow if only I had the ring. And do you know what I did? She asked in pause. Do you know, stupid woman, that I was? Just wasn't thinking straight. Before I'd let him lay a finger on me, I wrote him a check. I did, yeah. For every dime I'd been saving since my divorce. And I handed it to him. She confessed quickly, as if spilling all the beans out of the bag at once. Now, I could picture her sitting in front of the desk at one of those cheap Fort Lauderdale weekly rental rooms, cursing under her breath and smiling at the same time. Yeah, my mother did that around me often enough. Her eyes would glint with self-satisfaction and determination. She would hold her head high and harumph. Then, I even handed him a bunch of cash I stashed in the drawer from all my tips. Here, here, go buy me a ring, and let's do this right. As I listened to her story, I could not help but wonder if this was when the hanky-panky might start. She guessed my question and took the opportunity to answer it, as if giving a lesson in chastity for her little girl. No, no, then I pushed him out the door. Honestly, he may not have gotten what he came for, but I sure got more than I ever could have imagined. What an end to a romantic evening, I laughed, disappointed yet thoroughly intrigued. You're right, she answered. The next morning, I just sat and waited at the courthouse steps for hours, got there when they opened and waited till they were going to close at noon. I just sat on those steps, all the while cursing myself, stupid, stupid, stupid dummy. His ship was going to pull out, and there is no reason for him to show up. Now that you gave him all your money, stupid, stupid farm girl, oh God, you never learn. I thought about her stories about Elvira and Ken, and I could see why, and how easy it would be to take advantage of my mother when she was young. The fact that she, a single mom, however, could save enough money to buy a diamond ring in just a few years, well, that proved that she learned from her lessons, if not how to defend herself, at least how to save. She would do well on her own, perhaps better without a man, yep, I agreed. But this was the early fifties, and being single, smart, and beautiful was not a desirable combination in such sexually dangerous times. I don't know if I really expected him to cash the check, but who could blame the cowboy for just riding off into the sunset? What would Bogie do? No, cowboys never get the girl in the end, not really. My mom loved cowboy movies. It was her way of escaping to times when a man was a man, who defended his family until they were all slaughtered by Indians or evil wrestlers, and then he would need to chase after them. And right off into the sunset, after all the guys in their black hats were all properly buried. Just as I was getting ready to leave, at the very last minute, she continued, there he was, running up the stairs with that shit-eating grenades. My heart was just pounding, I don't think we even said a word to each other. I was in complete shock. He must have, like, sweet-talked the justice of the peace, she explained. See, he had to run all over town to get a currency exchange to cash the check, normally not a problem for the servicemen, but it was a personal check, larger than most, and then he had to go to every jewelry store to find that perfect ring. I thought about my mother's ring, now slipping on her emaciated fingers. Then after, we went through with it, really, almost on a dare, really, I think, I just more wanted to see if he would, you know, just go through with what he said. We didn't have any time together, really, I mean, really. He spent the next three months in the brig. Oh, sounds like you had a wonderful honeymoon, I joked, although of course, I felt sorry as I contemplated the misery of the situation, their first marital predicament. Unconsummated? Well, that's how our marriage started, and it didn't really get all that much smoother from there, she said, as if reading my mind. But I got the man I always thought I wanted, decent and strong, your father, everyone would say that about him, she told me, and I knew it to be true. Don's strong, silent demeanor masked a questioning intelligence with the ability to handle problems quickly, decisively. Whenever he has the opportunity to lead, to solve problems, he rises like cream to the top. He is a man's man, and that classic bogey Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood style. Many years later, he did, in fact, become a leader of a thousand men, but not in the military. Whatever happened with the court-martial, did that ever happen, I asked? I don't know that anyone knows the details, not even me. Let's just say the Marines gave your father an early general discharge from service, as you know. That's just as well. He is just not the kind of man who can follow orders blindly. Well, neither is my mother. For the next sixty years, these two willful, strong minds would make an amazing couple. And to think, their married life started in this room. As I tried to picture the movie star couple settling into the floor of this room, I heard noises upstairs that told me that my mother was awake. I prepared a tray for her with fresh food and a flower I picked from the garden. For sweet temptation, I tucked a wrapped chocolate pecan caramel under her plate. It was a compromise concoction made with low salt. The bland rations were delivered from the hospital by Meals on Wheels. I tasted a sample from her uneaten portions earlier and realized, well, there's no mystery here as to why she was losing weight so dramatically. Her doctor said that at this stage of the game, which he perceived as end-stage hospice, that she did not. She should be encouraged to eat whatever she wants. She needed some meat on those bones. When she took yet another dramatic turn for the better, she asked to be taken off the hospice program and tore up her DNR. She seemed in a good mood with a healthy glow in her skin today. She wanted to sit up herself. So I just sat by the edge of the bed, ready to help if necessary. When we both realized that she had renewed strength, her face smiled broadly. I can do this myself. I wondered if she was in the mood to pick up where we left off in our prior conversations. So, if you don't want your ashes to be among your ancestors, I said gingerly, where do you want them to be? Listen up, Del Marie-bee, she whispered with unexpected authority. You know, I just never wanted to live in this house. She started slowly. Your father told me that this was just supposed to be a visit, so he lured me here, under false pretenses, you could say. When he was discharged, I thought we would just set up housekeeping together with little Johnny in Fort Lauderdale. I loved the sun, the sand, the beaches. It was the closest thing to paradise I had ever known. I had my own system for keeping up on a good tan, too, she said in a confidential tone. I was pleased that she seemed to be feeling chatty today. I didn't like the crowd, so I would arrive with Johnny closer to the time all the tourists were leaving to catch dinner, an hour or so before the sun was setting. I had my own spot picked out to show off my bathing suit, dropped a blanket and just lay there before my shift to freshen up on my tan and listen to the waves and the seagulls. My mother's skin was what some might call an olive complexion. It tanned easily and it glowed all year long. Now, what could be better than that every day? My peace of heaven. Why would anyone want to move to Chicago, she said, as she nibbled on unseasoned tuna. Then I'd take Johnny to the sitter on my way home and shower and start my shift, freshen up. Hey, tips were good. We could live on that until Don got established into something else. Her face darkened. Only Don said, no wife of mine is going to attend bar in some gin joint. I nodded. Of course he would say that. Besides, family was very important to him and he wanted everyone to like me. Fair enough. So I had to quit my job and spend time with his family here. For a while, he promised, and then we'd come back. But he never did. Not even, not even to vacation. She looked so sad. Well, it all worked out for the better, didn't it? I asked. You know, she replied factually, without the tone that implies that one is looking for sympathy. You know my stories. Maybe the only one. I'd say this time, this time that I spent getting used to his family and this house were some of the worst days I have ever spent in my life. She poured coconut water from a tiny carton into a glass, pleased that she could do it herself. I thought I was a little dummy before, and I thought, shit, you little shit bird. You got exactly what you wanted, the handsome husband, the strong, silent type. Now you made your bed and you have to lay in it. It was no picnic, I tell you. I cried more nights than I ever did, every night or day. Just whenever Don wouldn't catch me. She sipped from her glass, intent not to spill it. And then, then I just quit crying forever after. I thought about this as I watched her finish what she wanted on her plate. It was true. My mother rarely showed emotion. There were no tears for humans, no patience for love stories or made up tragedies. She preferred true crime stories and Fox News for entertainment. Although I would see tears well up in her eyes if an animal was hurt, a dying horse or a dog trumped a woman or a child in her list of living things worth crying for. And men, hey, no matter what happened to them in the movies, well, they always got what they deserved. She told me little of why she hurt so much after they moved here, and I was not going to ask her now. I knew that she had no patience for family gossip. She would never tell a story in which she deliberately made a family member into a villain. Other people in the outside world, hey, oh, they're all fair game. But you never spoke ill of family. Even her own mother's story was told in a way where she clearly felt sympathy for the woman. It was a morality story, one to tell her girls. In her eyes, her mother had been a victim of a world in which farm girls were expected to marry in their teens, pop out babies every year for as long as medically possible, keep house and serve their husbands. So she admired Elvira for saying no, getting out and taking risks, even if it led to a life of unpunished crimes. Oh, I get it, I would say. She's another one of those good bad examples. Yeah, well, maybe, my mother answered, trailing her voice to let me know that I did not quite catch her meaning. Just don't judge too harshly, lest you fall and be judged too. In my young life, I had met a few villains and witches, especially in my dad's family, but I was forbidden to discuss them. So those assessments were made with my own eyes and silent lips. Faces flashed in my head, my grandmother, her sister and aunt with a sideways laugh. As I was picking up her tray, I realized that she still did not answer my question about where she wanted her ashes to be scattered. She had eaten about half of her meal, saved the candy and put it near her finger pincher. Better than usual, I thought. Can I tempt you with some pecan ice cream, I asked. Maybe later, doll, she said. Put on some music, some Creedence before you go. I would just like to hear it softly for a while. Creedence Clearwater Revival, I thought. That is the music my brother selected to entice her to the dance floor on his wedding day a few years before. She danced more that evening than anyone else except the bride and groom, twirling all night until the very last song. No one had expected her to even live long enough to see her son remarry. It was shortly after Don had died. The date was rushed based on an expected downturn in her health. Instead, the dancing appeared to have lifted her spirits. Her musical selection today was a sign that she was fighting onward and happy for the first time in a while. I started her CD in the player, sat down beside her and listened with her. She smiled gleefully to Born on the Bayou and tapped her fingers against the tray playfully. Now when I was just a little boy, standing to my daddy's knees, my papa said, son, don't let the man get you. Do what he done to me, cause he'll get you, cause he'll get you now, now. And I can remember the 4th of July, running through the backwoods bare, and I can still hear my old hound dog a-barking, chasing down a hoodoo there. Born on the bayou, born on the bayou, I gathered the plates and tray and just as Who'll stop the rain played. As long as I remember, the rain's been coming down, clouds of mystery pouring, confusion on the ground, good men through the ages trying to find the sun. And I wonder, still I wonder, who stopped the rain?