The American Story
The evening sneaked up on me, and when P.G. parked her red convertible at the end of our driveway, it took me by surprise. I thought that she was supposed to come the following week. She was on my mind that afternoon, and I was looking forward to our meeting since we have not seen each other for a while. In the meantime, our lives evolved, especially hers after a recent divorce, and mine in smaller measure. It did not matter that one of us got the wrong date; I was just happy watching her walking toward the house. I waited for her at the open entrance. We greeted and hugged each other, and I wanted to ask her where her children were, when she explained that Lisa, the oldest of her four kids stayed home to babysit her brothers.
“I didn’t feel like bringing them along because I would not be able to talk freely. I wanted to bring Marty, but he was too shy to come. Perhaps he’ll join us the next time.”
Why would she ever bring Marty? I thought. I have nothing in common with a retired salesperson from Sears. He was her second husband and about twenty years her senior.
Before entering the house, she beamed at her convertible.
“You didn’t see it yet. I just got it. I love it! It’s great!”
“Yeah, looks super. I bet that the May breeze feels wonderful?”
“I didn’t have it in May. Next May I’ll feel it.”
P.G. looked fantastic. She was one of those people whose outer appearance is a reflection of her mental and emotional harmony. Her honey-colored locks of hair cascaded down to her shoulders and framed her make-up free freckled face and dimpled cheeks. She wore dentures at seventeen because she was afraid of dentists; consequently, a dentist had to extract all her teeth because of irreparable cavities and gum infections.
“I hated dentists, so I lost them,” she once told me.
“Come in the living room,” I invited her. “What can I give you? Cafe?”
“No, do you have a beer?”
“I do. I’ll join you.”
She faced me sitting in the orange velvet upholstered chair with her right leg resting on the knee of her left in a way men do it. Such a relaxed position leaves a gap between legs that suits men because they wear pants, but women in the same sitting position wearing dresses or skirts would reveal their underwear. I never saw P.G. in a dress or a skirt probably because she wanted to feel free to choose where and how she was going to sit. That evening she wore jeans, tucked in her high-heeled boots and cuddly pink top. There was nothing refined in her manners and speech, and yet she looked regal to me because she felt so comfortable in her own skin.
“What about you? What is happening?” she asked me.
“Oh, not much new. Life goes on as usual, working, driving kids around, and taking care of the house. You know the same old crap.”
“I really wanted to bring Marty; he is great. If not for him, I would have already gone nuts. Don frequently skips the alimony for the boys. I make $4.50 an hour at the Hamburger Place, work there eight-hour shifts, and deliver pizza four hours every night.”
“What do you do at the Hamburger Place?”
“I make patties, and occasionally I advertise the food in front of the restaurant by wearing a giant hamburger costume. That’s how I met Marty. He introduced himself by telling me that he liked how the cheese hung out of my buns.” She grinned remembering that sentence.
“What an existence being a full-time hamburger! But it puts the food on the table.”
I looked at P.G. and just loved hearing her talk void of self-pity and dignified in her selfless care for her family. Her outlook on life was both positive and realistic at the same time. I envied her mental steadiness and the zest for life she succeeded to keep despite any hardship she was enduring.
“God, Marty is incredible! Lisa hates him because he is so old. I don’t care. I fell in love with him when he first touched my hand. Oh Jesus, I shivered all over. I would have stayed with him in his house that afternoon, but the kids were due home from school. I would have stayed.”
P.G. was all aglow talking about Marty and their eating at different restaurants, about his divorce, and about his jealousy when Don visits their boys.
“Oh, yeah, he is great! I wouldn’t trade him for anybody younger.”
I believed her. She was sipping her beer slowly, thoroughly enjoying it. To her, life had a full flavor. She took what was in front of her without interjecting her past into it or projecting her future. P.G. was not shallow, not at all; she just figured out the right way to live. By talking to her, I learned about existential basics, about things that matter and those that should be left alone or pushed aside.
“God, we are so different, and yet at that moment I felt so close to her,” I thought. By comparison with P.G., I saw myself like a shadow of an existence.
“P.G., I envy you. I really do.”
“Come on, for what?” My question surprised her.
“I have had nothing but troubles since I can remember. You know what” –she switched the subject – “I don’t like that guy Mike. I had mentioned him to you. He spends too much time with Lisa and drinks a lot. She is too young for him. Lisa thinks that I hate him, and I do. He has no business being near her. I have to tell him that. What the hell, it is my house, and I don’t want that jerk to put moves on my daughter.” P.G.’s anger made her freckled face red, but her eyes remained mild. She was not capable of hating somebody. Her sudden burst of ire was a result of her constant worry for her daughter’s well-being.
“Are you taking any vacation this year?” She shifted our conversation in my direction because she did not want to continue talking about herself and her family.
“Maybe, but it is still up the air. We did not decide yet. It all depends on when Dean will be able to take time off.”
Our exchanges jumped from one subject to the other. P.G. talked fast, often finishing her sentences with a laugh. I loved that about her because by doing so she created lightness in the air. “I like your jeans and the top. Where did you get it?” I asked her.
“At Meijer’s. Marty hates when I wear tight jeans and blouses that reveal too much. He always tells me to unbutton just a few buttons down from the collar because he does not want men to stare at my boobs. I like it when he is jealous.” She winked.
I glanced at our new piano behind P.G., an elegant addition to our living room. All the furnishing in it was carefully selected and expensive. Dean and I enjoyed living surrounded by nice things. “Where did you buy these blue leather chairs? I didn’t see them the last time I was here.” She picked up on my thoughts.
“At Hudson’s Warehouse sale, I paid them only $300 apiece.”
“You must be kidding me! I could furnish my whole living room for that kind of money.” Her reaction was just a statement, not a judgment, on my spending or envy.
I wanted to ask her more about Marty. Her family thought that she had left Don to be with Marty, but this was not true. Years living with an alcoholic who refused any help took a toll on their relationship. She stopped loving Don. This was the real reason behind their divorce and the most honest one.
Suddenly I felt emotionally spent. I thought about last night that was again one of those hit and run events. Nowadays I call my sex life a screw. We do it several times a week, after the eleven o’clock news and before the beginning of the late-night movie. I leave the family room at 11:30 to take off my makeup and brush my teeth. I turn off the light, put on my nightgown, and lay on the far right of our king size bed. Soon after, my husband comes out of the dark hallway into the bedroom, drops his clothes by the bedside, and slides next to me. The room is silent, our dialogue stopped at the dinner table, if there was one, and we begin to screw. It is a lonely trip to a climax because the letdown starts with my husband’s resolute lifting of my nightgown and his mechanical touching of my breast. I lose track of time, but he makes sure not to miss the beginning of the movie. He gets out of the bed, puts his clothes on, and exits the bedroom.
There are no embraces and passionate kisses before the first dream, the love evaporated into darkness.
Life is not predictable; it is multidimensional and changes like a chameleon. Why do I feel captured in only one of its forms? The truth eludes me. I am sure that P.G. has an answer for me, but I am not ready to hear it, not yet.
“I have to go, that jerk Mike is probably still in my house, and Lisa doesn’t know how to get rid of him. Call me when you are free. Next time I’ll bring Marty. I want you to meet him. He is a great guy!”
“P.G., it’s been great seeing you!”
I hugged her soft, warm body, and her tender squeeze made me forget last night.
“P.G., you are such a great person!”
“Oh, come on, I am just a walking hamburger, remember?!”
I watched her briskly walking to her red car and thought how lucky I am to have her in my life.
Romana Capek taught at The University of Michigan all levels of Italian, including courses in Italian literature and culture. She is the author of numerous articles on the twentieth century Italian literature and film. Her stories appeared in New Reader Magazine, Every Writer, and Passager. Her interests also include culinary traditions of different countries.