Crystal (3 page)

One of the biggest fears any of us orphans has is that when we do become part of a family, we won't be able to adjust to their style of life. We won't know how to behave at their dinner table, how to behave in front of the other relatives, how to keep our rooms and spend our time. In short, we won't know how to please our new parents. For us it would always be like an audition. We'd feel their eyes following us
everywhere we went, hear their whispers, wonder what they really thought. Were they happy they had taken us into their lives, or were they sorry and looking for a graceful way to give us back?

It was easy to adapt to life with my new parents, to know what they expected, liked, and disliked. There was nothing unpredictable about Karl. He was the most organized person I had ever met. He rose at precisely the same time every day, weekend or not.

"People make a mistake sleeping later on the weekends," he told me. "It confuses their body clock."
He also ate the same thing for breakfast every weekday, a combination of cold cereals, mixing the correct formula of fibers and grains with fruit. On weekends, he made himself an omelet with egg whites, or he had oatmeal and raisins. Although he was chubby, he paid attention to nutrition and wanted me to do the same.
What he didn't do was exercise. He admitted that this was a fault, but he made little effort to correct it, the closest thing being his purchase of a treadmill, after what he described as months and months of comparison shopping. I commented that it looked brandnew, and he confessed that he still had to develop a regular schedule for its use.
"Maybe now that you're here to remind me," he said, "I'll pay more attention to those things."
I didn't think he needed my reminders for anything. All of his things were organized and inventoried. He knew exactly how many socks he had, how many white shirts, how many pairs of pants and jackets, how many ties. He could even tell me how much each item had cost. What was even more impressive was he knew just how many times he had worn what and knew when something had to be cleaned and pressed. He serviced his clothes the way people service their cars, and when something had been worn, cleaned, or washed a certain number of times, he retired it to a bag marked "To be donated."
Karl continued his organized, regimented existence throughout his day, always eating at the same hour in the evening, watching his news program, reading his newspapers and his magazines, and going to sleep at exactly ten P.M. every night, even on weekends, unless they had plans for an evening out.
If Thelma indicated she wanted to see a movie, Karl would research the reviews and report to her first, deciding whether or not it was a waste of money. If there was any doubt, he would suggest the matinee show because it was discounted and wasn't as great a risk.
"Balance, Crystal?' he explained. "That's what makes life truly comfortable, maintaining balance. Assets on one side, liabilities on the other. Everything you do, everyone you meet has assets and liabilities. Learn what they are, and you'll know how to proceed?'
He often lectured to me like that, and I listened respectfully, even though many times I thought he was being obsessive about it. Not everything in life could be measured on a profit-and-loss statement, I thought.
In a way, Thelma's life was almost as regimented and organized as Karl's, only hers was determined by the television scheduling of her soap operas and other programs. If she left the house for any reason during the day, she scheduled her appointments and errands around what was on TV that day. Although she could videotape shows, she said it wasn't the same as being there when they were actually on.
"It's like watching history being made rather than watching it later on the news?' she told me.
She had reading time reserved, as well, and sat on her rocker with a lace shawl around her shoulders, reading whatever had come in that month from her romance novels club. Pots could boil over, phones could ring, someone might come to the door. It didn't matter once she was engrossed in her story; she didn't care. She truly left one world for another.
Nevertheless, she was as devoted to Karl and his needs as any wife could be. On Sundays, Karl would plan the week's menu, carefully selecting foods that could be utilized in different ways so as to justify buying them in larger quantities or make use of leftovers. Thelma would then develop that menu, following it to a T. If something wasn't just the way Karl had planned it, she treated it like a major crisis. One morning, I had to go with her to another supermarket nearly twenty miles away because the one she shopped at didn't have the brand of canned peaches Karl wanted.
Whereas Karl was a quiet, careful driver, Thelma talked so much from the moment she sat behind the wheel that my ears were ringing. Her attention was often distracted, and twice I jumped so high I nearly bumped my head on the roof when she crossed lanes abruptly and drivers honked their horns.
A week after I arrived, we took a ride to visit Karl's father. He lived alone in a small Cape Cod-- style house, the same house he had lived in for nearly forty years. It was in a very quiet, old residential neighborhood of single-family homes, most as old as Karl's father's.
Karl's father was taller and considerably thinner than his son, with a face that reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, long and chiseled. From the pictures I saw on the table in the living room, I concluded Karl took after his mother more. His brothers, on the other hand, resembled their father, both being taller and leaner than Karl.
Papa Morris, as he was introduced to me, was a feisty old man who had worked for the city water department. He was content to live on his pension and social security, socialize with his retired friends, play cards, visit the local bar, and read his newspapers. Karl had arranged for a woman to come and clean twice a week, but Karl's father wouldn't permit anyone to cook for him.
"When I can't take care of myself, know it," he muttered after Karl had made the suggestion again.
However, the kitchen wasn't very clean. Pots were caked with beans and rice, and some dishes were piled up, waiting for the cleaning lady. Thelma went right to work when we arrived. I helped her, and we got the kitchen into some order while Karl and his father talked. Then we all sat in the living room and had fresh lemonade.
Papa Morris stared at me with interest while Thelma described what a wonderful beginning we had all had together since I had come to live with her and Karl. Papa Morris's large, glassy brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"You like livin' with these two?" he asked me skeptically.
"Yes, sir," I answered quickly.
"Yes, sir?" he muttered, and looked at Karl, who sat with his hands in his lap.
"She's a very polite young lady," Thelma said. "A lot like Whelma Matthews on
Days in the Sun,"
she added, looking at me proudly.
"You don't have to call me sir, Missy. No one's ever called me sir. I don't wear no airs. I'm just a pensioner?'
"She's very smart, Pa. All A's in school," Thelma continued.
"That's good?' He nodded at me, his face softening some. "My Lily always wanted
grandchildren, but none of my boys gave her any. Grandchildren are sort of a return on your
investment," he muttered.
"Speaking of investments," he continued, turning to Karl, "what's been happening with that mutual fund you had me put my CD into, Karl?"
"You're up twenty-two percent, Dad."
"Good. Smart boy, Karl," he said and reached into his top pocket for some chewing tobacco.
"You should give that up, Dad. It's been known to cause mouth cancer," Karl said. "I was just reading an article about that yesterday."
"I've been doing it for fifty years. No point in stopping something I enjoy now, right, Thelma?"
She looked at Karl apprehensively. "Well, I .
"Of course you should, and of course there's a point to stopping, Dad. Why cause yourself unnecessary suffering?" Karl insisted.
"I'm not suffering. I'm enjoying. I don't know who's a worse nag, you or that woman you send around here. All she does is complain about the work I make for her. How much you paying her?"
"Ten dollars an hour," Karl said.
"Ten dollars! You know," he said, looking at me, "once that was enough to feed the family for a week."
"There have been many reasons for inflation since then," I said.
"That so? You an economic genius like Karl?" he asked me.
"No, sir. I just read a little."
"Oh, she reads a lot, Pa. She reads more than I do," Thelma said.
"Lily liked to read," he said, and thought a moment. Then he slapped his hand down hard on the arm of his chair. Thelma and I jumped in our seats.
"Well now, you bring this polite young lady around more often," he said, rising.
"We can stay a little longer, Pa," Thelma said.
"Well, I can't," he said. "I've got to meet Charlie, Richard, and Marty at Gordon's for our regular game of pinochle," he told her sternly.
Thelma looked to Karl.
"Well, we just came by to introduce you to Crystal and see how you were doing, Dad," Karl said, standing.
"I'm doing as good as I can with what I got," he said, looking toward me.
We all rose.
"Pleased to have met you," he said to me. He held out his hand, and I shook it. He had long, rough fingers with fingernails that were yellow and thick and two years past when they should have been trimmed.
On the way home, I thought about him and about what I'd always imagined my grandparents to be like. Never in any of my dreams did I imagine myself shaking hands with them. I thought they would be full of hugs and kisses, gloating over me and bragging about me just the way they did in movies and books. Maybe Thelma's mother and father would be more like that, I hoped.
And they were.
Thelma's mother was a small woman like her, actually smaller, birdlike and very thin with wrists that looked as if they might crack if she lifted a full cup of coffee, but she had a big smile and the loveliest blue- green eyes. She kept her hair its natural gray and styled neatly. Thelma's father was tall and lean but much warmer than Karl's father. They insisted I call them Grandpa and Grandma immediately, and Grandma hugged and kissed me as soon as we were all introduced.
"I'm so happy there'll be someone young in this house. Now it will be a real home. You make sure you spoil this child, Karl Morris," she warned, shaking her right forefinger in his face. "None of that thinking like an accountant when it comes to her. That's what parents are supposed to do, and if you don't, we will," she added with a mock threat.
Before they left that day, they even gave me twenty dollars. Grandma said, "Buy whatever Karl doesn't want you to have, whatever he thinks is a waste of money?' She laughed and kissed me again. I liked her a lot and looked forward to the next time I would see her.
Of all that had happened since I had come to live with Karl and Thelma, this was the best, I thought. My grandparents had finally made me feel part of a real family. Life with Karl and Thelma had started on such a formal and organized note, I had yet to think of them as parents. Karl was more like an adviser, and Thelma was so wrapped up in her books and programs that I felt more like a guest she had invited to share her fantasies.
I was looking forward to the start of school, making new friends, and being challenged by new subjects and teachers. Thelma took me to registration. Because of my record, I was put in an advanced class, and she bragged about it all throughout dinner that night. As always, however, she found a fictional character with whom to compare me.
"Brenda's daughter in
Thunder in My Heart is
just like you, Crystal. She's such a whiz kid, too. Maybe she'll be president someday."
"How can Brenda's daughter be president someday, Thelma?" Karl asked her. "She's in a book you've read, right?"
"Oh, but there's a sequel coming, Karl. There's always a sequel," she said, smiling.
"I see," he said, nodding and looking at me.
"Crystal's smarter, though," Thelma said. "You should hear some of the things she says, Karl. She can figure out what's going to happen on my soaps before it happens."
"They're pretty predictable," I commented. "What's that mean?" Thelma asked, batting her eyelashes.
"It means they're not hard to figure out," Karl said. "They're simple."
"Oh." She laughed her thin laugh. "They're hard for me," she said.
Karl gazed at me, and we talked about something else. I felt bad about it and afterward apologized.
"I didn't mean to make fun of your programs, Thelma," I said.
"Oh, did you make fun of them? I didn't think you did. How could you make fun of them? They're so full of excitement and romance. Don't you like that?"
"I like good stories, yes," I said.
"There, then. I knew you would. Don't forget, tomorrow we'll learn about November's ex-husband. Do you think he still loves her?"
"I don't remember him," I admitted. She looked at me as if I had said the silliest thing
"You can't forget Edmond. He's s0000 handsome. If he came to my front door, I'd swoon," she told me, following with her little, thin laugh.
I wondered if everyone who watched soap operas was as committed to them and as involved with them as Thelma was. A few days later, one of her favorite characters died on
Days in the Sun. I
came in on the show just as it happened, and she began to sob so hard, I got frightened. She started to shout at the television set.
"He can't be dead. He can't be. How can he die? Please don't let him die. Oh, Crystal, he's dead! Grant's dead! How can he be dead?"
"People die in real life, Mom," I said, "so they have to have some die in the shows, don't they?"
"No," she insisted, her face filled with more anger than I had seen up until now. "It's not fair. They got us to love him, and now they've killed him. It's not fair!" she cried.
She went into a deep depression afterward, and nothing I could say or do changed it. She was still that way when Karl came home and we all sat down to dinner. He asked why she was so sad, and she told him and then burst into tears again. He looked at me, and I looked down at my plate. My heart was thumping. I didn't know what to say.
"You're frightening your daughter," Karl remarked. She looked at me and swallowed back her sobs. "Oh. I didn't mean to frighten you, Crystal. It's just so sad."
"It's only a show, Mom," I said. "Tomorrow, something new will happen, and you'll feel better."
"Yes, yes, I will. That's right. See Karl, see how smart she is?"
"That I do," Karl said.
We finished our meal, but afterward, I found Thelma in her rocker just staring at the floor.
"I'm going upstairs to read and sleep now," I said.
"What? Oh, yes, good night, dear. Try to think good thoughts. Poor Grant,"
she
said. "It makes me think of how it was when Karl's mother died."
I stared at her. How could the death of a real person be the same as the death of a soap opera character?
"He's an actor, Mom. He'll be back on another show," I said softly.
"Who is?"
"Grant?'
"No, silly," she said. "Grant's not an actor. Grant was a person who died. I don't think of them as actors," she admitted. She started rocking again and stared at the floor. "Everyone will be so sad tomorrow on the show, so sad."
"Maybe you shouldn't watch it, then," I suggested. She looked up at me as if what I had said was blasphemous.