Spare Change (2 page)

Olivia
was taken aback by the outburst. “But, surely Joe helps?” she said.  

“Oh, yeah,” Francine answered. “He
helps—helps himself to a piece of pie and tells the kids to shut up because the
noise is giving him a headache. He’s got a headache—ha, that’s a joke! He’s
concerned about his headache; never mind that I’m the one that listens to their
carrying on every hour of every day.”

“But…”

“That’s not even the worst of it! Now that he’s got me knocked up with
a fifth kid, I find out he’s carrying on with some redhead who works in his
office. He bought that little whore a fur coat,” she moaned. “Imagine that! A
fur coat, when I’m wearing dresses older than the kids.”

“If I were you, I’d divorce him,” Olivia growled once she’d heard the
story.

Francine started to cry even harder. “Oh, yeah,” she sobbed, “and just
what am I supposed to do with all these kids?” Just then Joe Junior, the eldest
of the bunch, punched his brother in the face and a new level of wailing
ensued.

Suddenly Olivia could see the bars of an invisible cage and she told
herself that this was the truth of what happened. First came the itch, then the
babies, then a woman was forever locked into a lifetime of drudgery. It
happened to Francine; a woman who’d once worn chiffon dresses and polished pink
fingernails, a woman who’d read poetry and loved music. It happened because
Francine allowed it to happen. She’d donned a white satin gown and pranced down
the aisle like a happy cow unknowingly headed for the slaughter house. If it
happened to Francine, it could happen to anybody. 

Two weeks later, Olivia slipped the diamond ring from her finger and
returned it to Herbert. She claimed that although she cared for him, marriage
was simply out of the question. 

“But, sweetheart,” he said bewilderedly, “have I offended you? Have I
done something to cause such a change of heart?”

“No,” she answered, “I’ve simply come to the realization that marriage
and children are not for me.” She then kissed poor Herbert and escorted him to
the door saying it was her hope they could remain friends.

“Friends?” Herbert replied, but by then she’d closed the door.

Olivia Ann Westerly

I
told people the thought
of  being tied down to a man who expected a clean shirt every morning and
dinner on the table at the dot of six was something I simply couldn’t face; but
the real truth of the matter is that I’ve grown petrified of babies. They look
all cute and cuddly in their little pink and blue buntings, but I’ve seen what
they do to women.

 Just look at poor Francine, and Alma, and Sara Sue, even my mama—every
single one of them, left without dreams, without hopes, bent like apple trees
heavy with fruit and yet still expected to bear more. The thought of such a
life gives me hives and makes me itch from head to toe. Why on earth, I ask
myself, would any woman want babies stuck to her like so many leaches?    

 But, even with feeling as I do, I miss Herbert something terrible. 
Many a lonely evening, I’ve lifted the telephone from its hook when I was  on
the verge of asking him to come back; then I remember poor Francine with those
five kids hanging onto her. After that, I put the telephone back and find
myself a book to read. A year after we’d said our goodbyes Herbert married
Polly Dobelink; and when that happened I cried for weeks on end.

Never too Old

I
n the years that followed,
Olivia had her fair share of suitors, but whenever the issue of marriage came
up, she’d disappear leaving them flat as a run-over nickel. That was until the
spring of 1956, when she met Charlie Doyle, a man with silver hair and a powder
blue Chevrolet convertible. 

 Charlie had eyes the color of spring blueberries and twice as
tempting.  “Now, wouldn’t I just love to have
him
slip into my bed on a
cold night,” the women of the Wyattsville Social Club whispered to one another.
Women who had been married for forty years would start thinking of divorce when
they looked at Charlie. Widows showered him with baskets of homemade cookies
then giggled like school girls when he planted a kiss on their cheek. Some were
out-and-out flamboyant in vying for his attention. The widow Mulligan on more
than one occasion indicated that she would be willing to add his name to her
sizable savings account were he to ask a certain question. And, Gussie
Bernhoff, daring as ever you please, invited him to spend the night at her
apartment. Yes, you could easily say Charlie had everything a man could wish
for in Wyattsville; and he probably would not have gone over to Richmond, were
it not for his pal Herbert Flannery’s retirement party. 

As he and Herbert were sipping martinis and reminiscing, Olivia swished
by in a rustle of green silk. “Who’s that?” Charlie whispered into Herbert’s ear.

“Her?” Herbert replied, “Forget her. She’s a career woman with no
interest whatsoever in men.” 

“We’ll see,” Charlie said; then he marched over and introduced himself.
From afar he had believed her to be a woman in her thirties but close up he could
see the cluster of lines crinkling the corners of her green eyes. Of course, by
then it was already too late, he’d been captured by a smile that made him feel
younger than did the powder blue convertible. 

Suddenly Charlie developed an overwhelming need for the excitement of
Richmond and he began driving to town three times a week, even though it was
seventy-seven miles each way. He’d start out thinking he’d go to the museum, or
shopping for a new suit, or any of a dozen other destinations, but he’d always
end up standing in front of the Southern Atlantic Telephone Company office at
the very moment Olivia walked out. “Have you seen the new movie at the Strand?”
he’d ask nonchalantly. If she’d already seen the movie, he’d suggest the ballet
at the Civic Center or a concert over at the Music Hall. They’d start with
dinner then stroll across the park so engrossed in each other that they took no
notice of time. On numerous occasions they missed both the coming attractions
and the newsreel; and on one particularly starry evening they missed the entire
first act of the ballet. 

Olivia was as taken with Charlie as he was with her. A full hour before
quitting time, she’d begin to powder her nose and smooth back her hair.  She’d
get to wondering whether or not he’d be there and miss a meeting or forget to
post a report that was scheduled to be sent off in the day’s mail. In the midst
of dictating a letter about employee benefits or training programs, she’d drift
off to picturing his smile and the way he’d stroke her face with his fingers.
Day after day she walked around with a goofy-looking grin curling the corners
of her mouth and her heart beating three times faster than usual. “It must be
love,” the office clericals whispered to one another; but, oblivious to their
gossip, Olivia simply continued to float around looking happy as a Fourth of
July parade. 

   This continued on for three months until one night in late July. After
a particularly romantic evening at the Starlight Lounge, Charlie, lost in the
green of her eyes, blurted out a proposal. “Marry me,” he said, at the very
moment she was about to swallow a chocolate truffle.

Olivia gasped with such a huge intake of air that the chocolate became
lodged in her throat. “Well?” Charlie said as she sat there turning red-faced. 
When the chocolate melted to the size of a penny and slid down her throat, she
told him that she was a bit shaken and needed to go home.

“But, what about marrying me?” Charlie asked.

“We’ll talk about it next time,” she answered ruefully.

Charlie, looking square into the face of possible rejection was
flabbergasted. He sputtered, “You mean to say you’re undecided?”

Olivia wished she didn’t have to say anything, she wished they could go
on day after day, week after week, year after year, never asking any more of
each other; never mentioning the one thing that ruined every relationship. She
found it virtually impossible to look into his eyes with what she had to say,
so she fixed her gaze fixed on a single truffle—a truffle that had fallen from
the edge of the plate, a truffle that stood as alone as she herself. “I’m
sorry, Charlie,” she mumbled tearfully, “if I were going to marry anyone it
would be you, but I’m simply not a marrying woman.” As the words fell from her
mouth, she could feel her heart breaking, shattering into a hundred million
pieces, each smaller than even a grain of sand. She loved Charlie more than
she’d ever loved any man before.
Why…
her heart was screaming, …
why
does falling in love always have to end this way?

“Not a marrying woman?” Charlie repeated, “What’s that supposed to
mean?”

“I’ve never been one to fit the mold. Cooking, cleaning, babies—it’s
just too much dependency, it smoothers a woman and takes the fullness of life
from her.”

“Babies?” Charlie echoed, “Who said anything about babies?”

Her answer was one she had stored away in her head, it hadn’t been
called upon for years, it had grown old and dusty and obsolete, but she hauled
it out nonetheless. “I realize that given your age, babies might not be a thing
of foremost concern, but,” she sighed, “who knows what might happen in the
future…”

“I’m sixty-eight! Why, it would be
impossible
for me to father a
baby! Besides, I wouldn’t want one—not even if it came in a solid gold
wrapper!”

“You’re certain?”

“I only want you. I want us to sleep in the same bed and make love. If
you don’t want to cook, we’ll eat in restaurants. If you don’t want to clean,
we’ll sweep the dirt under the rug and get on with our life.”

“No children?”

“Children? Absolutely not!  I’ve got one and he’s no bargain.”

“You’ve got a little boy?”

“He’s hardly a boy. Benjamin’s thirty-seven—old enough to know he ought
to visit his dad now and then; but he doesn’t. I haven’t seen him for over
fifteen years.” 

“Grandchildren?”
she asked; her eyes lovingly locked onto his face.

“Benjamin and Susanna have a son,” he answered
wistfully. “The lad’s name is Ethan Allen; but I’ve never even met him.”

T
he following Friday Charlie
slipped a diamond ring on Olivia’s finger and much to everyone’s surprise, it
stayed there. And, as if that weren’t enough of a shocker, Olivia then
announced she was going to give up her job of thirty years and move to
Wyattsville. “I’ve heard tell it’s a wonderful community,” she told her
friends, “and, Charlie has an apartment on the seventh floor of a building that
does not allow children.”

The announcement generated an endless amount of gossip among Olivia’s
friends and co-workers. The girls in the typing pool suggested he might be
after her money, or worse yet, be planning to take out a sizeable insurance
policy then do her in. “What do we know about him?” they’d ask each other, but
the answer was generally nothing more than a furrowed brow and a shrug of the
shoulders. 

Herbert Flannery, dumbfounded by the turn of events, went out and
bought himself a powder blue convertible then took to coloring his hair
shoe-polish black.

Mabel Cunningham, a woman who had known Olivia since high school
claimed she’d heard rumors of Charlie being a philanderer.

“Not likely,” Francine Burnam said as she stuck a pacifier into her
grandbaby’s mouth; her daughter had recently divorced a ne’er-do-well husband
and returned home to mama with the infant and two toddlers.  “Olivia’s too
smart to be taken in by someone like that,” Francine sighed wistfully.

Even the boy who bagged groceries at the A & P seemed to be boggled
by the sight of her new diamond ring. “
You’re
engaged?” he said; then he
stood there staring at her while a ripe cantaloupe rolled off the end of the
counter and splattered on the floor.

None of this bothered Olivia as
she strolled around town shopping for a trousseau and looking every bit the
prospective bride. She never noticed how shopkeepers would cover their mouth
and giggle when she asked to see bridal veils and blue garters. She paid no
attention when Alma suggested rethinking retirement and she laughed out loud
when Mabel said she ought to have Charlie investigated by a private detective.

O
n the third Saturday in October,
Olivia Ann Westerly knew what sort of day it was long before she opened her
eyes. She’d imagined the sound of wedding bells in a dream which ended far too
soon; and she’d caught the fragrance of jasmine even though it was long past
the season for such a flower to be blooming. It was a morning that dawned with
a sun warm enough for anyone to believe it mid-August—a morning when crows had
the sound of songbirds and flowerbeds overflowed with blooms, a morning, no
doubt, that was an omen of good things to come.

Olivia had always been a person given to superstition; and by the time
she turned twelve she had learned to understand omens—both good and bad. She
avoided stepping on sidewalk cracks, covered her eyes if she saw a black cat
and never, ever, planned anything important on the eleventh day of the month.
Experience had taught her that if anything bad was going to happen, it was going
to happen on the eleventh; and, she’d kept that in mind when they selected a
date for the wedding. Now, on this most glorious of all mornings, she had not a
care in the world—the eleventh of October had already come and gone and it
would be almost a full month before she’d have to face another one.