Love Story Mom
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Beth’s father (who is separated from her mother) likes to think of Mom as “overflowing with love.” Beth feels a mixture of anger, pity and, occasionally, love – she is her mother after all. As newlyweds, Beth and Les are struggling financially, so they leap at Mom’s offer to hire Les to remodel her home. Unfortunately, close proximity leads to the inevitable (at least with this woman!) Could anyone but a saint forgive this mother and husband???
Beth also wonders if her nagging drove Les into Mom’s arms. She’s being way too hard on herself! Beth’s father encourages tolerance and forgiveness, reminding her that no one is perfect.
I don’t know just when I first realized the kind of woman my mother was. I do know that when I was sixteen, and Ann and Dorothea took me aside, ever so kindly, and told me that I should tell Mom to stop messing around with the captain of the Easton High football team, what I felt was plain and simple anger. It never occurred to me to doubt their word. It was only too possible that they were right. A lot of people in Easton thought that Daddy left Mom because of her “cheating ways.” It was the other way around. It wasn’t that Daddy was angry or jealous, exactly. He just loved Mom very much and was terribly hurt that she wasn’t spending more time with him. His sorrowful, patient ways were more than Mom could bear.
She was a big, unaffected woman who laughed when she was happy and cried when she was sad, and didn’t mind a good fight now and then to clear the air. She could be sarcastic, but she never lied. And now that I’m older, I see that in her way, she loved Daddy. He was the one great love of her life. But she loved other men, too. (She needed a lot of male companionship, if you know what I mean, and Daddy couldn’t always give that to her.) She loved bright lights and parties and New Year’s Eve. Daddy was like me, shy, uncomfortable with more than one or two people, not a good mixer. I guess she married him because she felt sorry for him, and thought she could cheer him up.
It didn’t work, and Mom started developing “friendships,” which Daddy didn’t like, but didn’t object to, because Mom was the one great love of his life. I found out most of this years later. The first thing I knew about it was when 1 was eight, and Mom met me at school one day with the car full of luggage, announcing that we weren’t going to live with Daddy any more. We drove to a city I forget and spent two weeks in a two-room hotel suite. We slept late every morning, and went to the movies a lot. And every night one of Mom’s “friends” would take us out to a glorious restaurant for dinner. I grew fat and spoiled, and had a nice time, but I missed my quiet daddy and his neat accountant’s hands.
Then one day we drove back home to our house in Easton, hung all our clothes back in the closets. and Mom wrote an excuse for me to take to my teacher. The only thing that was different was that Daddy had moved into a rooming house on the other side of town. They never did get a divorce.
I understand now that Mom was a rare and wonderful woman in her way, simply overflowing with love for everybody. The trouble was that she was not always very wise about whom she loved and how she loved them.
A month or so after we moved back into the house, she decided it would be a nice idea to run a nursery during the day, It was a big, old-fashioned house with a huge yard, ideal for children. So she ran an ad in the Easton Chronicle, saying she’d be delighted to care for children by the day. The phone immediately began to ring, and the house began to resound to the noises of little girls and boys. Mom had just naturally assumed that the nursery ought to be free, since she loved kids so much, had so much time on her hands, and that big house. So every harassed housewife and working mother in town obliged by sending their kids.
There were thirty kids the first day, all running up and down stairs, skinning their knees, falling out of trees, spilling paint, and having the time of their lives because Mom never scolded anybody. To cut the numbers down after that, and she started charging, though I’m sure she never felt quite right about it.
Her men, what I know about them, were something like those kids. They, too, needed love, and a good time, and the knowledge that they wouldn’t be scolded. She kept me pretty much in the dark about her “friends,” though of course I could sense something was going on.
I remember that Mr. Ferguson, the druggist, came to dinner once a week for a couple of months after his wife died, and on those nights I had to go to bed early. I remember when Doug Davis, the judge’s son, came back from the war with a strange new face that a land mine and plastic surgery had created for him, and Mom had him come over twice a week to give her lessons on the guitar. There were nights I’d wake up, in my little room way to the back of the big house, thinking I heard a man’s voice in Mom’s bedroom.
By the time I was a teenager, I was certain that Mom wasn’t leading an ordinary sort of life. Yet neither Daddy nor anybody else in the town had an unkind word to say about her. The mothers continued to send their kids to Mom’s day nursery.
And the only time a policeman ever came to our house was with a small boy who had run away from home, asking Mom politely if the child could stay with the nursery school kids until his mother could be found. In her way, Mom was a respected citizen of Easton. And Daddy probably respected her more than anyone.
And maybe that is why I went to Daddy the two times in my life when it seemed that Mom’s unconventional ways had made life unbearable for me. The first time was after Ann and Dorothea, two of the prettiest, most popular girls in the school, had told me in ugly Anglo-Saxon terms what my mother was. I don’t know what malice prompted them, Maybe they just felt like being mean. It was after archery practice, on a sunny late-spring afternoon. It only took a few moments for them to smash my world as the three of us walked across the field to the girls’ locker room. By the time we got to the locker room, I was too upset even to button a button, so I just grabbed my raincoat, threw it over my gym suit, and ran all the way to Daddy’s boarding house. His landlady let me wait in the downstairs living room till Daddy got back from work.
“Your mother isn’t a bad woman, Beth,” my father told me. “She’s just so full of life, and full of love, that she can’t give herself to just one person.”
“How can you say that, Daddy, after what she did to you? And to me?”
It sickened me to hear him defend her, as he sat on the bed in his dingy boarding house room. It was on account of her that Daddy had to live in this place, not much better than a slum. It was thanks to my mother and her incorrigible ways that we weren’t a family any longer. How could a man stick up for a wife like that?
“I know, baby doll, I know,” he said, soothingly. “I know how terribly she’s hurt you. She hurt me, too, remember. When she left me, I just didn’t want to live any more. Walking through that house, knowing she was gone, it took all the light out of my life. Oh, that hurt me, her leaving like that.”
“Hush, Beth,” said Daddy with a harshness I had never heard in his voice before. I looked at him, hard, and I saw that there were tears glistening in his faded blue eyes. Wildly, I said the first thing that came into my head.
Daddy nodded slowly, and bit his lip. “I never loved any woman, before or since, the way I love your mother.”
“But Daddy, she’s no good. Everybody in town knows that. She doesn’t have the morals of an alley cat. She—”
He slapped me. It didn’t hurt, but the shock of it stunned me. It was the only time I’d ever known my weak, ineffective, lovable daddy to stand up to anyone for any reason. He stood up, with something akin to anger in his face, and he started to talk. I didn’t dare interrupt.
“Now you just listen, Miss Beth. You’re young, and you think you know enough about life to sit in judgment about your mother. Well, let me tell you, there isn’t anybody in this world that has a right to say what’s right or what’s wrong for somebody else. What’s right for you isn’t right for her. Every person is a special case. Just so long’s they don’t hurt anybody else, what a person does with their own life is their business.”
“But she has hurt somebody else,” I protested quietly. “That’s why I came to you.”
“She didn’t hurt you, Beth, it was those kids with their gossiping tongues,” he insisted. “If you hadn’t been told, you wouldn’t have found out. You were happy up till then—it was the kids’ fault, don’t you see?”
“I haven’t been happy since you and Mom split up,” I said miserably.
He was silent a long moment, then sat down again. “That—that couldn’t be helped, Beth,” he sighed. “I just wasn’t—man enough, for her. It was better this way. Believe me.”
“I don’t believe that, Daddy,” I told him. “I know how badly it hurt you when she left.”
“The truth hurts,” he said firmly. He was trying as much to convince himself as he was me. It was for the best.”
“Weren’t you even angry?” I demanded, wanted him to be angry at her.
“No, not angry,” he said, shaking his head resignedly. “Sad, yes. Sad that it didn’t work out. She’s a wonderful woman. Those were the happiest years of my life. I hated to see them end. But your mother wasn’t happy with me. She wanted more out of life than I could give and she had more to give than I could take. I could see that. So when the time came, and I knew it was going to come, sooner or later, I just let it happen.”
“What would have been the use? I didn’t want to punish her. Wouldn’t have done any good. She couldn’t do any different.”
“You just sat there and took it,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control, “and then you forgave her!”
“That’s right. Why make bad feelings?”
“Bad feelings!” I exploded. “Your wife walks out on you, breaks up your home, carries on with every man in town, and you don’t want to make bad feelings—” by now I was as angry at my weak-willed father as I was at my sinful, headstrong mother.
“Ah, now, honey, don’t you get mad at me,” said Daddy, almost whining. “I never was much of a fighter I accepted what was going to happen. I let her do what she had to do. It’s better that way—we’re still friends.” Then he added slyly, “Even at my age, a man’s got to have a lady friend.”
I felt another piece of my world crumble away. I didn’t want to believe it. “Do you mean you still see each other—that way?” I gasped.
Daddy must have realized that he’d gone too far, for he suddenly stood up and snapped,
“That’s none of your business. Now I think it’s time you got along home. Get your coat on and I’ll walk you back.”
I couldn’t bear to spend another minute with him. I grabbed my coat, muttered a quick good night, and dashed down the stairs. I didn’t hear him following me, but I ran the first couple of blocks anyway. It helped me work off some of my sense of anger and outrage.
Not all of it, though. I was still fuming by the time I got home. Mom was sitting in the living room, alone, watching television as she painted some new building blocks for the nursery. I made a big point of slamming the door as I came in, and standing there rigid with anger. I was all set for a showdown. But she didn’t even look up.
“There are some brownies in the breadbox,” she said. “you can have a couple before going to bed, if you like.”
“No, thank you,” I said, but she didn’t notice the coldness in my voice.
“All right. Sweet dreams,” She turned and smiled, making a good-night kiss in the air as I started up the stairs. I didn’t return the kiss or the good night, but she overlooked that, too. She just went on spreading the paint on the blocks, setting them carefully, dry side down, on the newspaper-covered floor. It was still early, but I felt an overwhelming exhaustion. The day had been just too much. I showered quickly, brushed my hair, and flopped into bed, waiting for sleep to come over me like a cleansing flood to wash away all the ugliness of the day.But sleep wouldn’t come, and it wasn’t just because the clock said nine-thirty. I had a lot of left-over anger in me with no way to let it out. Daddy was partly right, of course. I was angry at Dorothea and Ann for shattering the last little fragments of happiness that were left to me. It was the cruelest thing I’d ever experienced, in a way, because it was kids that had done it and somehow I expected my own generation to be more understanding. I had already learned that grown-ups are cruel. Now I’d learned that kids are, too.
But I was angry at Mom, more than ever. I had hated her, I realized, ever since she left Daddy. She left him. Our broken home was her doing. She’d taken my father away from me. And she had done it in order to indulge her own lustful appetites. It made me sick to think of it.
She hadn’t even been discreet about it. She didn’t care what people said about her. She must have known that stories would get back to me, sooner or later. She could have tried to protect me, at least, even if she didn’t care about her own reputation. She didn’t love me, obviously. She never had. What a fool I was not to realize it until now!
And what a fool I’d been to think that Daddy could be any help. After all these years of separation, she still had him brainwashed. He still loved her. He knew all about her, and he still needed her. I had always thought of Daddy as a gentle, innocent victim of circumstances. Now I saw that he had invited his own downfall, and had perhaps even welcomed it. He was a fool and a weakling and I felt my jaw tighten with hatred when I thought of him.
And he was, still and all, my father, and I loved him. And I cried. It seemed as if this torment went on for hours. And yet, when my mother knocked softly and opened the door, I saw that my clock said it was only about ten-thirty.
“Beth, there’s someone to see you downstairs,” she told me.
“Who is it?” I asked, keeping my face toward the wall so she couldn’t see my tears. “It’s Les Black.”
Then Mom saw that I’d been crying. “Why, what’s the matter, dear?”
I groped in my mind for a plausible explanation. ‘The—the kids at school gave me a hard time today,” I stammered. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you want me to tell Les to come back some other time?”
“No!” I practically leaped out of bed, ran to the bathroom to put some cold water on my face, dressed in a flash and, pausing at the top of the stairs to catch my breath, went slowly down to the living room.
When I met Les, he lived in Mercersberg, about ten miles away from us, and went to Mercersberg High School. He was one of the outstanding boys in his school, sports editor of the newspaper, member of just about every honorary society in the school, and a star in its debating team. That was how I met him.
At that time I was trying desperately to overcome my feelings of shyness and inferiority. Some friendly teacher had suggested that I join the debating club. I was petrified at the thought of getting up to speak about anything at all in front of any kind of audience, and the very idea of having to present a case arguing in favor of something scared me beyond words. I knew I never could, and yet I knew I had to try. There had to be some way out of my cage of self-consciousness.
When, after only two or three meetings, Mr. Hendrickson, the faculty adviser of the debating club, told me that I was to go along with the three seniors who were to debate the Mercersberg team, I thought it was a miracle. Later on, bitterly, I realized that he was only trying to be kind.
“I couldn’t, Mr. Hendrickson,” I protested. “I don’t know enough about it.”
“Don’t worry about it, Beth,” he reassured me. “There are three very experienced kids doing this debate with you. You won’t be alone. But it’ll be good experience for you, and I believe you’ll do well. Give it a chance.”
I wonder, now, how things would have turned out, if I had listened to my inner panicky fear, if I had stayed home from the Mercersberg debate. I thought of it—I even tried to fake a sore throat the morning of the debate so that I could stay home from school. But Mom, with her incessant energy and good cheer, bustled me out of the house without even listening to my complaints.
“Just some butterflies before the performance, Bethie,” she chuckled. “You’ll be fine. Now, good luck.” She kissed me lightly on the forehead. “And Mr. Hendrickson will drive you home about six, right dear?”
I nodded dumbly and obediently hastened off to school. I felt those butterflies orbiting in my stomach all through classes, and by the time school was over and it was time for the four students to pile into Mr. Hendrickson’s car for the drive to Mercersberg, I was a silent, shaking mass of nerves.
It didn’t help any that the first person I saw as we entered the auditorium of Mercersberg High was a tall, dark young man with an open, boyish face that looked like all my schoolgirl dreams of Sir Galahad. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. But when he noticed me staring at him and smiled a greeting, I felt my face flush with embarrassment and turned away.
As I remember, the debate had to do with whether theUnited Statesshould abolish the electoral college and elect the president directly—and it went much, much better than I could have hoped. Mr. Hendrickson had prepared us carefully. As the Mercersberg team brought up their arguments, we were ready to meet them. It was almost as if the two teams were reading from the same script.
Three speakers from my school, and three from Mercersberg squared off against each other, and with growing anxiety I realized that I would have to answer the dark-haired Galahad who I’d been staring at earlier. I didn’t know how I could. As he rose to speak, I sank deeper in my chair, and I don’t believe I heard a word he said.
Then it was my turn. Consumed with nervousness, I stood and walked to the speaker’s stand without looking at anyone. I began speaking and noticed my voice was several tones higher and thinner than usual. But I couldn’t do anything about it. I recited my well-rehearsed facts and figures, almost as if in a hypnotic trance. Somehow, I got back to my seat.
When the results were announced, I nearly fainted. We’d won! And the judges commended our side for its excellent preparation and clear presentation!
“That’s you, honey,” said the sleek blonde senior girl who sat beside me. “We couldn’t have made it without you. And the fact that that gorgeous Les Black of theirs obviously hadn’t studied up on the topic.”
So that was his name. And my teammate knew him. “Who is he?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s been on their debating team a couple of years,” she answered with a little smile that may have been condescending. “They made it to the state semi-finals last year. Les used to be their boy wonder, but it looks like he’s running out of gas.”
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Love Story Mom
