The Jewel Box (2 page)

“I’d like to have a special evening just once in my life before I die.” She guzzled half a glass of wine and poured herself a refill as
Sugar Sugar
by The Archies played on my radio.

“You’ve enjoyed countless special times with your husband, Delilah.”

“My perpetually horny husband?” she asked in incredulous tone.

“Pleeease.” I released two hair pins from my ballerina twist, letting my hair fall onto my shoulders. “Considering some of the scoundrels you dated during our younger years, you should be thrilled to have a decent man.”

“At least the bad boys were exciting.” She swirled her glass of Ruffino. “I liked the good old days, back when you were wild and crazy like me. Before you got all sophisticated.”

“Sophisticated? Puh-leeeze, Delilah, I’m still gauche as all get out. And my wild and crazy days were riddled with idiotic behavior I’d rather not relive. Talk about hard-earned lessons.”

She sipped her wine without responding, seemingly preoccupied by something complex, like what effect quantum mechanics have on particles near a black hole or how to persuade scientists to invent Limpdix—a pill identical in appearance to Viagra but with opposite effect.

The phone rang and I got up to answer Ellen’s customary check-up call. Albeit I’ve matured into a responsible adult post my “stupid is as stupid does” years, my older sister still worries about me. As she talked about Thanksgiving plans, her loving tone warmed my soul. If it weren’t for decades of Ellen’s guidance, I might be pondering the perfect lipstick shade to match my bright orange jumpsuit about now.

My sister and I were raised in Lake Jackson, Texas, a sleepy little town sixty miles south of Houston. Ellen won homemaking awards. I won running medals. Ellen was quiet like our mother. I was mouthy like Dad. Ellen: calm, confident, respectful. Me: anxious, insecure, cheeky. My sister adored our family and seemed content with small town living. I never connected with either parent and dreamed about escaping to an exciting, big city life. Our timid, meticulous mother softly spouted quotes in lieu
of discussing subjects necessary for maturing girls. A gracious woman of virtue, my mother Lynn regarded men as sole financial supporters in proper families and placed major stress on being chaste as though virginity resulted in eternal love with Prince Charming—or one of his well-heeled cousins. The word “virgin” got mega air time in our home, yet requests for in depth details about sex turned Mother’s face beet red as she fidgeted with her pearl necklace. After constant explanations filled with Mother’s indecipherable quotes, we finally stopped asking.

At the opposite side of the spectrum was our dad, George, a six-foot, fun loving extrovert whose jovial comments and high-spirited harmonica tunes resonated throughout our otherwise quiet home. Dad worked Dow Chemical’s evening shift, making his sightings rare. But never dull. Occasionally Dad’s cheerful temperament changed, and he walked around ranting and spewing expletives. Mother countered his cursing by running our noisy vacuum or floor buffer to shield our genteel ears. Her attempts to hide his erratic nature were futile, and by my teens it was obvious my parents got their spiritual enlightenment from differing sources. Mother’s straight from Betty Crocker and Dad’s straight from Jack Daniels.

The sound of pouring wine and clinking glass interrupted my childhood mind drift. “I’m sorry, Ellen. Delilah’s here funneling wine down her gullet and if I don’t intervene it might take the Jaws-of-Life to detach her from my settee.”

“Get to it, then. I’ve gotta slap on some dye to combat gray hairs invading my crown. You’re lucky you got Mother’s champagne blonde hair color. I’m stuck with Dad’s dark brown shade that shows every new tiny strand of gray.”

“But you’ve got his big brown eyes to distract from those incoming enemies. I’ll chat with you tomorrow.” I hung up and headed over to take charge of Delilah’s wine situation. No more vino for Mrs. Carlino. The time to end our visit had commenced.

“Thanks for the wine, Delilah, but I really need you out of here so I can get my butt in gear.” Being blunt was mandatory once wine hit her system.

“I know, I know.” Delilah stood to leave. “What the heck is this?” She pulled a
Jack of Clubs
card from between the settee cushions.

I grabbed the thin piece of plastic from her. “Just one lost from its deck.” I momentarily placed the card against my heart.

“Oh.” She seemed oblivious to my trembling hand as she flung her purse over her shoulder. “Well, good thing you’re booting me out cuz if I’m not home by nine, Eric starts dialing those 900 sex numbers.”

“You’re bent beyond repair, Delilah.” I corked the remaining wine and walked her to the door. “And thanks again for the surprise drop by. Seeing you is always my distinct pleasure.”

She hugged me before heading out the door. “Give Nikki my love,” she yelled.

I nodded, thinking how after three decades, my daughter barely knew Delilah. After all, she only babysat Nikki briefly in 1970. It seemed so long ago, yet like only the blink of an eye.

Bliss comes from unusual sources. Looking at my bar, tears of happiness began to well as I walked over, placed the
Jack of Clubs
card front and center, picked up Delilah’s abandoned pack of cinnamon gum, and ran my fingers across the bar’s surface, touching every little groove. I slid a stick of gum into my mouth while sliding onto one of four barstools I’d moved alongside the bar earlier. Delilah’s curiosity about my working for Beau left me with wide ranging emotions. Vexation. My friend knows too much of my personal business and teases about dragging skeletons from my closet for entertainment purposes. Details. In a few decades my grandchildren will be asking that same question, and unlike Delilah they deserve an answer. Truth. Nothing sets the heart free like revealing secrets that can haunt your soul and govern your life.

2

I glanced out my window into the skies over the Gulf, recalling my trajectory toward Beau. In 1968, I divorced my husband who reciprocated by vanishing to a foreign country and leaving our toddler without child support. Trying to put cornflakes on the table for my daughter Nikki propelled me into survival mode. I couldn’t travel back in time, otherwise I would’ve heeded Mother’s “Look before you leap!” adage, instead of rushing into marriage with Jethro Bodine’s mirror image. Kent Novak never had anything original to say, but I fell for his light blue eyes, dark wavy hair, and muscular butt. The guy was eager to take me away from Lake Jackson—so what if we didn’t know squat about each other? And thanks to my “Gracious ladies sit with legs crossed at the ankles while knees are kindly kept together
”
mother, I wed as a virgin. An awful awakening for me when the mind-blowing passion I’d read about in romance novels failed to visit our bridal suite. At least our wedding night served as my introduction to liquor.

We moved to the big city of Houston, but life with Kent remained D.U.L.L. Especially in the bedroom. Sex proved perfunctorily uneventful, although occasionally if I knocked back enough vodka to accommodate adequate visual delusions, I could somewhat imagine Kent bumping and grinding. A rock-hard ass does not a great lover make.

Mr. Boring insisted I be a housewife, so when Ellen and her husband Charles started a lathe business, I jumped at the chance to tend my four-year-old nephew, Jimmy. With bright, smiling eyes, blond curly hair,
mischievous sense of humor and brains beyond his age, this preschooler brightened my dull life. Hell, he was ten times more interesting than Kent.

Still, after a year of humdrum living, about once a week I contemplated sticking my head inside our gas oven. Until the morning I awoke with nausea accompanied by vomiting. I stayed on my knees so often, Jimmy and Kent thought I had converted to Catholicism. Hail Mary and
inanimate
conception, I was pregnant!

Jacy Nicole’s birth was the most exciting day of my life, and our instant bond gave me reason to exist. Nikki brought such happiness, I wrote elaborate notes about her every move, visualizing its evolution into a great children’s book. Then my little princess got colic. Hello cranky baby, goodbye journalism fantasy. Jimmy helped me through baby blues and other rough toddler times before splitting for Pre-K, but his departure left me facing reality. Reading nursery rhymes and playing kid games had become the highlight of my existence. Naturally, I pondered said existence.

“Never marry a stranger,” I advised my sixteen-month-old as we crafted macaroni art.

“Go bye-bye.” Nikki swept elbow pieces and glue into her painted box.

It was kismet. I packed our bags.

Leaving behind almost everything, I waved goodbye to Kent as we passed in the doorway when he came home from work. He looked so sad and bewildered, for a minute I felt like a real jerk for my inconsiderate exit from the black and white dullness of our life. Sixty-one seconds later, I’d hopped in my Corvair Coupe, turned the radio full blast and was singing along with Steppenwolf’s
Born to Be Wild
while driving Nikki away from our first home.

Shortly after Nikki and I arrived at my parent’s home, I learned Kent remarried before the ink dried on our divorce decree. Men sure don’t stay sad long. His newlywed butt soon got drafted and shortly after he shipped overseas, I found out nice guy Kent deceitfully filled out military paperwork. Claiming his new wife as his only dependent meant no child support. Fine. He could evaporate for all I cared. I was hell-bent on getting by without his financial aid.

I enrolled at community college and got a part-time evening job as office assistant, which prompted quotes from Mother. “A woman’s place is in the home.”
In one ear and out the other, Lynn.
Morning classes revitalized my stale brain, and working at a fast paced marketing firm fueled my hyperactive nature. Employees stayed super busy, thanks to our thirty-something tall, lanky boss with piercing raven eyes, slick black hair, and a villainous look that intimidated most. Not me. I found Wesley’s tailored suits and smug poise alluring in a John Dillinger sort of way.

But I didn’t do well at balancing employment, education, and motherhood. My behavior slipped into back sassing, dish throwing, door slamming, tears flowing, mood swings. Mother spouted self help quotes for a while, then next thing I knew my erratic behind was parked in a psychologist’s chair. Well, general practitioner slash psychologist. Dual practice was common in Lake Jackson, where I suspected one could go to the proctologist and flip over for a pelvic exam. The doctor/therapist prescribed an antidepressant to help ease my confusion.

After two
Tofranil
filled weeks my disposition went on the upswing.

“Hey Jill,” Wesley shouted as we worked late one evening. “Wanna go over projected sales before heading out?”

Hmmm. Hang with suave guy or head home for an earful of Mother’s quotes? I bolted down the hall and into his office.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Orange juice,” I said.

“With what?” Wesley opened a cabinet that could have passed as a Spec’s Mini Mart. Lake Jackson was in a dry county.

“Gotta pass on the liquor. Mother forbids drinking in her house.”

“Well, I hate drinking alone, this isn’t your mother’s house, and I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“I’m taking medication and my doc said not to mix it with alcohol.”

My excuse was still hanging in mid-air when Wesley jumped from behind his desk and walked around to my chair. “Let me see your prescription,” he insisted.

I handed him my bottle of Tofranil. “These damn quacks!” A vein in his neck pulsed as he snatched the meds from my hand. “You don’t need to be
popping pills and your daughter certainly doesn’t need her mom hooked on tranquilizers.” In an instant he had taken my vial of capsules to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.

I was awed by his assertiveness. When Wesley returned, he handed me a large drink. Sipping on my tequila and orange juice for over an hour, I listened to the man in the Brooks Brother’s shirt who got more attractive by the minute.

Wasn’t long before I dropped out of college to become office manager, and also became charmed by my boss. Wesley drove a cherry red Lincoln Continental convertible, which fueled my daydreams into thoughts of romantic deeds with this fiery guy. What a disappointment when my fantasy finally came to life. Our liaison evolved after a stressful day amplified into an evening of nonstop tequila shots, so it didn’t rate high on the romance scale. Future “romantic” deeds always included alcohol and always transpired on the office sofa. I wasn’t exactly qualified to rate sex, but considered Wesley eighty percent better than inert Kent. Experienced Wesley taught me Sex Ed 101, albeit carnal encounters failed to arouse—much less satisfy me. Within weeks Wesley’s behavior began to parallel my dad’s, but I convinced myself that leaving Lake Jackson would be the magical cure for his mood swings. And before you could say two-neurotics-in-transit, Wesley hooked a tow bar to his convertible for dragging my car to El Paso, his assigned city to establish a company branch. Mother accepted my lie about us living in separate housing. She was too damn virtuous to fathom her daughter shacking up with the second guy who came along.