wearing the same three outfits throughout the week. When we were growing up, my family was downright rich compared with his.
“But, Charles, she should have the same as everyone else, or she’ll feel left out. You don’t want that, do you?”
He got up and stood by the coffeepot to wait for it to finish percolating before he said what I knew he would. “I managed without and she can too.”
How many times had Charles told me that he’d survived as a child with less than the other kids and so could Vickie and Phillip? “You know, just because I walked a mile to the bus stop doesn’t mean I think Vickie and Phillip should have to do the same.” I took the green beans I’d snapped and rinsed them one more time before placing them in a mixing bowl. “That makes about as much sense as your mother baking her cakes on Saturday and locking them up until Sunday,” I continued in disbelief. I never did understand why Sunday was the only day sweets and fried chicken were allowed in Charles’s family.
Charles didn’t answer me. He poured his coffee and retreated to the living room with his cup.
“You need to do something about this pile of magazines in the den. I’m tired of the mess,” he yelled from the hallway.
I opened the drawer to find a mixing spoon and slammed it shut.
When we argued we were both on automatic, our frustrations becoming so intense, a thick invisible wall stood between us. We were trying so hard to be heard that we couldn’t hear each other. I didn’t understand some of Charles’s stubborn, crazy notions. We were so different at times. Charles found satisfaction scavenging up and down alleys and roads to find what he thought were perfectly good items someone had thrown away. He’d walk into the house lugging home his latest prize—a broken glass cabinet or lopsided bookshelves that he actually planned to use as furniture in our house. One day he brought home a gigantic barrel of every color of ribbon imaginable. For years the neighborhood women came to the house, staying as long as it took to roll up the endless yards of ribbon they needed.
I loved nothing better than finding a good deal at a discount store, but I wasn’t interested in furnishing my house with castoffs. More than anything, I wanted Vickie and Phillip to have a different childhood than we’d had; I wanted to do more than just get by. Charles had all he’d ever wanted: a wife and family. He liked the predictable routine I’d created—one that meant the car was washed, lawn mowed, cakes baked, and, yes, even the doorknobs polished every week. When I challenged him, I turned his dream upside down. He thought I was saying he was a failure.
I wasn’t. Deep down,
I
felt like the failure.
S OON AFTER the night I had the flat tire, I started experiencing searing headaches. Sometimes my head hurt so badly, I couldn’t see. I’d had the same “sick” headaches as a young girl. My mother would take me into Piedmont, guiding me up the long flight of wooden stairs to the doctor’s office, where he always gave me a small red pill that made me sleep for what seemed like days. Now, as an adult, I’d lie in my dark bedroom with the curtains closed and a wet washcloth over my eyes, keeping an ear out for the children.
As Charles and I scrambled weekly to pay for gas and speech therapy, he finally considered letting me work part-time. Frustrated with his own part-time job, Charles continued to search for a better, full-time opportunity. One afternoon he came home and told me about an opening at H&R Block in Anniston, the county seat, only a twenty-minute drive from our house. We went to Anniston whenever we needed something from Sears or J. C. Penney. The job sounded like a good possibility for Charles; but when he mentioned that it was part-time during tax season and that there was a math test to pass, I said, “Let me take it.”
In the fall of 1968, I signed up for the H&R Block tax-preparation course, and I passed the
“But, Charles, she should have the same as everyone else, or she’ll feel left out. You don’t want that, do you?”
He got up and stood by the coffeepot to wait for it to finish percolating before he said what I knew he would. “I managed without and she can too.”
How many times had Charles told me that he’d survived as a child with less than the other kids and so could Vickie and Phillip? “You know, just because I walked a mile to the bus stop doesn’t mean I think Vickie and Phillip should have to do the same.” I took the green beans I’d snapped and rinsed them one more time before placing them in a mixing bowl. “That makes about as much sense as your mother baking her cakes on Saturday and locking them up until Sunday,” I continued in disbelief. I never did understand why Sunday was the only day sweets and fried chicken were allowed in Charles’s family.
Charles didn’t answer me. He poured his coffee and retreated to the living room with his cup.
“You need to do something about this pile of magazines in the den. I’m tired of the mess,” he yelled from the hallway.
I opened the drawer to find a mixing spoon and slammed it shut.
When we argued we were both on automatic, our frustrations becoming so intense, a thick invisible wall stood between us. We were trying so hard to be heard that we couldn’t hear each other. I didn’t understand some of Charles’s stubborn, crazy notions. We were so different at times. Charles found satisfaction scavenging up and down alleys and roads to find what he thought were perfectly good items someone had thrown away. He’d walk into the house lugging home his latest prize—a broken glass cabinet or lopsided bookshelves that he actually planned to use as furniture in our house. One day he brought home a gigantic barrel of every color of ribbon imaginable. For years the neighborhood women came to the house, staying as long as it took to roll up the endless yards of ribbon they needed.
I loved nothing better than finding a good deal at a discount store, but I wasn’t interested in furnishing my house with castoffs. More than anything, I wanted Vickie and Phillip to have a different childhood than we’d had; I wanted to do more than just get by. Charles had all he’d ever wanted: a wife and family. He liked the predictable routine I’d created—one that meant the car was washed, lawn mowed, cakes baked, and, yes, even the doorknobs polished every week. When I challenged him, I turned his dream upside down. He thought I was saying he was a failure.
I wasn’t. Deep down,
I
felt like the failure.
S OON AFTER the night I had the flat tire, I started experiencing searing headaches. Sometimes my head hurt so badly, I couldn’t see. I’d had the same “sick” headaches as a young girl. My mother would take me into Piedmont, guiding me up the long flight of wooden stairs to the doctor’s office, where he always gave me a small red pill that made me sleep for what seemed like days. Now, as an adult, I’d lie in my dark bedroom with the curtains closed and a wet washcloth over my eyes, keeping an ear out for the children.
As Charles and I scrambled weekly to pay for gas and speech therapy, he finally considered letting me work part-time. Frustrated with his own part-time job, Charles continued to search for a better, full-time opportunity. One afternoon he came home and told me about an opening at H&R Block in Anniston, the county seat, only a twenty-minute drive from our house. We went to Anniston whenever we needed something from Sears or J. C. Penney. The job sounded like a good possibility for Charles; but when he mentioned that it was part-time during tax season and that there was a math test to pass, I said, “Let me take it.”
In the fall of 1968, I signed up for the H&R Block tax-preparation course, and I passed the
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