Page 25 of Good Days Bad Days

Greg

WQRX, Studio C

Janesville, Wisconsin

Martha said she’d put in a work order. “They have enough money for this damn show to get us a new camera. Don’t you dare fix it,” she directed, but I snuck back after having dinner with Mark at Ike’s.

I was hoping to fix the camera as a surprise.

I like showing that I’m good at something, even if it’s not business or advertising or programming or saving Janesville Presents . . . from getting canceled.

I’m still trying to make it up to Martha.

In those last tumultuous weeks when the writing was on the wall, we’d spend hours on the phone each night.

Those calls became a routine, and even after the axe finally came down and cut our show, I still find myself ending most nights listening to Martha’s voice through my receiver.

At first it was to plan our new hour-long Classy Homemaker programming, but eventually, we got around to other topics, worldly things like the war or music or television shows on other networks.

I like listening to her talk about jazz and tell the story of going to Newport for the jazz festival and seeing Louis Armstrong perform.

She’s not just passionate about music, she’s also passionate about social issues, she’s anti-war and pro-woman.

I like to listen. I can’t help remembering my premonition when we started this whole fiasco together.

Whether it’s Minnesota or Milwaukee or even Chicago—Martha Smith is playing big league on a little league field.

Hollinger sees it too and I think he’s jealous.

That’s why he tried to relegate her to the homemaking show.

But little did he know that The Classy Homemaker would be so popular.

Hollinger would say it’s because of Betty.

And he’s right in a way. Enigmatic Betty is great on-screen, she can read copy off cue cards better than any of the anchors or reporters I’ve ever worked with, and she even comes with her own programming ideas.

But Martha is the reason the show is fresh and snappy and just modern enough to hold viewers.

We’ve heard rumors of syndication to bigger local markets, which should numb the wound from the cancellation of Janesville Presents . . . , but it doesn’t. Not yet.

The memory of how things went down at the end of our pet project sends a flash of frustration through me, and I dig my screwdriver under the lip of the access panel to the auxiliary fan and pry the broken connector out of its position.

It crashes onto the metal plate, sending an ear-rattling clank through the echoey room and denting the casing.

“Damn it,” I curse out loud.

“Well, good evening to you, too,” a familiar feminine voice says from the shadowy set.

Betty stands behind the long L-shaped laminate counter with a collection of supplies in her arms. She unloads them one at a time, starting with a spiral notebook she has balanced on the top of the pile.

My stomach does that thing it always does when I see her.

I’ve gotten used to her beauty, I’ve learned to expect it, too, but this reaction is about more than Betty’s looks.

I’ve seen her in curlers, without makeup, and on one particularly messy broadcast, I’ve seen what she looks like covered in vanilla pudding.

That doesn’t stop the butterflies, though.

In fact, I think it’s only made them grow larger, like bats or great winged birds of prey.

“Sorry about that.” I put down my screwdriver and pick up the new part, sliding it into place.

“Don’t worry. I’ve heard much worse.” Her voice projects across the room. “Say as many damns and shits as you find necessary. I won’t judge.”

I can’t help but snicker. Hearing seemingly perfect Betty swear makes the butterfly-bats go wild.

“Well, thank you.” I try to double-check my repair while watching her from the corner of my eye. I secure the metal plate, plug the camera in, and look through the monitor. With a few adjustments, the familiar sight of Betty working comes into focus.

She lays out a line of provisions. Some look to be ingredients, others cleaning supplies.

Her uncolored lips move as she makes notes on the paper in front of her, her hair pulled up in a smooth ponytail, partially covered with a folded bandanna.

She wears cotton slacks and a loose blouse tucked into the waistband.

It’s intimate, being in the same room as this version of Betty.

I imagine this must be what she’s like at home.

I let myself pretend this is our house and I’ve walked in after a long day at work.

She’s lost in her project and doesn’t notice me enter.

I watch her, eager to ask about her day, what she’s doing with the supplies in front of her, wishing that I’d been there for everything I’d missed.

She’d look up and catch me observing, perhaps rebuke me playfully, invitingly.

I’d drop my bag and remove my shoes, because it’s Wednesday and she always washes the floor on Wednesdays, and I’d take her in my arms and kiss her—first her forehead, then her cheeks one at a time, and finally her inviting lips.

I’m glad you’re home, she’d whisper.

And I’d respond, I wish I’d never left.

“Is it working?” Betty asks, looking right at me through the camera, breaking the fourth wall.

This is not fantasy Betty, this is real-life Betty who now has her hands coated in a mucusy white substance and is talking to me through the camera. I jump back, blushing. She can’t possibly know what I’ve been thinking about, but it feels like I’ve been discovered.

“Uh, yeah. I think so.” I shut down the camera and collect my tools as she continues to ask questions while submerging various items in the off-white goo and placing them onto a sheet of wax paper to the left of the bowl.

“Did you go to school for that, or are you a natural with mechanical things?”

“A little of both.” I shrug, not wanting to sound too cocky, though it’s true.

Ever since I was a child I’ve been good with my hands, whether playing piano or fixing Ma’s vacuum or helping Pop with the Oldsmobile.

Ma used to say I had an eye for beauty, an ear for poetry, and a hand for fixing things.

Pop didn’t agree. When he was still around, he said I was a bumbling idiot, a mama’s boy, a kiss up, a sissy boy.

It’s always been easier to believe my father’s criticisms than my mother’s glowing report.

“What school did you go to?”

“Beloit.”

“Oh, that’s fun. My friend went there.”

“Yeah, it’s a good school,” I say, loading the tools onto a work cart on the far side of the studio.

“She got married after her first year. Got her MRS degree, as they say. She and her husband live in Boston now. I think she had a baby not too long ago.”

“Fairly common,” I say, wiping my greasy fingers on an already dirty terrycloth towel on the cart.

“I guess.” She blows at a lock of hair that’s escaped from under her headscarf. “I mean, I get why they do it. I paid my own way through school working two jobs the whole time. That’s hard. Getting married looks easy compared to all that.”

“So, you don’t want to be a ‘classy homemaker’ after all?”

“I’m not saying that,” she says, turning on the faucet with her elbows.

“It’s just—I have a family back home to take care of, and this gig pays better than being a real homemaker.

” She rinses her hands before aggressively rubbing a bar of soap between them, and changes the subject. “Come here. You’re next.”

Her hands are coated in suds as she beckons me over. I have black grease embedded in my fingernails. I’m embarrassed, but I do her bidding. It’s hard not to.

Once I’m at the sink she orders me to roll up my sleeves. Obediently, I unbutton my cuffs and fold them up.

“Good. Now, in the water.” She urges my hands into the running water.

It’s cold and I remember we decided to only run one pipe through to the stage.

Just as I’m getting used to the bone-aching chill of the tap water, her hands take mine, luxuriously warm, smooth as silk, and slippery with soap.

I flinch, but she keeps them in place with a light tug as she scrubs.

“They want us to use that Ivory soap on air, but Lava is the only kind that really works.”

The bubbles turn dusky gray and then the color of storm clouds.

It’s a strange and delightful closeness after keeping a measured distance.

Now I can smell the baby powder scent of her hair and notice the fine lines around her eyes, along with the way her face powder rests lightly on her skin.

My heart rate rises and I become increasingly aware of each brush of her palms, her nails dragging against the fine hairs on the back of my hand, and how her hips sway into my side with each stroke.

“And now rinse.” She shoves our joined limbs under the spout.

The freezing water does little to cool my boiling skin and take down my exploding body heat.

But then she lets go, drying her hands on a dish towel as I finish rinsing.

Hands dry, she leaps up onto the counter, her legs dangling, Keds sneakers crossed and swinging.

“You’re a kinda quiet guy, aren’t you?” She watches me intently, making my heart race like I’ve walked up ten flights of stairs.

“Not really,” I say, knowing I’m lying. I turn off the water and take the towel she offers me. “I like to think things through.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” she says. “I think the world could use a few more shy guys.”

Shy. I hate that label. It’s been my moniker since I was a little boy who’d rather hide behind his mama’s skirt than go play with the other kids. It’s taken a lot of effort to muscle past those inborn anxieties that kept me silent as a child. I feel exposed by her use of the term.

“I don’t know about that.” I shrug, wiping down the chrome on the sink and then starting in on the linoleum.