Page 31 of Good Days Bad Days

“I’d like to get away from this vapid shit. Like, we both know Betty, she’s not a brainless blonde. Why are we making her seem orgasmic over using baking soda and vinegar to make stainless steel sparkle?”

“What would that look like?” Don Hollinger isn’t eager for a feminist homemaker, no matter how liberated Betty is or becomes.

“I don’t know. Something outside of cleaning and decorating.

Like, we could have a segment where women can send in their poetry or other creative projects or accomplishments.

And we could teach how to clear a clogged sink or .

. . or how to change a tire. You know, something to help women become more independent. ”

I like the idea, but Martha is stepping outside of what WQRX and Hollinger want for the program. I try to pussyfoot around the issue.

“Have you talked to Betty about these concepts? Because her proposals seem more traditional in nature.”

“I think she’s trying to keep Mr. Hollinger and the executives happy. She can do that, but I don’t want to sit around and keep playing into this ‘women belong in the kitchen’ kind of a thing. It’s so old-fashioned.”

“EBN is old-fashioned.”

“And Mr. Hollinger is old-fashioned and Betty is old-fashioned. I know. So what? We shouldn’t even try?”

“I don’t think Betty’s old-fashioned.” I think of Betty dressed in her Bunny uniform, working a second job that would get her fired. Betty doesn’t show all sides of herself.

“You don’t like saying no to her,” she says, clearly annoyed. I redden. Am I that obvious?

“It . . . it’s not that . . .” I stutter.

“It is that. Everyone stumbles over themselves to be that girl’s savior.

She knows what she’s doing, don’t fool yourself.

” She points at me with her pen, and in some ways I know she’s right.

Betty knows she’s beautiful and she knows men treat her differently as a result, but I don’t think she wields her beauty as a weapon or manipulation.

It’s simple. The two women have opposing viewpoints.

Betty is willing to be the picture-perfect image of the ideal woman, knowing it’s a facade.

Martha wants to shatter the facade of perfection, proclaiming it impossible to attain.

Betty is the face of the show, but Martha is the boss and I will always defer to her.

“I think we should try it,” I say, leaving the Betty debate out of my response. “The creative segment thing. Call it ‘Creative Corner’ or something. We could interview people on the show occasionally. Reminiscent of Janesville Presents . . .”

She sniffs and writes something on the legal pad on her lap. “I like that. We can sandwich it in between the ‘Cooking like Mom’ segment and ‘Homemade Solutions.’ Sneak it in.” She scratches at her pad one more time. “And we’ll leave the oil changes for next season.”

I nod and we move on to the next subject on our agenda.

The conversation ebbs and flows at a very natural pace, and I find myself more comfortable speaking up as the meeting continues.

Eventually, our discussion turns to a more casual tone, when the sound of bubbling chili hitting the hot grate interrupts a dialog on homemade dishwashing detergent.

Martha’s green eyes bulge as she notices the light smoky haze quickly filling the apartment.

“I totally forgot about dinner!” She bolts out of her seat and into the kitchen, turns off the heat, pulls off the lid, and stirs the gurgling liquid. “My God. This might not be salvageable.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” I say, taking out two mugs from my cupboard. “Sorry, I only have one bowl. Will these do?”

“Only one bowl? So it looks like it’s true what they say about bachelors. Do you have more than one spoon?”

“Of course. What am I, a heathen?” In truth, I only have a small collection of cutlery, but I sneak the spoons out of the drawer and Martha doesn’t seem to notice.

She fills our mugs, uses a serrated knife to cut the bread into hunks, and then uses the same knife to scrape cheese from the block since my kitchen is “horribly lacking.”

I put on Marion Brown’s Porto Novo, and we lean against the counter drinking cold Coca-Cola while eating our less than gourmet dinner, the work talk on hold for the time being.

She tells me about a folk concert she went to last weekend with her sister, and I tell her about going to Summerfest in Milwaukee last year.

We talk about Nixon and the war and an upcoming protest at UW. She invites me along.

I don’t tell her about my brother’s death or about my mother’s suicide or my guilt over somehow escaping the draft. I listen to her speak of grand things, change, revolution, a way out of the chaos of our present that brings a comforting buzz into my apartment.

When the record ends and our conversation lulls, I glance at the clock and realize we’ve lost track of time. The sun has set, and the one light in the sitting room casts a yellow glow in a semicircle that reaches only to the edge of the sofa, leaving us in the dim kitchen.

“I can take that,” I say. We both reach for her empty mug, and my hand lands on her long, slender fingers.

Her skin is silky, and my touch lingers.

She notices but doesn’t pull away. Her stare meets mine, the light from the sitting room reflecting off her eyes, giving them the look of polished glass.

Her lower lip seems to pout, and I wonder if the rest of her skin is as smooth as her hand.

An undeniable desire to kiss her rolls over my body like an invisible switch flipped on inside me.

I want to touch her face, run my fingers down her neck, wrap my arms around her waist, and pull her into me.

I’d blame the beer, but we both only had one and that was two hours ago.

She shuffles closer to me and caresses my arm, eyes on mine. I stand over her, watching her upturned face, knowing this is the moment. I can kiss her. She wants me to. My body is letting me, my mind is sitting mute.

The phone trills.

My longing is strong enough that the first ring doesn’t break the spell. But as I lean toward her welcoming lips, the second ring makes her flinch, and by the third she’s moved her hand from my arm.

“You should probably get that,” she says, taking our dirty dishes to the sink.

The opportunity has passed, and the emotions and hormones numbing my overthinking mind are also gone. Damn it. What an idiot I am. She invited herself to my home, made me dinner, flirted and shared with me, and then basically asked me to kiss her, and I messed it up.

The phone rings again. If it’s Mark I’m gonna kill him.

“Hello?” I let my irritation show a little, expecting Mark’s voice in response, asking something obnoxious about my evening with Martha.

“Greg? Greg Laramie. Is that you?” It’s a woman’s voice, small, hard to hear.

“This is Greg.” Who could be asking for me this late?

“Oh, thank God.” I hold the phone closer to my ear, straining to take in her halted speech. Sounds like she’s catching her breath or crying.

“I’m sorry—who is this?”

Martha raises her eyebrows. I shrug.

“It’s me.” She raises her voice a little, but it doesn’t help.

Martha, drying her hands on a towel, stands close to me, listening in. My thoughts start to wander back to our almost kiss.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know . . .” I admit. Martha shakes her head. A muffled sob comes through the line and a sniffle.

“It’s me, Greg. It’s Betty.”

“Betty?” I blurt.

Martha repeats the name to confirm, and I nod. Her features harden at the revelation, and she steps away like she’s no longer interested in the conversation.

She must think it’s a normal thing, Betty calling me, especially since Martha and I talk on the phone into the wee hours of the morning several times a week. She must think this is just something I do with women.

But I doubt Martha can hear the crying from where she’s standing, the fear in Betty’s voice. She doesn’t know what I know—something is very wrong.

I turn away from Martha and lower my voice.

“Are you all right?”

“No. Everything is wrong. I was in the VIP Room, working and . . .” She sniffs again and takes a shaky breath. “I’m stranded here. C-can you come get me?”

“Get you?”

“Yeah, can you pick me up? I need a ride.”

“From, uh, from work?” I stumble over my attempt to keep her secret from Martha, who is splashing water around in the sink, washing the mugs and silverware and scrubbing where the chili bubbled over onto the range.

“I know it’s a lot to ask but . . .” She pauses, and I pause too, considering the hour drive to the Playboy Club-Hotel in Lake Geneva and how in the world I’ll explain all this to Martha if I say yes.

I’m about to suggest she call a cab or stay the night at the hotel when she finishes her sentence. “You’re the only one I trust.”

The only one I trust.

My God, that phrase coming out of her mouth nearly knocks my knees out, and I feel like I’d tear through a brick wall filled with dynamite to help her.

I check on Martha. She folds the washcloth, watching me with her mouth quirked up to one side.

I should stay. I should finish our meeting.

I should see if we can recreate the moment in the kitchen.

I should take a risk, and I should kiss her.

“Greg?” Betty calls my name through the phone. “Can you help me?”

I turn away from Martha and shove the receiver against my mouth and give the answer squeezing at the back of my throat, begging to get out.

“I’ll see you soon.”