Page 40 of Good Days Bad Days

Greg

Kegonsa, Wisconsin

When Betty shakes me awake, the sun is rising.

The late summer sun lights up the cornstalks in shades of pink, gold, and red like they’re on fire, giving Betty’s face an ethereal glow.

She’s removed her false lashes and wiped away the majority of her makeup.

She looks so different, still maintaining a level of beauty most women would covet, but with a raw simplicity that’s like a miracle of nature rather than a painted-on facade.

Last night, Betty quickly fell into a deep sleep that I envied as we barreled through town after town.

Struggling to keep my eyes open, I nearly missed the exit to Kegonsa, which only seemed apropos since the town was nearly as easy to miss.

Not wanting to startle Betty, I pulled into an abandoned lot surrounded by tall, ready-to-harvest cornfields.

I turned off my lights and engine and decided to close my eyes for a few minutes, hoping the halted movement would eventually wake her, but apparently we both overslept.

“Oh, my gosh. I’m sorry,” I say. She flaps her hand at me.

“It’s fine. Charlotte would’ve killed me if I’d shown up at three a.m., anyway. And this gave me a chance to freshen up a bit.” She gestures to her clean face.

“You still don’t have shoes,” I remind her, but she laughs and wiggles her toes like it’s no big deal.

“My sister and I wear the same size. I’ll sneak some from the front closet when I get inside. The house is that way.”

I follow her instructions, taking a series of turns I know I won’t be able to remember on my way back out of here after I drop her off.

We finally turn down a long, wooded dirt path that twists for another half mile until the greenery parts to reveal a little white farmhouse set in a small clearing surrounded by maple trees.

A screened-in porch skirts the front of the house, one of the panels with a hole big enough for a large dog to fit through.

A barn, at least twice the size of the house, sits to one side, a small red shed on the other side, along with a chicken coop.

Chickens mill around the yard, pecking at the ground.

Two vehicles are parked in the dirt driveway, an old truck and a slightly newer sedan with rust spots over the rear tires. A worn-down red trike is stranded next to the largest tree, where a tire swing hangs on a long, thick, moss-covered rope.

“Home again. Home again,” Betty somberly chants as though the early morning vision in front of us brings up less-than-positive emotions.

“You grew up here?” The setting is both humble and picturesque. I’d never have guessed Betty, metropolitan, stylish, classy Betty, would come from such unassuming beginnings.

“Yup. And I couldn’t wait to leave. Didn’t get far though, did I?” She gathers her things, hops out of the car barefoot, slams the door, and leans back in through the open window. “Wanna come in for some coffee?”

I glance at my watch, remembering Martha’s promised phone call. It’s only a few minutes before seven so I have time. Plus, after the late night and long drive I could use some coffee and a bathroom break.

“Sure,” I say, stumbling out of the car.

“Good. We gotta keep it down. Charlotte’s got a baby and two other little ones. She’ll kill me if we wake them.”

Betty’s already halfway to the house by the time I get my feet under me. With my long strides, I catch up to her quickly, immediately wishing I’d taken an extra second to tidy up before meeting her family.

“Watch me,” she says from the porch stairs. She glides up the peeling wooden planks in a cautious dance, turns her body sideways and lithely slips through the screen door without disturbing the rusty springs. Not nearly as gracefully, I follow.

Inside, the house is quiet and dark, though there’s the strong scent of fresh coffee. Someone must be awake.

“This way,” Betty whispers. She threads her fingers between mine and guides me through the cluttered front room.

It’s filled with tidy decades-old furniture, dusty bookshelves, and not one sign of the children who live here.

The wooden plank floors are covered in a series of worn and uncoordinated carpets, and the walls are filled with framed photographs I wish I could stop and study.

Truly, it’s a miracle I notice anything in those minutes between the front door and the kitchen other than the smooth hand holding mine. I imagine what it’d be like to twist my wrist enough that I could thread my fingers between hers, nervous to meet my girlfriend’s family.

Stop. I chastise myself. I can’t pretend we’ll ever be more than what we already are—friends.

We pass the dining room and push through a set of swinging white doors to the kitchen.

On one side of the room stands a round oak table, piled high with mail and newspapers, except for a spot large enough for a single place setting that remains empty.

It’s nothing like the sterile kitchen on The Classy Homemaker set, but there’s a hominess about it, a lived-in quality reminiscent of my childhood.

The line of bacon spitting at us from an iron skillet on the stove and the percolating coffee pot make my stomach grumble.

“Betty?” A young woman, barely out of her teens, steps in from the back door holding a handful of blueberries.

She’s barefoot and dressed in an oversized housecoat with a scarf tied around her light-brown hair.

Betty drops my hand, throwing her arms around the girl who I can only assume is her sister.

“Sorry, I let myself in. I didn’t want to call and wake the kids.”

“My gosh! The kids will go berserk. They ask about you all the time. I fed Lulu and put her back down, but Willie and Suzie are awake and playing in their room. I was trying to get breakfast going while I had a minute.”

“Here, I’ll make breakfast. You deserve a break.” Betty holds her sister at arm’s length, looking into her face. The dark crescents of motherhood stand out under her eyes, not matching the youthfulness of her frame and features.

“I mean, if you don’t mind. I’d love to run upstairs and wash my hair,” she responds, glancing at me quickly like she’s wondering who I might be.

“Oh, sorry. This is Greg. We work together at the station. Greg, my baby sister, Charlotte.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand. She drops her collection of berries into a white cereal bowl.

“Nice to meet you, too.” She shakes my hand, hers almost childlike in my grip. “Make yourself at home. There’s some banana bread in the cupboard, and the apples started falling a bit early this year so we have too many to eat. Help yourself.”

“Oh, he’s not staying,” Betty clarifies for her sister but also for me.

Coffee, bathroom, and then I go. I guess Betty’ll figure out what comes next with Hollinger without my input or assistance.

“I was hoping I could stay here for a few days,” Betty says.

“I could help with the meals, the kids, finally get that upstairs bathroom repapered.”

Charlotte’s smile fades, and she glances at me again like she’s uncomfortable having this conversation in front of a guest. I consider leaving, but I’d also like to know Betty’s plans.

If Hollinger decides to be petty, which seems likely given the condition of her car, Betty could lose her job. If that’s the case, I need to know.

I could tell Martha. She’s not afraid of Hollinger and would surely lose her mind if they cut Betty without any warning.

We could go to the EBN executives and tell them what happened.

If they choose Hollinger over Betty, I could quit and Martha would likely follow.

While my resignation might not hold much weight, losing all three of us might make a difference.

These plans began to form as I struggled to stay awake during my early-morning drive, although I haven’t shared them with Betty yet.

“What? Why do you look like that?” Betty asks Charlotte with her head cocked. Unlike her sister, she must not care what I think because she pushes for a response. “Charlotte Eleanor. What’s going on?”

Betty’s sister crosses and uncrosses her bare toes, her face turning red as Betty’s stare bores into her.

“Bill is back.”

The color drains from Betty’s face and she stumbles backward, crashing into me. I steady myself against the counter. I don’t know who Bill is, but he’s clearly another man in Betty’s life who’s bad news.

“Here?” She scans the kitchen, and I quickly see several clues that hint at a man living here. Men’s boots by the kitchen door and a canvas jacket hung above it, an uncleaned pipe spilling tobacco into a crystal ashtray, a Farmers’ Almanac left beside it with a bookmark peeking out the top.

“Where else?” Charlotte says flippantly, crossing her arms defiantly like a teenager. Betty’s shaking.

“My God, Charlotte. You promised you wouldn’t this time. I worked two jobs to make it so you didn’t have to count on him anymore.”

“He’s their dad, Betty. It’s not right to keep him away.”

“It’s not right? You know what’s not right? What he did to us, that’s not right. What happened with Mom . . .” Betty looks at me and stops herself from finishing whatever she was on the verge of saying. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“’Cause I knew you’d be like this.” Charlotte clicks off the burner and moves the skillet of perfectly cooked bacon away from the hot grate. “You can have some coffee, but then you’ll have to leave. I need to check on the kids.”

Charlotte moves to go upstairs, but Betty blocks her exit with an arm across the door, speaking with the kind of authority you’d normally hear from a parent.

“No. No, that’s not it. Tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Charlotte’s nostrils flare as she breathes heavily in and out, biting her lip where a piece of dead skin flaked up, leaving a crimson crack behind.

“He told me not to,” she admits, her eyes dropping to the floor as though they’re weighted with shame.

“Because of the money?” Betty asks almost sweetly, like she finally understands.

“Because of the money.”

“How long?”

Charlotte, still as a statue, doesn’t respond at first. Betty repeats her question, even more tenderly this time.

“Since right after Lulu was born.”

“But I was here after Lulu. How . . . ?”

“He stayed in the shed. Made me promise not to say a word. You know how he is. I wanted to tell you, Bets, I swear.”

Betty flattens her sister’s hair under the pink and white scarf and kisses her forehead and cheek. Charlotte melts into her sister’s arms, tucking her head under Betty’s chin.

“Don’t tell him I was here, OK? I’ll keep sending you what I can.”

Charlotte nods and sniffles. Betty came home for the comfort and safety she’s now giving to her sister and nieces and nephew.

“Thank you, Bets,” Charlotte says, pulling away and wiping her nose with her sleeve. “He’s better now. I’ll leave him if I’m wrong. I promise.”

Betty smooths the tears off her sister’s face, puts on her audience-pleasing smile, and proclaims everything will be all right.

A creak upstairs makes both women freeze, and then Betty takes my hand again.

She leads me out at double speed. We end up sprinting across the front yard shoeless, the dew soaking into my socks and clinging to the cuffs of my jeans.

“Go. Go,” she says breathlessly once we’re in the car. Turning the key, I slam on the gas, making the wheels spin in the dirt loudly enough to wake anyone.

“I’m sorry,” I say, out of breath, my head spinning. “Her husband sounds terrible.”

“Her husband?” Betty asks, craning her neck to look out the back window.

“Bill. Her husband. He sounds like a bad man.”

“Oh, he is a bad man. Very bad. But he’s not her husband.”

“He’s not?”

“No.” She slams on the armrest, tears in her eyes. “Damn it.” She drags her arm across her face, breathing heavy. “Bill’s our stepdad.”

I shudder, and nausea hits me as I reanalyze the sisters’ conversation with the new perspective applied. “And those are his kids?”

“Yup. It’s a real fairy tale, isn’t it?” she says bitterly, settling into her seat once we’re back on the paved road.

“Your mom—you said something about your mom . . .”

“They called it involuntary manslaughter, but I doubt there was anything involuntary about it.” She digs through her bag, taking out tissues.

The story I’m piecing together about Betty’s past is starting to make my head spin.

Poverty, abusive stepfather, loss of her mother, sister victimized by the same man.

“She lets him live there?”

“Apparently. I thought she’d never let him back in once he got out of county this last time, but . . .” She tosses her hand up and slaps her leg so hard I flinch.

“And your brother?” I think back to our discussion on the empty Classy Homemaker set. Her mother passed away, her little sister, too. All she had left were her two remaining siblings.

“Moved away at fifteen. Last I heard he joined the army. So, who the hell knows where he is now. Maybe dead for all I know.” A memory of a red, white, and blue triangle folded on my brother’s coffin flashes through my mind. I push it away as we fly through the small town, headed toward the highway.

“So you feel responsible for her, for Charlotte?” I ask, overwhelmed by the image of Betty Wilkens that has zoomed into uncomfortably detailed focus since her call last night.

“For all of them. Not dickhead Bill. But the rest of them. And if I don’t give them money, I’m pretty sure he’ll get her to cut me out entirely.” She rummages through her macramé bag again, this time pulling out a collection of beauty supplies.

“She might leave. Doesn’t hurt to hope.”

“Actually,” she says, no longer crying, “sometimes it hurts a ton.”

Uncapping a silver tube, she spins up a column of red lipstick, which she applies while looking in a silver compact. She caps the tube and clicks the mirror closed.

She’s right. Not many people would admit it, but hope hurts a whole lot if the situation is actually hopeless. I stop before the highway, tapping the steering wheel with my thumbs.

“So. Where should we go now?”

“Home,” she says, powdering her nose, and unlike last night, home doesn’t mean the little two-bedroom farmhouse we just ran from. She means Janesville. Poor Betty, always chasing home.

But at least we share Janesville.

“Let’s go home,” I say, pointing the car south and pressing the gas pedal to the floor mat before she changes her mind.