A Woman Apart - Part 1

The cat would not let me near my toothbrush.  He stared at me with a fierce gaze, daring me to reach past him.  As if I was going to try that maneuver again. I was holding a wad of wet toilet paper to my wrist where the beast had already slashed me.  I strategized.  Maybe if I flushed the toilet, he’d be scared away.   He was big beast, with long, dark gray  hair, that Christine regularly combed through tenderly so he wouldn’t be matted.  Maybe I could shoo him away with the toilet plunger.  His lids lowered and his hair raised up as if he could tell what I was thinking.  Maybe I could ask Kristen to call him away.  A low growl came from deep in his throat.  Maybe I could just have my cavities filled later.  I backed out of the bathroom and headed up to bed.

I was staying in small portion of the attic, not much larger than an exaggerated closet.  I had my foam pad I’d purchased at Fred Meyer for $15.00 to sleep on, and had a few blankets.  I kept a few boxes of clothes in the room, but most of my things were in the back of my dirty Plymouth truck parked in front of the conservative suburban house in which I was now staying.  The truck still had Indiana plates on it.  I couldn’t afford to get the truck registered in Texas, and really, I wasn’t sure I was going to stay here anyway.

I curled up in the corner of my closet and looked through the most recent letter from my sister, Leah.  She wrote about how stupid everyone in middle school was.  How she had borrowed a sophomore physics book and was reading it cover to cover.  She was trying to figure out how to skip high school and go straight to college.  She was raising a jar of black widows out in the barn.  She wished she had someone to talk to.  When was I going to get my own phone?

I set the letter down and felt the familiar pang loneliness.  I didn’t miss my family’s home, since it wasn’t really mine.  They’d moved there after I left the house, but I missed my sisters and my brother.  Missed Leah’s devastatingly sarcastic wit, usually leveled at our stepdad, who rarely understood the thinly veiled insults.  Missed Tanya’s early morning attempts at breakfast, resulting in watery eggs, blackened toast, and untrustworthy bacon.  Missed Ila’s newest redecoration of her bedroom, now splattered in black and red paint, now done in a lavender harlequin pattern.  Missed Adrian’s incessant talk about the University of Oregon Ducks, and how he couldn’t wait to get graduated and get of the house.

I wondered if I should tell him to slow down.  I was out of the house, but it didn’t seem to be working out so great right now.  I wasn’t just a third wheel in this Texas household, I was the 7^th.  I still recalled how thin Christine’s lips became when Charlene told her that I would be staying.  Charlene and I were sitting on the couch, across from Christine, who held baby Judah in one hand.  Little Christine sat on the floor next to her, putting together a puzzle of a Disney princess.

“Naomi actually has a degree in English and a degree in Philosophy!  She’ll be a great help with Charlene’s schooling.”

“I don’t need any help with Christine’s schooling,” snapped the larger Christine, who seemed even larger to me now.  “She’s learning just fine. I’ve been doing this for eight years, you know.”

“I didn’t mean she wasn’t learning,” Charlene said in a placating tone.  I suddenly had the sense they’d had this conversation before.  A hundred times.  Over different subjects, but the same conversation.  “I just meant she could be helpful.”

I felt like I should say something, but they didn’t seem to be talking to me.

“Of course, I’m sure she could be helpful,” said Christine shortly.  She had a furrow in her forehead that deepened, just under a ringlet of hair that escaped her barrette that held the rest of her flowing curls back tidily.  “I just don’t know how much room you think we have around here.  You’re staying in my project room already.”

The fact that I was a surprise to Christine was very much a surprise to me.  Charlene had told me this was all arranged.   That Christine was happy for the help and was looking forward to having me stay in the house as long as I needed to before I found a job and my own place. I really didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I’d just driven three days from Indiana, nearly losing my kitten, Simon, in Houston just yesterday, and was now in Austin, exhausted and at the mercy of this angry woman who was clearly unprepared for even her mother, let alone me. 

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” I said.  “I could . . .” I trailed off.

“It’s fine,” both women said at the same time. 

“I guess we’ll just figure it out,” said Christine. 

            “It’s never a bad thing to have another strong female role model for the girls,” stated Charlene.  “Especially in our society which is inundated with images like Disney princesses.”

            There was a brief frozen moment, while Charlene looked out the window and Christine and I looked at little Christine’s Disney puzzle.  Christine then sharply plopped Baby Judah on a blanket on the floor and stormed into the kitchen. 

Baby Judah reached out to me and said “Boof!” and laughed happily.  I smiled at him. 

I heard a great banging of pots and pans from the kitchen.  “Don’t worry about her,” said Charlene with her usual determined smile. “She’ll adjust.  She’s adaptable.”

I tried to make myself useful.  I pushed Charlene’s granddaughters on the swings.  Little Christine was eight years old and beautiful, like her mother.  Long, curly hair, very tall, and gave me sharp orders from her swing.  “Higher!”  “Swing me higher!”  “Stop!  Not so high, you’re scaring me!”  I saw mother Christine looking from the kitchen window where she was creating a five seed Indian curry dish with fresh herbs from the garden. 

Little Minnie was all heart. Soft, sweet, prone to tears when Christine said something sharp to her.  She had soft brown eyes, and was happy to have an additional adult around for cuddling.  She picked dandelions from the backyard and brought them to me.  Christine home-schooled both the children, staying up late into the evening creating lessons for them that would provide a strong foundation in all subjects, and also would develop auditory and kinesthetic learning methods as well as reading, and writing.  Christine would frequently have large bags under her eyes.

But the one I loved the most here was Judah.  Judah was eight months old.  He cupped my face in his hands when I held his chubby body and said, “Omi,” which was a valiant attempt at my name.  I held him on my hip as I pushed Minnie on the swings in their wooded backyard, and Charlene climbed trees and chattered to herself.  These were the times I felt the most comfortable. The most at home.  The most loved.

Every evening, I spent time with Charlene, in her room, which was still home to Christine’s sewing machine and half a dozen projects that she had left undone, since she now had a permanent guest in sewing room.  Charlene had moved aside the stacks of McCalls patterns for little girls’ dresses.  Little Christine and Minnie usually always wore home made dresses in matching floral patterns. Flimsy brown pattern paper was still pinned to a fabric of pink ice cream cones, and was moved to a corner with several patterns for baby boy outfits that were clearly too small now for any baby boy in this household. 

I brought my kitten, Simon, to visit, and he would bat at Charlene’s cat, Sophie, who blinked at him with clear blue eyes. 

“You know,” she said, as she stroked Simon’s orange fur.  “You have to purr your cats for at least 20 minutes a day,” She broke off a chunk of McDonalds hamburger and fed it to Simon who gulped it down eagerly.  She had given me $2.00 to purchase the burger and sneak it back in the house.  Christine wouldn’t approve of McDonalds, even if we were just feeding the cats.   I suspected the $2.00 had come from Christine’s purse, but I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t have $2.00. 

“Cats need at least 20 minutes a day of purring,” she continued. 

“I suspect Sophie gets quite a bit more than that,” I responded, as Sophie climbed into Charlene’s lap and nosed at the cheeseburger.  

Charlene had acquired her purebred Persian cat during out road trip to New York City.  We spent a few hours visiting with one of Charlene’s friends, who was looking for a new home for Sophie.  Sophie had a heart condition, and needed to handled delicately.  Charlene fell in love with her, and talked to her in a gentle singsong voice the whole 20 hours back home. 

Sophie actually reminded me of Charlene, who had long, striking, light grey hair, and carried herself regally.  She wore mismatched clothing, and funny hats – berets, bowlers, even a top hat.  She was in her late fifties, and had sparkling blue eyes that looked out at the world expecting it to amuse and delight her, and it did.  She also expected it to conform to her wishes.  And it did.  If there were such a thing as wizards in our time, in our world, I believed Charlene would be one.  She was wickedly intelligent, making a mockery of the dull-witted, she was creative, and full of life. She was demanding and terrifying.  It was no wonder Christine resented her presence.  She was a force to be reckoned with.  I was enthralled with her.  I’d moved here because of her.  And because I didn’t have anything better to do.  So, in the evenings, we petted our cats and talked about the novel Charlene was writing, and I read her the poetry I’d written, and we talked about what we wanted to do with our futures.  Charlene wanted to publish her book, buy an RV, and drive until she felt like stopping, then stop for a while, and write another book.  She did not want to ever have to telemarket again, and did not plan to stoop so low now, and was not looking for a job.  She and I had met at Dialamerica Marketing, where we both sold Timelife books.  As I droned on about the benefits of TimeLife books into the phone, I could hear Charlene from across the room, laughing wildly with her customer, and then ringing the bell to indicate she’d made another sale.  Kathleeen did not want to live a boring life. 

I also did not want to live a boring life, so I just stayed with Charlene.  I briefly dated her youngest son, Byron, who she named after the poet.  Byron was sweet and full of heart, like little Minnie.  His soft brown eyes were full of kindness when I ran my hands through his wavy dark hair.  He played jazz music, and when we drove him to New York City and Charlene went home without him, but with Sophie, we left him to pursue his dreams of following his music career.  Charlene didn’t mention my relationship with Byron, but I suspected she was glad when his choices took him way from me.  I cried when we said goodbye, although I didn’t realize then how much I would miss him.  He gave Charlene a softer edge.  His selflessness and gentleness softened the women of his family.  Made them less terrifying.  Without him, I struggled to find that softness and struggled to keep myself safe from the venom that could fly from these women at a moment’s notice. 

But even without Byron, I was drawn to Charlene’s wildness and I followed her to Austin, where I now tried to make myself appear at least half as creative, talented and intelligent as any of the members of this family, and failing that, I tried to be helpful around the house, and failing that, I tried to be invisible.