Page 34 of Good Days Bad Days
“Do you have a pen handy?” Betty asks as I keep my back to her. “Never mind. I found one.”
When I regain my composure enough to look at her again, Betty’s holding a pen above her headshot. She scribbles a message that I can’tread from where I stand and adds a swirling signature underneath before handing it over.
I thank her and slip the photograph into my bag, about to ask another question, when a knock sounds at the door. A nursing assistant pushing a meal cart rumbles in with sugar-free cake and fresh raspberries.
“Dessert!” he calls. At the mention of sweets, Betty forgets her call time, Ike’s Diner, and her mysterious producer, and I let go of the questions on the tip of my tongue. We dine on artificially sweetened vanilla pound cake and play cards until the night nurse brings Betty her evening medications.
I say good night to my mom, as well as the other residents, nurses, and staff as I leave. Outside, the night air is nearly freezing, and while I let my car warm up, I turn on the dome light to retrieve my mother’s headshot. My breath clouds around me like the exhaust pouring out from the rear pipe as I examine the barely legible writing on the black-and-white glossy paper. The yellow light isn’t bright enough, so I turn on the flashlight function on my phone and hold it up, following the lines of writing with the intense beam.
Thanks for watching!
Love, Betty
Thanks for watching? Thanks for watching—what?
That’s when I notice—below her signature there’s another line. The black ink is nearly invisible against the image of Betty’s black off-the-shoulder dress. I struggle to decipher my mother’s handwriting, shaky and jagged like my nerves every time I walk into her room. I blink, and finally I make the words out.
The Classy Homemaker
I read the whole message again.
Love, Betty
The Classy Homemaker
My mom—the hoarder, the recluse, the woman who gave me up for her house full of junk—was formerly known as the Classy Homemaker?
What the actual fuck?
Chapter 14
Greg
April 15, 1970
WQRX, Studio C
Janesville, Wisconsin
I lower the bulky TK-42 to the lowest position on its pedestal and open the side panel in an attempt to fix some of the camera’s focus issues. The grayish-beige metal casing drops down on hinges with a crash, echoing through the empty studio dimly lit by a few base lights.
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 savingJanesville 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-longClassy Homemakerprogramming, 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 thatThe Classy Homemakerwould 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 ofJanesville 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.
