Page 35 of Good Days Bad Days
“Don’t worry. I’ve heard much worse.” Her voice projects across the room. “Say as manydamnsandshitsas 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.”
