Page 48 of Good Days Bad Days
Chapter 18
Greg
September 5, 1970
Playboy Club-Hotel
Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
The road to the Playboy Club-Hotel is well lit compared to the pitch-black Highway 50. I follow the winding route through a mile of manicured lawns and finally approach long, streamlined buildings with roughcast stone walls.
My blood pressure has been at an all-time high since I hung up the phone with Betty, and I have a pounding headache. Though Martha didn’t know the specifics of Betty’s call, she did know I ended our evening to help the “damsel in distress,” as she called her.
“So, I take it you’re leaving,” she said as soon as I rested the phone in the cradle.
“Betty is having car problems and needs a hand.” I distilled the truth down to one statement, editing out the less convenient details.
“Are you a car specialist?” she asked, placing her chili pot back in the cardboard box she’d brought it in.
“No. I ... I think she needs a ride.”
“And you own a taxicab?” She asked this snarky question while shoving her folders and notepad into her workbag.
“No. But . . .”
“But she needs you, so you run over and help her. Like I said earlier.”
“I mean, I’d help anyone who was stranded,” I said, knowing it was an almost truth rather than a total one.
“We were working, Greg. Sure, we stopped for dinner and ...” She faltered, perhaps remembering the very non-work-like experience we’d had together. “And some conversation, but this was supposed to be a work meeting.”
“I’m sorry. She sounded desperate,” I said, stuck between two bad decisions.
If I left, I’d upset Martha. If I stayed, I’d abandon Betty, which seemed like the worst of the two options, especially since I’d already agreed to get her. It’s not like I could call the front desk and ask them to give her a message behind building four next to the dumpster.
“A woman like Betty is never desperate for help. She could snap her fingers and ten men would come to the aid of a damsel in distress.”
“It’s not so simple,” I said, grabbing my keys and checking for my wallet in my back pocket. Martha picked up her belongings while trying to balance the cardboard box with the stew pot inside on her hip. “Can I help you carry something?”
“No. Unlike some women, I can manage this myself, thanks.”
I opened the door, and she rushed past as I muttered a thank-you for dinner. I caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs, where she was struggling to open the door, her arms full.
“I got it,” I said, leaning past her to turn the knob, bringing us face-to-face in a tight spot with only the box between us.
“I’ll call you tomorrow to finish up the proposal so we’re ready for the meeting,” she said, the fury in her eyes calming a bit, her forehead smoothing.
“Call anytime,” I said, briefly wishing I hadn’t answered my phone, wondering if Betty actually had an army of men she could call for help.And then, for the shortest instant, I wished I’d never seen Betty’s red Corvette parked down the street from Ike’s, that she’d remembered her keys and hadn’t gotten the job at WQRX. “I really am sorry.”
Martha adjusted the box and studied my face.
“You’re too nice, Greg Laramie,” she finally said with a sigh. “It’s gonna get you in trouble one of these days.”
Then Martha turned on her heels and stormed off toward her car.
Too nice.
The phrase has been lumbering through my mind like a refrigerated truck speeding down Highway 12 since she said it. The closer I get to my destination, the more I worry she might be right.
