Page 58 of Good Days Bad Days
“You don’t. Come on. Let’s go. I’m freezing.”
“I knew it!” he says, following me as I run into the house. It doesn’t take long to return to the safe, playful banter from our younger years. Cam sets up the film projector while I text Lacey, put on a bra, and order dinner. Lacey says she can grab the takeout once her kids are down for the night. And soon all three of us are seated on the couch staring at a white square on the wall.
“You ready for this?” Cam asks us both.
Lacey holds up her glass of wine and shouts, “Yeah!”
They both look to me for my approval. Am I ready? Probably not, but since when does that matter? Looking at my two old friends with a crooked grin, I pop off the lid of the can reading “Aug/1969, Pilot” and hand the film to him.
“Let’s do this.”
Chapter 22
Greg
September 6, 1970
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.
