Page 59 of Good Days Bad Days
Stop.I chastise myself. I can’t pretend we’ll ever be more than what we already are—friends.
We pass the dining room and push through a set of swinging white doors to the kitchen. On one side of the room stands a round oak table, piled high with mail and newspapers, except for a spot large enough for a single place setting that remains empty. It’s nothing like the sterile kitchen onThe Classy Homemakerset, but there’s a hominess about it, a lived-in quality reminiscent of my childhood. The line of bacon spitting at us from an iron skillet on the stove and the percolating coffee pot make my stomach grumble.
“Betty?” A young woman, barely out of her teens, steps in from the back door holding a handful of blueberries. She’s barefoot and dressedin an oversized housecoat with a scarf tied around her light-brown hair. Betty drops my hand, throwing her arms around the girl who I can only assume is her sister.
“Sorry, I let myself in. I didn’t want to call and wake the kids.”
“My gosh! The kids will go berserk. They ask about you all the time. I fed Lulu and put her back down, but Willie and Suzie are awake and playing in their room. I was trying to get breakfast going while I had a minute.”
“Here, I’ll make breakfast. You deserve a break.” Betty holds her sister at arm’s length, looking into her face. The dark crescents of motherhood stand out under her eyes, not matching the youthfulness of her frame and features.
“I mean, if you don’t mind. I’d love to run upstairs and wash my hair,” she responds, glancing at me quickly like she’s wondering who I might be.
“Oh, sorry. This is Greg. We work together at the station. Greg, my baby sister, Charlotte.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand. She drops her collection of berries into a white cereal bowl.
“Nice to meet you, too.” She shakes my hand, hers almost childlike in my grip. “Make yourself at home. There’s some banana bread in the cupboard, and the apples started falling a bit early this year so we have too many to eat. Help yourself.”
“Oh, he’s not staying,” Betty clarifies for her sister but also for me. Coffee, bathroom, and then I go. I guess Betty’ll figure out what comes next with Hollinger without my input or assistance. “I was hoping I could stay here for a few days,” Betty says. “I could help with the meals, the kids, finally get that upstairs bathroom repapered.”
Charlotte’s smile fades, and she glances at me again like she’s uncomfortable having this conversation in front of a guest. I consider leaving, but I’d also like to know Betty’s plans. If Hollinger decides to be petty, which seems likely given the condition of her car, Betty could lose her job. If that’s the case, I need to know.
I could tell Martha. She’s not afraid of Hollinger and would surely lose her mind if they cut Betty without any warning. We could go to the EBN executives and tell them what happened. If they choose Hollinger over Betty, I could quit and Martha would likely follow. While my resignation might not hold much weight, losing all three of us might make a difference. These plans began to form as I struggled to stay awake during my early-morning drive, although I haven’t shared them with Betty yet.
“What? Why do you look like that?” Betty asks Charlotte with her head cocked. Unlike her sister, she must not care what I think because she pushes for a response. “Charlotte Eleanor. What’s going on?”
Betty’s sister crosses and uncrosses her bare toes, her face turning red as Betty’s stare bores into her.
“Bill is back.”
The color drains from Betty’s face and she stumbles backward, crashing into me. I steady myself against the counter. I don’t know who Bill is, but he’s clearly another man in Betty’s life who’s bad news.
“Here?” She scans the kitchen, and I quickly see several clues that hint at a man living here. Men’s boots by the kitchen door and a canvas jacket hung above it, an uncleaned pipe spilling tobacco into a crystal ashtray, aFarmers’ Almanacleft beside it with a bookmark peeking out the top.
“Where else?” Charlotte says flippantly, crossing her arms defiantly like a teenager. Betty’s shaking.
“My God, Charlotte. You promised you wouldn’t this time. I worked two jobs to make it so you didn’t have to count on him anymore.”
“He’s their dad, Betty. It’s not right to keep him away.”
“It’s not right? You know what’s not right? What he did to us, that’s not right. What happened with Mom ...” Betty looks at me and stops herself from finishing whatever she was on the verge of saying. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“’Cause I knew you’d be like this.” Charlotte clicks off the burner and moves the skillet of perfectly cooked bacon away from the hotgrate. “You can have some coffee, but then you’ll have to leave. I need to check on the kids.”
Charlotte moves to go upstairs, but Betty blocks her exit with an arm across the door, speaking with the kind of authority you’d normally hear from a parent.
“No. No, that’s not it. Tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Charlotte’s nostrils flare as she breathes heavily in and out, biting her lip where a piece of dead skin flaked up, leaving a crimson crack behind.
“He told me not to,” she admits, her eyes dropping to the floor as though they’re weighted with shame.
“Because of the money?” Betty asks almost sweetly, like she finally understands.
“Because of the money.”
“How long?”
