Page 62 of Good Days Bad Days
His head bobs, but he doesn’t leave immediately. He has that look again from last night, like he wants to pull me to him and kiss me with the pent-up passion of a heartbreak that’s been marinating for thirty-one years. His touch would be eager, his mouth hungry; we’d be back in the hammock on the peninsula, but this time as adults who know what comes after the thrill of a deep, meaningful kiss.
I shift in my seat and the moment passes—again.
He gathers his few belongings and starts tidying the room. I shoo him away, reminding him of the time. I don’t stand, we don’t embrace.He leaves, and I collapse into the cushion, tossing the blanket over my head, imagining what could’ve happened if either one of us were slightly less pragmatic.
Emerging from my fleece bubble of shame once I’m sure he’s gone, I collect the glasses and bowl of half-eaten popcorn, flicking on the last of the film already threaded in the projector.
Betty’s voice fills the room, starting a newClassy Homemakerepisode with her cheerful greeting to the audience and a wave to the camera, calling, “Welcome home!”
As she lists the topics for the day, I notice a theme: how to make old lace look new, the proper neckline and hemline for each age of bride and type of wedding, the rules of etiquette for who and who not to invite to your wedding, pine cone centerpieces, the must-have household items for your wedding registry, and a step-by-step guide to arranging silk flower bouquets.
I imagine what my parents’ wedding must’ve looked like. I’ve only found the one picture of my mom in her wedding dress, and after showing it to her I put it on the fridge. I made ten copies and passed them out to the clearing crew with the hopes of finding the wedding dress among the hoard, but so far, no luck.
My mom once told me she and Dad were married in the backyard of our house, on the dock, with flower petals floating in the water. At one time I dreamed of a similar ceremony, maybe on an early summer night when the city had fireworks over the lake.
As Betty arranges white pine cones in circles large enough to fit tall pillar candles that she’d made on a previous episode, I wash the dishes, wipe down the counters, fold the throw blankets, and fluff the pillows.
Betty’s hair is shorter in this episode. Her long red nails collect bits of the sparkles as she dusts them onto the wet pine cones, which makes me think of the twelve bins filled with sticks and rocks that we recently removed from the house. In an earlier episode she had used cardboard toilet paper rolls to make Halloween ghost party favors, which explainedthe twenty or so garbage bags of empty cardboard paper towel rolls and toilet paper tubes in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
It doesn’t explain the whole hoard, that’s for sure, but some part of my brain calms every time I find a clue to my mother’s way of thinking. It’s not completely unlike how my father saved and sold antiques, found value in the old or even ancient. Others often paid a hefty price for those treasures. My mother also valued old things, the difference being that no one else could see their worth. It’s a little like what we do on my show with old houses, and if I try hard enough, I can find something noble about my mother’s perspective, relatable.
“Ugh.” I shudder at yet another similarity between me and my mother. I need to get to bed and away from the flattened image of Betty projected onto the living room wall.
I wipe down the sink and dry my hands on the dish towel, watching asThe Classy Homemakerepisode comes to a close. Betty holds up her finished project, and I’m impressed at how fashionable it looks, like evergreen trees covered in sparkling snow.
That’s when I notice something. In every other episode I watched, Betty’s small, nimble fingers were bare, but in this episode, she’s wearing a large diamond ring on her left ring finger that I’ve never seen before. Hm. I rewind the film and play it again at a slower speed. The image isn’t the best quality, but I’m fairly certain it isn’t my mother’s wedding ring, at least not the one she’s worn my whole life—the one she wears now.
Surely it doesn’t mean anything. This episode is from the second season, but my parents weren’t married until 1976. The ring could be part of her wardrobe, a strategic decision to make her look like a married homemaker instead of a single girl playing house. But then again ... I step closer to the projected image. There’s something familiar about that ring. It sends an unsettled chill through me. I remember where I’ve seen it before.
I take down the wedding portrait from the freezer door and examine the details closely. Young Betty is wearing a lace and chiffon dress, her hair elegantly pinned in a twist, and her cathedral-length veil cascadesdown her back. Next to her, I now realize, is a silk flower arrangement like the one she’s constructing inThe Classy Homemakerepisode. But ... the ring. I bring the yellowed photograph over to the image on the wall and hold it up in the light.
The rings match.
I turn the photo over, looking for any clues I may have missed. Could this be a promotional photo from the show? But when Betty looked at it weeks ago she said it was a picture from her wedding day, which was supposedly in 1976, not 1971 when this episode was filmed. Maybe Betty remembered wrong, or they were engaged for longer than I’d been told or maybe were married a different year. Maybe she lost the ring or sold it. There are plenty of rational explanations, but all of them would mean my parents had lied about some part of their love story. Why would they lie?
The question reverberates through my mind as I shut down the projector for the night.
There’s literally no reason to lie about their wedding date,I think over and over again as I climb into bed. Then again, if there’s no reason to lie then there’s also no harm in double-checking. I take out my phone, set an early alarm, and send one last text to Cam.
Charlie:I need you to do me another favor.
Chapter 24
Greg
April 1, 1971
WQRX Boardroom
Janesville, Wisconsin
“Sit, sit, sit.” Don Hollinger, asshole Don Hollinger, stands at the front of the conference room. The large oval table is fully populated with producers and assistant producers, broadcast technicians, our main anchors, and Will Barnett, who does field reporting. Standing in the corners of the room are the crew, camera operators, gaffer, lighting assistant, and audio engineer. The meeting memo was labeled “Mandatory,” and no one is missing.
Mark sits at the table. He motioned at an empty seat beside him when I first came in the room, but I took a spot leaning against the back wall, understanding the risks of accidentally sitting in the hot seat.
I’ve avoided close contact with Hollinger at all costs since that night seven months ago when I left my meeting with Martha and rushed to Lake Geneva to help Betty. After speeding away from Betty’s childhood home that Sunday morning, we drove back to Janesville in complete silence. When we pulled up to her apartment, she hopped out as if nothing had happened.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, tidying her hair and throwing her bag over her shoulder, starting to walk away and treating me like a friend who was simply dropping her off after a casual meetup for coffee and a half sandwich.
