Page 19 of Good Days Bad Days
“And now I bet you’re throwing out all my stuff, aren’t you? I didn’t give you permission to do that. I didn’t sign anything that said you could. Tell your father I need to see him. There’s a lot in there that’s valuable. But I’m sure you know that with your fancy TV show.”
She pushes the wheeled table with both of her spotted, arthritic hands. It coasts a foot across the tile floor, half of the nearly completed puzzle slipping off and clattering onto the ground along with the photograph. I step back, hands up as though she’d tried to assault me.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d like to see these ...” I say with an attitude, picking up the photograph and collecting the puzzle pieces offthe floor in handfuls. Once I’ve retrieved as many as I can see, I let my gaze lift from the floor. My mother is watching me. It’s hard to believe this is the same woman who told me I was beautiful last Sunday and asked if she could brush my hair—the one who wanted me to paint her nails and gossip about boys. Today she looks sad, as if her anger is sorrow that’s smoldered for so long it’s caught fire. I don’t recognize her, but at the same time I do.
I remember moments of kindness and love from my mom when I was a little girl. She was creative and beautiful; she’d sew my dresses and make cookies on Sunday afternoons. The clutter in the house seemed normal then. It was organized in spare bedrooms or unused corners. As I grew, I came to loathe the encroaching towers of boxes and papers, but any effort I made to gain control of my own living space was met with panic and disdain from my mom.
As a teen, my strained relationship with my mother went beyond her hyperfocus on her house and belongings. It was like the more independent I grew, the more fearful she became that I’d leave her—as if she wished she could box me up and put me into one of her piles like I was a belonging rather than an independent person. She didn’t want a single item removed from her house without her permission—including her own child.
Don’t argue,I tell myself as tears rise in my eyes. Heaviness fills my chest with all the unshed tears from the past thirty-one years.
“This was a bad idea. I’m sorry. I should go,” I say, putting on my coat and taking the box. I can’t stay here. I don’t care if she’s unwell, if part of her disdain is misplaced or from confusion; I can detect enough of the mom I swore I’d never see again that I don’t feel safe here.
“Goodbye, Charlotte,” my mother says as I walk out of her room.
Rushing down the hall, my eyes are blurred with tears. I know it’s crazy to come back here and face her again, hoping she’ll be the mom who calls me Laura instead of Charlotte, the jovial, friendly girl still inside of my mother somewhere who wants to play cards and holds allthe answers to my questions. The version of my mother that might be able to love me. But as I rush past the front desk, waving goodbye to Kelsey with my damp face turned away, I know I’ll be back—because I miss her.
I miss Betty.
I miss my mom.
Chapter 8
Greg
October 13, 1969
WQRX, Studio C
Janesville, Wisconsin
“And that’s all for today. Time to get that vacuum running and dinner cooking. But first, take a moment to put on a little touch of lipstick. And don’t forget, a smile goes a long way. Tomorrow: how to keep your roast delectably moist without breaking a sweat. Until then, I’m Betty Wilkens. Keep your home happy and your homemaking classy.”
I watch through the small camera viewfinder and zoom in on Betty’s bright unbroken smile. Her hair is a little shorter now, curled under her chin, and she wears a tidy light-blue cotton dress with an apron tied around her waist. It’s ironed crisp and starched till it could almost stand up on its own. And white, of course. Brilliantly white.
She is the perfect vision of American domesticity, standing in her spotless kitchen, a spread of finger sandwiches laid out on large ceramic Noritake platters with white and yellow daisies around the perimeter. When the floor manager calls “Cut,” I take off my headphones, click off the camera, and step away, reorienting to the real world after the idyllic vision Betty has transported us into for the past half hour. Marthainitially wanted me in the booth to manage the mixing of the show like I do withJanesville Presents..., but I requested to be behind a camera forThe Classy Homemaker.
This half hour is my favorite part of each weekday. I know the show drives Martha crazy and I can’t blame her. She’s a hardworking unmarried woman who fights every day for equal footing in an industry run almost entirely by men. She’s damn good at what she does. When Betty was officially cast as the host of the show after all the bigwigs saw the auditions, Martha lost it once we were in private.
“She’s a secretary!” Martha exploded behind the door of our shared office. She angrily packed her over-the-shoulder attaché. It was already two hours past my normal clock-out time, and we’d been waiting on pins and needles for the final casting decisions. “How is she now suddenly some journalist?”
She tossed herself into her wheeled green vinyl chair, and it rolled a few feet to the desk behind her. She covered her face, and I could tell she was crying. I knew I should do something, comfort her, make these men change their minds and listen to the voice of reason, but I also knew they were unlikely to listen when the voice of reason sounds like a woman.
“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her back, unsettled by the way she was shaking.
“I need a minute, OK?” she said between gasps for air.
“OK.” I took a step back, overcome with guilt for my failure to manage the situation, but also for another more shameful reason. I was excited when Betty was announced as the show’s host. As soon as I saw her name on the short list of candidates auditioning, I knew they’d choose her, and I suspected that Hollinger created the show with Betty in mind.
Though I’m sure Hollinger’s intentions had little to do with his secretary’s qualifications, I learned a lot about Betty during the casting process. She wasn’t some girl who’d wandered in off the street. She’d recently graduated with honors from UW-Madison with a degree injournalism and she had a little on-air experience. She tested well and seemed to have the exact look desired by the higher-ups at EBN. But no matter her résumé or GPA or waist size, the choice was out of our hands.
And now, in the month and a half since the show first aired, viewership has exploded, nearly doubling every week. Our sponsors are ecstatic, and local businesses have started reaching out to the station asking to be featured on the show.
Truly, Martha and I should be overjoyed. We have a successful show. We’re being lauded by the executives and praised at every meeting. ButThe Classy Homemakerhas never felt like our own show, and our cherishedJanesville Presents ...is struggling.
Though Hollinger extended our monthlong trial period, theJanesville Presents ...numbers seem to diminish asThe Classy Homemaker’s numbers skyrocket. In the Monday nine o’clock slot, we’re up against the likes of Carol Burnett,Love, American Style, orMonday Night at the Movies. A quaint local variety show during prime time brings in abysmal viewership.
Hollinger has given us till the end of the quarter to “pick things up,” but at this point, neither of us has a brilliant idea of how to save our precious brainchild. Instead, we spend the majority of our days discussing segment ideas for Betty’s show like “How to keep your hair from going flat without wearing curlers to the grocery store” or “Basting—your roast’s best friend!”
