Page 17 of The Night the Lights Went Out
I read the paper from cover to cover, even the ads. And especially the obituaries. They’re not meant to be amusing, but some of them are, unintentionally of course. Like the ones that try their hand at poetry and attempt to rhyme words like “Buick” and “quick,” or “again” and “attain,” and my favorite: “tricked” and “wicked.” Neighbors, unless your last name is Wordsworth or Frost, you just shouldn’t. And if your loved one was a party clown, don’t put that picture next to his obit. It loses its sincerity, somehow. But if you do, rest assured I will clip it out and send it to my friend who collects amusing obituaries. Don’t judge. Hobbies are good for you—like eating your vegetables and exercising. Only more fun.
In this week’s edition of the paper, I was surprised to see that the entire front page—usually reserved for a groundbreaking story about the locations of new weather sirens or the increasing traffic woes on the Alpharetta Autobahn (Georgia State Route 400 for you newcomers, the nickname on account of the high proportion of German cars and the speed they manage to reach despite heavy traffic)—was completely given over to the three new roundabouts that are currently being constructed within our city limits.
I wasn’t sure whether I should have been amused or horrified at the detailed drawing of one of the proposed roundabouts, complete with a diagram of cars entering and leaving the roundabout (with directional arrows just in case people were unclear about what side of the road to drive on), and an entire three columns of directions.
Neighbors, not to point out the obvious, but if you can’t understand how a roundabout works from the overabundance of directional signs at said roundabouts, then perhaps you shouldn’t be operating a motor vehicle at all. I would suggest a bike, but that’s a whole different problem on our narrow and winding country roads and will undoubtedly be a subject for a future blog.
Speaking of news, I would be remiss if I neglected to mention more personal topics than what our fine local paper prints. This would include an observation of the high school’s football team starters, who don’t seem to fall under the socioeconomic spectrum of the rest of the school’s—or Sweet Apple’s—population. I’d be interested in learning where these young men actually live, and who’s paying the rent.
Another touchy subject that won’t be found in our local paper is that of a young third-grade math teacher who, rumor has it, is three months pregnant. This is wonderful news, of course, because there’s nothing that we Sweet Appletonians love more than babies, but this teacher of our impressionable youngsters is a single lady. To make this news more than a little juicy, the presumed father of the baby was apparently not completely divorced when the pregnancy started. Yes, a divorce was in the works, but, for all intents and purposes, the man—father of two, I might mention—was still married to another woman.
I’m not trying to be mean-spirited toward any of the parties involved—especially to the recently divorced wife, who is the innocent victim in all of this. But hiding the truth is like putting perfume on a pig. That pig’s still going to smell. And the sooner this is out in the open, the sooner everyone can move beyond this.
Before I sign off, I thought I’d bring up the topic of assimilation. No, this north Atlanta suburb is not technically “the South,” but there are still quite a few natives among us, and although we appreciate the new transplants trying to assimilate into our culture, it’s important to do it correctly. While having lunch at my club yesterday, I heard a woman from Michigan say, “Bless his heart,” when the poor waiter spilled her tea (regular—not sweet—like I didn’t need to hear that to know she wasn’t from around here). It was incorrect usage of the term, and not the first time I’ve heard it used incorrectly. Correct usage would have been the waiter, after the woman asked for (shudder) unsweet tea, saying, “You’re not from around here, are you? Bless your heart.”
So I thought I’d be neighborly, and for each blog I’ll end with a Southern saying and what it means. I hope y’all will enjoy this as much as I will.
“The new broom might sweep clean, but the old broom knows the corners.” This can refer to a lot of things, including hiring someone older but with more experience, but as my example I’d like to use a newly divorced husband, with an ex-wife, two children, and a pregnant girlfriend. Seems to me he thought he was trading up for a younger model, the “new broom.” Instead I think he’s just getting more of the same—except it will take a few years before she gets tired of doing his laundry. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
• • •
Lily looked at her mother with wide eyes, the line between her brows a deep crevasse. “Do you think this means Miss Garvey is going to have a baby?”
It took Merilee a few moments before she realized to whom Lily was referring, having called Tammy Garvey all sorts of names in her head besides her actual one in the months since Michael moved out. “I don’t know, Lily. There could be other pregnant single third-grade teachers...” She stopped at the look Lily gave her, a look that no ten-year-old should be familiar with.
Merilee put her arm around Lily’s shoulders. “Still, let’s not assume anything until I’ve had a chance to speak with your father, all right?”
Lily nodded and closed the laptop, the slump in her shoulders making Merilee hold off on talking about a punishment for disobeying. Finding out on a blog that her father’s girlfriend was pregnant was punishment enough.
She took a breath, trying to ascertain how she felt herself. That nodule of pain that seemed lodged in her throat every time she thought of Michael was still there, but learning that Tammy was having his baby hadn’t made it bigger. Maybe that was something. Maybe that was progress. And maybe the blogger was right about knowing sooner rather than later so she could move on. It was a good assumption that everybody at the lake party would know about it, so now she wouldn’t be blindsided. She wondered if the blogger would be there and if she could guess who it was. And if the anonymous woman—she assumed it was a woman—had done her a favor.
“There’re paw prints all over the grass outside! I think the white dog has been here! Can I go look for him?” Colin rushed into the kitchen, his eyes bright with excitement, his pajama shirt misbuttoned and his pants hitting him above the ankles.
Merilee stood and pulled out a chair at the table for him. “After your breakfast, and after you get dressed—and you can only go as far as the tire swing, remember?”
“But—”
“It could be a coyote. Or a raccoon.” She didn’t mention the word “bear,” not wanting to scare either one of them. “There’re all sorts of animals around here, and you don’t need to be going too far from the house to find whatever it was.”
“But I put an old dog bowl I found under the sink on the front porch and put cookies in it, so it must be a dog, right?”
“Colin!” Merilee stood suddenly, the chair scraping the floor.
“It’s empty—I already checked. That’s how I knew there were paw prints in the grass. And on the front porch, too.”
Merilee tried to check her breathing as she knelt in front of her son, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Sweetheart, we cannot have a dog. And leaving food out on the porch to attract any wild animal is a bad idea. Do you understand me?”
He nodded solemnly, but the hope refused to leave his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. But what if it’s a dog that needs a home? Then could we keep him?”
She sighed as she stood. “Why don’t we cross that bridge if and when we get there? But no more food on the front porch; do you understand?”
He waited nearly a full moment, weighing his options, before he responded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Or the back porch,” Merilee added. She went to the cabinet and pulled out two cereal bowls and placed them on the table.
“Why’s Mr. Kimball here?” Lily called from the front room.
“What?” Merilee looked down at the oversized T-shirt she’d slept in; it barely concealed her braless breasts, which weren’t as perky as they’d been before children. She put her fingers to her face, remembering that she hadn’t washed it yet and that she’d put a blob of green toothpaste on a small pimple that had decided to appear on her chin the night before. She’d read this tip in a magazine somewhere and wasn’t sure if it even worked but figured without anybody around to see her it couldn’t hurt.
