Liesel Schmidt - Life Without You

“Oh, that’s right . The vote’s coming up soon.” She shook her head. “You know, with everything else that’s been going on, I guess I forgot all about it.”

“Uh-huh. And your granny’s famous pecan pie is really a Sara Lee.”

“Don’t go dragging Granny into this, or you’ll regret it,” Bette growled. “Uh-uh, no ma’am,” she cautioned. “And especially don’t be insinuating that she buys her pies .” The last three words were whispered, eyes huge with the scandal of it all. “Uh-uh.”

For a minute, I thought she might actually genuflect and cross herself—even though Bette came from a family as un-Catholic as kosher wine.

Not that she was Jewish, either.

In fact, Bette’s family hadn’t stepped foot in a church of any kind since 1977, when the preacher at her parents’ church had railed against the evils of television from the pulpit. The man was positively off his rocker; but ever since then, the Martin family had eschewed Sunday morning service in favor of a soul-strengthening, artery-hardening Southern-style breakfast at the diner on the end of their street. At the time, Mr. Martin worked for the local ABC affiliate, so television kept a roof over his children’s heads and put food on the table. The negativity spewed from the lips of the preacher was unforgivable, and they’d never gotten over it. No matter that the man had long since retired or that there were any number of other churches in the area from which to choose. Mr. and Mrs. Martin had been soured on the church because of one pastor’s misplaced condemnation, and now they judged the institution as a whole by that measure. Sad and ironic, but true.

Even when Bette had come to her own decision as an adult to find and become active in a church, her parents had refused each and every invitation she had given them to join her for a service. But that was hardly the issue at hand.

I smiled at Bette, raising my hands in surrender.

“God forbid I ever do that,” I said, shaking my head. “I love your granny. And I know she’d sooner give up her prized collection of bake-off trophies than ever stoop so low as actually letting a store-bought pie pass through her doorway. Much less a Sara Lee .” I felt the smile slip a bit. “But you and I both know that you’re angling for a spot, and having a tea or mixer or whatever-the-heck y’all Junior League ladies do would help you along.” I shrugged. “You can admit it. I just don’t know that having it at my place would really be the best idea, in the end. It might actually hurt your chances.” I paused, looking for the best way to frame my argument without slamming my own living conditions or making her feel like I was judging her for whatever was happening between her and Steve.

“I’ve never had any issues with the neighbors on either side of me; but there’s a guy in the next building who likes to give everyone in the complex an eyeful, and the couple in the unit below mine has loud disagreements all the time. Much slamming of doors and hurling of Spanish expletives happening,” I said, deciding to lay it all out on the table and hoping it would be an effective deterrent.

“You speak about as much Spanish as an English bulldog, Dellie,” Bette replied, looking dubious. “How would you know what they’re saying, expletive or otherwise?”

I shrugged. “Educated guess.”

“Uh-huh. You’re just trying to talk me out of what you think I’m going to be doing while you’re gone. Which, for your information, my dear, is completely mistaken. I’m trying to be a good friend here, and you’re pooh-poohing it.” She clucked sadly.

Obviously, I wasn’t hiding my skepticism very well. “No, I’m just trying to help you see the bigger picture. My apartment isn’t exactly…Junior League material?”

“Honey, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Bette replied simply. Clearly, she had this all thought out. “I have no intention of letting my chances at the committee slip through my fingers just because Steve’s got his head up his rear and is thinking more with his weenie than with his brain.” She shook her head emphatically, looking smug. “He’s got some kind of corporate thing at work that day, so the man will be tied up and sadly unavailable to come in and ruin things. Or let the cat out of the bag that we’re having issues.” Bette’s eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s the last thing I need: one of the other women getting wind of the fact that Steve’s having trouble keeping his eyes on his own paper.”

“But what does that have to do with you being able to run for office?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nothing,” she huffed, which sent her ample bosom heaving. Bette was nothing if not blessed with cleavage, and she knew how to work it. “But they like to gossip, and any inkling of scandal sets them off.” Her eyes rolled at the absurdity of it all. “Doesn’t matter that half of them have an entirely too intimate relationship with the wine bottle or that their own husbands are banging boots with the secretary. They look for any excuse to gossip.”

I snorted. “What year is this? And really, ‘banging boots?’ Since when do you say, ‘banging boots?’?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You want me to say something a little less ladylike?”

I shook my head emphatically. “No, no. I get the picture. Just call me curious. I’m a writer, remember? Comes with the territory.”

“Uh-huh. Back to the subject.”

“I think I’ve lost track of the subject,” I said honestly, wracking my brain to remember how we’d even gotten to this particular point.

Bette picked up the last French fry on her plate and pointed it at me. “You. Vacation. Your need for a break,” she enumerated.

How the woman remembered in the midst of all the verbal chaos was beyond me. In fact, I’d been holding on to a small sliver of hope that she really would forget this particular topic in favor of her own problems, but she was like a dog with a bone.

“But,” I started in protest.

“You’re not getting off that easy, lady.” Bette shot me a steely gaze. “I’ve known you way too long not to know your little tricks. You’d do well to remember that,” she warned.

I sighed. “I know. I guess I’m still afraid. You know how much I worry. And I can’t seem to stop doing it, either.”

Bette grinned. “My shrink would love you. Maybe she’d start to think I was normal!”

“ Hey ,” I said in mock insult. “I’m normal ,” I insisted, trying—and failing—to convince both of us.

“Honey, you know I love you; but you’re far from normal.” Bette giggled. “That’s part of your charm.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You’re not winning any awards for normalcy, either.”

Bette grinned again. “Normal is overrated. What can I say?”

“Well, still,” I said, dropping my gaze to my hands in my lap. “Sometimes I think normal would be refreshing.”

Bette reached across the table to tap a finger lightly on my nose. “Hey, you. You’re tough, you’re beautiful, and you’re smarter than anyone knows what to do with.” Her eyes sparkled with emotion. “You’ve just had one hard run of it lately. But maybe this is just what you need. Like pressing ‘Control-Alt-Delete,’ if you want to geek out,” she concluded, echoing the words Charlie had spoken in our last conversation.

“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “Maybe you’re all right.” My nose burned with tears. “I’m just chickenshit sometimes.”

“Honey,” Bette laughed. “You’re the farthest thing from chickenshit. Don’t sell yourself short. You just gotta go out there and remember who you are,” she said simply, looking pleased with herself for offering such sage advice. “You’re a strong Southern woman who takes no nonsense,” she insisted. “Make this an adventure, Dellie. Don’t hide behind your computer.”