Nancy Thompson - True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

“What’s the matter, Burt? Afraid you might see something you like?” I point a finger at him and get right in his face. “Well, I’ll tell you something right now, mister. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice—” I shake my head. “No, you won’t fool me twice. There will be no third chances. That’s all there is to it. And don’t you forget that.”

He takes a step back looking flummoxed, standing there with his mouth gaping wide open as if I’ve rendered him speechless. Imagine that, little ol’ me shutting the mouth of this lawyer who always has an answer for everything.

The spell of silence only lasts a few seconds. Then his eyes narrow and darken. I see his jaw working as if he’s grinding his molars to powder. “For your information, I had someone interested in renting the carriage house. Someone who actually wanted to give us money in exchange for the electricity they’ll be using and the space they’ll be taking up.”

I put my hands on my hips.

“Well, fancy that, Burt. Are you the pot or the kettle today? Because just a few minutes ago you were pretty damn adamant about us giving each other the courtesy of discussing potential renters before we invited them to move in. I don’t recall you giving me that courtesy.”

He’s picking at the grout between the tiles on the counter. As I take a jar of pickled beets from the pantry, I wonder if he even heard me.

“Property taxes are due, Barb. Do you have the money to pay them? Because I don’t.”

I shoot him a look suitable for how utterly ridiculous that question is. “Well, maybe I should get a job.”

He ignores that one. My heart beats like a big bass drum.

“I’m strapped, Barbara. Maxed out with bills and upkeep on this place and college tuition for the kids. So unless you’ve stashed away several thousand dollars, Maggie has to be willing to match what this guy is willing to pay— Or is she expecting a free ride just like her mother always did?”

The bastard just doesn’t know when to quit. To him this is a challenge. A line in the sand. A gauntlet he’s thrown down to make me retreat. And you’d think that after forty years of marriage he’d know me better.

“Now you listen here. I’m only going to say this once—” A strange jarring sensation in my chest nearly knocks me off my feet. I grab the edge of the counter with one hand for support, the other holding steady to the jar of beets.

“What’s the matter with you?” Burt asks, his words peppered with annoyance.

“Nothing. I just had a…a spell. I’m fine now.”

Burt looks at me warily, as if he’s assessing whether this is a ploy, if I’m being a big drama queen since he’s fighting mean.

I draw in a slow breath through my nose, exhale audibly through my clenched teeth. I shake the jar of beets at him. “Your pigheadedness only makes me all the more determined.”

“Of course it does.”

He gets that look of his, where the corners of his mouth turn up into a thin-lipped smile, but his eyes are hateful. It’s a creepy, passive-aggressive incongruence that makes me ill. Makes me think that this must be what it’s like to talk to the devil.

But, no. It’s just my husband. I want to wipe that vile smirk right off his face.

“You are not going to blame your mistakes on that innocent girl and her child,” I hiss. “She has done nothing wrong and she is welcome in my home.”

“She’s not innocent. It’s in her blood, Barbara.”

That lowlife son of a— I see red. Literally. The fringes of my vision get all fuzzy and crimson and I nearly choke on it. The pressure in my face and chest is like a volcano ready to explode.

“Now, you listen here. Her background is my background. Her blood is my—”

A sharp pain erupts in my chest, making me gasp, pushing me forward. The jar of beets slips from my hands and shatters on the terrazzo. I grip the counter for support and stare down into the red-purple mess on the floor.

“Barbara? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” I spit the word at him, but he edges closer.

“Maybe I should call someone—911, or—”

“No.” I wave him off. “I have guests in my home. There is no way I will be carted off to the hospital. It’s just my heartburn kicking up. You make me so mad sometimes.” Rubbing my chest, I feel a little foolish for putting on such a show.

“What do you want me to do?” He looks scared as he scoots a kitchen chair over for me to sit on.

I slide down onto the wicker seat, whipping the beads of sweat from my brow. “For once, just be on my side, Burt. Don’t fight me over this. That’s what I want you to do. Make Margaret and that little girl of hers feel welcome in our home. Can you do that?”

Maggie

What’s the secret of long-lasting love? Does it mean that the lovers never wish for different lives? Never feel she or he made a mistake in vowing to love that partner until death separated them?

Or do they simply turn a blind eye to the nagging doubts intrinsic to marriage, dig in their heels and resolve to stay for the long haul no matter the cost or sacrifice?

I wish I knew the answer.

I met and married Tim within a year of Mama killing herself; a few years later I had a daughter of my own and tried my best not to look back. Like most marriages, our relationship had its share of challenges. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

Last night, as I sat at the dinner table with Barbara and Burt, who have been married for as long as I’ve been alive, I wondered what our marriage would have been like in the later years had Tim survived. It’s still hard to believe that he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me about the problems he was having with the business. I found out in the months after his death as I sifted through the rubble of our finances.

How could I have not known?

Stupid me. Safe in my cocoon. I’d finally found someone to take care of me.

As Barbara and Burt sat at the dinner table as they have, I’m sure, many nights over the course of their long marriage—being there, but not really being in the moment—I couldn’t help but wonder how does love, or more specifically marriage, survive the long haul, especially if one partner keeps secrets?

I sensed tension between them. Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe was just a typical night in the life of the eternally pledged.

Burt was mostly quiet through dinner. He mumbled a cordial hello to Sarah and me, then sat hunched over the delicious meal Barbara had prepared, mentally closed. Barbara, however, chattered enough for both of them.

I heard somewhere that as couples age, they lose the ability to hear each other. Maybe that’s the key to survival?

Burt, present in body, but mentally absent. Barbara, animated and flushed, carrying on as if he weren’t even there.

Tiny beads of moisture glistened on her forehead and perspiration stains seeped through her blouse. She blamed it on hot flashes and fanned herself as she talked about a life that seemed separate from her husband’s—the spring-break trip she and Mary Grace would take; her garden; how she’d love to remodel her kitchen; the cookbook she’d love to write; the Stratford Park Middle School PTA, of which she’s vice president/president elect.

I’m registering Sarah for school today—at Barbara’s insistence, of course.

“Honey, there’s nothing for you to do hanging around here all day,” she said to an indifferent Sarah. “Heck, it’ll be even worse boring than this dinner tonight. You’ll have so much more fun at school. In fact, how ’bout if I drive ya? Y’all, me and Mary Grace’ll just hop in the car and go get you signed up. It’ll be fun.”

I wanted to tell Barbara it wasn’t necessary. Really. She needn’t put herself out by driving us.