Life Without You

I opened my mouth, ready to start my verbal rundown.

“Besides work, Dellie.”

My mouth slammed shut as I thought.

Bette crossed her arms as she settled further into her chair, a smug look on her face.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“For one thing, my apartment. I can’t just leave my apartment empty for that amount of time.” I shook my head, knowing that I probably sounded like I was grasping at straws. “Maybe it would be different if it was a house, and I had a neighbor I trusted to look after things. But in my apartment?” More headshaking. “Not really the best idea. Somebody might break in, and then what?”

“What am I, chopped liver?” she asked, looking slightly hurt.

“No,” I replied, puzzled. “But you’ve lost me. You live an hour away from my place, so it doesn’t really put you in the best position to keep an eye on things. And besides that, you’ve got work and Steve and—”

“And Steve could use a shake-up of his own,” she broke in, reaching again for her dwindling pile of French fries, now undoubtedly grown cold.

I watched her, a knot of apprehension growing in my gut. “What do you mean?”

She chose a fry and bit into it forcefully, funneling her aggression to the helpless spud.

“Let’s just say that Steve isn’t exactly keeping his priorities straight, and I think we could use some distance for awhile,” she replied. She swallowed. “Not forever, but…he needs to be reminded of some things.”

“Things being?”

“Things being that he has a wife who loves him and a marriage that he’s supposed to be committed to.” She sighed, looking sad.

I stared at her in dismay. “Is he cheating on you?”

Bette shook her head.

“No. Not yet. Not out-and-out cheating,” she said. “But there’s something going on with some woman he works with.” She blinked at the tears that I could see collecting in her eyes. “He just seems so distant all the time, like when he’s with me, he’s not really with me. And every time I try to talk to him about it, he pretty much just shuts down and changes the subject, says he’s got a lot going on at work and he doesn’t want to get into it. So I think a little time apart might do us some good,” she sniffed.

I plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and held it out to her. I’d never seen Bette get so emotional before, so this was new territory for me. Normally, she was the tough, show-no-fear type. The ball-crusher. And now she was showing a softer side that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

“So…?”

“I could stay at your place,” she said simply, regaining her composure as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with the napkin. “I’ll pay you a month’s worth of rent, and I promise to keep it spic and span.” She smiled. “No wild parties, I promise.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Why does that phrase not reassure me?” I asked.

She spread her arms, shoulders raised toward her earlobes as she gave me a look of innocence. “I have no idea,” she replied. “Who on Earth do you think I would invite to a party?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Aren’t you running for some new position in the League?”

She cocked her head sideways, still managing to appear angelic, somehow. Her eyes widened in a look of guiltless surprise as authentic as the color of her irises. And those babies were courtesy of 1-800-Contacts.

“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.