A Forty Year Kiss

10

Her father believed in hobbies; her mother believed in a dogged work ethic chased with fiscal austerity. She had always fallen in line behind her father. His philosophy was just more fun.

As a farmer, he collected everything. Anything and everything that came to rest on their farm was a treasure. Or a potential treasure. He housed it all in various outbuildings. License plates, rusty bicycles, chainsaws, tools, gramophones, fishing equipment…

Once a month, in the morning, he would whisk her out of the house while her mother was out feeding the chickens, they’d pile into his truck as if it were a getaway car, and they’d go to some auction. Or a string of garage sales. They paraded from driveway to driveway, garage to garage, searching for deals, surprises, lost masterpieces. He’d place a quarter in the palm of her hand, where it seemed to burn with promise. She was allowed to buy whatever she liked so long as it did not exceed twenty-five cents. The quarter felt so hot in her hand, he might have held it over a candle’s flame. She couldn’t wait to exchange the coin for some new artifact, some new prize.

She paid the closest attention to clothing. To the sort of clothing actresses wore in the pages of the magazines she saw on her aunt’s coffee table. The sort of clothing the rich women wore at church. Many days, she did not spend the quarter. Sometimes this was easy, and sometimes it was almost impossibly hard. If they were attending a farm auction, clothing was unlikely to be a featured draw. But if they were hopping from one garage sale to the next, sometimes she kept her father tapping his toe and staring at his watch while she filed through all the garments. Sometimes she worked her own brand of childhood charm; other times, she understood that she needed to haggle, play hardball. It all depended on the seller, on the circumstances. She learned to read people.

You found a good deal there, huh? her father might ask.

This skirt’s got a little tear, she’d say. But I think I can mend it. Plus, I talked that lady down to a nickel.

Her father nodded approvingly.

Rummaging for clothes was a mainstay of her life. The way she clothed her family. The way she relaxed. The way she gave presents. She never thought of it as giving something cheap or used. She only bought finely crafted garments after all. Beautiful colors. And she put love into any necessary repairs, into sprucing up those castoffs. When she gave something, it was an occasion. It was also a distraction. Something to do. A way to escape their house. To travel just a little. To take a drive. An excuse to stop for an ice-cream cone. An excuse to be surprised.

If Melissa had time off on weekends, April through October, they went to rummage sales. Having her daughter and granddaughters in tow was a benefit. They worked as a team. Even Ainsley and Addison had eyes for quality, or at least the more interesting fabrics.

So, Melissa said to her mother on one of these outings, what do you think of this guy? Is he a keeper?

Vivian moved rapidly past tables of folded clothing, prices marked on pieces of masking tape, numbers written in black Sharpie. I don’t know. What’s that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I won’t get fooled again, Melissa winked.

He’s certainly trying hard, Vivian said, blushing lightly.

Yeah? You seem happy, Melissa offered.

Well, he’s grown up a lot. In so many ways, he doesn’t even seem like the same person.

Melissa examined a one-piece jean dress, then thought better of it. Returned it to a table covered in garments.

You should meet him, Vivian said. Don’t you want to meet him?

I do, Melissa said. Absolutely. Of course, I do.

He wants to meet you. He probably thinks it’s a little strange he hasn’t met you yet.

Well. Great. I can’t wait.

Wonderful, Vivian said. Then it’s settled. He invited us over for Thanksgiving.

Mom!

What?

The other shoppers stopped to hazard glances their way. Arguments are rarely aired out in public in the Midwest, but rather bottled up and later uncorked behind closed doors, and optimally in hushed tones, even whispers, if at all. Arguments are often won by silence, or even, oddly, apparent capitulation. Vivian had seen her father win any number of arguments by simply shrugging and walking away. Not a surrender so much as a refusal to engage.

Thanksgiving is our holiday, Melissa said. My favorite holiday. I mean, really? Now I have to go to your boyfriend’s house? What if I hate the guy?

You said you wanted to meet him.

Well…yeah. You were married to him once upon a time. Of course, I want to meet him. What about Jessie? We normally see her on Thanksgiving. Mom, at some point, I think you’re going to have to tell her. Or tell him.

Oh, we’ll still see her.

You’re not really listening to me.

I’m listening. I’m just not responding how you’d like.

But she isn’t invited to Thanksgiving?

I didn’t say that, Vivian said forcefully. I just think we’ll do separate Thanksgivings. Two Thanksgivings. Think of it that way, Melissa. We’re doubling your favorite holiday.

Whatever, Melissa replied, but I’m registering my mild disapproval. For the record.

Noted, Vivian said. We’ll see Jessie in the morning, okay? We can spend the whole morning with her. Is that better?

Fine.

Look, this is all moving pretty quickly, Vivian said, and I’m not sure I want to introduce her to someone who might not stick around. Anyway, that’s between me and Jessie.

Grandma? Ainsley said, completely unaware of the conversation transpiring between her grandmother and mother. Is… She paused. I can’t pronounce this.

Spell it, sweetie.

Y-V-E-S.

Yves Saint Laurent. Go on.

Is that a good brand?

Yes. A very good brand. What did you see?

Some sweaters.

Wonderful. Excellent find, sweetheart. Let me have a look.

Mom?

Yes, Melissa.

Can we continue this conversation? Another time?

Another time then, Vivian said, aware of this bridge they would inevitably have to cross. The secrets that would need to be unfurled.