16
She pushed a shopping cart down the toy-aisle at Walmart, holding the girls’ Christmas lists in her hands. Lists marked out in crayon and marker, all oversized misspelled writing. She was pleased to recognize a few of the things they wanted, mostly from the TV they watched. Nickelodeon. Dolls that did not look like the dolls of her youth. These dolls, they looked…demented. Whatever.
Well, easier to think whatever if it hadn’t all been so expensive. What money she had was through social security. And that wasn’t much. Sometimes she sold things online. When it became clear that she couldn’t afford a storefront, she’d moved Violet Vintage to the internet. eBay and Etsy. She knew clothing; as a mother she knew quality, brand names, fashions. Even if culture arrived in Wisconsin months after some new thing had already become trendy on the coasts, she had always paid attention to what was cool. A lifetime of never having what she wanted manifesting as an educated longing, a sharp set of eyes.
So expensive, she said under her breath as she turned a shiny package in her hands.
What was that? Charlie asked.
I don’t know, she said, throwing her hands into the air. It’s all just plastic. And so expensive. And I know what they’ll do with it. I mean, they’ll be ecstatic at first. A week, maybe. Two, tops. And then…nothing. I’ll find this toy out in the backyard covered in snow. I guess you buy that week. A whole week of joy. That’s something, isn’t it? I’d pay twenty dollars for a week of happiness. I’d pay a lot more than twenty dollars.
She liked Walmart. For one thing, it was comparatively cheap. Even as everything was getting more expensive, everywhere, and seemingly by the day… But most importantly, she never felt judged here. On any given day, almost all of the shoppers were clearly some kind of desperate. Or close to it. The garments they wore. Tired sweatpants. Shoes worn down to the thinnest of soles. Hand-me-down jackets. Everything they bought at Walmart moved right into their lives to be used immediately and used hard.
Let me help you, Charlie said. Won’t you let me help you?
She looked at him as if he were crazy. No, sir, you may not, she said. I saved up. I love this time of year. I want to pay.
She did not say how much the gifts delighted her too. That Christmas morning was still exciting to her. These two little girls who still listened for the hooves of reindeer on their roof, though they had never grown up with a fireplace or chimney; Santa Claus came in through a kitchen window they left open an inch. Or the unlocked back door, if he so chose. How she delighted in staying up late on Christmas Eve. Sneaking into the living room and displaying the stuffed stockings and piles of presents. Then falling into bed, exhausted. There were only so many years when a child believed in magic, and that was something. Something precious, really. To still believe in magic.
I wish you’d let me help you, he said again. She could hear something rising in his voice or wanting to rise. Something he had to tamp down. She chose to ignore it. To seek out the toys the girls wanted and cross them off her list.
Melissa at least was easy. She just liked gift certificates. Nail salons and massage therapists. There wasn’t enough room in the house to collect much. Even a thick hardcover book seemed conspicuous.
The total came to close to three hundred dollars, which stunned her for an instant. Charlie stood right there, of course, making a production of his hand on his wallet. As if she wouldn’t have enough money. As if he’d need to swoop in and save the day. She paid, cash, quickly, and snatched all the plastic bags before he could. Before he could feel the actual weight of all her efforts.
Back in the cab of his truck, he was quiet. The first tense quiet that had descended upon them. The kind of quiet that portends a real disagreement. The sky just before a storm, clouds suddenly massing up, like soldiers before a battle.
She had nothing to be angry at. The day had gone just as she planned. Her errands were done. But then, neither did Charlie now. Maybe he was just hungry. He’d always been that way. Confusing anger for hunger. Maybe if she suggested they have lunch, maybe then he’d relax. He could eat. He could pay for it all. Feel useful, the way he liked to. Feel that he had contributed.
But at an Olive Garden near the mall, they ate mostly in silence.
He sighed at length, petulant. She didn’t remember this side of him. Nor had he shown it to her since they started back up. She wanted to say, Just take me home. She didn’t need this. She loved him. Or maybe she did. She could love him. But her life had not been broken before. A little emptier. Colder. But not broken. Were it all to go away now, she would just continue on. Wouldn’t she? Not that she wanted that. She just wanted him: excited, kind, passionate, patient. A wonderful companion. Was this what it was like? Being with someone all the time? That inevitably, the mask would slip, and you would see another side? A much less attractive side?
Suddenly he said, I don’t understand why you’re so stubborn.
I’m so stubborn, she said slowly. Well, I don’t understand why you don’t understand. I’m not a little girl, okay? I would like to pay for my own gifts.
Come on, Viv. Don’t be like this. I could help.
I actually don’t want your help, Charlie. Then they wouldn’t be my gifts, would they? They’d be your gifts.
But, he began. His voice trailed off, but she could pretty well follow the arc of his thought.
But I don’t have as much money as you do? she offered helpfully. But this is a lot of money for me? But what? She began to feel angry. But we live in a small shitty house? But my car is a rust bucket? I see you—she thought about the right word—crinkling your nose in our house. Taking stock of everything. Like, if we were gone for a weekend, you’d probably rush off to rent a dumpster and throw it all out. All of our things.
That’s not…he began. But his face was red. She had seen right through him. Marked every stupidly transparent facial expression. Every note of distaste. Now, c’mon. That’s not fair.
We, are, happy, she said slowly, firmly, in a lower voice now. Lower and a whole lot less civil. She could hear the growled warning in her own voice. My grandchildren are happy, Charlie. They are surrounded by love. We do not want for anything. There is plenty of food. So we don’t have a room full of fancy stupid wines, thank you very much. But then again, Charlie, maybe you shouldn’t either.
He cocked his head as if to indicate he had taken enough slaps and jabs, that last comment a sucker punch that had hit its mark. She immediately wanted it back.
I’m trying, he said. Look, we’re at lunch, we’re fighting, and I haven’t had a drop. I mean, would I like a drink right about now? Hell yeah, I would. But I didn’t. Not until just now. Until you said something. And I have to say, I don’t like to be reminded I’m an alcoholic. I know I’m an alcoholic, all right? I’m trying.
You know, she said, I’m actually not very hungry. I think I’d like to go home now. I have work to do.
But the meal hasn’t even arrived, he said.
Please just take me home, she said again. I’m happy to pay for the food.
No, he said. Come on, Viv, you’re not going to do that.
Look, if you don’t want to bring me home, I can call Melissa. I can call my daughter.
No, no, no, he said. He threw some cash on the table. More than enough. And then they were standing, and she was walking well ahead of him and right out of the restaurant.
He tried to rush ahead, to open the door for her, but she wouldn’t have it. She took the other one, made her way to his truck. Climbed into the passenger’s side and stared out the window. The mall was busy, and they would suffer an interminable amount of time trying to leave this parking lot. Trying to merge into traffic. Driving north on 53 back to Chippewa Falls.
I remember when this was all farmland, Charlie spat. Oakwood Mall. I don’t see an oak tree anywhere.
She shook her head. I don’t need your money, Charlie, she said. When did you even get this way? When we were married, we had nothing. I know your family. You came from nothing. You used to tell me about eating sandwiches made of Cheez Whiz and potato chips. Your dad drove a semi. And I never once looked down on you. It never dawned on me. All I cared about was you. And we were happy enough when we were married. I mean, it was fine. We never even knew the difference. We were happy. Being poor, that wasn’t what ruined everything.
Oh, he said, nodding his head in mock approval. Yeah, that was my fault, wasn’t it? All my fault.
Well, she said, it was.
He pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Vivian, goddamn it. I’ve apologized, he said loudly. I’ve apologized how many times? I…was…a…look—I was a kid. I acted stupidly. I drank too much. I’m an alcoholic. You think I don’t know that? I’m trying. Sometimes I make mistakes. Just now, I made a mistake. I’m so sorry.
He was shouting. They were still parked outside the restaurant, and he was shouting and pounding at the steering wheel, and when she looked out, she could see diners pointing at them. Looks of real concern on their faces. One table was talking to their server, who seemed very troubled.
Please, she said wearily, let’s just go. I want to go home. She wasn’t scared. Just disappointed. Just sad.
He shook his head and put the truck into reverse. Fine, he said, I fucking hate the mall anyway. They pulled into traffic aggressively though, and for the first time since he’d reentered her life, she felt afraid.
Had she given any thought, forty years ago, at the time of their divorce, to what he might end up as, this might have been her guess. Angry, red-faced, gunning the V8 of a big pickup truck. That old man in a pickup truck driving angrily, with no regard for other motorists. The other human beings all around them, walking across the parking lot. The parents holding their young children’s hands. The teenagers, clearly out on a date. And all the people they couldn’t see. Not the children in their car seats. Not the group of laughing teenage friends, their whole lives ahead of them and yet undiscovered. Not the man just released from jail after twenty years, twenty years for possessing a little pot. Not the woman in blessed remission from cancer, who wanted only another sunrise on the beach, or a hug from her grandchild. He wasn’t thinking of any of those people. Just himself. This aggrieved man. Aggrieved over the stupidest reason: that she was proud and would not accept his money. For the briefest of moments, she thought, Like a whore should.
What if she put it that way? That taking his money made her feel like a whore. Would that clarify things? Or maybe he liked that. Maybe that made her his. His possession. No, no, she told herself. That’s too much. Charlie isn’t like that.
She felt sick. She felt lovesick. The promise of what they might have been. Those first kisses. After forty years. All that loneliness. Traveling through time without a partner. She thought she’d found it again. Love. But so much of her life had been a disappointment. And maybe this was no different.
Not her grandchildren though. Those two girls were what she was living for now. She felt immediate resolve. They needed her. And her daughter needed her. That need was priceless. Because it was family. Her family, their love, their home. It was all they had.
When they crossed the bridge over the Chippewa River, the dam off to their left, she said, Just let me out here.
They were still at least a half mile from her home. Maybe a mile away. She didn’t care. It was cold, very cold. But she’d manage. She couldn’t stand another second in his truck.
That’s crazy, he said. It’s freezing out, Vivian. At least let me get you home.
Stop this truck right now, she said, pulling out her phone, or I’ll call the cops. Her voice was as even as the frozen river, and just as cold.
He pulled the truck onto a side street, and before he could even put it into park, she was out the door. But she’d left the presents behind.
She was thirty steps away when she heard him. You forgot the presents, Viv, he shouted out of the cab.
He might have said it in a meaner way. Might have said nothing at all. But it sounded, his voice sounded, about as sad as she felt. She stopped right where she stood. Started crying. Not what she wanted to do. Not at all. It was terribly cold, for one thing. And embarrassing. It was awful. This whole day had been awful. She just wanted to take a hot bath. To put a hot washcloth over her face and lie in that warm place between disconnection, relaxation, and sleep. Nothing. No one to watch over or feed or clean up after or take care of or suffer or explain to or heal or worship or even love. Just warm, soapy water lapping at her skin. A few candles. Some old country album playing on her phone.
She heard the truck idling but did not want to turn back. That was the last thing she wanted. To let him see her tears. God, she did not want that. Now she heard the truck in reverse, as it inched back towards her. The sound of the exhaust pipe juddering. The engine’s low rumble. Snow and ice crunching beneath those new black tires. She stood still and wanted to just disappear. Just become vapor and blow on away.
Please get in the truck, he said, as kindly as a man might.
She pinched her eyes shut, and then opened them against the harsh white world. She walked to the passenger side of the truck, where he had already reached over to open the door for her. She crawled inside.
He drove her the rest of the way home without saying a word, then waited while she unloaded her presents, and when she could not close the door because her arms were so full, he leaned across the seats. I guess that the only thing I want you to know, he said, is that I love you. And I’m sorry about the ways I let you down. I didn’t know better then. I do now. I am trying.
He glanced down. She thought, He must be collecting his words. She could see it on his brow. He was looking at each word, holding it in his mind, like a precious stone, before he showed her anything. What was in his heart.
It was cold outside. The snow in the sky looked tired, like it was losing a slow-moving chess game.
I want you to… I want to earn back your respect, he said. And then, with nothing left at all, he just said, I love you.
He closed the truck door and drove away slowly, his brake lights two sad valentines in retreat.