8. Jo
EIGHT
jo
The master bedroom is carpeted in a thick, gold shag, and the huge globe lamps on the walnut nightstands are made from a textured yellow glass. Jo sits beneath the covers on her side of the bed in her sleeveless nightgown, smoothing lotion on her hands and up her arms as Bill sets his watch down on the dresser, its face propped up so that he can see it as he passes by.
“You want to do what?” Bill turns to look at her. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and boxer shorts to bed, as he normally does, and for a moment Jo is distracted by how good-looking he is. From the first time she saw her husband, she’d found him incredibly attractive, and now, in their thirties, she can see what a solid, distinguished man he’s becoming. The lightest dusting of gray is starting to form at his temples, and there are lines at the corners of his eyes that can only be described as handsome.
“I want to volunteer at the Stardust Beach Hospital,” Jo says, capping the lotion and setting it on her nightstand next to a copy of The Feminine Mystique , a new book by Betty Friedan that she’d stopped by the library that afternoon to check out at Carrie’s insistence. It’s been nearly two weeks since the day at Barbie’s house when Jude had laid bare Jo’s deepest fears—that the core reason for her existence is simply to benefit others; that she exists to be a wife and mother, but nothing more—and she’s thought of little else since.
Bill frowns as he slides under the covers next to her. He looks tired. “Why do you want to give away your time for free when you have so much on your plate already? Help me understand.”
Jo wiggles so that she’s flat on her back, her soft brown hair fanned out across the crisp white pillow case. She takes a deep breath. “I want to do something that’s just for me, Bill.”
“But volunteering isn’t for you—it’s for the people you’re volunteering to help, Jojo. That’s the whole idea of volunteerism.”
She shakes her head emphatically then turns her face back towards the ceiling so that she isn’t looking at Bill. “No, it’s not. You’re missing the point. If I work at the hospital?—“
“For free,” Bill interjects, holding up a hand that she can see in her peripheral vision, “don’t forget that part—you’re working for free.”
Annoyed, Jo presses on. “Anyway, if I’m volunteering at the hospital, I’m broadening my circle. I’m doing good works, but I’m also making myself a part of this community. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do,” she adds, reaching over to touch his hand. This part is somewhat calculated, but she knows that convincing Bill she’s volunteering for the optics of it will be the tipping point for him. “To integrate myself. To meet people. To do things that will look good on our family resume.”
Bill gives a little snort and Jo can feel him staring at her profile in the light of the bedside lamps. “Our family resume ? What is that?”
Jo gives in and turns her head so that they’re looking at one another from their respective pillows. “You know,” she says with a slight roll of her eyes. “Our dossier. The way we’re presenting ourselves to NASA and to the world as a family.”
Bill squashes an amused grin. “I’m trying not to find this funny,” he says. “But for some reason I do. Just the idea that there’s a dossier on the Booker family from Minnesota. And that you’ll somehow be raising our profile by changing bedpans in a hospital.”
“Why?” Anger rises in Jo’s chest, and she puts her arms over the top of the blanket and sheets, hugging the covers tightly against her body. “Why is it so funny to you that I want to reach for some sort of self-actualization, William Booker ?”
Bill’s eyebrows shoot up and the amused smile on his face vanishes. “Oh? We’re going with the full name now? Okay. Then let’s talk. Your self-actualization is important to me, Josephine , but so is the happiness of my family, and the success of my career, which—by the way—is why we’re in Florida in the first place.”
Jo turns her gaze back to the popcorn ceiling and pulls her arms across her body even more tightly. “Oh, believe me—I’m well aware of why we’re here. And I am supportive, Bill. I always am. But there was little to no discussion about uprooting our lives and moving across the country. No one asked if this was okay with me, and I know that the kids are just children and therefore they go where we go, but no one asked them either.”
Bill sits up and fluffs his pillow with angry punches before flopping back onto it again and reaching for the switch on his lamp to turn it off. “This discussion is ridiculous and fruitless,” he says with finality. “We are here to live the kind of dream that almost any family in America would kill to live, Jo, and all you do is complain about it.”
Unlike Bill, Jo sits up abruptly, knocking the blankets away. She looks at him in disbelief. “All I do is complain about it? Are you kidding me, Bill? I have made friends, I have the kids doing activities and meeting playmates, and I have been working on the house to make it nice for you,” Jo says, ticking each item off on her fingers. “I took Barbie’s advice and got a decorator to come in and make some suggestions—did you even notice the fabric swatches on the kitchen counter? I’m choosing new furniture on my own, because you don’t seem to care about anything but rocketing off to the damn moon.”
It’s Bill’s turn to sit up and turn to Jo incredulously. He’s looking at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “Do not swear at me, Josephine,” he says, his eyes flashing at her. “I have more important things to occupy my mind with than whether we choose avocado suede or turquoise leather for the loveseat and barstools.”
Jo huffs, folding her arms across her chest as she stares right back at Bill. “You’re absent, Bill. Even when you’re home with us, you’re not really here. I can see it, and I think the kids can, too. It’s not good.”
“That’s why you are here,” he says, using his hands for emphasis. “And it’s why you aren’t a secretary in a dentist’s office anymore, or volunteering at some hospital. You’re here for our kids when I can’t be.”
Jo’s eyes fill with hot tears; he’s not hearing her at all.
“I know that. I love being a mother. Nothing makes me happier. And I love that you do things like swim with them, play catch with Jimmy, and let the girls chatter at you after a long day. But Bill, sometimes I need more, too. You leave the house all day and live this whole life that has nothing to do with us. All I’m asking for is a few hours a week where I push a cart from room to room in the maternity ward, offering magazines and snacks to new moms. I just want to be useful to people who I’m not obligated to be useful to.”
Bill is quiet for a long moment as he assesses his wife’s demeanor. Finally, he gives a single nod. “I hear you, Jo. I think you’re probably reading too much of that Betsy Friendly,” he says, raising his chin in the direction of the book on her nightstand. “But I’m trying to listen to what you’re saying.”
“ Betty Friedan ,” Jo corrects him.
“Right. I think you’re probably getting too much crazy talk from that book about how horrible women have it, but I respect the idea that you want to do something that you feel will make you more a part of the community. And, besides that,” he says sheepishly, “it will look good on our ‘family resume,’ as you call it.”
Jo says nothing, but keeps her eyes on Bill’s face.
“So,” he says with a sigh, turning his palms to the ceiling. “I guess if it makes you happy to be a candy striper, then I say go for it.” He falls back onto his pillow again and flips onto his side so that his back is to Jo, as if the conversation is finished. “But no more than five or six hours a week, alright?” he adds.
Jo reaches over and turns off the lamp reluctantly, re-situating herself on her pillow in the darkness. Through the slit between their heavy, brocaded curtains, an inch of moonlight pours into the bedroom and falls across the gold carpet.
Jo says nothing more to Bill, but she focuses on the light of the moon as she lets her mind wander. Soon enough, Bill’s heavy breathing fills the room, and Jo drops into her own world of dreams.
“Well, hotdog, girl,” Frankie says, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air. She’s watching Jo from a seat at the kitchen table as Jo stands at her ironing board, smoothing the wrinkles from Bill’s work shirts and hanging each one up on a rack when she’s done. “Are you going to wear a little striped apron and cap?”
“I think that’s for high school girls who volunteer, isn’t it?” Jo says with a laugh.
“No, those are the Blue Teens.” Frankie shakes her head. “They wear those cute blue pinafores. I think we’d actually be Gray Ladies now. My mom was a Gray Lady when I was a kid.” Frankie takes a drag as her eyes follow Jo around the kitchen.
“Well, I’ll wear whatever they want me to wear,” Jo says as she picks up another wrinkled white shirt and spreads it across her trusty ironing board. Doing the laundry and filling Bill’s closet with freshly pressed clothing each week has been one of her favorite rituals for the entirety of their marriage. There is no doubt in Jo’s mind that she is a woman who enjoys domesticity and caring for her family, but the idea that her sense of purpose is now expanding excites her in a way that she can’t quite express. “I’m just looking forward to doing something outside the house.”
Frankie lays her cigarette at an angle in the heavy green glass ashtray that Jo’s placed on the table for her. “I’m impressed, Joey-girl. I am.”
“Hey, maybe you should join me? I bet they could use a few more volunteers at Stardust General.”
Frankie lifts an eyebrow as she crosses her legs beneath the table. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for bedpans and bedsores, honey.” She looks at Jo from under her penciled eyebrows. “I’m more of the ‘organizing luncheons for charity’ type of gal. So keep me in mind for something like that.”
Jo nods as she presses the steam button on her iron and a puff of hot air hits the cotton shirt. “Noted.”
“What are the kids going to do while you stripe the candy? Is there a daycare at the hospital or something?”
Jo frowns. “That’s the rub. I’m still thinking that through. If I work a few afternoons a week, I can probably leave Nancy and Jimmy in charge of Kate. I don’t know how much Bill will like that, though…” She walks over to find a hanger for the shirt she’s just finished pressing. The whole ironing process is making the kitchen warmer than it should be, and Jo wipes the back of her hand across her sweaty brow.
“Hey,” Frankie says, picking up her cigarette again and holding it in the air. “I might live to regret this, but why don’t you let me watch them once a week? Let’s just try it out,” she says, amending her words quickly. “We’ll give it a go, and if they like their old Aunt Frankie, then maybe we can keep it up.”
Jo stops in the middle of the kitchen and stares at Frankie. One of the things she’s come to love most about her new friend is the way Frankie approaches everything with zeal and amusement, but she has never really imagined “Aunt Frankie” as the babysitting type.
“Oh,” Jo says, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t know, Frankie…are you sure you’re up for that?”
Frankie laughs throatily as she exhales again and then stands up. She walks to the sliding glass door and stares out at the backyard, with its placid turquoise pool, bright yellow patio furniture, and rich green grass. Two mid-sized palm trees dot the grounds. Frankie’s back is to Jo as she looks out at the scene. “I’m up for it,” she says, turning just her head to look at Jo. “I’m free, and you need someone to watch the kids. What’s the biggie, Jo? This is what friends do for each other.”
Jo nods, letting the idea warm inside of her. It would be nice knowing that the kids weren’t left to fend for themselves, but she doesn’t want to impose on Frankie in any way. Still, it is Frankie’s suggestion…
She thinks it over for a moment and then smiles at her friend. “Okay,” Jo says, “I would appreciate that so much, Frankie. And I promise they’ll be on their best behavior.”
Frankie laughs. “I have nieces and nephews, Jo. There’s no question in my mind that they’ll get into mischief and fight over the last cookie, but I’m prepared to play referee. No need to make any promises you can’t keep.” She winks.
Jo’s first shift at Stardust General is three days later, and after much preparation, she’s got the kids cleaned up and fully briefed on what she expects of them while she’s gone.
“Now,” Jo says, standing before her children in the living room. The kids are lined up like soldiers awaiting Frankie’s arrival. “Frankie’s word is the law while I’m gone. No television. No arguing. No tricking her into extra snacks.” Jimmy makes a face at this. “No hiding from Frankie when she calls for you.” Kate looks away guiltily. “And Jimmy and Nancy—I want you both to be nice to Kate.” It’s Nancy’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’ll be back by five o’clock, and we’ll have dinner together when Daddy gets home at six. Understood?”
The children nod. Jo kisses each of them in turn.
“Good luck, Mommy,” Kate says sweetly, running towards the hallway and her Barbie dolls, which are undoubtedly set up on her bedroom floor.
Jo lets Frankie in as soon as she knocks, and Frankie sweeps in, dropping her purse on the new couch. “Ooooh,” Frankie says. “It just got delivered?” Jo nods, watching Frankie’s face to see if she likes it. Frankie runs a hand along the long, low orange velvet couch. Jo has also chosen a polished wood coffee table and two chairs that are upholstered with the same velvet as the couch. The whole set-up is slightly outside of Jo’s comfort zone, but she’s caught herself pausing to admire the furniture more than once. It’s growing on her—slowly.
“Looks great, Jo.” Frankie glances around with open admiration. “You’re really making this place your own.”
Jo beams. “Thank you. And thank you again for watching the kids. I’ll be back by five,” she says, consulting the narrow gold watch on her left wrist. “I need to get over there for orientation.”
“Go, go.” Frankie sweeps her away with both hands. “We’ve got this covered, don’t we Nance?”
Nancy is standing near the record player, wide-eyed and clutching a library book to her chest. She nods as she watches Frankie with awe.
Jo is nervous as she backs down the driveway in her station wagon, looking both ways to make sure that no neighborhood kids are playing behind her car. She glides through her neighborhood, observing the people who are out walking, planting flowers, or watching their children ride bikes up and down the sidewalks.
As much as she resisted it at first, Jo has started to realize how comfortable it is to be living in a community where people know each other, rather than on a piece of property where you need to put on a coat and lace up your shoes just to walk to the end of the long driveway to check the mail. Now that she’s here, she appreciates the convenience of having friends and their kids within walking distance, and the fact that she can run out to the store on a whim for butter or bread rather than having to save up her errands for a day when she’s prepared to make a trip “into town.” Even the relentless sunshine is bothering her less than it did when they first got to Florida.
At Stardust General Jo walks through the main entrance and right up to the front desk. She’s wearing a knee-length skirt and a light cardigan sweater with a pair of flat, comfortable shoes.
“Good afternoon,” she says, smiling at the receptionist. “Josephine Booker, here to volunteer.”
The woman points her in the direction of the elevators, and on the third floor Jo is greeted by a cheerful, plump woman who appears to be close to seventy.
“Mrs. Booker?” she says, smiling. “I’m Nurse Edwina, and I’m here to get you oriented.” She looks Jo up and down. “You look good. The sweater will come in handy—it gets chilly sometimes.”
In short order, Nurse Edwina walks Jo around the third floor, showing her the nurses’ lounge, the supply closet where the wheeled trolley is stored, and she shows her how to load up the cart with books, magazines, snacks, and beverages. They work the first few rooms together, and Jo takes mental notes as she watches the way Edwina announces herself at the door to each room, walks in, greets the patient or patients, and just generally brightens things up as she goes.
“You think you can handle this now?” Nurse Edwina asks, pushing the trolley to Jo. “I think you can. You’ll be a natural, Mrs. Booker.” She smiles at her encouragingly, pats Jo’s hand, and waddles back to the nurses’ station.
At the first room, Jo wipes her sweaty palms on the front of her skirt and braces herself before knocking. She puts a smile on her face so that it seeps into her voice. “Good afternoon,” she says cheerily, pushing the door open slightly. “My name is Jo, how are you?”
An older man is in the bed, the sheet pulled over him as he turns to look at Jo with curiosity. “I’m old, I’m in pain, and my wife and mother are already waiting for me on the other side.” His crusty attitude softens as Jo steps into the room with her cart full of goodies. “But when a lovely lady appears before me, I mind being stuck here just a little bit less.”
Jo can’t help herself; she laughs. “Well, I’m glad my mere existence can brighten your day,” she says. “I wish my husband and kids got this excited every time I walked into the room.”
“They’re damned fools if they don’t,” he roars, motioning to Jo with an arthritic hand. “Come in, come in. Jo, was it? Short for Josephine, I presume.”
“Yes,” Jo says. “It is. And you are?”
“Douglas Dandridge,” the old man says. He’s got to be close to ninety if he’s a day. “But you can call me Doug, Dougie, Dandy, Mr. D—call me what you want, young lady, just don’t call me late for dinner.”
Jo laughs politely. Mr. Dandridge reminds her a bit of her own grandfather. “People call you Mr. D?”
“My students always did. I taught high school math for forty-six years. Retired down here with my wife, but she died within a year. I’ve spent the last twenty years trying not to acquire a second wife.”
“Oh, my,” Jo says, laughter bubbling out of her. “Hard to avoid the ladies, is it?”
Mr. Dandridge shrugs and peers at her cart. “You’d be surprised. At a certain age, the women outnumber the men, and they start competing for our affections. You wouldn’t understand yet, my girl. For you, the world is still lousy with men.” Doug talks loud, and Jo notices a hearing aid in one ear. “But someday they’ll be dropping like flies, and you and the other ladies will find yourselves putting on lipstick and hanging around the shuffleboard courts, trying to find an old coot with a little spark left in his plug.”
Jo can scarcely imagine herself being old and alone; it seems impossible to fathom, given how little time she has to herself these days. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” she says.
“Tell me, Josephine.” Doug sits up slightly and with some effort. “What does this husband who does not jump for joy every time you enter the room do for a living? Is he a busy man?”
Jo pulls a package of peanut butter crackers and a bottle of orange juice from her cart and sets them on Mr. Dandridge’s bedside table. “He’s training to be an astronaut. Before that, he was just Lieutenant Colonel Booker, but now he’s aiming for the stratosphere.”
“A man could do worse,” Mr. Dandridge says, looking impressed. “Kind of beats the hell out of teaching calculus to teenagers as a career.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Jo promises him. “I think teaching is a wonderful job. Honorable. And you never forget your favorite teachers.”
“That’s true,” Mr. Dandridge muses. “I heard once that being someone’s favorite teacher means you get to live forever. Even when you’re long gone, you’re still in someone’s heart. I thought that was nice.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment.” Jo pulls a selection of books and magazines from her cart that she thinks Mr. Dandridge might like. “Could I interest you in a novel or a magazine?” she offers, handing him a stack of Time magazines and two Western novels.
Mr. Dandridge looks at them with disinterest. “Eh,” he says, motioning for Jo to come closer. She steps up to him and leans over the rail of his bed when he waves his hand for her to do so. “You got any romance novels on your cart there, Josephine?” he whispers. “Maybe one where the girl travels to France and meets a rakish gentleman? Falls in love?”
Jo’s eyebrows shoot up, but she turns back to her cart and shuffles through the stack of paperbacks. “How about this one?” She hands him a Harlequin romance called Doctor in the Tropics with a blonde nurse on the cover. “It looks like she might get to travel and find love.”
Mr. Dandridge takes the book in his shaky hand and passes back the magazines and Western novels. “I’ll take it,” he says. “And next time you come back I’ll give you a full report on this particular piece of literature.”
Jo laughs as she reorganizes her cart. “Okay, that sounds like a deal to me, Mr. D.”
With a wave, she backs her trolley out of the room and continues down the hall, knocking on doors, introducing herself, and leaving cans of 7UP, little packages of cookies or crackers, and all kinds of reading materials with the patients. She has a great day. At the end of her three-hour shift, her feet are tired, and her cheeks hurt from smiling.
It feels good to do something unexpected. Driving away from Stardust General with a grin on her face, Jo rolls down the car window to let in the hot summer breeze. Florida isn’t exactly home for her yet, but she’s finding things that are hers and taking tentative steps to plant herself in the fertile ground of Stardust Beach. With a little care and watering, maybe her roots will extend into the ground here; maybe they’ll take hold and spread.
Just maybe.