18. Jo
CHAPTER 18
Jo
It’s big and ugly, and it does not match her living room. From the corner of her eye, Jo glares at the ornate vase that rests on her bookshelf as she runs the vacuum across the rug. Her sweeps back and forth on the carpet get angrier the more she stares at the damn thing until finally, she stops, switches off the vacuum, and leaves it plugged in and sitting upright.
“Why do I need to be looking at this every day?” she mutters to herself, standing in front of the vase with her fists on both hips. She shakes her head as she reaches out one tentative hand and lets her fingertips rest on the cool ceramic. The swirls and lines of the gold artwork on the vase feel like veins as she traces them with her fingers. “You’re never going to truly be gone, are you?” she asks the vase in a whisper.
“Mommy?” Jo spins around to find Nancy standing there, looking at her with concern. “Who are you talking to?”
Jo’s face snaps into an automatic smile. She feels like an idiot. “No one, honey. I was just cleaning, and I stopped for a minute. I was lost in thought.” She walks over to Nancy and puts a hand on her middle child’s shoulder, steering her towards the kitchen. “Doesn’t that ever happen to you?”
Nancy is still frowning. “Sometimes. Like, when I’m reading, sometimes I say things out loud to myself.” She holds up the book in her hand as proof.
“Well, it’s like that,” Jo says, pointing at Nancy’s seat at the table. Without asking Nancy whether she wants it or not, Jo pulls the glass bottle of milk from her refrigerator and pours some for Nancy, which she sets on the table with three Fig Newtons. “Sometimes I talk out loud to myself, too. Now,” Jo says, leaning against the back of one chair, “why don’t you keep reading here for a bit and have a snack, and I’ll finish my cleaning.”
Back in the living room, Jo eyes the vase again, but turns the vacuum on and resumes her chore with just one shake of her head. Bill had flown to Arizona and back in twenty-four hours on a weekend to retrieve his ex-wife’s ashes, and now they sit in a maroon vessel lined with gold etching, watching over the house and—at least in Jo’s mind—glowing like a nightlight while they all sleep. When Jo is home alone, she feels Margaret’s presence, and though the kids have no idea what’s in the vase, she imagines Margaret sitting on the couch in the middle of her house, watching them as they run past, listening to their squabbles, and clicking her tongue disapprovingly as Jo carries out all of her motherly and wifely duties.
Why, in her mind, has this woman become such a phantom? Why does Margaret, who, by all accounts, wasn’t well enough to ever run a household, get to haunt her this way? Jo is still sad for the way the woman’s life turned out, and she does have empathy and sympathy for her, but why does she now have to incorporate Margaret into the decor of her home? Margaret gets to be there when Jo is awake late at night writing, and Margaret gets to stand sentry as Bill sips his morning coffee and kisses Jo on his way out the door.
She gets to be there, front and center, for everything now, and Margaret does not match the couches or the drapes.
Jo sighs and yanks the vacuum’s plug from the wall. Bill could have at least asked her what her opinion was on the urn so that she could have chosen something that fit the rest of the room. This thought stops her in her tracks and Jo actually laughs out loud to herself as she’s winding up the vacuum’s cord. Because, honestly, she’s Jo Booker from Minnesota! Jo, who loved to can her own peaches, to fall asleep beneath the stars on camping trips, and Jo, who never gave one thought to whether her summer dresses were in fashion or not.
But look at her now: she’s Jo Booker of Florida. Jo, who has more bathing suits than she has shoes. Jo, who meets up with her best girl friend not to walk in the woods, but to stroll around a modern-looking neighborhood and share a cigarette. Jo, who hasn’t canned a single thing since moving to Stardust Beach because she’s been so busy volunteering at the hospital and writing the stories that she’s gotten published in True Romance magazine.
There is a long, drawn-out moment where Jo just stands there. This transformation has occurred right under her own nose. Has she become someone she doesn’t even know? A woman more worried about writing her stories, and about the fact that the ugly urn in her living room is watching her do her housework than she is about making strawberry preserves and collecting wood for the winter? Have her priorities shifted wildly and eroded her solid Minnesota substance? Has she turned into a mere shell of her former self, more concerned with glitter and jazz and sunshine than she is with being a good mother, a solid wife, and a true friend?
No , Jo thinks. I haven’t changed that much. I’ve changed some, but I’m still me. I’m me, but in a new setting .
She glances at the kitchen, where Nancy is slowly nibbling a cookie and turning the pages of her book. Suddenly, without warning, Nancy looks up and her eyes land right on Jo.
“Mommy?” she says. “I think you’re the best.”
Jo’s heart melts instantly, and she snaps out of her own thoughts. This unsolicited gift from her daughter is just the reminder she needed that her real work is raising her kids, and that she’s doing the very best she can—just like every other mother she knows.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she says to Nancy. “I think you’re the best, too.”
“Josephine.” A woman named Irene, with frosty lipstick and a fair amount of sun damage on her still-young face, smiles at Jo as she extends a hand. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”
Jo shakes her hand. “And you as well, Irene.”
“Come in. Sit, sit,” Irene says, sweeping a hand grandly at the office inside of Cape Kennedy. Jo chooses a squishy chair covered in red vinyl and sits, still clutching the handle of her purse with both hands. She can feel her knuckles clenching, and she takes a deep breath, letting it go with intention. “We’re so happy that you’re here.”
Jo looks around; so far it’s only her and Irene in the office, but she assumes that the woman means her whole department, perhaps. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.” Jo can feel that her posture is making her come across as uncomfortable and expectant, so she tries to relax her arms and shoulders as she exhales with a smile.
She’s been called in for a meeting at NASA, and Bill had seemed curious about it, but also distracted when she'd told him about the phone call from Irene in the public relations department.
"Maybe they want to do another photo shoot with you and the kids?" Bill had offered, shoving the last corner of his buttered toast into his mouth and washing it down with coffee that morning. "Or possibly something about the hospital. Didn't you say that they're opening a new wing there or something?"
"A garden," Jo said. "And that really has nothing to do with me, Bill. I didn't design it or plant any of the palm trees." Her tone was exasperated enough to get his attention, and he stopped sipping his coffee long enough to look up at her.
"It's today at ten?" he'd asked. "In the public relations office?"
"Yes." She chewed on the inside of her cheek nervously, one hand on her hip and one slippered foot resting on top of the other as she stood in the middle of the kitchen, leaning against the counter. "I guess I'll just have to show up and see."
And now here she is, sitting across from Irene and wearing a brown-and-white striped silk dress that's making her feel far sweatier than she'd imagined it would. To go along with the new, less Minnesota-like Jo, she's slowly been obtaining a whole new wardrobe, starting with trendier cuts and colors, and now she can choose from any number of sleeveless pastel dresses that hit about two inches above the knee.
"Let me get right to the point, Josephine," Irene says, sitting down on her side of the desk and leaning one elbow on it as she strikes what looks to Jo like a dramatic pose. Irene looks out the window of the fourth floor office, and the blue sky is reflected in her blue eyes. "You've been writing a monthly column for a magazine called True Romance , correct?"
Of all the things Jo had been expecting, this had been last on her list. In fact, it hadn't even made the list.
"Yes?" It comes out sounding like a question.
Irene spins in her chair and looks right into Jo's eyes. "It's garnering some attention."
Jo remembers the letter she'd received from Mrs. Ingrid Nelson of Wichita, Kansas, and she wonders how on earth Irene might have found out about her fan letter when not even Bill knows about that. Instead of asking, Jo says nothing, waiting to hear what else Irene might say.
"Some of the women on staff have read it, and, like any other office, gossip spreads here, Josephine. It spreads rather quickly. I read the story myself, and I have to say that I'm intrigued." Irene picks up a sharpened pencil and taps the eraser against her desk as she gazes off into space again. “I like the angle of the astronauts, I like the position and point of view of the wife. And the fact that Winston has been toying with the notion of a work-place romance is definitely keeping us on the edge of our seats as readers.”
Jo almost wants to laugh; this is so bizarre, listening to a woman she has just met talk to her about the characters in her stories as if they’re real. But as much as she wants to laugh, she also wants to be defensive, because her characters are not her, and they’re not real.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that Winston is thinking of engaging with this woman, exactly,” she says, trying to hold her emotions at bay. “I think he might find her attractive, but he’s a busy man with a lot on his plate.”
“Exactly!” Irene says, giving the desk a good, hard tap with the pencil. “He’s got a lot on his plate. He’s distracted. His attention is elsewhere, and now Maxine is seeking validation from anywhere she can find it.”
“Oh.” Jo shakes her head. “No. I mean—not exactly. I think Maxine is trying to get Winston’s attention back. I think that he’s the man she wants, and that she’s trying to understand why a man who has such a demanding and potentially rewarding and fulfilling career would also consider embarking upon a flirtation with some other woman. It just doesn’t make sense.” Jo’s face heats up as she starts talking. She’s nearly emphatic as she speaks, and all of a sudden, she realizes that she’s gotten far more emotionally involved in this description of her characters and their love lives than she’d ever intended to.
“That’s good,” Irene says, eyes narrowed. “She’s working to win him back. A woman who has to put her whole heart into re-winning the affections of her own husband…” Irene presses her lips together and shakes her blonde head back and forth slowly. “So relatable, Josephine. So relatable to so many women.”
Jo takes a deep breath and laces her fingers together. This whole conversation has quickly gone off in a direction that Jo wasn’t expecting, nor could she ever have anticipated it.
“Anyhow,” Jo says, “I’m thrilled that people are enjoying it.” She pauses here, inserting a silent “but” to let Irene know that she’s aware the other shoe is about to drop. Jo lifts one eyebrow with expectation.
“Right.” Irene drops the pencil back into the cup on her desk with finality. “Okay, so I asked you in here today because people are enjoying it, and I think that, frankly, this would be an amazing opportunity for NASA.”
Jo sits with this for a long moment. “How so?” she finally asks. Never in her wildest dreams has she thought that her little ten dollar a month payday and the tiny thrill she gets from seeing her name in print would get her called in to NASA to discuss some shared opportunity.
“Publicity, my dear,” Irene says, leaning back in her chair grandly and crossing her legs. She sits back and puts her elbows on the armrests as she swivels back and forth in the chair. “Can you imagine the publicity for Cape Kennedy over one of its own?—“
“But I’m just a wife,” Jo interrupts.
“You’re one of ours , Josephine,” Irene counters. “Don’t doubt that for a minute.” She pauses and holds Jo’s gaze before going on. “It’s great for us that one of our own is doing something creative, and capturing the imagination of thousands of readers each month.”
Jo has truly not imagined in her mind the number of people who might be reading about Winston and Maxine—all she knows is that Bill is not reading the story that so closely mirrors their own, and now her very real fear is that he might. She’s actually at a loss for words.
“We’d love to set up an event here to showcase your writing, Josephine. I’m thinking that another couple of months of stories should come out, and then maybe during the holidays, when we’ve got five or six months of Maxine and Winston’s story to work with, we could do a reading.”
Jo nearly chokes at the thought. “A reading? As in--you want me to read my little romance story to people? Out loud?”
Irene throws her head back and laughs theatrically. “Yes, Josephine. Yes—out loud!”
Jo inhales and holds her breath as she tries to imagine herself reading her words to a crowd like a serious author who might be promoting a book would. “I don’t know. That seems kind of far-fetched.” Jo knows her face looks as dubious as she feels. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be offensive or anything,” she says, shifting around in her chair and finally setting her purse on the floor next to her feet. “But I’m just a housewife who wrote a little story. I only get paid ten dollars a month for it.”
Irene’s eyes flash, and Jo realizes in an instant that the woman is far more than she seems. She’s got a grander vision, and Jo is about to hear it.
“Listen to me here, Josephine: I know someone in publishing. Someone high up. I’d like to send your stories on to him, with your permission of course, and I’d like to see what he thinks. I feel like there’s a book in here somewhere, don’t you? An astronaut with a family is on track to go to space and leave them all behind, and on the way there, he meets another woman who turns his head—someone who catches his eye, if you will—I just think this could really be something.”
Suddenly, and without warning, tears are stinging Jo’s eyes and her throat feels tight. She isn’t sure if it’s the surprised shock of finding out that someone believes in her this way, or whether it’s hearing her own life and marriage boiled down to a simple tagline like this.
“I’m—“ Jo pauses, blinking away the tears as quickly as she can. She focuses on the hem of her dress for a moment, smoothing it as she gathers her thoughts. “I’m incredibly flattered, Irene. I am. I’m just not sure about making a big deal of this one story. I wrote it kind of on a whim, and I’m not sure it’s at all indicative of what it’s like to work at NASA, or that it even represents what it’s like to be the wife of an astronaut.”
Irene spreads her hands widely. “But who would know better than you?”
“Well, true,” Jo says, nodding slowly. “But it’s fiction.”
“Of course. And we’d market it that way.” Irene leans forward and lowers her voice like someone else might be listening. “But I need you on board, Josephine. I’m thinking a cocktail party during the holidays. You in a pretty dress—maybe red—standing up in front of a gathering of women, because let’s be honest: it’s going to be women who read your work, right?”
Jo nods helplessly. “I would imagine.”
“We’ll get Dave Huggins to take the photos, and we can get a local news station here to cover it. ‘Wife of Astronaut Turned Author: Is It Her Truth, or Is It Just Fiction?’” Irene says, making it sound like she’s writing a headline with her words.
Jo nods diplomatically. “Maybe we could work on that part together,” she says with a watery smile. The idea of people gathering together to listen to her read her stories aloud is daunting, but it’s quickly growing on her. After all, who writes without some desire of acknowledgment or accolades? Who ever commits word to paper and hopes that no one will appreciate it? But the idea of approaching a bigwig in publishing still seems a bit grand to Jo.
As if reading her mind, Irene pulls the pencil from the cup again and scribbles something on a notepad. “I just need you to give me the go-ahead to speak to my friend in New York, and I’ll pitch my idea to him.” She glances up at Jo and most likely sees terror on Jo’s face. Irene laughs softly. “It’ll be okay, Mrs. Booker,” she says. Her eyes crinkle with a blend of kindness and determination. “I could have just sent your stuff on to him and let him contact you when he realizes that your writing is wonderful and that you have a story to tell, but I thought asking you first was the right thing to do.”
Jo puts a hand to her cheek. Irene is right; she could have easily just sent the clippings on to her friend without saying a word, so she’s done Jo a real favor by asking. Finally, she nods. “Okay,” Jo agrees. “Yes to all of it.”
Irene slaps the desk as her face breaks into a grin. “Fabulous. I knew you’d be on board.”
But how had she known ? Jo wonders. They’ve never even met one another until today. Her next thought is about Bill: will he be alright with this? He’s never been one to suffocate her with rules or demands, and in no way does Jo see herself as a woman chained to the oven, nor is she a woman without a voice (and she has known women in her life whose husbands have given them far less freedom than Jo enjoys, so she’s aware that marriage is a whole spectrum), but whether or not Bill will see her giving a reading at a cocktail party at Cape Kennedy as a positive for his own career is not something she can know for certain.
Jo leans over and picks up her purse again, setting it on her lap. “I apologize for seeming reticent about this,” she says to Irene. “I just had no idea what you were calling me in for, and I wasn’t expecting this. Truly.”
Irene stands as Jo does, and the desk takes up the space between them. “I understand, Josephine.” Irene smiles at her pleasantly. “I do. But I think we could work together on this and do a really nice publicity piece for NASA. I’m excited about this.”
Jo straightens her shoulders, finally feeling the sense of pride that she supposes she was meant to feel all along. After all, she’s been called in by the PR department to talk about being the star of an event, all based on something that she sits around late at night doing in her robe and slippers. The things she dreams up in her own head have earned her recognition, and she should give herself more credit for that.
Irene walks her to the elevator and sees her off with a promise to call as soon as she has any news, or to pick a definite date later in the year. As the doors slide closed, Jo allows herself a moment of pure, unbridled excitement.
Her story! Not only has it been published each month, but potentially thousands of women have read it, and now NASA wants to recognize her and showcase her work. She squeezes her eyes shut tightly and smiles so hard that she feels like her face might break.
It’s only when the elevator chimes as it reaches the first floor and the doors open that Jo remembers Bill.
At some point—and sooner, rather than later—she’s going to have to tell him about Maxine and Winston. And Bill, smart man that he is, will realize instantly how close her characters’ names are to Josephine and William. It will all feel somewhat familiar to him, and he’ll definitely have feelings about what she’s written.
There’s no way that he won’t.