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That Melvin Bray
By Margaret McBride Abbott Press
Copyright © 2014 Vena Margaret McBride Seibert
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1212-2
CHAPTER 1
My Little Biddy
April 3, 1953
Remember to look through the windshield and not the rearview mirror, because you've already been there.
—Lea Shaver, an ex–Miss Texas
IT WAS MY FAVORITE TIME OF YEAR and a perfect, cool, crisp fall afternoon in 1989. Lizabeth had joined me on the cozy little patio behind her office. The golden leaves of this Indian summer were swirling all around us, gently falling to the ground. The warmth from the heat of the chiminea created a toasty, serene respite for us.
"Hey, you know what we need?" she asked.
"Yeah, a hot, giant java," I answered. She called out to Paula, her assistant, to fill our special order.
"Wow, we've been hit by the fall, Magg-Pie, and it doesn't hurt a bit! I was hoping you were going to show up for this particular visit. I'm really glad to see ya!"
"I know—me too. It's just that when you came out to Austin to visit me in June, you kept insisting I come to Boston this fall and talk about family stuff . Being a shrink and all, you know all too well that most of us are in therapy because of our families! I'm surprised you don't hear about more calls to 911 saying, 'Help me! I'm in a family. Get me outta here!' For me, therapy is like a really easy game show where the correct answer to every question is 'Because of my father.'"
"Well, Maggs, 'features alone do not run in the blood; vices and virtues, genius and folly, are transmitted through the same sure but uneven channel'—so saith Hazlitt," she explained.
"He would saith that, huh? Well then, I choose the part about genius and virtues myself, and neither of those is of my father, I assure you, Dr. Benis, MD!"
"Sarcasm sounds good on you, Maggs. You should try it more often; it's good for the soul."
"Well, I've spent so much of my life consumed with him and all the what-ifs that I've developed a chronic case of misfit such that I'm not quite comfortable in my own skin. As you know, I pretend a lot. I feel like I'm somebody I don't know anymore. Maybe I do need that personality transplant you promised aftr all! I even joined a book club just to get a discount on self-help books because that's all I've ever bought. There was one I read about a woman who cured her cancer with positive thinking. Shoot, I don't have enough real happy thoughts to get rid of a pimple. Then I read this other article that said the symptoms of stress are eating too much, impulse buying, and driving too fast. Are they kiddin'? That's my idea of a perfect day!
"Seriously, though, I'd just love to remove this cloak of dishonor he imprisoned me in so long ago, ya know? You told me once, 'Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're probably right.' I'm still working on that one. Since I saw you last, Lizzy, I've been so apprehensive. Ya know how you can dread something and yet be excited about it at the same time—the fear of finally facing it and the unknown?"
"Hey, Maggs, I know exactly what you mean, and that's precisely how I felt about my first kiss. Now, maybe I should, but I don't even remember my first kiss. However, I do remember the first good kiss!"
"Oh Miss Priss, you're too much." I laughed.
"Well, I just want you to finally make peace with your past, Maggs, so you won't screw up the rest of your blessed life."
"Ya know, somebody told me once that true blessedness is a good life and a happy death," I answered.
"Well, I'm all over that one, which brings me to this one: it's never too late to have a happy childhood, but the second one is up to you and no one else, Maggs. It's not Mission Impossible either.
"The recovery of lost innocence is amazing to behold and can be likened only to a loving mother taking in the sweet breath of her newborn for the very first time. It's the feeling of springtime. 'Hope springs eternal,' as they say, dear, and despite having been through so much yourself, you possess a beguiling innocence and always wish to help others, especially if it's to offer that hope. I caution you, though, Maggs—you just can't live your life acting against your will, for someone else's desires. You're just too damn nice!" She stopped abruptly.
"Hey, hey now, don't be goin' round tellin' that—I'm tryin' to live it down. Hummm, and that's not Hazlitt —that's Lizzy. Where do you get all these little pearls of wisdom anyway?" I asked.
"Maggie, you of all people know what was required for me to get that little MD after my name: four years of undergrad, four years of med school, and, finally, four more years of psychiatry residence training. And after all that, I have to put up with being called a shrink." She pouted.
"Oh, boo hoo, poor Dr. Shrink, MD, and all I had to do was play for four years in undergrad and then two years in grad school, having fun learning to draw and paint like Picasso, right? And for just six years, I got three letters to your two! Yeah, MFA: mighty fine artist—that's my degree. I'm pretty smart for an ole girl from a little one-stoplight town, or was it two?" I boasted.
"Well, let's face it, my dear master of fine arts, since I can't draw a straight line with a ruler and couldn't tell you who painted what, when, where, or why, I really do admire you for your career choices and all you've accomplished in your cultured world of art. You've done quite well for yourself, and I'm damn proud of you! Heck, I'm proud of both of us!
"I'm not complaining. I knew my choices would require a long, tough haul, but I figured I was just the one to do it, and I thank my dear mother for planting the seed very early on. Ya know, she used to tell me if anyone ever asked me to play doctor, I was to tell them I have to wait until I grow up. Maggs, we both know that I too am pretty smart for an ole girl, so I did exactly as dear Mother advised. I waited until I grew up to play doctor. Ah, think about it, Maggs; I can't remember ever making a mistake. I thought I did once, but I was wrong. Heck, as far back as I can remember, I thought why not be the kinda woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning, the Devil says, 'Damn, she's up!'
"Yeah, Maggs, we're vetted, baby—nothing to do with horses either! We're certified, bonafied, and masterfied—wouldn't you agree?"
"Yep, but you left out petrified, Doc. Ya know the last thing I wanta see on your mantel is the first prize award for Best Dried Arrangement," I added with a little of that sarcasm she had spoken of earlier.
"Oh, you may be right; that's awful! Okay then, let's start with you, Maggs. From the outside, your life has always resembled a woman who has been living the American dream. You were born; you grew up, went to fine schools, and achieved your professional goals. Plus, along the way, you got married and had two great kids."
"Heck, it sounds to me like you're describing the four stages of life. And just for the record, Lizzy, I had those two great kids so they could grow up and have all the things I couldn't aff ord, and then at some point, I'm gonna move in with 'em—don't tell 'em, okay? I have learned, though, what the four stages of life that really count are. One, you believe in Santa Claus. Two, you don't believe in Santa Claus. Three, you are Santa Claus. And four, you look like Santa Claus. I rest my humble opinion, Dr. Benis."
"Funny, but I'm serious, Maggs! Let's face it—all this breeding, brains, and beauty, and still I'm over forty and single with no kids and two cats, but at least I do have the knowledge to figure out why. I mean, let's face it—I'm a head-case doctor already. So what's my problem? Hey, maybe I'm not ready to know my own truth yet. Actually, that probably has more to do with a book I read way back in my Learning How to Be a Shrink 101 class titled The 10 Best Ways to Prevent Divorce: Don't Get Married," she teased.
"Oh, come on, Lizzy. I know for a fact you've had at least one serious relationship in all these years, and it stunned me when you did the walkin'," I challenged.
"Well, I gave him the best six months of my life," she moaned.
"Hold on now, Miss Benis—if I remember correctly, you and Eric were an item for over five years, dearie, right?"
"Gosh, how time flies when it's draggin' by, huh, Maggs? In Eric's case, he was the kind of man who thought no was a three-letter word. It took me a while to realize the only person he could ever be in love with was the one he saw in the mirror several times a day! He was so self-absorbed that if he could have fallen in love with me, we'd have been a triangle! You remember how I met Eric, Maggs?"
"Yeah, seems like you used one of your famous, scary lines on him, right? Wasn't he hitt in' on ya at some fancy soiree?"
"You got it, sister, sorta. I was actually out with some colleagues of mine celebrating the director's birthday. I excused myself to go to the ladies' room, and on my way back to the table, he strutted past me doing that peacock puff he was so good at, remember? Then, all of a sudden, we're walking side by side, and as he pointed to my table, he said, 'You know, instead of eating that birthday cake over there, you should be jumping out of it. Are you married?' I'm thinking, Hey, pretty good line, you fast smooth-talker you—haven't gotten that one yet. I stopped in my tracks, looked him right in the eyes, shook my head, and said, 'No, I'm not married; someone's gonna have to get me pregnant first.' I guess he liked the idea of becoming a father, because that was the beginning of a long and eventually unfulfilling relationship for both of us. I loved him without a doubt, and he loved him without a doubt. And the father thing—well, let's just say he must have figured out the triangle thing. Ya know—him, him, and me? He just wouldn't have had any love left for a child. Another thing I should have noticed about Eric was that he never went fishing—not once. In my book, real men fish, Maggs, right? Oh sure, I guess marriage can be fun some of the time; trouble is, you're married all the time. If Eric and I had gotten married, next thing ya know, I'm running an ad in the newspaper: 'Wedding Dress for Sale. Worn once, by mistake. Call Lizabeth.'
"But enough of Eric and me; let's get back to you! Introspection and self-analysis is a good place to start with one's self—wouldn't you agree, Magg-Pie? However, in your self's case, I'm here to help with the analyzing. Are ya scared?"
"Hey, Doc, I know you're teasing—somewhat, anyway—and I appreciate the constructive criticism. And by the way, that's an oxymoron; there's praise, and then there's criticism—and they're not the same. I guess the next thing you're gonna tell me is that I'm suffering from balanced insanity. Am I close, Dr. Shrink? And if I am, then yeah, I'm scared."
All of a sudden, I could hear that scary music from Jaws pulsating in my brain. Fortunately, though, attentive Paula appeared just then and graciously served us giant, piping-hot javas and left us to our agenda. As we sat there in contemplative silence, sipping our brew and taking in the peaceful serenity of the moment, the sun was slowly calling it a day. Then, suddenly jarring the calm with a verbal invitation of sorts, the sound of Lizzy's voice brought me back to reality.
"Okay, Maggs, I appreciate all your objections, but the debate is finally over, babe, so what d'ya say we pull out those old sepia tones, pack your bags for the guilt trip, and head on down memory lane? Just sit back, relax, and tell the good doctor aaaaall about it."
Jaws music again interrupted my thoughts. Feeling paralyzed and noting the creep of fall's evening chill settling into my gut, I took a deep breath, and we were on our way to revisit my distant childhood and my long-guarded and repressed secrets.
Daddy and his buddy Melvin Bray left the mill on that Good Friday afternoon about three o'clock with the ink on their paychecks barely dry. First stop was Charlie's Place. The local liquor store known as Charlie's sat about twenty miles to the county line and just "one toke over the line, sweet Jesus." The county we lived in was still dry and would remain so for another fifty years.
It had been raining for three days, making the long dirt 'n' gravel—mostly dirt—road leading up to our old two-story rented farmhouse even more challenging. The road was dotted with holes and deep ruts as a result of time, weather, and neglect, so the rain just made it worse.
I was standing on the front porch with my two little sisters, Lainey and Fay. It was a special day for lots of reasons. Mother worked six days a week in the textile mill about five miles from our house. Sunday was the only day we could actually wake up with her and spend all day long enjoying the full extent of her wonderfulness. She worked Monday through Saturday from 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.; they called that the second shift back then.
During the school year, Aunt Lucy would come over about noon each day and stay with us until four thirty, when my five older siblings would arrive home from school courtesy of the county school bus. Daddy was supposed to be home by three thirty each day, but Mother didn't trust him to come straight home from work. Aunt Lucy would never leave until my oldest sister, Lu, got home with the rest of the kids. Then Lu would pretty much take over the duties of both Mother and Daddy until Mother got home each night.
Lu was short for Luverta, and boy did that aggravate her! She hated the name Luverta with a passion. Who wouldn't? She never told any of us why, but I figured it out as I grew older. Anyway, Lu was fifteen years old, there was nothing she couldn't do, and she wasn't afraid of anything or anybody. She loved Daddy very much, and he was the only one who could make her cry. And sometimes he did.
The reason that day was so special was that Mother had the day off because it was Good Friday. Having been taught the Easter story, I sort of understood what the word good meant in that context, but I had my own meaning: it was Good Friday because my mother was home with me, not at work; the Easter bunny was coming to my house the next night; and I had a brand new baby biddy, which, as you know, Lizzy, was slang for a baby chick. The Easter bunny had dropped the biddy off at my house early just for me while I was sleeping the night before! As Mother told me, this was very unusual for the Easter bunny to do, but he knew how much I wanted and needed that little chick. She told me it was my responsibility to take care of that tiny little biddy and make sure no harm came to her. I guess I was just about the happiest little girl in the whole wide world!
I felt the rain on my sweet little face as it blew off the huge, old oaks nearby onto the porch, where I stood watching Daddy and his buddy Melvin Bray. They zigzagged their way up the dirt drive, attempting to dodge the muddy holes. When one is drunk, one may zigzag naturally. However, when you pile on rain, mud, deep ruts, and a somewhat large automobile, to the one who is inebriated, the driving part may become impossible, and that's what happened. They had just made it to the old well, when the Chevy became mired and stuck in the mud. We called it the old well because we had a new well much closer to the house, and Mother had asked Mr. Jennings, our landlord and owner of the property, to close up that old well. He had dismantled all but the brick and mortar that stood above the ground, but he hadn't quite ever finished the job.
I saw Daddy get out of the car, his arms waving up and down—probably cussing like a sailor, as Lu would say. He got back in the car, and then Melvin Bray got out and went behind the car to push. Daddy had his window down so he could look through the rearview mirror and yell instructions to Melvin Bray at the same time. It didn't take long until the two of them gave up and started walking up the muddy dirt road toward the house.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from That Melvin Bray by Margaret McBride. Copyright © 2014 Vena Margaret McBride Seibert. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
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