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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Love of a Woman
"Look at me," Hughie said, "our kids are grown, only Steve is living with us. Phyllis's got all the appliances she'll ever need, the mortgage is paid, and I retire next year. Why can't I watch the Giants/Packers game Sunday?"
Why did he ask me? I've been a widower so long, I no longer know from practical experience what drives women to do the things they do. I look at Hughie and I don't like what I see. He's stretched tight and vulnerable, thirty four years in Savings and Loan is enough for any man. He'll be stretched out a little more this weekend because Phyllis is having a garage sale.
A woman can not
accept a lethargic husband. The lawn will need mowing, the
sump pump won't pump sump, the cat's got another hairball. I think a wife's
grievances are as deeply rooted as the cat's hairball, (and probably justified).
On the opposite side of the coin, men have no one to blame but themselves, all
of them are guilty of male inertia. It's something they think their family owes
them. After a week at the office there's nothing more comforting to a man than
knowing the liquor cabinet is full and the television set is in working order.
Any woman, worth her salt, will not stand for such idleness.
A wife, not a husband is the protector of the home and children. She protects it by keeping her husband on his toes. She will send him off on wild goose chases by telling him she hears strange noises in the middle of the night. She will complain shrilly if the larder is bare, and she will make him regret any conjugal digressions he may consider. This is her duty. This is what holds the home together. Without Phyllis to keep Hughie on his toes, I have no doubt that he would be wandering the streets looking for five cent deposit bottles.
Husbands often read, and when they do, wives must interrupt them. Reading is a form of idleness, it indicates a certain insulation from the family unit and an interest in something outside the family circle. The children will not be fed and the lady of the house may have to be content with last year's coat if the husband is allowed to read.
"So I'm layin'
there readin' the Lewinsky tapes, right? Phyllis comes in and says did I hear
how the school bus budget got turned down."
I hated to admit that I had read the Lewinsky tapes from beginning to end, but
at the same time, I had no idea that the school budget for buses was turned
down. "Gee, Hughie I didn't know that either .... that's going to be tough
on the kids two blocks from school."
"No, you don't get it," he went on, "she's always doin' that.
The minute I put my feet up, she's onto me about somethin,' y'know what I mean?"
He went on to tell me that he tried to mumble responses to Phyllis, things like, "Y'don't say", or "NO", uttered in a disbelieving tone of voice, while still devoting much of his attention to Monica Lewinsky. That's when Phyllis dropped the garage sale bomb.
"We're having
a garage sale next week, Hughie. This house is getting on my nerves .... look
at that sofa you're stretched out on! That ratty rug! I want all new! I want
to redecorate!"
Hughie wondered what had gotten into her. He thought maybe he'd done something
wrong, really wrong, and maybe this was her way of striking back. He didn't
have much time to wonder, however, Phyllis handed him 100 copies of a circular
she had made up on the computer.
"Here's your staple gun and a new box of staples -- move it Hughie, I can't
do everything." For the next week Hughie stapled a circular to every telephone
pole in Westlake Village.
That was two weeks
ago; tomorrow and Sunday is the garage sale. I had nothing
better to do so I helped Hughie drag some of the heavier furniture outside.
There's something very mournful about furniture when it's brought outdoors into
the daylight, even the light of a gray and somber day. We just about got the
sofa out there when it began to drizzle, so we dragged it back in again.
"It's gonna
be nice tomorrow," Hughie said plaintively, "would you mind coming
over early and helping me drag out the sofa and roll up the rug?"
I reminded Hughie that his strapping teen age son might be pressed into service
to make the work a little lighter. No sooner had I spoken when the tentative
trumpet strains of Sousa's "Comrades of the Legion" could be heard
from under my feet. It was Stevie in the basement practicing for tomorrow's
half time festivities.
"It's a home game," Hughie said.
"I know," I answered, "Tony and I are going -- you won't be able
to get away, I suppose."
"You kiddin'? Phyllis'd kill me. I gotta be here 'til the bitter end Saturday
and be ready to go all day Sunday too."
When a man is caught in this situation, his male friends usually desert him. His married friends fear a similar fate -- the "dominant wife syndrome" may spread, and they may find themselves rousted from their favorite chairs. Those that are not married are loath to be hampered by their bound and shackled brethren. I was not about to spend much time in Hughie's driveway that weekend, but I did help him drag the sofa out again in the morning.
Tony and I had a great time at the game. It was a lovely warm October day -- just right for a homecoming football game, or a garage sale for that matter I suppose. Hughie's son, Steve, the trumpeter, seemed to enjoy himself too, we found him after the half time ceremonies were over, smoking pot with the rest of the band under the stands.
We stopped at Hughie's house on our way home and it appeared very little had been sold. The sofa was still there and in the late afternoon light you could see the negative impression of Hughie himself on the cushions. But at the moment Hughie and Phyllis were haggling with an elderly bearded gentleman who seemed interested in an almost complete set of National Geographic magazines beginning with 1958. They settled on what I thought was a ridiculously low figure. It took Hughie four trips to carry them out to the man's car.
After the Giants/Packers
game on Sunday I dropped over to see Hughie again. He was in a sullen mood and
the fact that the Giants won by a field goal in the last 30 seconds didn't make
it any easier for him. The sofa was still there and so was an Encyclopedia Americana,
vintage 1956. I've always been a sucker for encyclopedias regardless of their
age. If you're on the trail of Greek or Roman trivia, there isn't much difference
between an encyclopedia published in 1956 and one published today.
"How much do you want for the Americana, Hughie?"
"Well I'll tell you, volume 19 is missing .... here, I wrote it down, that's
MAYA to NAVAL RANK. I don't know what the hell happened to it, I think Stevie
left it out in the rain. You can have the rest of the set for five dollars,
and I'll throw in my rusty wheelbarrow to roll it home in."
I couldn't think of anything between Maya and Naval Rank that was of vital interest
to me, and I could really use the wheelbarrow. It seemed to me that I was getting
the better of the bargain, so I offered to help him back in the house with the
sofa again.
An old man trundling a wheelbarrow full of the Encyclopedia Americana, (except
for volume 19) is a somber sight. If I'd had a shovel with me, I might have
been mistaken for Ludwig Bemelman's fourth class funeral, in which the deceased
is required to bury himself.
To spend eternity with the Encyclopedia Americana! It's not a bad deal when you look at some of the other alternatives, even if volume 19 is missing.
©Harry Buschman 1998
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