SUMMER 1992
On a tropical August evening in eastern South Dakota I sat on the front steps of my house, sipping Diet Pepsi and contemplating the cornfield across the road. The sun was a big orange ball hanging over the cornstalks but the wind was beginning to rise. It had finally cooled off enough so that I could stand being outside; I’d be able to open up the house soon. Until then I’d enjoy the cooing of mourning doves and the soughing of the breeze. Bob’d be home for dinner shortly but it was too hot to cook. Good thing I got the phone service hooked up today. I’d be able to order a pizza.
“Yoo hoo, Mrs. Anderson! Yoo hoo!”
Mrs. Nelson from next door was standing in her driveway waving franti¬cally. Oh man, I’d hoped I could avoid her if I stayed in the front yard. Nor¬mally she spent her time bent over her back garden, her big pink polyester-draped butt a valentine for the neighbors.
“I’ve got some more tomatoes for you, Mrs. Anderson,” she yodeled again. She was wearing a too-tight tank top and the skin on her upper arms was flap¬ping. Geez, I thought, irritated at having my peaceful mood disturbed, if she weren’t so heavy she’d be airborne by now. She’d even scared off the doves. And I had absolutely no desire to talk to her because Mrs. Nelson was a vicious gos¬sip. I’d found that out the day after Bob and I moved in.
“You know she had men in there all the time,” she’d whispered about Mrs. Swenson, the wife of Dr. Swenson, Bob’s engineering professor and owner of our house. It sounded to me like Mrs. Nelson was trying to make a scandal out of grad students so I’d futilely tried to change the subject. I finally ran inside the house to escape her.
Today she trudged over, pulling a wagon with a bushel basket half-full of tomatoes.
“Hot enough for you?” she began the ritual conversation.
“You bet,” I said with a resigned smile.
“Well, you know, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” she chanted.
“You bet,” I returned, right on cue.
We’d completed the opening hymn so she began her sermon. “I hope you can use some more tomatoes,” she said, leaning into the basket and grabbing three in each large hand. She straightened with a groaned “oof duh”, waited until I bunched my T-shirt into an improvised apron, and dropped them in. “Fritz always puts out a dozen plants and we can’t use everything that grows. Now you take some of these here, slice them up, and put a little sugar on them. You’re such a skinny thing we have to fatten you up,” she chortled and various parts of her shook. I smiled and wondered how she managed to stay so…chubby. If her garden was any indication she worked hard and ate a lot of fiber.
She continued her prattle about recipes and I understood how she stayed so robust. “Now I like to take a few tomatoes and chop ’em up for my mac and cheese. Have I given you my mac and cheese recipe yet? Well, my Fritz just loves it…”
Her mouth was off and running so I let my mind wander. Marilyn had invited Bob and me out for the weekend at her cabin. I could save the tomatoes for then…
My attention returned to Mrs. Nelson when she moved in uncomfortably close and lowered her voice. “You poor thing. I heard all about that student business. It wasn’t true, was it?” she asked sympathetically but her eyes gleamed avidly. I thought about blasting her with a few well-chosen comments about curiosity, old cats, and why the Eskimos put their old women on ice floes instead of social security—and the wisdom of that practice—when the admonitions of my Midwestern mentor, Connie Schwartz, surfaced.
“Stevie,” she’d said, frowning in amused exasperation, “it’s not wise to say the first thing that comes into your head. And it’s not necessary to win every confrontation. Take a minute to decide what the consequences of your words or actions are worth. You’re a smart girl and if you make it to my age without being shot” (Connie was only eleven years older than me but she acted like a generation separated us) “you’ll be a truly admirable woman but you need to work on your impulse control.”
After reflection I’d decided Connie had a point so now I swallowed my nasty comments and silently counted to ten. Mrs. Nelson was a neighbor so I had to be nice, I guess. She seemed lonely so it wouldn’t kill me to put up with her bad breath and spite for a minute or two. And she did grow great produce.
When I failed to respond with anything other than an inward stare Mrs. Nelson changed tactics. “That Ricky Anderson, he always was a trouble-maker. I don’t think he has any business teaching though between you, me, and the fencepost,” here she leaned in again and whispered, “he’s pretty much finished at the University.” She waited eagerly for my reaction.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said coolly.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. Then she brightened, “Tell me all about Hol¬lywood. Is it true…”
From her questions, I was pretty sure she got her information from the tab¬loids so I zoned her out again—which seemed to frustrate her. She wanted to gossip and I was the only neighbor who hadn’t ducked out in time. Mrs. Nel¬son forcibly recalled my attention by grabbing my arm and hissing, “And Mrs. Olafson, in my church? Well, I heard that her third daughter…”
I didn’t know Mrs. Olafson or her daughter—they weren’t Lutherans—and whatever Mrs. Nelson was saying about them was probably fiction anyway. I told myself that I was paying for my tomatoes by pretending to listen and planned what I’d do with my big, red, juicy treats. Maybe I’d slice one of them up tonight and put Italian dressing on it. Bob hated tomatoes—he wasn’t too wild about Mrs. Nelson either, for that matter—so he’d bitch but I could always peel a sack of carrots for him. Or I could drop some off at Connie’s and report how I’d managed not to over-react to a stupid comment. She’d probably pat me on the head and give me a cookie.
I wonder what would have happened a year ago if I’d had a buddy like Con¬nie to advise me about my impetuous rush into marriage. Leslie, my best friend in L.A., was just as young and stupid as I was so I didn’t pay much atten¬tion when she tried to dissuade me. Knowing me, I probably wouldn’t have lis¬tened to Connie either—assuming, of course, that she would’ve recommended caution.
Not that I regretted marrying Bob—well, not today anyway. Let’s face it, if I’d been smart and cautious I would have missed out on a lot of adventures. On the other hand, I’d have missed out on a lot of crap, too. But don’t you need crap in order to mature? I read someplace that life slaps you around until you learn to duck. But I could have learned to duck in Los Angeles; God knows I got slapped around enough there. And if I’d stayed in L.A. maybe I’d’ve become rich and famous. Ahhh, I probably would’ve ended up dead in a ditch. Of course, on the other hand…
Chapter 1
“Stephanie O’Neill, you’re up.”
I grimaced and waved my size sheet, Polaroid, and headshot. The casting assistant grabbed my paperwork, glanced over it, nodded briskly, and marched out of the room. I followed slowly. After looking at the storyboard and reading the copy I was offended at the idiocy of the advertising world. Who did they get to write this crap? Had they no shame? I knew I didn’t; I was about to do my best to sell it. As I walked to the video room running inane lines through my head I remembered all the years I spent studying Chekhov and Ibsen for my Master of Fine Arts degree. The academic life doesn’t prepare you to sell panty liners—not that I have anything against panty liners; I just don’t think they’re necessary. I change my underwear every day. But I had bills to pay and if acting like I needed crotch protection—other than a .357 Magnum—would earn me some money…