Chapter 2
I saw your local newspaper is hiring. They ran an ad on the Web. They say the “bar is high.” Jeez, do you think you could do it? (GRIN)—Yolonda
The bar is as high as my relatively low-slung ass. Even so, I think the job is a night job and I am half dead by then. I know you don’t understand, but running around after two little boys all day long is a killer on your nightlife—even a working nightlife.
C’mon. I’ve worked with you. I know what you can do.
It’s different. I promise. Back then, I did get breaks and even slept the whole night through.... But guess what, after a year of being here, I am actually starting to get invited to parties. Tupperware. Mary Kay. And oh, yeah, there’s the scrapbook party, which I am actually looking forward to.
WHAT? My eco-feminist, radical-poet friend is going to a scrapbook party? The Annie I knew would have rather carved her initials into her skin with a sharp blade than sit through one of those things. (In fact, so would I.)
That’s before I found out the truth.
The truth?
Yep. This town is run by scrapbookers. They are the women who run everything—the music and dance schools, the public schools, the churches, government. Everything. And they all have one thing in common. They crop till they drop.
They WHAT?
It’s part of the lingo, man. “Crop” is the term they use for parties. It comes from actually cropping photos. They have their own lingo and cool paper. What more could you ask for?
Pause.
Pause.
A stiff drink?
Annie sighed. She didn’t know if these women would have drinks at their parties. She really didn’t know what to expect.
“Why don’t you come to our crop?” Vera said to her at the library a few weeks ago. Vera and her dancers entertained at lunchtime. Annie thought the boys would enjoy it. She honestly didn’t know what she would do without the library and its programs.
“What’s that?”
“We all sit around and work on our scrapbooks, share stuff, and visit. It’s a lot of fun,” Vera replied.
“Oh, okay, sounds good,” Annie said, thinking she would have to dig out her second son’s book, and she was not even sure where it was. Poor Ben, he was such a second child. Annie just could not keep up with his baby book, let alone a scrapbook.
One sleepless night, she awoke from a fit of mother guilt and filled in all of the blanks on Ben’s baby book. She had no idea if any of the measurements, dates, and whatnots were actually correct. In fact, she was fairly sure they were not. Ben would never know that. At least it would look like his mother had paid attention to these things. Not like the mother that Annie actually was—harried, tired, struggling, and sometimes bored. Yes, even with her own children. And so she still tried to write—but not in baby books.
When Ben’s older brother, Sam, was born, Annie did fill in the blanks on all the baby books—well, for the most part. After Ben was born, those blanks went blank as well. And she was going to be the mother who nursed her kids until they were two and fed them only homemade baby food. And they would never watch television, let alone the inane, insane children’s videos.
Right.
When they first moved to Cumberland Creek, Virginia, they thought they would be welcomed with open arms. It was a peaceful, rural place. Rural people were friendly, warm, community-minded, right? What Annie and Mike found was that they mostly were met with indifference, sometimes tempered with suspicion, especially in their peaceful little town of Cumberland Creek, with its beautiful Victorian architecture and quaint shops, luring tourists. Pleasant place to visit—but not to live, if you are an outsider. An outsider seemed to be anyone whose family did not stretch back at least three generations, and who did not belong to the much-vaunted First Presbyterian, First Baptist, or Episcopal Churches. And in Annie and Mike’s case, that was impossible, since they both hailed from Bethesda, Maryland, and were Jewish.
Annie grimaced the first time she was asked the most popular question that new residents were asked, “What church do you attend?” She felt violated. She was used to living in an urban community, where such questions were not asked. She had friends for ten or fifteen years, and she was sure they were Christian, but the topic of religion was never even broached among them. They talked about politics, art, office gossip, and so on. Never religion.
A few months after moving, Annie realized the question was not going to go away. Everybody asked her the same question, and she just told them she was Jewish. Some would stare at her blankly. Others would attempt to pander to her. “Oh, we have Jewish friends, who live in Charlottesville,” or “Look, we have a menorah in our home.”
Annie and Mike never really considered their Jewish faith much when living in Bethesda, surrounded by other Jews, Jewish delis, several synagogues to choose from, and the cloak of urbanism that called for a religious privacy in which both of them felt comfortable. Not so here. It made them both consider their religion in ways they hadn’t before—which, for Annie, turned out to be a good thing. She now found herself feeling more Jewish than ever, especially on the inside, and she heavily relied on that inner world she created.
But now, Mike and Annie faced a dilemma they had not considered when they moved here. The local school system, which was good enough for a public school, still held weekly religion education classes, which were, of course, Christian. Annie was appalled to learn about this program in which children were bused from the school grounds to a local church for “Bible” study. At first, she thought it was a rumor—in this day and age, schools systems could surely not get away with such a thing. But, much to her dismay, it was perfectly legal in the state of Virginia and her local school system still practiced it.
Since they were getting ready to send Sam to first grade the following year, she found herself wishing that they could send him to a private school. She had one year to figure this out, because the program started in first grade. Kindergarten in the fall would not be a problem.
“Of course, we can just opt out,” Mike said to her one evening over spaghetti and their sons’ squabbles. “Damn good spaghetti sauce. It just seems to be getting better, this batch, I mean.”
Annie smiled. She loved to make spaghetti sauce. When she did, it was huge amounts of it. She froze it and they lived off it for months. Her mood and frame of mind played into cooking it. All of those spices, herbs, and tomatoes frothing together sometimes brought her to the edge of delirium. And so, she mentally prepared herself. It was almost like having sex—so much more delicious after waiting much longer than one should.
“Yes, that is what they say,” Annie said back to her husband. “But if your child is the one that stays behind while the others are being bused off to church, how is that child going to feel? What are they going to do with him?”
“We’re Jews in a very Christian area. Ben and Sam are going to have to learn to deal with this sometime.”
“Yeah, but not when they are six years old,” Annie said.
“I’m six. I’m six,” Sam chimed in, giggling. “I’m six years old.”
“Silly boy, you are not six,” Annie said to her son, whose face was covered in spaghetti sauce. She just had to laugh.
“I better get going.” Mike popped up and was off again, briefcase in hand. At least this time it wasn’t his suitcase. His job in pharmaceuticals took him away at least once a week. After four years, it was getting a little easier because Sam could be helpful—if he wanted to be. And he was not as needy, of course, as when he was younger.
Thank God for that.
Now, today, as she watched over her sons playing with puzzles, Annie thought,
This is good. I can handle this. I wonder how long this quiet and cooperation will last.
Her next thought,
What am I going to wear tonight? What does one wear to a scrapbooking crop?
“Ow! Mommy, Ben hit me with a puzzle!” Sam ran to her, and then buried his dark curls into her lap.
“I sorry,” Ben said, immediately at her side.
“Ben, don’t hit your brother,” Annie said. “Time-out.”
“No!” he said, and growled at her. Literally growled at her.
“Ben, go sit in the chair. Now.” She tried to sound authoritative without yelling.
He folded his little arms.
“Hmmpphh.”
“We do not hit,” she said, still cradling her oldest son. She watched her younger walk away toward the chair. Could see his heavy diaper.
Oh, great, another diaper change.
While still holding Sam, she noticed her fingernails, uneven, chipped, and dirty. She at least needed to cut them before her big night of scrapbooking. She sighed.
While she knew it would seem strange to Yolonda, Annie had been working on this night for a long time. She sorted photos and put them in a much-used paper gift bag, which she set on top of the china cabinet so that her boys could not get them. It literally took her weeks to accomplish sorting and separating the pictures. Stolen moments during naps. Or when the boys were playing quietly. Or, God forbid, but yes, watching television. Her “stolen time” strategy worked, and she was prepared for tonight’s crop.
At least she would get Ben’s book started, she told herself. That was the goal. She had no idea how she would steal the time to finish it, but she would. Then she planned to go back and bring Sam’s up to date. But in the meantime, the boys hungered for lunch; and oh, yeah, she needed to finish folding laundry and put another load in. It was never-ending—the piles of laundry.
She saw herself in the mirror in the hallway—baggy sweats, nightshirt, and no bra—as she moved through her house to her kitchen. She could not remember if she brushed her hair or not, but it needed it. She also probably needed a haircut. Funny, she thought as she ran her fingers through her long, dark hair, she didn’t think about her hair until she needed to go out.
She briefly wondered if Mike would get home in time for her to steal away to get a haircut before the big crop. Was she making too much of this? She laughed. Probably, she answered herself.
“Okay, Ben,” she said. “Time-out is over. I want you to understand the consequences for hitting your brother. If you do it again, there will be no ice cream tonight.”
“Yes, Mama,” he said, walking off into a corner in his room. Ben always took his punishment to heart and tried to behave himself.
He’s a good kid,
she thought, and felt a twinge of guilt for his punishment. Still, she would not tolerate him hitting Sam.
The phone ringing interrupted her thoughts.
Both boys ran for the phone and struggled to answer it—she grabbed the receiver from Ben, with him screaming, “Hullo! Hullo!”
She pointed with her finger for them to go and sit down.
“Hello,” Annie said.
“Annie?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sheila Rogers. I was just checking to see if you are still coming tonight.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll be there,” Annie said, distracted by the level of noise her boys were making. “I’m sorry about the kids.”
“Don’t worry about that. I have a few of my own,” Sheila said, sort of giggling.
“You do, don’t you?”
“Some of us just don’t know when to stop.” Sheila, the mother of four children, sighed. “They keep you busy.”
“They sure do,” said Annie, wondering where this conversation was going. “So I’ll be there. Is there anything special I need to bring?”
“Oh, no, just your pictures and scrapbooks—if you have them. Of course, I’ll have some books if you want to buy them. But it’s really a no-pressure situation. A crop is for us to make the time for ourselves, do what we enjoy, not really to sell stuff,” Sheila said.
“Good,” Annie said, hearing a strange beeping noise in the background. “Where are you, Sheila?”
“Vera Matthews mother was brought in to the hospital earlier. I’m just here checking on her. It’s taking the doctor forever. I’m sure she’ll be fine,” she said, with a note of finality in her voice, which made Annie feel like she shouldn’t pry.
“Okay. Bye,” Annie said.
The boys scurried off into their room. Annie surveyed her house. She was glad that the ladies were not coming here tonight. The floor needed sweeping—bits of some kind of food from last night’s dinner were scattered under the table. She just did not have the heart to investigate at this minute. Toys were spread all over the floor, crayons, coloring books, trucks, and dolls. She thought of something her mother always said:
“Clean the kitchen first. A clean kitchen is a clean house.”