A week goes by

The next week passes by pretty much as normal. Dick shows up on Monday for one of his ‘wham-bam’ visits and Alison comes home much later than usual after her Wednesday afternoon chem lab, but other than that we spend each evening together like always. I find that I’m no longer content with the quiet companionship that we had grown used to, and as we watch the news I chat with her about her childhood in Tennessee.

It's pretty white bread, I knew already that she went to school in an all-girls parochial school and that she did well enough there to get some pretty good scholarships. I learn that she is the oldest of three children, with a sister (Amanda) two years younger than her and a brother (Tyler) who is only eight. Her childhood activities consisted mostly of church gatherings and Bible camp although she did study ballet until she was sixteen when her father abruptly decided that she was too old for that kind of thing. Her mother is an almost stereotypical housewife from the sixties who keeps busy baking casseroles and is active the Women’s Christian Fellowship, and her father runs an auto shop and, on the weekend, preaches in the local Methodist church.

I kid you not – Alison is an honest to goodness preacher’s daughter. No wonder she is so embarrassed by her boyfriend’s vocalizations. The more I learn about her upbringing, the more I begin to understand Alison. Within a week of moving in a second hole appeared in each of her pretty ears. She confided in me that when she went home, she’d have to wear a dangle in the upper hole so her parents wouldn’t notice the lower piercing. For them the extra piecing was a clear signal of her worldly sinfulness, but for her the second earing is an act of rebellion, just like her relationship with Dick. I can only imagine what her father would think if he knew that his little angel was not only no longer a virgin, but that her lover was a tattooed asshole who dreamed of playing in Punk-Rock clubs in the city.

She asks about my family too. It still hurts to talk about Francine, but I tell her about my two boys and their busy lives in California and Washington. Unlike some families that draw closer after tragedy, my boys found my grim silence to be intimidating and after a particularly tense visit over winter break last year, our contact is limited to occasional emails and the birthday cards I send out with checks.

Instead of offering Alison cookies or a slice of fresh-baked bread, I start reheating leftovers for her to eat. It used to be that a good part of her diet consisted of sendbacks from the Outback kitchens, so her poor diet was yet another impact of loosing her job. Other than her bowl of cereal in the morning I don’t think she’s been eating much and I don't like the gaunt look she is developing. I watch with pride as she finishes off a chicken and rice dish that used the juice from three whole lemons to give it extra an extra punch of flavor. Unlike some coeds I've seen, Alison is not shy about eating good food and I appreciate that she is willing to try almost anything I choose to make.

Other than the one conversation about her late rent payment I let the matter play out, but as the days go by, I can see Alison getting more and more worried. After an initial burst of effort on her part contacting family members and old friends, her list of contacts has shrunk to what basically amount to cold calls.

It is a Thursday evening a week from the conversation we had about her new job that I glance up to see Alison wiping away a tear as she sits on the couch.

“What’s wrong, Honey?” I use the endearment in spite of her efforts to explain why these diminutives are nothing more than yet another example of how men are keeping women from reaching their potential. Tonight though, she doesn’t even try to correct me, instead she bursts into full-on waterworks.

“I can’t do it, Mr. P” she sobs as I move to sit by her side and wrap my arms around her. “I’ve tried so hard, but I’ve only sold three knives.” I listen quietly holding her gently in my arms as the tears streak down her cheeks and dampen my polo. “I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson, but this job is way harder than they made it sound, and no one else is hiring because of this Corona thing.”

If I were a better man I would just tell her to forget about the rent, but the feeling of her soft curves trembling in my arms and the flowery smell of her hair is intoxicating and I figure 'What do I have to lose?'