I Should Be Laughing

I have written a book, as yet unpublished.....visualize visualize....and thought I'd share a few excerpts from it. It is called, I Should Be Laughing, and is, what I call, a feel-good novel of alcoholism, suicide and child abuse; okay, so it's feel-good because it has a happy ending.

This is how it starts:

ONE

Five little brown bottles of pills, coated with oil from her fingertips and covered with dust, some of the labels yellowed and peeling back a bit at the edges, meticulously placed in a row on the glass shelf above the sink; at the ready. Tiny bronzed bottles with odd sounding names—Nembutal and Valium—stashed away over the years for illnesses both contrived and real: pulled muscles and insomnia, a nonexistent fall down the back stairs, migraines.

Now that her best day, her last day, had finally arrived, Barbara Jean Seaton would put those hundreds of caplets and capsules to good use. One by one by one she unscrewed the lid from each amber vial and emptied the contents into a ceramic soap dish; the ping-ping-ping echoed all over the gleaming white-tiled bathroom before eventually dying in the drain of the claw foot tub. Then, with hands as precise as a concert violinist, Barbara removed the cap from a special bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label.

__________________________

“Barbara Jean? You best be getting up this instant, young lady! There is a lot to do today. Do you hear me? BARBARA JEAN?”

Crash. Barbara couldn’t hear her mother’s voice as much as she could feel it, scratching a path up every single vertebrae of her spine until the words ended up inside her skull, rattling around loose like the metallic marble of a pinball machine. Her mother’s rasping tone forced her out of bed that morning, and Barbara felt as queasy as a schoolgirl on the first day of school after a too-short summer. Yet, oddly enough, Barbara’s head was clearer than it had ever been in those sad and lonely days, a painful reminder of how little time she had to prepare for the homecoming.

After slipping her feet into a tattered pair of pink mules, Barbara sang blissfully, and also somewhat regretfully, “My babies are coming home,” as she raced around the bed to the window—the big one above the window seat, the one that faced the sea—and jerked aside the dust-filled curtains. The thin tin rings screeched along the cast iron rod, angered at this sudden intrusion after so many years of darkness, and her hands shook with panic, which sustained her as much as cigarettes and bourbon, and sobriety, from which, for many years, she had been far removed. Squinting as the sun danced along the water, Barbara wondered how long it had been since she allowed the sunlight to come into her room; how long since she had seen so clearly what needed to be done. The yellow light of morning, caressing her skin, soft like chiffon, cleansed the muddy recesses of her mind, and she realized, looking at the sea that day, that the past was past; nothing mattered any longer.

For now, this day, she had a sense of purpose, a sense of duty; Mother was always saying, ‘Every young girl must have a sense of duty,’ and so Barbara knew it would do no good to stand gawking at the ocean all day. Mother wouldn’t stand for it. There was much to do and only a few days to make everything right. Her babies would be home next week, all three of them in the house. A family again, after so many….

“BARBARA JEAN!” The words cracked like a whip against her neck. “You cannot have my grandchildren come home to this filth. What in God’s name will they think?”
Drawing back, head down, as was expected when Mother was speaking, Barbara chewed the dead skin at the edge of a thumbnail caked with grime, trying pathetically to shove aside her mother’s insinuations. The children loved her, clean house or not; no matter what she had…no matter what. Harry sent beautiful cards every birthday, though, of course, Barbara wouldn’t open any of them, she couldn’t; but he always sent something. Even Renny called once or twice a year, although she could only talk for a moment, and always in whispers. And James, her baby, still lived nearby, with Emma and their son; he came up whenever Barbara needed him. Her children loved her, no matter what anyone said.

Still, Barbara allowed, giving in to Mother once more, knowing she couldn’t risk making the old woman any more enraged, couldn’t suffer another crack to her spine, it would be nice if everything was perfect and neat. Knowing what she needed to do, Barbara sped away from the window and flew down the stairs, her feet leaving a trail in the sand and leaves that blew through the house on those nights when she’d been too drunk to lock the doors. Reeling through the dining room, not even glancing at the bottles in the hutch, bottles untouched for days, she kicked open the swinging kitchen door and froze at the sight of the jade green room. She had no idea where to begin, the task seemed too much for her to comprehend; there simply wasn’t time if the children were to be home next week.

A shove to the back, Yes, Mother, and an idea came to her. She slid back the pocket door to the butler’s pantry. For Barbara, the expression ‘butler’s pantry’ had always sounded too highbrow for the small, dimly lit closet lined with shelves, but Mother had dubbed it so the day she showed Barbara and Billy the house at the end of Skeleton Road, and the name stuck. Butler’s pantry.
“Honestly, Barbara. It’s only a name. But if it affords you some respect from others, then I don’t see the harm.” The voice hissed in the blackness of the pantry, drawing her inside. “It makes people look at you in the proper light.”

The proper light. For appearances sake. Doing what was expected. Mother’s words. What will people think? Barbara remembered the first time she had invited some ladies from town in for a visit. How the women flinched when she suggested they take tea in the front parlor; how terrified they were of handling her Royal Daulton cups and saucers with the exquisite golden China garden pattern. The expressions on their faces when they saw the trays of delicate cookies, too fragile to pick up, and the vases of flowers scattered about the house, the soft sounds of classical music in every room.

And Barbara recalled how she felt when every one of those women was suddenly too busy with this or that to come out to Skeleton Road for tea again; too busy to extend an invitation for her to visit their homes; too busy to look at her with anything that even resembled respect.
“Barbara!” Snap. The shelves, slick with fingerprints, grease and dirt had long since been stripped of canned goods and cereals, pasta, sauces, flour and sugar; staples for which Barbara no longer had any need; her meals, since the children left, consisted of frozen dinners, or delivery from Fort Bragg. But there! Retreating into a corner, cowering as though it was ashamed, was the one object that had dragged Barbara into this dreary place. A lone can of Ajax; a single can; yet it would be enough to get her started. It was a push, and Barbara Jean Seaton always needed a push.

________________________

First, she scoured the soapstone sink, rubbing away the rings of rust left by cans of chili and soup that she had left for days on end before tossing them out; the Rorschach test of black coffee stains, abstract remnants of her misguided efforts to sober up when James came by with the baby. He was always checking her breath before letting her touch that child. Now, thinking about her grandson, and the few times she had seen him, Barbara polished the copper faucet and spigots, then ran a damp sponge over the windowsill.

With her hand clamped tightly to the can of Ajax, Barbara hurled the white powder all along the oak cutting board and the back splash. Scrubbing away layer upon layer of dried spills and splatters, stuck-on food, she worked quickly and thoroughly. She cleaned the cabinet doors, and then scrubbed the vacant shelves inside; opening each and every drawer, she let crumpled napkins and toothpicks, take-out menus, plastic forks, fall to the floor, which, on her hands and knees, she mopped and waxed. Standing at the sink, refilling the mop bucket, Barbara noticed the stove and the counters flanking it; the filth, she thought; how had it gotten so dirty?

With a towel soaked through with hot water and cleanser, Barbara did battle with the grubby tiles, using a toothbrush she had found among the silverware, to purge the grout lines of the mold and mildew that slithered there. Once finished with the counters and stove, she poured a bucket of hot water over them to see if any spots had been missed and, pleased with herself, for once, Barbara used half a roll of paper toweling to sop up the water. Rubbing a wrinkled palm across the tiles, she marveled at how shiny and smooth they could be with only the littlest effort.

“Surely you aren’t finished, Barbara.” Whip. She kept scrubbing, smearing the cupboard fronts with cleanser, and wiping away the fingerprints; buffing the silver knobs on the drawers and doors like an obsessed charwoman. Up and down the counters Barbara sponged and scoured and mopped, from the floor boards, where popcorn kernels and dried green peas, bits of newspaper and bottle tops, hid from her feet, to the tops of the cabinets where, with a step stool, she wiped away the last remaining splatters of grease.

Cleaning her way along the kitchen wall, Barbara ended up at the nook cradling the telephone, and spent over an hour washing splotches from the receiver, again enlisting the aid of the toothbrush and a toothpick. Spinning the rotary dial, she scraped the muck off each number and, when the phone gleamed like an enormous chunk of onyx, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“Look at those windows, Barbara Jean.” Crack. She was nowhere near finished. Barbara sulked at how pitiful the kitchen looked, even with all her effort; though clean, it remained too dark and gray.

At the sink, she glowered at the glass, spotted with soot on the inside and dried raindrops outside. Dropping to her knees Barbara practically crawled beneath the sink to search for, and—oh lucky day—find, a bottle of Windex, after which she stood before the counter and reached across the sink to unlatch the window; she spent fifteen minutes or so polishing the hinges and pulls. In no time at all she was back on the countertop, standing in the sink after first removing her slippers, and shooting the bluish liquid over all sixteen panes of glass. Using shredded newspaper from the piles stacked on the back porch, she wiped away the specks of dirt and the water spots.

Reaching around the large open window to clean the outside, Barbara gave up after nearly tumbling to the ground. Without hesitation, she was out the side door and sprinting across the lawn, which, she noted, needed a good cutting, to the garage for a ladder. A stepladder she meticulously cleaned; only after she cleared up Billy’s workbench and put his tools in order; once she dusted the baby food jars of screws and bolts, nails and nuts; after sweeping the mouse droppings from the concrete floor. She cleaned the windows out there as well, including the row of glass along the tops of the double garage doors.

She hung the shovels, brooms, and rakes on the wall where they belonged, but before she put away the clippers, she edged the stone driveway out to Skeleton Road. On her way back she yanked weeds from gaps in the pavers. Only then was Barbara able to finish in the kitchen; only once she had waxed and washed the car, cleaned the ashtray, washed those windows. Half a day later, in the center of the kitchen, hands resting proudly on her hips, she beamed at the jade green room. After so many dismal years, it was as if no one ever used her kitchen; plus, it smelled divine. Ajax and Windex. Fresh air.

“You’re not nearly finished, Barbara Jean. The back parlor is ghastly and I can’t imagine that even you expect the children to use that awful bathroom upstairs. And what about food, Barbara? Have you even thought about that?”

Even though she had only just finished cleaning them, the bareness of the cupboards dumbfounded Barbara; the clean, Mother Hubbard shelves. There was nothing for her children to eat, and nowhere for them to eat it. Boxes and bags and bottles covered the dining room table, and it needed a thorough polishing; as did the banister, the floors, the furniture in the parlor, and the table in the foyer. There was laundry to do, rugs to clean. She needed to make the beds and wash the upstairs windows; clip the hedges and fix the broken pickets in the fence. Did she have time to paint? Was there any paint? Afraid to sully it, Barbara wrapped the phone in paper towels, and dialed Dawson’s Market.

“Morning Missus Seaton. You’re up awful early.” Jerry Dawson’s voice sounded so clean and crisp; no doubt because it was coming through a thoroughly scrubbed receiver. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Jerry. I’ll need quite a bit today.” Barbara all but sang to the grocer as she mentally composed a list. “Let me see…I’ll need several cans of Ajax or Comet, the refill jug of Windex—I have the spray nozzle here—Murphy’s Oil Soap and Carpet Fresh; a bottle of 409 and a can of furniture polis…not the lemony stuff, Jerry!

“I could use a big pair of hedge clippers…no…no, I’ll borrow James’. I do need a package of those green scrubbie things…I have no idea what you call them…some paper towels and…what are those things you put in the toilet tank…not the ones that make the water blue—.”

“Whoa, Missus Seaton. Hang on a second. Let me get a pad of paper.” Dawson hadn’t filled an order this large for Barbara Seaton in years. At the most, she asked to have some Lean Cuisine or frozen pizzas sent out; a bottle or two of Jack Daniels or Smirnoff and perhaps some beer during the summer.

Barbara hummed no particular tune until he came back on the line, and then she was off again. “I need coffee, French Roast, please Jerry…coffee filters, of course. Sugar, cream; butter and a couple of loaves of bread, white and wheat. Send out some chicken breasts and a pound or two of ground chuck. Some top sirloin, Jerry. Pick out four or five nice steaks for me. And vegetables! Broccoli, carrots, potatoes and onions. Anything at all you think I’ll—.”

“This is quite some list, Missus Seaton. What do you need it for…if you don’t mind me asking?” Jerry mostly wondered how she intended to pay for it. Although a check from some lawyer in Southern California arrived the first of each month to cover her expenses, Missus Seaton hadn’t filled an order like this since…

“Oh, Jerry. I should have told you first thing,” she said gaily, gazing at her kitchen and imagining the cabinets filled with food, and the house full of the sounds of her family laughing. “My children are coming home. Next week, next week, they’ll all be home next week.”

“Won’t that be nice for you…having Harry and Renny back in The Landing after all this time? And Beam, too. James! I mean James,” he added as an afterthought, although Barbara hadn’t heard him say that name; she was adding more and more to her list.

____________________________

“I’m up Mother!” Barbara said before the old woman could pick at her. “I’m up.”

Reaching across the night she rearranged the pictures of Renny and her family; Harry in his graduation cap and gown. No such photo of James, although she did have one of him and Emma on their return from the ‘wedding’ in Reno. There was a wallet-sized picture of their son, Lyle, alongside school photographs of Renny’s children, Ben and Vera. Harry didn’t have children; he would never have them. Barbara stroked the frames, pictures perfect, and then smoothed out the crocheted cloth draping the small round table. A handful of candles would look lovely there, some soft light shining on her face when the children came home.

Calling Dawson’s again, for the third or fourth time in as many days, she added candles to the list for Friday. That was the last thing to be done; candles. Tall, thin, elegant tapers; whites ones, about twenty or so.

“What about flowers?” Her mother’s tone of voice crisscrossed Barbara’s skull. “You haven’t had fresh flowers in this house since William—“

"I know, Mother!” Barbara said angrily, one thing she had never done. One never raised their voice to her mother like…like a spoiled child. Mother never tolerated that type of behavior. As a child, if she had ever even thought of being disrespectful, Mother’s hand would strike before the words left Barbara’s mouth; Mother knew, Mother always knew what Barbara was thinking. Now, however, with her mind made up to have the children come home, and since cleaning the house, Barbara Jean Seaton was able to dismiss her mother’s innuendos and whispers. No matter how much they hurt. Snap.

“I’ve ordered lilies.” Barbara stood up. “And dozens of white roses, from the Fleur de Lis in Albion.”

“Roses?” The sarcastic tone, a tinny ball, whirled around her brain. “Good lord, Barbara! Do you have any idea how common roses look? I was hoping for gardenias. Or chrysanthemums at the very least. White and yellow ones; a basket full on the back porch with the sea as a backdrop.”

“I want roses, Mother.” Barbara whimpered, rocking back and forth on her bed and trying to summon the strength to get though the next few days. “Roses are beautiful. I’m placing them all over the house, in every room except,” her voice become faint, “in here. I…I only want lilies in here…around the bed…and a huge arrangement in the bathroom. Huge lilies and roses everywhere.” A shadow of heartbreak formed on her lips. “It will smell glorious when….”

Eyes closed, Barbara pretended to find the perfume of the flowers in full bloom; she took deep breaths, leisurely, in…and out, until her mother’s voice, which rattled endlessly about the banality of roses, was merely an monotonous ache at the base of her neck. In due course, she got up and wandered about the room, touching the paintings on the walls, and tidying the bureau top. She fingered the lace doily on the back of Daddy’s chair and tugged the quilt on her bed. Grandmother Bennett’s quilt. One she had made herself from scraps of ivory lace and satin found on her travels through France and Ireland. How Barbara loved that quilt, and the stories her grandmother told about every square. It would go to Renny, to pass on to Barbara’s granddaughter. Another stitch in the family line.

___________________

“I’ll try to come by, Mother, but I don’t know—“

Even at his age—she never could remember how old he was—James sniveled like an impudent child. James, her baby. Barbara never called call him by that other name: Beam. Even if everyone on the coast had called him Beam since that afternoon on the beach, she refused to do so. It was an idiotic name. He was James, her baby.

“Emma’s got to work and I have to stay home with Lyle. Eddie Sullivan’s payin’ me a hundred dollars to get his Skylark up and running again for Donna. He’s givin' it to her for graduation. I can’t believe she’s seventeen—.”

“James!” Barbara wailed. She would not allow him to ruin this for her, no matter what his problems. He could damn well take a few minutes to drive up to The Landing and help his mother. “I need you to come up here Friday and haul some things to the county disposal site. I can’t do it myself.”

“But why Friday? I got all day Saturday free.”

“Because I need it done by Friday; I may not be home Saturday.” Thinking him selfish, she snapped, like mother, like daughter. “Please, one quick trip. You can do it in the morning and have the rest of the day off. Bring Lyle, too. I need to see the baby.”

“All right Mother.” Between clenched teeth, Beam let out a whoosh of air. “But it better be one trip. I gotta get this car done for Eddie; he’s doin’ me a huge favor by lettin’ me do the work.”

“One trip, James, I promise. It won’t take much more than half an hour.”

“Okay then, Friday around eight.” Beam muttered. He started to drop the phone when he heard his mother say something more. “What? What did you say?”

“I love you, James.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay…uh, thanks.”

Laying the phone gently into the cradle, Barbara mentally checked one more item off her ‘To Do’ list. James would clear away the rubbish, and she would see the baby one last time. If only she could see Renny and Harry before…

Enough of that! Barbara scolded herself. Soon enough. Soon.

Gathering up the shoeboxes she had been working on, all of them filled with the memories of her children, Barbara used a magic marker to scrawl a name on each one, and then carried her gifts upstairs. The boxes, one for each child, were filled with report cards, good and bad, school pictures, and assorted snapshots: Harry and James in the field across the road, cradling baby guinea pigs in their hands; Renny in her first mini-skirt, blue with dainty pink roses; Harry in a Nehru jacket and James in a Batman t-shirt.

In her dazzlingly bright bedroom she yanked open the cumbersome mirrored door of the armoire and set each box on the lowest shelf, below the hems of the skirts and dresses she stopped wearing after Bill…Enough of that! Crack. Snap. The sounds, carried on the breeze, floated through the open window, and Barbara went to the window, peeking down into the yard, a raging breeze beating the sheets and towels dry. That was her final chore; the laundry and the beds.

On the screen porch, where the washer and dryer sat side-by-side, Barbara lifted the washer lid and hoisted a wet lump of table linens from the basket. She crammed the entire mass into the dryer—no need to dry these on the line out back—and when she bent down to grab a dryer sheet from the cupboard, her hand came back instead with a full bottle of whiskey; hidden there for who knew how long.

Closing the dryer door, she clicked the machine on high. Snap, went the sheets on the line. Barbara shoved open the flimsy screened door and sank to the steps, one hand on the wormy wood, the other clasping the neck of the bottle. Her old buddy, Jack Daniels. How long had it been since she’d tasted the Jack? How many days? Twelve? Ten? It felt like an eternity. Crack; the pillowcases. Pink ones for Renny’s bed.

Barbara unscrewed the bottle and raised it to her nose. A whiff, one quick sniff was all she would need, and then she could get on with her chores. Everything was coming together so nicely and she wouldn’t spoil it by getting drunk. Whip. Plain white sheets for Harry’s bed. She hoped he would like them, but Barbara had no idea what Harry was like anymore. Not since she received that damned letter she couldn’t answer.

Snap. The wind kicked up, fluttering the pillowcases and sheets, sending a spray of dust into her face. Barbara, one hand trembling and refusing to let go of the bottle, ran the other hand over her eyes. The bottle came to her lips and her tongue flickered over the rounded glass opening. Snap. Only a taste.

“This will not do, Barbara Jean.” Crack. “For once in your life could you please finish what you’ve started?” Snap. “You dropped out of university.” Whip. “Let your husband walk out on you.” Bash. “Drove your children away…. FINISH THIS!”

The sheets cracked in the wind and the pillowcases whipped on the line. Mother snapped at her and Barbara could no longer stand it. There was only one way to shut out all the noise. She tilted the bottle and drained it in one long stream. One swoop and it was all over, all over the lawn. A tan puddle of Jack Daniels pooled beside the porch.

“Yes Mother.”

________________________

At the end of the day, the winds died down, and the sky fell beneath a dense blanket of shadows. Just after midnight, wandering around her bedroom, listening to the silence of her home, knowing it would become graver until the children came home, Barbara heard it begin to rain. It didn’t dampen her mood, however, and she knelt at the altar of her bureau, the light of some two-dozen candles, slender ivory tapers, brushing the room in broad strokes of amber.

Opening the bottom drawer, she pushed her hands among the nightgowns and panties, the waistbands stretched out over the years from gin and bourbon, frozen pizzas. Barbara knew the bottles would be waiting; she had made a ritual, performed every night, of holding the plastic containers up to the light and counting the pills. Her fingers mapped out a path from the rigid lace insets of her bras, to the miles of flannel robes, across the panty hose, until her fingernails, painted Revlon Pearl Pink, clicked against her hidden treasures. Tenderly she withdrew the vials from the drawer, one by one, and set them atop the dresser, the labels facing forward.

Seventy-five Nembutal; a hundred-plus Valium. Barbara held the bottles with steady hands as though they were hand-blown crystal and not scratched, oily plastic. She carried them to the bathroom and set them in a row on a glass shelf above the sink. Behind her was a backdrop of lilies, slightly fragrant, only beginning to blossom, and, as if set to music, the candlelight pirouetted around the room and the mirror flashed with her resigned reflection.

________________________

Barbara had taken the car out one last time; she’d had to do it. As usual, James failed to come through on his promise, so she filled the trunk and back seat of the Pontiac with trash and plastic bags of dried leaves, hedge clippings and years old newspapers; six packs and empty bottles. Barbara hauled the last bits of the last years of her life to the dump by herself, realizing that she was the only person on whom she could truly rely.

Driving home through Fort Bragg, the car, apparently with a mind all its own, sidled into a parking space in front of the Hair and There. It was an omen, she decided; a sign. She should go in and treat herself for once, forever, and always.

“Appearance counts, Barbara Jean.” Crack.

Inside, Barbara sat for a cut and color; honey blond highlights to disguise the gray, and polish for a new manicure. It was the final touch; picture perfect. She even let Glynnis play with her makeup; her eyebrows were plucked, her toenails buffed and painted scarlet. She left with a splash of red on her lips and gold glinting above her eyes.

“You look beautiful, Missus Seaton. Special date?”

__________________________

Smiling at her image in the bathroom mirror, Barbara emptied the pill bottles into a ceramic soap dish. Ping-ping-ping. She took a cut glass decanter from the medicine cabinet—a wedding gift from Mother, that snifter and seven others. The others had been lost or broken in the ensuing years. Some toppled from the bedside table in drunkenness or thrown into the fireplace in rage. Perhaps forgotten on the back porch and carried off by a winter squall. There was just one now, but it was all she needed. Tipping the heavy glass on its side, Barbara poured a small shot of Johnny Walker Black, and then raised the tawny liquor in a toast.

A pill was picked up, on her tongue only a moment before it slid off in a wave of scotch. One more pill; another sip. Two pills; a half-glass. Ten pills and Barbara set down the snifter and raised the bottle to her lips. A handful of pills was followed by a guzzle that spilled out of her mouth and ran down her neck.

Pills one-eighty-six and one-eighty-seven; and the last of the Black Label. Barbara touched her eyes. Not a single tear; she had long since given up trying to cry over what had happened to her life. She put the empty scotch bottle, and the five little brown vials, in the wicker basket beside the toilet.

“Barbara Jean? Aren’t you going to take out the—“

“Goodnight Mother.” Snap. Barbara Jean Seaton finally went to sleep.