Halfway There Read online

  This whole feeling of being an outsider became more than I could bear when Ellen came home from the grocery store one afternoon.

  “Well, it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “That happened.”

  “What’s that that happened?” Our banter was a source of immense joy and I loved it when it went on and on. But that day she cut it short.

  “I’m standing in line at Schnuck’s this morning, and it’s a long line, so the lady behind me starts talking about an article in the newspaper. I don’t even remember what. Before I know it, she’s asking me where I went to high school. I mean, I know you told me people actually ask that question, but I never believed you.” Ellen started to shelve the groceries. For once, I actually tried to help.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her I didn’t grow up in St. Louis. I’m a transplant.”

  “You know, we could just pick a high school.” I put the bread on top of the refrigerator and grabbed a couple of cans from the table.

  “How would that work? We would just start telling people we graduated from a place? What would happen if they went there too?” Ellen took the bread off the top of the refrigerator and put it inside the refrigerator.

  “Seriously, what are the chances of that? I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

  Ellen started to clean out the refrigerator’s vegetable drawer.

  “You know I hate it when we let this stuff go bad. Have you finally figured out we aren’t eating spinach by the pound no matter how much of it you buy?”

  “If I don’t buy it, we’ll never eat it, right?” I took a few cans into the pantry. It was hard to ignore that Ellen had lined up the cans on the shelves with their labels facing forward, organized by type. It was a little creepy, so I put my can of tuna backwards on top of the soups. Call me a rebel.

  “Okay,” I turned toward Ellen to block her access to the pantry. “So where do you think we would have gone to high school if we grew up here?”

  Ellen wrinkled her nose at the smell of rotting spinach. She waved it at me and then threw it in the trash.

  “Hey, we have a composter now, you know.”

  “Do you want to bring it out there? You vomit at the thought of picking up dog poo. You wouldn’t make it past the porch.”

  “Fine, okay. So where would you have gone?” I felt safe sitting down at the kitchen table because Ellen had moved on to the refrigerator items.

  “I would have been homeschooled,” Ellen replied.

  “Hey, I hear that sarcasm in your voice. Come on, they’re not that bad.” I said it, but I didn’t believe it. Saint Louis’ public schools don’t have a great reputation. “Let’s look at this another way. If we had kids, where would they be going to high school?”

  “I don’t know about schools, and we don’t have kids, for heaven’s sake!”

  Undeterred, I said, “I think we would have sent them to Catholic schools.”

  “After all the crazy nun stories you’ve told me about? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “In hindsight, it all seems funny, and I like that I share most of those experiences with almost everyone in America who went to Catholic school.”

  “You already have a place in mind, don’t you?”

  “I think maybe I do—Saint Elizabeth’s Academy. It’s a lot like the high schools I looked at when I lived in New Orleans. I know those schools. I know how they work.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Just fake it, for crying out loud! Catholic girls’ schools are like big, silly sororities—well, sometimes scary sororities, but combine a sorority with any other high school, and you’ve got it.” I smiled. I felt some weird sense of pride, as if I had actually just remembered graduating from Saint Elizabeth’s.

  It’s strange how things work out timing-wise. It wasn’t more than a month after our “graduation” from Saint Elizabeth’s that we got the chance to share “where we went to high school.” A mutual friend had invited us to an acquaintance’s birthday party. I didn’t want to go. I never want to go to these things; friends of friends in herds freaks me out a bit, especially straight herds.

  “I won’t know anybody. I hate that. I don’t think we should go,” I whined as we made the plans.

  “You’re the one who complains you never get out enough and that you don’t know anybody. We were invited specifically because you want to meet more people.”

  “This is going to sound kind of shitty, but I would like to get to know more lesbians, not more straight people.”

  “If it was at a bar, you’d go.” Ellen was good at ignoring my more insensitive comments.

  “That’s different.”

  The party actually was at a bar/restaurant combination. I settled in at the bar while Ellen found us a table. I was almost finished with my first whiskey and Coke before she came back.

  “It’s pretty crowded in there. I don’t even see what’s-her-face whose birthday it is.”

  “Who are we sitting with?”

  “I don’t know any of them, but the sooner we sit down and eat, the sooner we can get out of here.”

  We made the necessary usual small talk with the few familiar faces in the room, and I began to forgive Ellen for making me go out—until we got to our table. Three straight couples. Arrgh. I felt as if my face had just been painted purple. I know, I know. At my age I should be more out, right? Yeah, but at least I know my comfort zone, and this wasn’t it.

  Ellen and I took the last two seats at the table. It was quiet for about a minute longer than it should have been. Finally, the woman next to me said something nice about my shirt—my Target original design—and somehow the ice was broken. The guys threw in a few lines about sports or business. Ellen jumped in. I kept up my end with the wives, talking about movies or whatever, when the conversation seemed to drift to couples talking to couples.

  The guy sitting next to the woman sitting beside me—let’s call him Bob—asked Ellen what she did for a living, a subject on which Ellen could talk for hours given the slightest opening, so they started happily chatting away while his wife—let’s call her Linda—and I just listened. When Ellen was finished, Linda asked me what I did, which I frankly find boring to talk about. No one really wants to hear about writing technical manuals or editing or, even worse, being an unemployed writer or editor, so my answer was short. We were quiet for a bit until they asked us where we lived. That’s a subject Ellen and I could both sink our teeth into, so off we went for who knows how long.

  At some point we stopped to take our breath, and Bob took his chance to add to the conversation.

  “That’s a great area. My parents grew up there. They used to talk about it a lot. They loved it.”

  “We hear that so often. It seems as if everyone we meet has some connection to the area. That’s why I like Saint Louis so much.”

  “Oh, it’s a great place to grow up. I tell you I knew that even when I was a teenager,” Linda added.

  “Oh, where’d you go to high school?” I had to ask—I couldn’t let this opportunity to sound like a local pass me by. Ellen poked me under the table. I ignored her.

  “I went to Ursuline Academy. What about you?”

  “Oh, I know Ursuline! We used to play you all.”

  I caught Ellen shooting a look at me as if I had just sprouted another hair on my chin.

  “Really? Which school? What sport did you play? When did you graduate?” Clearly, we had stumbled upon a very interesting subject.

  “We both,” I nodded my head toward Ellen who plainly wanted no part of this, “went to Saint Elizabeth’s Academy. We played basketball together. She graduated in ’81, and I graduated in ’83.” I was taking this lie all the way—I couldn’t even bounce a basketball, much less put one in a basket, but at least the graduating years were right.

  “Oh my God!” Linda laughed and for some reason Bob started to look uncomfortable and tried to get his wife’s attention. She ignored him and con
tinued. “You’re Lezzies?!” She was delighted at the connection. I stared at her for a moment. Lezzie, Lizzie, Elizabeth, St. Elizabeth? I couldn’t believe how perfect our choice had been.

  Bob finished his drink. His cheeks were red enough to toast marshmallows. Obviously, he knew Ellen and I were “lezzies” and that his wife was clueless. He looked up for one pitiful moment and then turned to talk to the guy sitting next to him. He was not a happy camper.

  “Wow, I forgot that! I don’t even remember what we used to call you all. Wasn’t high school great?” Ellen jumped in before the quiet lingered too long.

  “Yeah, those were good times!” I added and leaned in ready to start sharing more “memories.” This earned another look from Ellen who changed the subject, as usual, saving me from myself which happens more times than I care to admit. Bob, who wasn’t having any more of this, whispered in his wife’s ear, and they excused themselves.

  On our way home, I had to say it. I was compelled to say it.

  “Our parents picked the perfect high school for us, didn’t they?”

  “You’re crazy. You know that right?”

  “Yeah, but at least we are real Saint Louisans now. Doesn’t it feel good after all these years? Feels pretty right to me, you Saint Lezzie, you!”

  Ellen just smiled. I think she agreed. It’s pretty good to finally, really be Saint Louisans.

  Epilogue

  It finally happened. It happened without fuss or fanfare. It happened when my mind was elsewhere—specifically it happened one morning when I was trying to convince Ellen to bring me breakfast, so we could spend a lazy Saturday morning in bed.

  I was lying there snuggled under the covers listening to my cat purr as he stared at me. We were nearly nose to nose, a happy pair. Frying bacon smells were beginning to make their way up to our bedroom. It was nearly perfect.

  “Oh, my God.” Ellen didn’t sound really shocked, but her voice was loud enough to carry up the stairs. She actually sounded a bit pleased about something.

  “What ‘oh my god’?” I yelled down. The cat didn’t like being disturbed by the sound of my voice.

  “Want to go to the movies tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Why?” I was only vaguely interested. Bacon and coffee seemed much more important.

  “Hold on. I’m coming up.”

  “She’s coming up,” I told the cat. He was not impressed by this news. I may have dozed off.

  Ellen came in with the breakfast tray. We only have one, and I treasure it. There are just a few things in our house that really make me feel as if I live at a higher standard, and this is one of them. She set it down on the bed and as is our custom I moved it to the center making room for her on the other side.

  I pushed myself up, patted the pillows around me, and turned on a recording of Sunday Morning. I always think of it as Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt even though Charles Osgood has been the host ever since God knows when. There was a smile on my face as I sipped my coffee. I was content. It was short-lived.

  “Here ya go, honey. I know you’ve been waiting for this to come in.” My beloved handed me an envelope.

  “Did you finally win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes?” I asked this knowing she (we) did not, but still I secretly harbored a bit of hope. I looked down at the envelope.

  “Fuck me.”

  “Before breakfast? Not your usual style.”

  “Yeah, well morning isn’t either. Fuck me.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  The envelope was not from Publisher’s Clearing-house. It was from my dear friends at the Association of American Retired Persons or AARP to the uninitiated. They had found me.

  “Welcome to the club, my love.”

  “I don’t want to join,” I whispered.

  “Do you remember our favorite movie?” Ellen asked between sips of coffee and her efforts to keep cat and bacon separated.

  “Which one? Out of Africa? Master and Commander? Moonstruck? Aliens?”

  “Not your favorite movies, ass, our favorite movie.”

  I drew a blank. Ellen sighed. She might have actually been disappointed. I looked back down at the envelope. It all seemed so unfair.

  “The Lion in Winter.”

  “Oh yeah, that one. Sure. Why?” It was a Christmas favorite for me because it seemed to sum up everything that was right and wrong about families, love, and tradition—no matter how powerful you are, the problems are pretty much the same—especially during the holidays.

  “I think perhaps a quote is appropriate to remember before we go out and use our AARP discounts today.”

  “What would that be?” I chose not to acknowledge that she said “our.”

  “The last scene…”

  “Yes?”

  “When Henry is saying goodbye to Eleanor.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope we never die.”

  “So do I.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance of it?”

  About the Author

  Aubrie Elliot is a long-time resident of St. Louis where she lives with her partner of twenty-two years, her two dogs, and the cat. To finish this collection of vignettes on growing older, she finally took to heart “write what you know.” While this is a work of fiction, she definitely put herself into each story. At this stage in her life, she knows how important it is to not take herself too seriously and hopes that Halfway There will be enjoyed with a knowing grin by her readers.