I haven’t posted anything in a while so here’s the first chapter of my award-winning novel, Marianne Moves On. Hope you enjoy it.
During my senior year in college, my mom announced over dinner that she’d set up a date for me with a local farmer’s son. “He’s a good worker; he’ll inherit a big farm. His dad is a good customer and the family’s Catholic. He’d make a good husband.”
“Mom!” I exclaimed in exasperation. “Quit setting me up with your friends’ kids!”
“If I didn’t set you up, you wouldn’t have any dates at all,” Mom retorted.
“That’s because you won’t let me go out with anybody on campus,” I protested.
“We know what happened to Aggie M. That won’t happen to you,” Mom said darkly.
“Let Marianne alone,” my dad interrupted. “Marianne will be just fine. She can always stay home and take care of her parents. She’ll be a great help to us in our old age.” He smiled at me benignly. He obviously thought he was helping.
I smiled back weakly—and firmly resolved to leave home as soon as possible.
Some background:
I was the youngest kid in my immediate family—and the second girl. The oldest, my brother, Matt, was the heir apparent and the apple of my mother’s eye. He was tall like my dad but had dark hair like my mom’s before she’d gone gray. Next came my sister, Agnes Marie—Aggie M to us. Aggie M was petite and dark like my mom and had her porcelain skin. She also had blue eyes that glinted like my mom’s. Mom accepted Aggie M because daughters could marry useful connections that would be good for business. But one daughter was enough. I think I was the reason my mother gave up alcohol. As a conscientious Catholic she probably practiced the rhythm method of birth control—or ‘poke and hope’ as it was known around my hometown of Brookings, South Dakota. Not that she’d ever discussed it with me; I’m just guessing—plus I never found any birth control apparatus or prescriptions in my surreptitious searches. But something threw her system out of whack and I arrived. I was tall and blond, like my dad, and had blue eyes like the rest of the family. Mom said I looked just like my dad except his eyes were dreamy. She said my eyes were more watchful—if that wasn’t a redundant comment to make about eyes.
I’m not sure how my father felt about us. I’m not even sure he made the connection between intercourse and conception. He was pretty vague about things. He let Mom run the house, the kids, and the business. She was the queen and he was a drone.
It took me years of eavesdropping, snooping, and observing to figure out how they ever got together.
My mother, Mary Agnes, came from Northern Ireland when she was eighteen. Apparently, she came from a farming family where the farm was left to the oldest son. Since she didn’t stand to inherit any money from her family and her employment prospects were dim because of her religion, she scraped together enough money for a plane ticket to New York City, the Promised Land. My mother was the left fist of God—or maybe the left tonsil. She hadn’t hit me since I was ten and mouthed off to her but if I did anything she didn’t approve of, she’d glare at me with her mad Irish eyes. If I persisted in misbehaving, she’d start yelling. She had a gift with language; she could flay you alive with sulfurous words. She’d lost most of her Irish accent but when she was angry, she sounded like she was straight out of the Old Sod. Fervent in her faith, she made sure we’d all be eligible for heaven. Black was black, white was white, and gray was a sub-section of black.
My dad, Alfred Matthew Fuchs Jr., was a South Dakota native whose family owned a hardware store in Brookings and had illusions of grandeur. Grandpa Fuchs predicted that his only child would accomplish great things in the world, so he insisted ‘my boy Al’ get an Ivy League degree in law. My dad attended Columbia, but his only interests were novels and my mom who worked at a small restaurant. Grandpa died early from a heart attack on the golf course and Grandma requested my father’s presence to take over the hardware store. My dad never expressed disappointment at his interrupted schooling. From comments he dropped I think he was relieved. But I gathered that Grandma was less than thrilled when my father appeared with a young Irish bride on his arm—and a pregnant one at that.
Mom redeemed herself in Grandma’s eyes when she produced a Fuchs heir, brother Matt—or Alfred Matthew Fuchs III, poor bastard. She turned into a heroine when she had my sister. I was only twelve when Grandma died—but I knew even then that she was completely dependent on my mother. She may never have liked Mom, but she needed her. So did my dad. From other eavesdropped conversations I concluded that, although my dad was the titular owner of the family business, he wasn’t very diligent about managing it. He wrote bad novels and poetry during business hours and often closed up completely to play golf with his buddies if Mom didn’t watch him.
The business was the sole support of the family and we all lived in Grandma’s big house—which must have gotten old fast. I think Mom started working in the store just to get away from Grandma but eventually she took over management from Dad. After crossing an ocean by herself and settling in a foreign country, running a business in a mid-size town didn’t scare her at all. And after Grandma died, Mom took over the big house among the gentry. Mom had arrived! But she wouldn’t tolerate a spoiled child—except Dad, of course. All of us kids grew up in nail bins and paint cans. The only person allowed to screw off was Dad. But that was only fair; he’d provided the inheritance.
Big brother Matt, five years my senior, lived up to Mom’s expectations. He was an altar boy, captain of his high school basketball team, and on the Dean’s List at South Dakota State University. He married a local beauty queen whose father was Mom’s lawyer. He completed an MBA before settling down to raise his children and run the business with Mom.
Older sister Aggie M started out living up to all Mom’s expectations. She was in band and chorus until high school when she switched to cheerleading and musicals. As homecoming queen, she brought honor to the Fuchs name and went on to South Dakota State University with both my parents’ blessings. That’s where everything went kerflooey. Aggie M discovered beer in her freshman year and spent most of her time on academic probation. Mom put her in a sorority, hoping that peer pressure would tame her, but her sorority sisters were just as ditzy as she was. Her party time was cut short when she got pregnant. Aggie M’s boyfriend was the heir of the local screen-door manufacturer–and Catholic!–so the marriage, outside of being unavoidable to all parties, was acceptable. Aggie M cheerfully dropped out of college and raised her family.
Nobody knew what to do with me when I came along. I was tall like the men in the family, not short, dark, and cute like the women. I played baseball and basketball with my brother until he left for college then I played softball and basketball on the high school girls’ teams. I loved it. Mom muttered that I’d grow up to be a lesbian, but Dad came to most of the games and even took the whole team out for ice cream a few times. He patted me on my sweaty shoulder when we won a basketball championship, one of the few times I remember any physical contact with him. He seemed more comfortable with my sports uniforms than the ruffled dresses Mom insisted I wear. She desperately tried to counter my tomboy image until even she could see I looked ridiculous in the sort of clothes she and Aggie M wore. It was like putting a bow on a St. Bernard.
More acceptable occupations were my creative writing class and working on the school paper. Like Aggie M, I was in the school music program. Unlike Aggie M, I stayed in the band. I was the tall, gawky ugly duckling, the accidental birth—or the afterbirth, as Aggie M liked to taunt.
And while my mother bemoaned my differences from Aggie M, she assumed I would still make Aggie M’s mistakes. She’d allowed Aggie M to live on campus and look what had happened! Liquor, parties, pregnancy! Not for Marianne! I had to be home from dates by 11:00—both in high school and college. I wasn’t allowed to live in the dorm; I had to live at home where Mom could keep an eye on me. She also decided I’d major in English so I could teach when I graduated. She allowed me to select my own minor—communications—as long as I took a summer business course of typing, shorthand, and bookkeeping; all valuable fallback skills, she said. I didn’t argue. She was right.
But I did argue about living at home for my college years.
“I don’t see why I’m getting punished. Aggie M got pregnant, not me!” I would argue more or less hotly depending on my mood–and my mother’s forbearance–over those long four years. “I’m missing out on everything!” I’d wail.
“You’re not missing anything important,” Mom would return shortly.
“How would you know? You never went to college,” I muttered.
“And that’s why I’m not going to let you ruin the opportunity I’ve provided for you,” Mom said. “Aggie M didn’t need an education; her looks would always see her right. But you need to be able to make a living.”
I think she meant well but she still gave me an inferiority complex. As I entered my final college years, I plotted how to get out from under Mom’s controlling thumb. I knew I had to go somewhere a long way off…but where? After watching the news one evening, the answer came: Los Angeles. I wanted excitement and apparently L.A. had the corner on the market. From what I saw on TV something was always going on—not necessarily good but nothing like safe, little old Brookings.
Of course, I still had to get through college while not losing my mind. I recruited my brother to help me lobby for a midnight curfew. After a spirited skirmish, Mom admitted that Matt was probably right (not me!); I could probably be trusted to stay out an hour later. An overnight with some girlfriends was possible. Mom also let me take her car so I could go to movies (bars) and student meetings (parties) with girlfriends. Life was still restrictive but at least I got out of the house. And slumber parties were short paroles. I got to hear about normal life. The girls’ talk was all about sex and other adult pastimes so I had little to contribute but I would listen avidly. I finally accepted a blind date out of desperation. He was the friend of the boyfriend of a girlfriend, but he passed muster with Mom. She thought he was safe after she interrogated him. He took me to a few movies and I finally lost my virginity to him just to see what everybody was talking about…which apparently wasn’t much. It was more embarrassing than anything else. I wasn’t sure what to do—obviously passion didn’t enter into the act—so I just lay there like a lox hoping he’d hit the elusive G spot I’d read about. I don’t think he knew where it was either. After it was over, I worried. What if I’d gotten pregnant? He fell in love with me and kept calling and Mom got nosy and hopeful. It was a dreadful experience all around. When my period finally came, I said a prayer of thanks and told the guy I didn’t think we had a future together. I certainly wasn’t going to sweat through a month like that again and birth control in my house was impossible.
After that I decided that sex was probably like Scotch; I hadn’t liked that the first time I tried it either. I’d developed a taste for it after I’d experimented with better brands. I’d tried plain wrap when I lost my virginity; I’d wait until I could get Johnny Walker Black. I joined some intramural sports teams to burn off calories and frustration.
Of course, Mom started worrying about me being a lesbian again and started setting me up with sons of her friends (earnest young Catholic men) and sons of customers (young farmers and manufacturers). Mom saw me as a workhorse, not a show pony.
I dutifully went on those wretched dates, studied hard, and played lots of softball and basketball until I graduated. Happy day! Now my life could start.
Which presented me with a whole new list of problems. What would I do for money? Mom told me I could work at the store until I “settled down” or went to grad school. While I appreciated the offer—which wasn’t disinterested on Mom’s part; she could pay me peanuts since I was living at home—and although I’d learn a lot about business, I had other plans. I needed a skill to make a living in Los Angeles and I wasn’t sure being a clerk in a hardware store would pay well enough. When Matt’s father-in-law offered me a job as a legal secretary, I jumped at it. I’d get some training, save some money, and be marketable in the Big City. I endured living at home and Mom’s ridiculous matchmaking attempts for a year until Dad—I think trying to help me out—repeated his mantra one last time: “Marianne doesn’t need to get married. She’ll stay home and take care of her old folks.” He smiled at me kindly as he said it.
Oh God. I announced that I was leaving home for Los Angeles.
My dad said, “Oh?”
My mom said, “Don’t be ridiculous. That city’s Sodom.”
She refused to even entertain the idea until brother Matt took my part. “Let her find out how tough it is out there. She’s lived such a sheltered life she’ll be back in a year and be happy to settle down,” he said in an after-Mass tete-a-tete with Mom (I was lurking in the hall). “Besides, I think the adventure would be good for her.”
We finally talked Mom into the idea, but she argued about everything. When I found a contact for an apartment in LA, Mom insisted on interviewing the landlord. Mr. Friesman was related to a local family and had a garage apartment for rent behind his Los Angeles home. He was looking for a reliable tenant and I needed a place to live. It seemed like a match made in heaven, but Mom didn’t like him.
“He seems flighty,” was Mom’s assessment after the phone conversation. “And he’s charging too much. Four hundred dollars for a garage apartment? Something funny’s going on.”
“Mom, rents are more in Los Angeles than they are here.”
“That’s more than I paid in New York,” Mom objected.
“You had one room not an apartment. And it was thirty years ago,” I pointed out. Mom humphed and muttered something about brothels.
I found the names of some law firms from phone books at the University library and scheduled appointments with five of them.
“Law firms,” Mom sniffed. “If you stayed home, I’d send you to grad school.”
“If I stayed home, I’d lose my mind,” I muttered.
“What?” asked Mom sharply.
“Nothing,” I mumbled. I was too much of a coward to be too snotty to Mom. She was small but she scared me to death. But I came close when Mom announced she was coming to Los Angeles with me.
“You’ve never been that far away alone,” she said. “I won’t sleep a wink knowing you’re on the road by yourself. Besides, I’ve got some cousins I haven’t seen in years living around there. I could visit them. Maybe they could put you up somewhere. They’d be better than that Mr. Friesman.”
“Mom,” I said as reasonably as I could, “I’m twenty-three. It’s time I was on my own. The car works fine. And if I did get into trouble there’s nothing you could do to help me anyway. And you certainly can’t dump me on people I’ve never met. Maybe you should talk to Matt again?”
Mom still muttered that family was supposed to help you, Matt couldn’t cut through her hard-headedness, and I was starting to panic when Dad spoke up on my behalf. “She’s a big, strong, healthy girl,” he said. “She could probably beat up any man that tried to jump her.”
Thanks Dad. I think.
Mom finally gave up on the idea of coming with me, mainly because Aggie M was pregnant again and she actually wanted Mom around. But Mom lectured while I packed her old Ford Tempo—a college graduation present from the folks. Mom got a Cadillac to replace it. I was happy to get the Tempo. I was afraid my dad would give me one of the Studebakers he collected and lovingly restored. I’d had to drive one of his old Studebaker station wagons in high school. He bought it from a bar called The Office and its slogan, “Come to where the action is”, was painted on both sides. Of course, me and my friends were all pretty virginal so the football players would point and laugh as we drove past. It got to the point where nobody would ride with me in what my peers facetiously called the Action Wagon. The experience scarred me for life. I was relieved when Mom got a new car and gave me her Tempo instead of being offered one of Dad’s treasures. Actually, I don’t think he could bear to part with one.
The day of departure finally came and on a fine June morning in 1989 the whole family congregated in the driveway to see me off.
“You stay in Holiday Inns on the way,” Mom instructed. “They’re still pretty safe, I think. And don’t take up with strangers. I don’t want you disappearing in the desert someplace. And don’t forget to call every night. If I don’t get a call, I’m going to report you to the Highway Patrol.”
“I will, Mom,” I said, impatient, ready to be off. I hugged my brother, sister, and in-laws before turning to my Dad. He looked panicked. I don’t think he knew whether to hug me or shake my hand, so I quickly gave him a short hug before he short-circuited from indecision. Then I turned to Mom, steeling myself for one last argument.
“I don’t know why you have to go,” Mom started querulously.
“I know,” I said shortly. Now that the time had come to go, I was getting scared. I needed to leave before Mom succeeded in shaking my resolve.
Mom sensed my weakness and her eyes narrowed. “You can still stay home,” she said, “or at least wait until I can come with you…”
“I better get going,” I interrupted, briefly hugged her, and got into my car.
Mom tapped on the window as I started the ignition. I rolled down the window and she said, “Now you be sure to call tonight.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And you make sure you join a church right away,” she added.
“The hell I will,” I muttered to myself as I rolled the window back up. I’d had enough suppression, oppression, and repression to last me a lifetime, but I waved, backed out of the driveway, put the car in drive, and took off. In the rear-view mirror I saw my family standing together, waving, although they were blurring through my sudden tears. Funny, I thought I’d be a lot happier starting my big adventure.
Want to read more? Go to: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TWH65RD
