By Skelton Alabaster Church
In Akron, Ohio there is a small house on a long street in a small neighborhood that is kept undeniably nicer than all the lower-middle class houses in the entire neighborhood, which is a much more gentle way of saying 'for the most part, this is shoddy neighborhood. Arleen K. Fergusen lives there. Today she is keeping herself busy by doing not much more than staring out the window of her front door. Her front door happens to be an entire window, a single pane of glass without a single interruption of imperfection in its entire face. Aside from old age, there isn't a single interruption of imperfection on Arleen's face either. Upon learning that she grew up on a farm, one wonders how she managed to keep the weather out of her face, especially considering she grew up in the heat of Reno.
If you knew Arleen outside of her house (and very few people did, for she seldom left her house) you would never suspect that such a woman lives there, because for all the house's ornaments, she is really very plain and it is because of the exponent of her house's ornaments that almost no one ever realizes the truth of it. She prefers it that way.
The extent of Arleen K. Fergusen's interior decoration does not strike the admitted guests until they sit down for a few minutes, which is usually the extent of all visits to the Fergusen house, except for eight long months during her former husband's life when I stayed there. For a visitor, Arleen's house is a considerable respite. For a tenant, it is a considerable torture for there is little to be done.
As I was saying, not many people stay here long enough to explore her house, but when you get the chance you realize eventually that every surface of her home is decorated. From the stoop in front of the front door to the long since vacant rooms deep in the basement, there is not one bare surface. It is as though every surface was a seat and every knick-knack, every flower, every doily, every photograph occupied its own space quite simply. In fact, the irony of it all comes to you when you realize in the same instant that this is not a frivolous house. There is not a moment in all your explorations that you would think this is too much, for perhaps the even greater irony is the fact that this is a very simple house, almost to the point of minimal. That fact occurs to you when you have the privilege of using one of two of her bathrooms.
The upstairs bathroom, which is unmistakably hers because she has spent most of her time and, more importantly, her energy, differs remarkably from the downstairs, which really was more like her husband's even though he almost never used it. Herbathroom is painted a most lovely soft yellow. The paint is yellow, the small chiffon window curtains are yellow, the shower curtains, which are immaculately clean, are yellow, and the delicate cotton flowers on the back of her cloth covered hand mirror are yellow. But the towels are green, rest assured, and so are the floor mats which are big enough to cover just about all the bathroom floor for she could not be asked to suffer a cold linoleum floor. Ever. A simple bar of soap on a neatly folded towel and an elegant, white, porcelain swan that carries a facial towel on its back occupy the small sink counter. It is the most pleasant room in the house. Seeing the cleanliness of this bathroom is a testament of her simplicity and patience and natural cleanliness enough but the real mystery is in the discovery that she does not even require a wastebasket.
In spite of the house's conscious neatness, Arleen is an unpredictably forgetful person. The order of the house was largely attributed to her formerly living husband who gladly and obligingly cleaned the house on a regular basis. How the house has stayed that way is anybody's guess.
Days in the Arleen K. Fergusen house have a slow rhythm but they seem to begin and end with in Diet Dr. Pepper. It has been her drink of choice as long as anyone can remember. This morning she happens to be drinking two at a time, both of which were propped beside her in her shoes (and if she could get away with it she'd never wear them again for she refused discomfort, in fact she looks like she's ready for bed at four in the afternoon); she left one half consumed some where in the house as was common, and, forgetting that she had not finished one earlier, opened another one. It is not at all uncommon, at any hour of the day, to find several unfinished cans patiently idling somewhere all over the house. When she returns to one she simply picks up where she left off. Sometimes it takes three days for her to finish a single can but she always drinks at least two cans worth in a day. She keeps a stockpile in a closet and chilled ones in two different refrigerators.
This morning we are spinning yarn about the rest of her nine children's families. I'm nursing a small glass of orange juice, not really paying attention to it but not ignoring it as was common and She has loaded her shoes with opened and unopened cans of Dr. Pepper as was also common.
Skelton Church: Last thing I heard from Scot is he's back in California. He said he's going to medical school.
Arleen: That's what he says. He's in debt with his parents, he's in debt with your uncle Jeff for a thousand dollars, and I think he's still in debt with California. He just paid Jeff nine hundred. I think that's all he'll pay. Jeff should be thankful he got that out of him.
SC: He's been through a lot, that Scot, not that I feel sorry for him.
Arleen: Well me neither.
SC: (Pause) I guess I should feel proud of myself; I've gone to college longer than most of the rest of the family and I don't drink or do drugs or whatever.
Arleen: (Without really complementing me, not that I wanted her to oblige for I dislike obligatory complements, especially false ones) Yeah, that's good.
SC: Did you ever go to college? (Because it was common for girls of her generation not to have gone and maybe she was one of the uncommon ones)
Arleen: Yeah I went to college for a semester maybe, maybe a year, not very long though.
SC: What did you study?
Arleen: Boys.
(Occasionally you can catch Arleen in one of those moments when she confesses a secret in a way that is casual yet simply put. This is her way of being completely honest, and it is in those occasions that you can feel fortunate to have been exposed to such candor for she lies for fun. The intimacy of the moment is gone in the breeze like smoke in a fan and you can never return to that exact intimacy. Ever.)
Arleen: Your cousin Heather won't go to college. She's a lump on the couch. (Pause, then nearly optimistic) She's got an apartment though.
SC: I knew that. I didn't think she could afford an apartment.
Arleen: She can't. But she wouldn't get a job after she finished high school and Jeff said (mimicking his indignation and shaking her finger scolding) "either you get a job and pay rent for living here or you can move your butt out"! So she moved out.
SC: (I laugh)
Arleen: I would have done the same.
SC: I don't know what I would have done, but then I didn't have to decide.
Arleen: Yeah, good for you huh?
SC: (Suddenly gladdened, as if I had just discovered this fact, if even for the hundredth time) I'll say!
SC: (Trying to seize her frank mood) Really, Heather's kind of a brat.
Arleen: Oh, I know, She's the worst. She always has been. I don't know how Jeff and Devny put up with her.
SC: Well they didn't.
Arleen: (Funny to her though she doesn't laugh, but smiling) Yeah, you're right. She's so rude. That's not why they kicked her out though.
(Just then I understood another truth about her: as long as she saw reason for it, she could lie and be rude too. Her reason was that it is socially acceptable to tell fibs as long as you don't make a fuss about it. This was fine by me because I knew that meant I could tell fibs with her and we'd be like two peas in a pod because really I wanted to get on her good side so I could further enjoy eating her roasted turkey on Sundays and state-renowned spaghetti on Thursdays. The cuisine is enough for anyone to pine for the Sabbath, but also there was this neighborhood girl named Trixy whose silly name I ignored, and whose company Arleen enjoyed, but who I enjoyed more because she was very conversational, she liked to dance, and she had lovely breasts, especially when she attempted to cover them up).
SC: So why did they?
Arleen: 'Cause Jeff's a hard-ass. Always has been.
SC: But he gave Scot money! One thousand dollars!
Arleen: (Sighing) I know.
SC: (Beat) You know, I really ought to get my jackets cleaned while I'm down here, do you know—(and suddenly she had risen and left the room as slowly as a penguin but as suddenly as a fish, leaving her Dr. Pepper one now finished and the other half gone, both still resting in her shoes. She often does that when she loses interest in what you're saying. It isn't an intended insult to any guest per se, but when she's done with the event, she's done, and she simply departs. Church is the same way with her. She's devout as ever but if she's tired of sitting or listening to a speaker she doesn't care for it's 'sayonara'.)
I knew she wouldn't come back and continue the conversation, which I knew meant I wouldn't be staying for dinner, so I crushed her empty can and threw it into her living room can bin to be later recycled for money and put the other can in the refrigerator to wait it out in the cold. I closed the door, turned around with my hands on my hips regarding the many surfaces covered in lacy doilies and topped with some porcelain swan or flower and also simply left.
This was Monday.
