Always the Last to Know(28)

I worked hard at my job, one of dozens of legal secretaries at the firm. I needed to stand out, so I was first in the department every day, last to leave. I learned my boss’s preferences and rhythms, handing him the paper and a coffee just the way he liked it (“You don’t have to do that, Barb!” he’d say every day, pleased that I did). In addition to making sure my work was absolutely immaculate, I put his wedding anniversary and kids’ birthdays on my calendar to remind him. I offered to order flowers for his wife or call restaurants for reservations. I was friendly and respectful and didn’t miss a day.

It worked. He recommended that I get promoted to paralegal, because this was back in the day when you didn’t need to have a degree for that. You just had to be sharp. And I was.

Soon it felt natural, being perky and cheerful and making the most out of my ordinary looks with makeup and flattering hairstyles. Elaine was “the pretty one” in our family, Tina “the feisty one,” Nancy “the smart one.” I didn’t have a title—once, my father called me “the angry one,” and I burst into tears, scaring him. I’m not sure I ever forgave him for that. It should’ve been “the hardworking one.”

I had to work just as hard socially. I didn’t come from a close-knit, adoring family like Becky, one of my roommates. I wasn’t beautiful, like Christine, one of the other secretaries, who made men fall silent and forget what they were saying. I was just Barb Johnson, cheerful, hardworking, helpful. So when it came to parties or dating, I studied the other girls and learned how to flirt, talk, walk with my hips swaying just enough. I was making the best of what I had. That was something I had learned from my parents.

I met John at a company cocktail party. I worked in Real Estate; he worked in Family (one of the lower-earning divisions). But he was nice-looking and had a gentle voice, and he seemed to like me quite a bit, laughing at my jokes, smiling as I spoke. We dated for six months before he proposed, saying he loved me. I loved him, too. I thought I did, anyway. He was a perfectly nice young man with good prospects. I liked kissing him. I liked his hands on me, but I kept things chaste, because who marries the cow if you get the milk for free, even if this was the wild seventies?

That makes me sound cold, doesn’t it? Well, you have to know, there was no romance in my upbringing. My parents married each other because they were both immigrants, both Norwegian, both Lutheran, and my father had land.

John would be a good husband. There was nothing to dislike, no skeletons, no weird fetishes or unkindness. We wanted the same things—stability, family, comfort.

When my parents finally agreed to come to Rhode Island to meet him and his parents, my father opened by saying a big wedding wasn’t in the budget and there was nothing wrong with city hall. John’s parents exchanged a glance. His mother said, “Oh, please, let us throw the kids a wedding. John’s our only child, and we love Barb like a daughter already!”

I felt so pathetically grateful. My own parents didn’t care, but Eleanor Frost did. Our wedding was small but tasteful—forty guests, a fancy lunch at the Hotel Adelade. I invited my siblings, but none of them came. Tina was in a snit because I didn’t want her to be a bridesmaid, Nancy was pregnant and the rest of them didn’t have the money or time or interest to come, frankly. Nancy sent a card and a casserole dish, which, given that she already had four kids, was truly thoughtful.

I stayed at the law firm, relishing both my job and our domesticity. John and I weren’t setting the world on fire, but I read a few books about making a happy marriage, and we were happy, back then. We bought a real cute house on a lovely street in Cranston. On Friday nights, we had cocktails and a nice dinner, just us two, sometimes going out, sometimes me making a fuss and trying something from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, because the books said to make an effort and show your appreciation. On Saturday nights, we went out with friends—bowling or the movies, Mexican food. We had sex on Tuesdays and Fridays, and sometimes on Sunday mornings, too.

I loved being married. The rhythm of it, the safety. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I’d snuggle against John’s back, so grateful to belong.

I loved being a wife. Loved doing little things to make him feel special—cranberry orange muffins on the weekends, or a note tucked into his briefcase.

Maybe more than him, I loved us. The unity of us. He’d roll his eyes in sympathy when I endured my mother’s phone call each month, knowing that she peppered me with a litany of complaints and dissatisfactions. When he called his mother (every other day), I’d run my hand through his hair or give him a kiss on the cheek, glad he was a good son, a good man, then take the phone and update Eleanor on the girlier things in our life—how I’d planted tulips, could I have her recipe for those delicious potatoes with the rosemary and such.

When I was twenty-three, I decided it was time for a baby. Keep in mind I was a midwesterner, and twenty-three in Minnesota was a full-on grown-up, and we’d already been married for more than two years. John agreed. He’d be a wonderful dad, so solid and reliable, so unwavering, especially if our baby was a boy.

As I said, I only wanted one child. Growing up in a sloppy litter of children, I never wanted my child to feel unloved or pushed aside. Though John said he’d been a bit lonely without siblings, he’d also felt completely loved by both parents. He had no idea how lucky he was in that respect.