Bev has an age crisis.

BEV HERSELF

By Gene K. Garrison
He opens the apartment door, sticks his handsome twenty-one-year-old face in and calls, “Bev — you home?”

“Sure, Tony, come on in.” Clutching her beach cover-up together with one hand and holding a towel to her dripping wet hair with the other, she pads barefoot into the living room, flashing a big, toothy smile. “Sit down. I was just washing my hair. Wanna Coke?”

“I’ll fix ‘em,” Tony says.

Ice cubes clink in the glasses as he rounds the corner from the kitchenette with Cokes in hand. “I’m thinking about buying a new car. I’m going to test-drive it tonight.”
He sits on the couch next to her, his excitement barely contained. “Want me to bring it by and give you a ride?”

“Yeah!” She jumps right into his mood. “Have you ever been down by the creek — you know, the road that goes past it and up the hill? It’s a beautiful drive.”

“O.k., we can go there if you like. It might be a good road-test for the car.” He drains the last of his drink, and gives Bev a wink as he hurries out the door. “See ya later!”

She sings along with the iPod as she finishes drying her hair with the blow-drier. Suddenly she realizes that she hasn’t eaten yet. “Tony won’t have enough money to take me out to dinner — especially if he is having to scrape together enough for a down payment on a new car,” she says to herself.

Glancing at the kitchen, her expression turns to disgust. Even when she was married she didn’t learn how to keep house. Last night’s dishes are still piled in the sink, bottles and glasses on the countertop. An unopened half-consumed can of tuna is on the table. She picks it up and sniffs. “Whew! If I’m going to get sick I don’t want it to be from tuna!” She tosses it into the garbage can, then opens the refrigerator door and contemplates the contents — a carton of milk; two plates, one with a few crumbs on it, the other with a little smear of grease; pickles; olives; cocktail onions; wine, several stalks of limp celery; and half a peach, turned brown of course.

She shrugs, slams the refrigerator door and reaches up to the cans on a cabinet shelf. “Thank heaven for canned soup.”

Busily eating the soup and crackers, she hears a meow. The sight of a big yellow and white cat on the windowsill puts a smile on her face. It’s Pooty. Bev shoves her chair back, opens the window and the cat jumps into the kitchen. A soup-bowl is filled for the guest, and Pooty loses no time in joining in on the repast.

Cat-chat finally changes to resignation. “One of these days I’ll just have to clean this place up. I may as well start now on the dishes before Tony gets here.”

As she stacks plastic and steel in the dishwasher she hears Tony’s call. “Ready, Bev?”

“I’ll be right there!” In a flash she is in the living room, grinning excitedly. “How does it run? Think you’ll buy it?”

“Yeah, I’d love to own it. It’s red. Come on, let’s get going!”

They run down he stairs together. When they are within sight of the little sports car Bev stops, inhales, holds her breath and clasps her hands as though she sees a thing too beautiful to behold. As she exhales she says, “Oh, Tony, it’s really you.”

He opens the door for her, and slams it with a good solid clunk.

“Have you kicked the tires yet?” Bev asks as he runs around to the driver’s side. “People always kick tires when they buy a car.”

He laughs. He HAD kicked them. He turns on the ignition and watches Bev’s face light up at the feel of power from the motor. He pulls out into the street and heads toward the rise off in the distance. “She takes this hill like it was level ground.”

“Yes, and look at the view — the lights of the city are actually twinkling. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah, it’s purdy. She really hugs the curves too, ya notice?”

“Tony, this car belongs to you. You look so handsome in it.”

He grins.

Soon they are near the top where there is room to park.

“Bev, you sure are nice.” His arm is around her shoulder.
She is trying to cuddle up to him — as much as one CAN cuddle up in bucket seats. “I’ve never had a neighbor that I could drop in on any time, like I can you. And I can tell you anything — and you’re so understanding — just like my mom. Me bein’ away from home and all…”

Bev’s mouth drops open and she withdraws from him. Mom? Did he say Mom? He’s only twenty-one and she, thirty-seven. But wasn’t it mutual attraction? Hadn’t her bubbling personality overshadowed her almost-forty appearance? Hadn’t she successfully competed with the younger crowd? And besides, it’s IN for older women to go with younger men. People do it all the time.

When she speaks, there is an edge to her voice. “Shall we go back now?”

Tony notices her change of mood. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Tony, of course not. I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

They drive home in silence. Tony walks her to the door and says, “See ya, Bev.”

“Goodnight, Tony,” she replies, and, without turning on a light, she flops on the couch and begins to cry in the darkness.

Something jumps up next to her. She hears it purr and feels it rub against her. “Oh, Pooty,” she says as she puts an arm around the cat, “are you still here?”

The cat turns around a couple of times and settles down in the crook of her arm. Bev lies quietly, listening to the hum of the clock and Pooty’s purr. It seems that the sounds are intensified.

Sounds. She thinks of other sounds she has stored in her memory — the ocean waves breaking on the beach, the roar of Niagara Falls.

Niagara Falls. A little movie that she had run again and again in her head plays once more. A young Bev and Doug were standing by a railing, surrounded by mist. They couldn’t talk because of the deafening sounds of rushing, crashing, violent water. There was no need to speak. Dressed in yellow slickers, arms around each other’s waist, they just smiled. Everything was perfect — perfect people in a perfect setting.

But what happened? Bev runs THAT one through her brain. How did I get in this situation? Here I am I the dark — with a cat — a CAT! She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand, gives Pooty a stroke and gets up to flip on the light switch. Blinking, she picks up the remote control. A man’s image appears on her TV. He sneers, his eyes boring hatefully into his wife’s frightened countenance, then just as quickly turning sickeningly sweet when the occasion demands it. He reminded her of Doug — those same cold, glaring eyes.

Bev draws her breath in sharply and turns the drama off.

How did Doug change from a lover to tyrant? It had tormented her. What do you tell your friends? What do you tell YOURSELF? Did it start with the honeymoon when he said, “Bev, darling, I can’t stand the way you drop your negligee just anywhere. Can’t you hang it up?”

“Oh, sure, honey,” she had said, and kissed him.

Negligee — it was funny. She had felt a little foolish in it. He had bought it and the nightgown for her. She had never worn those things before — jus old pajamas and sometimes a T-shirt and panties. But she had admired her reflection in the mirror. Her figure wasn’t bad, and the ice-blue color made her eyes look even bluer.

Early in their marriage Doug began commenting on her faults. At home there were constant demands. “The bathroom’s a mess! The kitchen floor is dirty. Can’t you ever clean anything?"

“YOU clean it!” she shouted back.

She heard things banging. This was a side of him she hadn’t known about before the honeymoon. Even the nights they had spent together before they were married didn’t bring that out. This was for real.

Soon his expression featured a scowl — until they were with others. Then the smile turned on. It was good for business to present a happy façade.

I embarrassed him often, I know, Bev realizes, and then smiles as she remembers the evening he arrived home with a well-heeled client.

Doug look horrified as she opened the door wearing shorts, and a ratty-looking tank top. There was even a smudge of cobalt blue oil paint on her left cheek. She hadn’t even glanced in a mirror after art class. “Uh, Mark, this is my …uh, wife…uh…Bev.” He forced a smile at Mark, and then turned an icy stare at her.

“Hello, Mark, come right in.”

”Thank you,” the well-groomed guest with the receding hairline responded.

“Let me get you a drink, Mark — while Bev changes into something more appropriate. Heh-heh.” A pitiful laugh — like something in a melodrama script.

As Mark sat down, Doug grabbed Bev by the elbow and guided her out into the hallway. He wanted to shout at her, but knew he must not. Between clenched teeth he rasped,“Bev, why in God’s name are you in that get-up? Haven’t you even looked at your face — and look at the house. I’m ashamed of it! He leaned toward her with a clenched fist
held stiffly at his chest.

Bev’s eyes were wide open. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“What’s wrong? I ask a client home to dinner and it apparently went in one ear and out the other when I told my wife. This man is important. This is a million-dollar deal!”

“Oh, he’s here for DINNER?”

Doug sputtered and almost boiled over.

It was the first time she had heard that she was serving dinner to a client — or had Doug mentioned it before? She wasn’t sure. Her expression brightened. “Well, I’ll fix something. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? Bev, you’re driving me nuts!” He turned, and, with a frozen smile on his face, proceeded to the bar in the living room, poured two drinks and strode over to Mark. “Here you are. Say, Mark, do you play golf?”

In the meantime, Bev was busy. She removed the paint from her face, ran a comb quickly through her hair, applied lipstick, slipped into a neat-looking pantsuit and hurried to the kitchen. Opening the meat compartment of the refrigerator she frowned. Nothing there. Hm-m-m-m-m. I meant to shop today. Darn!"

The freezer didn’t yield any better news. Frozen enchiladas — they would have to do. What else? Back to the refrigerator to stare at some rag-tag vegetables. She could toss a salad and pour on bottled dressing. Garlic toast! It’s easy to make.

As the enchiladas were heating she washed the salad ingredients. Everything would be all right, she told herself. The wine would make everything taste good.

Her method of making garlic toast was to put slices of French bread in the broiler just long enough to toast one side, take them out, put butter and garlic salt on the untoasted sides and return to the broiler so that the tops would become a lovely golden-brown, and luscious scents would permeate the kitchen. When it did that it smelled as though a good cook lived there.

She smiled as she slid the pieces of buttered and garlic-salted bread on the oven rack, gathered the silver and took it to the dining table. The wine — she was sure it was chilled.

Suddenly her nostrils flared. SMOKE! The alarm screamed within a split second. She dashed into the kitchen and grimaced as she watched black smoke billow from the stove.

“GOD ALMIGHTY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?” Doug shouted as he burst into the room. He turned the alarm off, then the oven. The heat somehow was transferred to his face. Florid. “Bev, are you crazy? Can’t you do ANYTHING right?”

Bev looked sheepishly over his shoulder at Mark, who had appeared in the doorway. “Would you like me to open some windows?” he solicitously asked.

Doug turned and, with a forced smile, said, “Would you be so kind, Mark?” Then he issued a statement to Bev. “Mark and I are going to the Inn for dinner. You’d better stay here and get this mess cleaned up.”

He was punishing her — for a simple mistake. She didn’t like the putdown, but what else was there to do but throw out the charcoaled toast and sit down to a lonely supper of eight enchiladas and a bottle of wine? No choice.

It was a long time before Bev thought that the incident was funny, especially when she remembered how Doug treated her after he got home that night, browbeating her until one o’clock in the morning. She ruined his sale. She embarrassed him. She couldn’t run the house. She had no system. She was sloppy. It was lucky they didn’t have kids. She would have failed at that too. And she was drunk!



There are some things that you mull over forever. You never forget a divorce or its aftermath.

Bev didn’t mind scaling down her standard of living. A smaller place was O.K. It was a relief not to have to try
to meet someone else’s standards.

An easel appeared in the living room, and paintings in various stages of completion were propped against the walls. She liked to look at them on an ongoing basis to decide what they needed. Sometimes months after a painting was done she would decide, “Oh, I know what that needs — a touch of cadmium red!”

Her old personality began to effervesce everywhere — at her office (yes, she had to get a job), on the bus, at the grocery store — even with stray cats. People were attracted to her. They were friends who didn’t mind he mess, friends who felt comfortable enough to go to her refrigerator and help themselves. They were mostly young people — kids with vans and motorcycles. Kids like Tony.

Bev thrived in their company and considered herself one of them — until twenty-one-year-old Tony compared her to his mother.

Sixteen years IS a big age difference, especially when a woman is the older one. But a thirty-seven-year-old man and a twenty-one-year-old woman — who would give them a second glance? Yet older-woman, younger-man romances go on all the time.

"It’s unfair, that’s what it is!"

In her mind she could hear her mother saying, “Who said life is fair?’” She was right. It isn’t. Bev tries to think realistically about her friends. They are too young, she tells herself, but she isn’t convinced. Is her perspective off? Must she relegate herself to bridge parties with matrons, or fashion shows with sorority sisters? And what about men? The good ones over forty are taken. What do you do — go to an online matchmaker website?

On a positive note, she could lose herself in her painting and accomplish something at the same time. And there’s always Pooty to talk to.



Several weeks later, Bev, wearing her customary painting outfit consisting of a plaid big-shirt and color-smeared pants, hears the doorbell.

An expression of delight washes over her as she opens the door. It’s Amy — Amy of the embroidered jeans, leather vest and cowboy hat. She’s an artist too.

“Hi, Amy. Come on in. I’m glad to see you.”

“Hi. Watcha doin’?” She walks over to the easel and, hand on hip and head cocked to one side, concentrates on the acrylic painting of a stylized canyon for a moment or two. “Ya know, Bev, I like that paintin’ you’re doin’. It’s got good composition — and you have a great color sense — but, ya know, you could define that edge a little just by darkening that area behind it. Ya see?”

Bev gives the painting a studied gaze. “Yeah. Thanks, Amy. That’s really a good idea. I’ll work on it later.” She stretches out in a canvas and leather chair while her friend plops down on the couch.

Amy’s young, she thinks, but why give up our friendship? I like her. We have the same interests — and she’s not stupid. She was right about that painting — and she’s right about a lot of things.

Amy notices a big yellow and white cat at the screen door. “Oh, look at the kitty-cat. Shall I let it in?”

“Sure, that’s Pooty,” and mentions that a cat can be a lot of company.

Amy takes three giant steps, opens the door, then flops back on the couch, and says to the ceiling, “Tony been around lately?”

“No, I haven't seen him for a while.” The speed of Bev’s speech is slower than it used to be. Her effervescence is gone.

Amy rolls over and, leaning on an elbow, props her head on her hand. “He’d like to see you. Says you’re mad at him.”

“Is that why you came here, Amy Tower?” Bev gives her a mock glare.

“Noooo — he didn’t ask me to — but he says he misses stopping by. He likes you.”

“I like him too. Yeah, I really have missed him — and his one-track mind. Next time you see him tell him it’s O.K. to come back. I’ve gotten over my fit of pique.”

Amy looks quizzical. “Fit of pique? What does THAT mean?”

“It means… gosh, you are a lot younger than I thought.”

“Oh, Bev, come on. Sometimes you come out with some strange sayings.”

“I suppose I did pull that one out of my grandmother’s closet. But stick with me, kid. You might learn something.”

Pooty is back at the door. “Look, the cat wants out,” Amy says. She pauses a moment, then adds, “I guess I’d better go too.”

Bev holds out a colorful bowl of dark chocolate M&Ms. “You’d better have a handful. They’ll give you the energy to get home — and it will keep me from eating the whole thing.”

They both laugh as Amy disappears from view.

Bev tosses a red M&M into the air and catches it in her mouth. Tony taught her how to do that.
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