Value wIT

It's Soap Opera Sunday again, and increasingly, it's apparent I'm not writing soap opera material. There is a string going and I am glad that the two of you who are reading the story as it unfolds are interested, but the regular Value wIT readers don't seem to be digging this SHARK JUMPING. 

I enjoyed writing this segment and calculating the time it would take to drive from South Carolina to New York City and which highways Joe would take. Every new chapter is fun to research...like creating Boothe Hill last time gave me something to do. However, I have so freaking much to do that I don't need to research imaginary homes! I have a real home and a real refrigerator that needs groceries to be bought and stored inside it.  Also, I have a child who is going to be Star of the Week tomorrow and needs a poster made depicting all his favorite things to do (eat, yell, make a mess). Needless to say, I've got plenty to do.

Oh,I got an interesting email from someone who knows me fairly well and who has been keeping up as Shelly's story unfolds. In the email, my friend asked me if I had been raped and was writing about it. No, I have not been raped. In fact, I worried that Shelly's feelings after she was raped might be completely off-based. Read this installment and let me know what you think.

I'm thinkin' this might be the last installment of ....well, whatever it was. It's a huge effort to churn out a new piece every week - though it's fun. Will anyone perish if I just stop right here?

Ruh-roe...almost forgot my manners. The lovely hostess of Soap Opera Sunday is ...well, she is anonymous.  Go here to thank her and check out some interesting reads.

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Shelly must have passed out for one minute, five minutes, fifty minutes - she had no idea how much time had passed since Mr. Thompson broke the door and entered the room and raped her.  She had no idea where he was and if she moved what would happen. 

Shelly's heart was racing and she was trembling so much that she could barely get herself off the bed, but somehow she stood and faced the doorway. The chest of drawers was still blocking the doorway and Shelly's brain told her body to squeeze between the chest and the door and walk down the stairs and out of the apartment. That same brain told her that the person she thought she knew might be standing outside the door and more violence might be awaiting her. Paralyzed, Shelly tries to weigh the risk and manages to walk out the bedroom door. 

Anticipating that Mr. Thompson is going to pop out and bludgeon her or hold her hostage, Shelly takes silent step after step down the dimly lit hallway - she takes not a single breath.  She reaches the top of the staircase and tightly grips the railing, as she expects Mr. Thompson to creep up from behind and push her down the stairs. Several steps later, Shelly sees the glow of a television set and makes out the image of Mr. Thompson sitting in a chair.  Calculating the distance to the elevator door and the amount of time it will take for the door to open and then close, Shelly determines that she is closer to the door than Mr. Thompson and can escape if she beats him to the elevator, AND if the elevator doors open quickly AND if she can press the right buttons and close the doors. 

She is breathing again, in fact, Shelly is panting.  She darts to the elevator and Mr. Thompson becomes aware of her presence. Instead of running to attack her, Mr. Thompson gives Shelly a vacant look and turns back to the television. She pushes the "close door" button over and over and over and over. Is the elevator moving?  What's happening? Is she trapped?  Slowly the door opens and she walks into the lobby. The well-groomed doorman is reading a newspaper. Surely she must look like a disheveled, emotional wreck, and surely the doorman will come to her rescue. However, he registers no response to Shelly except to open the door for her to leave the building.

Outside the building, cars honk and lights glare, pedestrians walk by, yet nobody notice Shelly. Scared to go home, Shelly walks 15 blocks and finally steps into a phone booth. She takes out a Thompson & Bridges long distance telephone calling card and the piece of paper with Joe's phone number on it. It's almost midnight and a sleepy Joe answers his phone to hear,

"Joe? This is Shelly from Mr. Thompson's office," she cries into the phone.

"Hey, what's wrong? Are you ok?"

Shelly can only sob. She is embarrassed and wishes she hadn't called, but she can't hang up.

"Shelly," Joe reassures, "Tell me what's wrong."

Joe's voice is soft and confident. 

"I was raped," she continues to cry.

Joe is startled by this statement and wants to help Shelly, but all he can say is, "Oh, Shelly. I'm sorry. Really sorry."

Shelly continues to cry and Joe empathizes until after about a minute he reaches a new level of thinking that is action based,

"It's alright, Shelly. Everything is going to be all right. I'm coming to get you. Where are you?" 

Shelly regains her sense of the practical and says, "I'm in New York. You can't get me. It's too far, but thank you."

Joe will not be dissuaded, "I'm coming. I'm leaving now and will be there in the morning. Are you safe? Where can you go? Can you go to the police station and wait for me?"

Shelly sniffs and in the midst of a harrowing experience she feels a brief tinge of happiness that Joe is coming to the rescue.

"I can go to my apartment. It didn't happen in my apartment and I don't think Mr. Thompson knows where I live."

Joe feels anger in his gut. "Mr. Thompson?" questions Joe, who spent the afternoon talking with Henry about the bad impression Mr. Thompson left with them. By 5:00 pm, Joe had worked himself into full disgust about Frank Thompson, and had decided it was his mission to become the roadblock between Thompson purchasing Boothe Hill.  When Shelly's hurt voice announced that Frank Thompson had raped her, Joe was overcome with rage and lowered the telephone receiver to his leg and punched the wall with his fist.  Bringing the receiver back to his ear, Joe tells Shelly,

"I'm leaving in five minutes. What is your phone number? I'll call you on the way and get your address."  Shelly gives him her phone number. "Shelly, don't worry. It's all going to be fine. Just hang on." 

The warmth and connectedness conveyed by Joe's care is overwhelming to Shelly, and while it feels magnificent and almost outweighs the horrible violation that wrecked her world, it is a foreign feeling and she is unsure how to process it. The only thing Shelly can manage is,

"Thank you, Joe. I'll wait for you."

Joe hastily pulls on a pair of worn jeans, Rugby shirt and baseball cap. He grabs his wallet and whistles and pats his leg to call Becca, his Redbone Coonhound.  The two companions get into the Jeep in the driveway and speed toward I-95.  The late night makes for light traffic and Joe speeds at a fairly constant 85 miles an hour toward Washington, a course he had traveled many times to visit friends and historical sites.  Becca sleeps contentedly in the back of the Jeep and is happy for the occasional pit stop at a gas station.  Shortly after 6:00 am the sun starts to peek over the horizon to the right of the car, and amazingly Joe is closing in on Washington, D.C.  By Joe's constant calculations, he will be in New York by 10:30 a.m., much quicker than if he would have waited to catch a flight.

As Shelly hung up the telephone she slowly walked toward her apartment and tried to process the many feelings that were swimming in her mind.  What had she done to make Mr. Thompson attack her?  All the months she worked with Mr. Thompson, had he been planning to rape her? Why was he so angry with her?  What would happen to her?  Would he try to contact her?  Would he tell the other staff members the truth?  Should she call his wife?  As she tried to answer these questions, her mind would whip in another direction toward Joe. Why had she called a guy she had met once to deal with the biggest crisis in her life? Why was he so compassionate?  Was he really coming to New York? 

Shelly got to her apartment and took off her repulsive clothes.  The longest, hottest shower could never scrub away the indelible mark left on her soul. Shelly's body had been fused with evil and some of her goodness had been taken away.  Why had it happened?  She managed to dress herself and get into bed where she could not sleep but could only replay the movie in her mind over and over. The forced kiss, the chase, the beating, the pushing, the rape...the rape. Frank Thompson raped her. Frank Thompson who sat in a chair staring at the television as she walked out of his apartment. What was he thinking?  Was he at the police station confessing, or was he sleeping soundly in his Madison Avenue luxury apartment?

Finally, the sleepless hours of tossing and turning and dozing in her bed comes to an end when Joe calls at 8:00 a.m., "I'm on the Jersey Turnpike, and I should be in New York City in a couple of hours. Tell me where to go."  Sure enough Joe arrives at Shelly's apartment in Tribeca and stands in front of the apartment building appraising the conditions of city living.  He smoothes his pants and swallows hard. He pushes his hair to the right side of his head and wipes his sweaty hands on the sides of his pants. He pats Becca on the head and opens the door to the building.

Shelly hears the knock on her door.  The knock that sounds so right. "Knock and I will answer," thinks Shelly who has not wasted any of the very few opportunities that she has gotten in her life.  Shelly calmly folds the newspaper that she was reading, stands up and tightens her ponytail.  She softens her heart and opens the door. 

Shelly can hardly keep her legs in upright position as she is face to face with Frank Thompson.

"Help! Help! Help! Someone help me! Help!"

Shelly is panting and panicking. She tries to race out the door under Mr. Thompson's arm, but he catches her and pushes her flailing body back into her apartment.  Shelly is squirming like fish and trying to bite through Mr. Thompson's fine wool merino sports coat.  A flush of survival has flooded her body, and she knows what is in store for her and she would rather die than have Mr. Thompson rape her again. She is prepared for death -- has looked it square in the eye and is ready to fight it until her death. Nothing, including her life, means more to her than preventing a second violent attack on her body.

"Shelly, calm down. Calm down. Be still. Sit. Stop. I'm not going to hurt you," cajoles Mr. Thompson who is squeezing Shelly's upper arms and lifting her off her feet and she kicks and struggles. 

Joe arrives in front of Shelly's open door to see Frank Thompson holding Shelly. "Git'em, Becca." The hound races toward the struggle and immediately begins tearing at Mr. Thompson's leg and gnawing her sharp teeth through his soft, silk-blend khaki pants.

"What the hell? Oh my God!  Stop it! Help me!"  Mr. Thompson yells as he beats Becca on the head, which just fuels her aggression more.  Joe moves through the doorway and Shelly runs toward him.  Becca continues to rip flesh.

"Call the police, Shelly. You have an intruder," Joe hands the phone to Shelly.

"No! No police. Get this dog off me. I'll leave. Please," begs Mr. Thompson. 

"Becca, sit," commands Joe as his sense of humanity is refreshed.

"Jesus Christ that dog was going to eat me alive. Listen, I just wanted to talk to Shelly, and..." stammers Mr. Thompson.

"Get out," clearly states Joe.

"I just wanted to say I was sorry and this was all a misunderstanding," says Mr. Thompson in a tone that suggests he is in a high stakes business deal.

"It was NOT a misunderstanding. You RAPED me.  You're a..." Shelly screams and cries....he's a what? 

Mr. Thompson's eyes are wide and he takes a quick look at Becca who appears to be his worst enemy, and then at Joe who might engage him physically and lastly at Shelly who is the least of his enemies at the immediate moment. She's a girl; she's frail;  and she’s unconnected from family. Until this point there is nobody in her corner. Joe wasn't in Shelly's corner 12 hours ago. Unexpectedly Shelly announces,

"I am calling Mrs. Thompson." 

Mr. Thompson reacts in more fright than he did when Becca was chewing his leg,

"Please. No, Shelly. I will give you whatever you want. Just name it?  Do you want the house in Aspen, Costa Rica?  Money? How much do you want?" 

Mr. Thompson tells himself that he can agree to anything at this moment, and if he can get out of this situation alive then he can take care of Shelly later. However, Shelly says,

"I want you to get out of here and never contact me again." Thinking on her feet she adds, "Send my last paycheck to this address and don't forget to add a Christmas bonus. Now, leave."

Frank Thompson smoothes his hair and keeping his eye on Becca walks sideways to the door, exits and gently closes the door behind him. Shelly breaks down crying and Joe embraces her.

"I have to leave this place. This town," sniffs Shelly.

"Right," agrees Joe.

The two young people silently pack Shelly's relatively few belongings in her luggage and trash bags and are finished in 30 minutes. A number of trips up and down the four flights of stairs and Shelly's material life is packed into Joe's Jeep. On the last trip Joe says,

"You can sleep in Becca's room until you decide what you want to do." 

Shelly had been thinking about her next move with each breath and was relieved, in some way, to know that she had at least one option: Joe's house. She had been struggling to think of her other options, which were: AE's apartment in Santa Barbara, but she hadn't really spoken to AE in several years, not to mention the fact that she didn't know how she could afford to get to California. The next option was Lee, AE's mother, but she hadn't spoken to Lee since her freshman year in college. Then, of course, there was Judilou and Marvin, but where the hell were they? 

Shelly had not seen her parents in six years and thought that they might live in Colorado, but had no real idea how to find them.  Maybe they had been trying to write to her, but she had moved so many times that that the mail had long since stopped being forwarded. Her parents lost contact with her after she moved from AE's to Vanderbilt, where she lived in five different places in four years.  Her parents, to her knowledge, never knew her Scarsdale or Greenwich Village or Tribeca addresses.  Of course, if Judilou really wanted to ruin her life, she would find her.  The only other person related to Shelly was her grandmother, but she died three years before. 

All those options sounded terrible, and more than anything, Shelly learned from experience. She knew that refuge in any of those places would be hollow. The only choice for Shelly was going it alone. She had to take the tiny bit of money she saved, which was about $3,500 and she could make it work in Charleston.

"I will gratefully accept your offer, I mean Becca's offer, to share a room. I can't live in New York anymore. I've got to get away from this place." 

The three friends settle in the Jeep and drive south.

Once again Soap Opera Sunday has turned into Soap Opera Monday.  The story gets a little rough today, and I can only see it getting worse. Poor Shelly.

Please pay your respects to our lovely SOS hostess, Kate of Walking Kateastrophe, 

If you want to read Chapters 1-11, they are on the right column filed under Soap Opera Sunday.

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Shelly and Mr. Thompson land in Charleston around 10:00 in the morning. Joe is at the airport to meet them and take them to Ms. Graber's estate in his wood paneled Jeep Wagoneer.  Mr. Thompson is an obvious Yankee misfit in the south, and his Gucci shoes and shinny, expensive clothes stand out in stark contrast to Joe's cotton khaki's, button-down shirt and fishing hat. Shelly blends into the quaint, casual town and is greatly intrigued by Joe. Joe, on the other hand, is confused by Shelly -- is she Mr. Thompson's daughter? girlfriend? employee?  He is much too mild-mannered to inquire. 

"Do you have enough room back there?" inquires Joe.

"Yeah, sure. It's great," responds Shelly.

"Just move those books over," adds Joe.

Shelly reads the titles of the books as a way to learn more about Joe: Architecture of the Old South: Georgia, General Oglethorpe's Georgia, Colonial Letters 1733-1743 and Aftermath of the Civil War along with several "American History" magazines.

When they arrive at Boothe Hill, Henry has the back hatch of his station wagon opened and is sitting on the edge with a cooler of Coca-Cola's and cheese crackers. 

"Hello, there, Mr. Thompson.  So pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Henry Parker, and I'm glad to know of your interest in Boothe Hill. It’s..."

Henry is interrupted by Mr. Thompson who grabs Henry's shoulder with his big hand and squeezes it in a seemingly friendly way, but Henry recognizes Mr. Thompson's real meaning which is dominance,

“Yeah, good to meet ya. Can you open up the house, I want to get look inside. Louise has been stalling on this property so long that I forgot what it looks like on the inside. Shelly, come on and get a look at this house."

Mr. Thompson bounds to the door of the house not realizing how offensive his abrupt behavior and brief conversation has been.

"Oh my God. It's beautiful. I love the yellow walls. What a magnificent house - the land looks more vivid than anything I've ever seen," chats Shelly.

Mr. Thompson stomps through the house probably much in the same fashion as Sherman did during the Civil War.

Blog Entry (sorry to interrupt the story with a random thought, but this influenced the story. The story continues after the blogging.) 

At the gas station a female acquaintance drives up in a new Hummer Jeep, and I was struck by the aggressiveness of the vehicle and by association, my friend.  What need was she addressing by buying that bossy hunk ‘o metal?  My husband says the answer is dominance. She is asserting her dominance over the little cars, and by inference, the little people.  Sounds like a populist statement, but after consideration, I don’t think it is, and it might be true.

Why do people need to assert dominance? Is it so they can claim a spot on the evolution ladder and not get filtered out of humanity?  By creating false displays of dominance, like talking loud or deep, does a person convince others that they are dominant?  I would like to answer that no, false acts of dominance do not substitute for real genetic dominance; however, I am beginning to lose faith that the rest of mankind is able to make the same judgment.  My assertion is that mankind is falling for posers every minute of every day, and I worry that somehow the really smart and decent people are getting covered up and will soon be bred out of existence.

Here's a example of false dominance:  Some years ago before I was married I was at a party and both my not-yet-known husband and a guy I had dated were at the party. It was clear that my husband-to-be was interested in me, and I in him. The guy who I had dated was still interested in me, but I had made it fairly clear that I was no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with him.  The scene was like a Hallmark movie -- my husband to-be and I made eye contact across the crowded room and smiled at each other in a really gushy way.  The husband to-be started walking across the room toward me.  My heart was all a flutter. Then, without warning, the other guy comes up, stands close to me, and rests his hand on my shoulder as if to mark me as his property. I was horrified and tried to physically shrug his hand off. I think I spurted out, "What are doing?" in an agitated voice to which he responded, "What?" as if I were completely crazy.  The husband to-be noticed the guy had marked me, made assumption that I was involved, and stopped walking toward me.  He fell for the false dominance.

A less subtle example of false dominance is the money smear. Consider that 10,000-square foot McMansions are passé now, and it seems that the norm for house extravagance has become the 20,000-square foot Castle-ets. Lately, I have noticed that every Tom, Dick and Hedge Fund Manager is building one of these gigantic, hand-crafted homes that looks like Versailles – really, no exaggeration, these houses are so beautiful and gigantic that it is difficult to comprehend that families live in them and that they are not public properties.  My point is that the person who buys the palace buys it for no other reason than to show dominance, and to what end?   I would like to think society subconsciously evaluates the merits of each person and is not confused by these displays of dominance, but I know better and know that society falls for this charade. Society loves the Hummer and the Castle-et, and what bothers me is that society is propagating this straw man and society is devolving.  There is something to that theory of the “Dumbing Down of America.”

I have this great friend who must subconsciously doubt his dominance because at the beginning of each new professional relationship he picks a fight.  It happens every time.  He goes into the new situation, meets the new person with whom he will be working and begins a fight.  Typically, the other person backs down, or if there is a real squabble, which he seems to prefer, my friend bows-up and after some yelling and the intimation of an inpending fistfight he establishes himself as the dominant personality in the relationship. Then he apologizes and makes nice with the person, who then respects him for his, uh, dominance.  That is more genuine than building a big house, isn’t it?   Maybe not.

Fox News reports, “A male dog will whine and beg in deference to a stronger dog, but will lower its voice into a guttural growl if it thinks it has a fighting chance.”  Maybe the big house, monster car and the subtle hand placement is all like the dog's growl and it will be challenged and the truly superior being will emerge, evolve and live-on.

Mr. Thompson finishes tromping around the stables and bragging to Shelly about the chandeliers that hang from the rafters,

"Ever seen such a fancy barn, Shelly?  These horses live in a more decorated house that most Americans.  Do you see those chandeliers?" 

Shelly nods that she does see the chandeliers, but it's Mr. Thompson's attitude that is of interest to Shelly. Why is he stalking around the place like a rooster?  Henry and Joe have been walking slowly behind Mr. Thompson and pointing out various details of the remarkable property, but they are starting to give up on hoping that Mr. Thompson will appreciate the gem that has won their hearts.

"Frank, let's have a bite to eat down by bridge. It's one of the best places to see a Scissor-tailed Flycatcher. I packed some pimento cheese sandwiches, and I guarantee that my wife makes the best pimento cheese you've ever tasted," offers Henry. 

"Naw, what restaurants do you have in town?" rejects Mr. Thompson as he starts to walk for the car.

After a chicken 'n dumpling lunch at Miss Lita's, which Mr. Thompson appeared to think a bit too down-home for his taste, Joe dropped the New York bound duo at the airport.

"Larry, my man, get that bag of pecans (a gift from Henry) and crank up the bird. I want to be wheels up by 2:00 so I can make the Yankees game tonight," says Mr. Thompson who seems to appear more comfortable with the familiar site of Larry and the Lear. 

Shelly hangs back with Joe who appears more than ready to be rid of his assignment for the day.

"Thank you so much for all you did to facilitate Mr. Thompson seeing the house again. He really hopes to make this deal work," says Shelly.

"Yeah, well we'll see. I hope he realizes this isn't just some property to add to his portfolio. It's a real piece of history and big part of the heritage and culture of this area," sniffs Joe.

Shelly ignores Joe's irritation with Mr. Thompson and puts her hand on his arm,

"Boothe Hill is a beautiful place, and I just hope I get to see it again.  Let me get your direct number so if I need to contact you for anything you don't have to go through Ms. Graber or Mr. Thompson. You have my number, don't you?" 

Shelly looks up to see Mr. Thompson's head sticking out of the jet doorway and he appears to be caught in a stare, and to break the nano-second of what appears to be jealously, Mr. Thompson barks, "Shelly." 

Putting her sunglasses down she gives Joe an abbreviated hug accompanied by a beasey air kiss.  Joe's mouth gapes open, and he watches as Shelly climb the stairs and take her seat -- Larry pulls up the stairs, and the plane slowly rolls away. Shelly's face is framed by a round window and Joe waves goodbye.

Back in New York, the weather is bad, and landing at JFK airport is harried.  Mr. Thompson becomes intensely agitated as Larry circles the airport for 25 minutes waiting for clearance to land,

"Goddamn this bullshit, Larry.  Why the hell can't they fit us in?  You filed a flight plan and they know we're here," huffs Mr. Thompson.

"The controller told me that we'll be down in a few minutes.  The weather has about ten commercial flights backed-up. I'll get us down just as soon as I can," rationalizes Larry. 

"Shelly, you are going to have to come to the game with me because I won't have time to pick-up Bob, and I need someone to be on hand in case one of those Airedale assholes asks me for something.  There's a group of Airedale people coming to the box tonight, and they want to make nice to me in hopes of stealing my convenience stores in Ohio," fumes Mr. Thompson.

Shelly is dressed for a breezy day in Charleston and isn't dressed to go to a sporting event. However, it looks like she does not have much of a choice in the matter.

A limousine hurriedly pulls up to the stopped jet, and Mr. Thompson strides off the plane like a giant among men and slides into the opened door of the car.  Shelly traipses behind him and scurries into the other door and the car sails away to the stadium where it passes lines of cars waiting to enter the complex and park. The car pulls up to a non-crowded gate of a door and Mr. Thompson and Shelly hop out and get into a private elevator that takes them to a box over hanging the stadium field.  Mr. Thompson undoes the button on his sports coat and plops down in a stuffed chair in the plush living room of the box.  His legs are outstretched and his arms hang over the sides of the chair.

He barks "Shelly, pour me a drink. This has been a hell of day. That was the worst flight I've ever had." 

Shelly looks for a glass and a sexy lady with a tight shirt and vest looks at her and quietly says,

"I'll get it honey. Have a seat." 

Shelly decides that going to the ladies room might be the best use of her time.  In the little bathroom she sits on the toilet and takes a deep breath and realizes that it has been about six hours since she last peed.  The memory of Joe makes her smile, and she takes the piece of paper from her purse where he wrote his phone number. With the twinkling feeling of infatuation and an empty bladder, she puts on some lipstick and prepares herself for the night ahead.

The box is rocking with the Airedale guys who are relatively young, early-40’s, in comparison to Mr. Thompson who is 52. Drinks are flowing and the excitement of a tense game has the group in high spirits. Mr. Thompson has drunk five scotches over two hours and the group leaves the game and heads to Mr. Thompson's Madison Avenue apartment, where the merriment continues as the group has a round of Courvoisier XO in the living room.  After an hour the Airedale guys beg off and Shelly and Mr. Thompson are left alone.

Mr. Thompson pours a second snifter of liqueur.  Sitting on the couch, Mr. Thompson does not appear drunk to Shelly, but she knows that she had two drinks at the game and part of her Courvoisier, and she feels less than sober. Mr. Thompson has had seven drinks and Shelly wonders if he is drunk as she grabs her purse and readies herself to leave. 

"Shelly, come look at this," Mr. Thompson opens his briefcase and takes out some papers. Shelly, observant of getting too physically close to her boss tries to see the papers over his arm. "Sit here," Mr. Thompson says as he pulls Shelly between his legs and tries to force her to sit on his lap. 

"Oh, uh, wait. Don't, uh," stammers Shelly.

"Shelly, really. Do you think I would do anything inappropriate to you?  Sit down." 

Stupidly, Shelly doesn't quite sit on this lap but leans near the leg he wants her to occupy. 

"Look at this," his finger pokes at the page to nothing inparticular, "Do you know what this says?"

Shelly, feeling more than awkward and trying to edge out of the compromising position says,

"No. What is it that I'm looking for?” 

A now visibly drunk Mr. Thompson whispers,

"This is my network, I mean my net worth - $783 million. Can you believe that, Shelly? I'm fucking rich as shit." 

He looks at Shelly too long and his eyes narrow and his jaw locks but his lips remain loose and wet.  Mr. Thompson messily grabs Shelly's chin and forcibly mashes his salivating mouth onto her mouth. 

Shelly pushes back from his body in horror and screeches, "What are you doing!?! Stop!"

But he doesn't stop, and it is clear that he is not going to stop. Shelly twists and wriggles away from his strong, yet drunk grip and tries to get away, but instead of risking capture trying to get past him and to the front door, Shelly runs to the nearest escape, the stairs. Racing up the stairs with Mr. Thompson staggering behind her, Shelly runs into a bedroom and her hand is shaking so violently that she can't lock the door. With her left hand she holds her right wrist steady and forces her right fingers to twist the lock on the door just in time to shut out the spurned Mr. Thompson.

Mr. Thompson tries to open the door and begins to pound on the wood,

"Shelly, come out. I just want to talk to you. Open the door, goddamnit." However, the angry banging on the door belies his assertion that he just wants to talk. 

Shelly is hysterical, "Get out of here. Leave me alone."

Mr. Thompson is whaling on the door, and Shelly knows the lock will give at any time. She musters all her strength and shoves an enormous Scottish chest of drawers in front of the door.  With all her might she pushes the chest toward the door and gouges the polished wooden floor with each push.  Violently, Mr. Thompson beats on the door. Apparently he has something of significant weight in his hands that increases the force against the door. The door lock breaks and the door opens. Through a small gap Shelly can see Frank Thompson's wild eyes and drooling mouth hanging open and askew.  With a mighty thrust of energy he begins repeatedly slamming the door into the chest and pushing it backward, inch by inch.  Shelly is curled around herself in the corner of the room between the bed and the wall trying to make herself smaller and invisible from this horror.  When she opens her eyes, Mr. Thompson is standing above her with a disheveled and evil look.

"Get up," he growls. 

Shelly absolutely cannot move, her entire body has shut down and she cannot move nor speak.  Mr. Thompson picks up the ball of a human being and throws her on the bed and flips her loose, peasant skirt above her waist, and without intent, he mercifully covers her eyes, which was the most generous thing that had happened all night. Shelly could not see Mr. Thompson's face while he raped her.
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Definitely tune in next week for more.

Hello, friends and warriors. Sorry that I didn't make it on Sunday for Soap Opera Sunday, but let's just call it Soap Opera Monday.  As usual, this is another installment in..well, who knows what.  Please pay your respects to our lovely SOS hostess, Brillig. 

If you want to read Chapters 1-10, they are on the right column filed under Soap Opera Sunday.

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Free from Mrs. Thompson and her stern, strained, Connecticut lock-jaw, and nubby fabrics, Shelly is somewhat glad to be back in the office of Mr. Thompson, who himself is nothing short of bizarre, but in comparison to his wife, he is at least somewhat more jovial.

The project du jour is buying Mrs. Louise Graber's plantation in Charleston. This project began almost a year earlier but stalled because of various reasons, like Mr. Thompson not agreeing to offer in perpetuity the plantation gardens to the local horticultural club for their annual Mother's Day brunch.  Mr. Thompson's lawyer felt that such an agreement would not be in Mr. Thompson's best interest, and Ms. Graber recoiled from the purchase negotiations.  Mr. Thompson spent months trying to get back into Ms. Graber's good graces.  This snag occurred just after the healing of the wound that was created when Shelly left Ms. Graber's employment in favor of Mr. Thompson's employment.  However, Mr. Thompson was committed more than ever to buy the property named Boothe Hill Plantation because historically and aesthetically the property was the best existing example of an antebellum property with most of its land undisturbed. 

The house was built in 1680, and driving into the property on its long narrow tree-lined drive almost demanded a horse-drawn carriage.  The house was furnished and kept well by a host of housekeepers, grounds men and handymen, but its beds were rarely slept in except for the occasional guest of Ms. Graber.  The windows were opened everyday that the weather permitted, the cushions in the porch chairs were fluffed and turned, the tack in the stable was polished and shined, the horses were (mostly) exercised, the bulbs were planted, and the pond house was rid of wasps as needed. The upkeep on the large estate was expensive, and even a woman of Ms. Graber's wealth had to see that the house was a financial drain, not to mention an emotional drain. Joe Penderick, the estate manager, was a no-nonsense, reliable, hard-working young man who did not call Ms. Graber's office to visit with Baby for attention or for his own personal gain. In fact, Joe very much enjoyed Ms. Graber's hands-off approach to plantation ownership. So, when he did have to call for expenditure approval, it was only out of necessity.

Joe was born in Charleston and had a keen and natural interest in history. A Clemson business school graduate, Joe used his business degree to run the property, and in his spare time he researched the history and details of the plantation, which were colorful, and plenty. The story of the property started long before the American Revolution, when Boothe Hill headquartered British soldiers and continued through the Civil War where the house was considerably torn apart, but managed to escape being burned to the ground by Sherman. However, the house features the most revered scar a Southern house can boast -- a bullet mark in the wall from Sherman's very own gun, or so the story goes. 

Joe knew every detail of history about the house, land and current and historical economic hardships.  The budget for Boothe Hill was fairly daunting, even for the wealthy Ms. Graber.  Joe calculated that Ms. Graber was older, in poor health and had no heirs. In anticipation of the right moment, Joe worked diligently for many months to draft a business plan and research corresponding legal documents to turn the plantation into a public garden and museum.  Joe had been managing the plantation for the past six years since he graduated from college and knew the property inside and out and had a plan that would keep the property alive and self-sufficient for generations to come.

Ms. Graber had not been to Charleston in about twenty years and only a few of the old-timers remembered her. Of course, they remembered the glamorous young Louise Graber, not the obese homebound, toothless one.  Interestingly, the stories of Louise's grandmother were lore around the town.  Eleanor Graber, a southern born girl married Charles Graber just after the turn the of the century and persuaded him to buy the famous plantation from her sister's husband who had inherited the property that had been in his family since the early 1700's.  The elder Graber's split their time between New York and Charleston and inhabited the house in the golden years of the 1920's.

Eleanor was a famed hostess and entertained in great style hosting many famous people from Somerset Maugham and Louis Untermeyer to George Gershwin and Henry Ford to President and Mrs. Roosevelt - and Lucy, President Roosevelt's "secretary."

Louise Graber's parents did not have such a grand experience with Boothe Hill, as they inherited the property during the Second World War when extravagant parties were not in favor.  The Graber's did well, financially, during the war and were able to leave Boothe Hill and many other properties and assets to Louise. Louise had a few historical soirees on the beautiful estate, but her life was mainly in New York and she was not in residence like her mother and grandmother had been.  However, Louise could appreciate the history and magnitude of Boothe Hill as taught her by Joe Penderick who took advantage to educate Ms. Graber about the history of her plantation each time he spoke with her on the telephone. 

Henry Parker, a retired businessman and investor in much of Charleston's Sea Island real estate knew Joe from the Charleston Historical Society and saw him as a bright light and conspirator in his passion to explore local history.

"Joe, you're too young to marry my daughter and too old for me to adopt as a son. I guess we'll just have to continue eating lunch together every day," mutters Henry as he eats his egg salad sandwich at Miss Lita's Boarding House, which is the Tuesday lunch special. 

"Well, if I didn't have such a decent father already I'd take you up on the adoption, but I like the dad I've got. As far as marrying Hildee, that doesn't seem like such a bad idea. She's 38?"

Henry nods between bites and says, "That's only a 13 year difference.  But, it looks like Nev Chandler is going to beat you to it. He didn't exactly ask me for Hildee's hand, but he did take me deer hunting over west to Bostick Plantation.  That's a fine place with cypress swamps, oak flats and ridges planted with corn and soybeans everywhere to attract the trophy game. You can't hardly kill anything with less than a 16" spread. Bostick Plantation says they are the 'best huntin' in the South' and I just might believe it. One day we hunted white tail, and I got a 12-point and the next day I got wild boar.  It wasn't like regular hunting either where you have to sleep in a cold bunkhouse. We slept in the main house and ate some mighty good food.  Over several drinks, Nev got around to mentioning to me that he and Hildee were getting married." 

Joe slaps the older man on the back, "Congratulations.  That's great news.  Hope you get your pocketbook ready. You know the father of the bride pays for the wedding, and Hildee looks pretty expensive."

Henry laughs and smiles, "I've been waiting for years for Hildee to find the right guy ,and I never expected her to come back to Charleston, much less find the right guy here in Charleston.  The whole arrangement couldn't suit me better."

Hildee's wedding was the event of the season, and no expense was spared to create the most understated and tasteful wedding a 38-year-old woman could have. Joe conveyed Henry’s great love for Boothe Hill to Ms. Graber, who granted the Parker's the use of the estate.

Henry and his wife Jane had socialized with Ms. Graber back in the day, but did not maintain a relationship with her. The flora and fauna of Boothe Hill had been building all winter for a spring burst and the plantation exploded in azaleas and camellias in time for the wedding. Joe and Henry spent the winter months locating just the right carriage to bring Hildee down the long drive to her waiting groom. Joe attempted to train the beautiful but lazy and stubborn horses to pull the carriage. However, the horses proved to be too interested in the easy life.

"Joe, you're making progress with these beasts, but if Hildee gets dumped out this chariot and that damned expensive white dress gets dirty, Jane and Hildee will kill both me and you." 

Joe wipes the sweat off his brow, "Well, let's get busy finding some horses that can pull this wagon. I'm glad to be getting rid of this job. I'm a good researcher, but a bad horse trainer."

Hildee had returned to Charleston just a year and a half earlier from Manhattan where she had worked in various public relations firms for the past 14 years.  She had the specific talent of attracting big name clients like Nike, Rolex and Citibank, and wining them over with her good ideas, certainly, but moreover, her winning personality.  Just before moving back to Charleston, Hildee was name one of the nation's "40 Under 40 Stars in Public Relations". 

Her reasons for leaving the success and stress of New York had everything to do with living a meaningful life.  Very simply, after 14 years Hildee was tired of the non-stop life of the city and the breakneck speed with which every day began and ended.  She visited her parents often and the comfort of their home and the slow-paced, southern charm of Charleston was a part of her past that she longed to revisit. She had been driven from her hometown for a reason that taunted her, but somehow as she matured, she longed to look her youth in the eye and settle the score once and for all and sleep a peaceful sleep that lasted all night long. She was tired of waking up in the middle of the night and catching a glimpse of herself and hiding from the pain that she could not face. It was time to move to the next emotional level and deal with a crucial mistake.

Before she left Manhattan, Hildee joined an investor group with plans to develop one of the smaller islands along the coast of Charleston. The other seven members of the group were heavy hitters and included a premier diamond seller, DuPont and Carnegie heirs, and a grotesquely wealthy slumlord. Hildee was included in the group because of her intimate knowledge and connections in Charleston and the surrounding areas and also because of her history of building revenues and being a "force to reckon with" says Marketing Mogul Magazine.

The development plan was unpopular with the locals and Nev Chandler, whose grandfather bought the island in question in the 1950's for $175,000 and logged the trees from the island and built the causeway to the mainland became Hildee's force to reckon with.  Nev owned much of the land, was a favorite with the community and could mount an army of supporters with a few phone calls. Hildee's first course of action was to use her charm to awe Nev into submission, but ironically that was Nev's plan too. 

When the wining and dining didn't get either party further along in the land negotiations, the bitter and open fighting began and didn't end until Nev said, "Your group wants to buy my portion of the island for $130 million, which will give them less than 50% control of the island. Piecing together deals from the other owners will take years. Take your money out of the investment group, buy-out my cousin Josie's property worth about $3 - I can spot you some cash if you are short -- and marry me. Collectively, we will own more than 50% of the island, and as a happily married couple we can give your friends the official kiss off and you won't have to nag me about selling land that been in family for a relatively long period of time, and to which I am completely devoted." 

Hildee shook her hair back and put her hands on her hips, "Did you just ask me to marry you, or did you ask me for $3 million?" Nev grabs Hildee’s small hips and pulls her toward him.

"A kiss to seal the deal?" 

The happy couple revels in their newfound bliss, and Hildee decides that since she has opened herself to love that her secret monster must be confronted.

Here's Chapter 9. I skipped the past two Sundays. Sorry. Holidays and all. Hopefully, you are keeping up with the story.  For a re-read, or if you are just tuning in and want to read the work from the beginning, go to the sidebar at the right, click Soap Opera Sunday and get yourself up to speed.  Chapters 1-9 are in reverse order.

This week Soap Opera Sunday is graciously hosted by Kimburlee at Temporary? Insanity.

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Shelly's work for Mr. Thompson was painless, interesting and entertaining. She assumed the role of New York City tour guide to Mr. Thompson's Japanese investors, and cashed in on about $2,000 for two months, which wasn't a huge amount of money, but it was an opportunity to escape from the insanity of Ms. Graber's world.  It gave her something to do in the daylight hours, and it was better than a poke in the eye with a stick.  Mr. Thompson seemed impressed too, as he offered her a permanent job managing his estates, which sounded like a big job, but when it was dissected it meant international errand girl.

Shelly's first day of full-time employment on the Thompson & Bridges payroll was May 24, 1996, and her first job was to fly on the firm's private jet to Costa Rica to a truly magnificent 6,000-square foot estate overlooking the protected Culebra Bay and a Four Season's resort.  The sleek flying machine landed in what looked to be a field, and Shelly grabbed her canvas bag off the Mark Cross leather seat of the jet and walked down the stairs to behold the rolling hills of the unspoiled pastoral land.  Shelly might have been wise to be somewhat frightened or concerned to the fact that she completely alone in a foreign country and was now in a car with a strange Costa Rican man named Abel.  However, the luxury of the jet and the outstanding ocean vistas took Shelly's breath away and gave her a false sense of security. 

"Senorita, the oficina de Senior Thompson tell me show you mosaico and pump for the piscina,"  Abel attempts in English. 

Shelly's main reason for visiting the Costa Rican house is to check on the pool renovation and make sure the tiles are acceptable.  There is also an issue about the quality of pump that is being installed, and Shelly is to assess the situation and report back to Mr. Thompson. 

The house is exquisite and sits atop a hill in the rain forest with an opening offering a panoramic view that includes a private beach and immaculately landscaped gardens in which sits the swimming pool in question.  Shelly is at a loss as to why anything about the pool should be changed.  To her it seems perfect.  The back terrace of the house is ensconced in palm trees and gorgeous potted native plants, and the curvy pool is bright blue and sophisticated. Well, at least Shelly thinks the pool is sophisticated. Apparently, Shelly's opinion of the pool is in the minority, and Mr. Thompson, for instance, appears to think the pool inferior.  The new idea is for the pool to be darkened and decorated with locally painted tiles and effect a zero edge that gives the appearance that the pool is spilling over the hill into the rain forest and down to the beach.

Abel and his wife, Marta, live in a separate two-bedroom staff apartment that is much nicer than any house Shelly has ever occupied.  The main house has five bedrooms and each room is filled with antiques and decorated in keeping with the local tone. Shelly's bathroom is the most impressive to her, as it features a giant tub that is covered on the outside in rock, the same rock that is on the lower half of the wall and on the floor.  A picture window faces the tub so that the bather can soak and take in the view of the vista.  In the afternoon upon Shelly's arrival she made plans to soak in the tub after she was settled. However, when the sun retired and night was upon her, bathing in a tub facing a dark window with no curtain was not as appealing. In fact, being alone in the big house in a foreign country was not as exciting in the night as it was in the daytime. 

Marta made a simple but delicious dinner of arroz con pollo and orange cake for dessert.  Shelly really wished Marta would stay with her while she ate...well, while she slept too, but while Marta was pleasant and pleased to see a representative of her American employer, she was also anxious to get back to her own house.  When Shelly left a day later, she was more than relieved when she caught sight of the tan and brown Lear jet sitting on the shabby runway.  Happily, she hopped aboard and snuggled into the warm leather seats.

"May I take your, uh, luggage, Miss Lynch?" offers the pilot.

"Larry, be real, this LL Bean bag isn't really luggage, but I appreciate your offer and will just plop it right over here," laughs Shelly.

"That will be fine. The basket is packed with local food and drink. I drove into town with Abel, but I didn't find much food suitable to pack. Mr. Thompson usually likes cheese and pate, but there is not much food in town that is fit to travel. I bought some odd cookies and chips. There is also some caviar left from another trip. Sorry about that," says Larry.

"Please, Larry. Oddly, I am just happy to be leaving paradise and getting back to my tiny, under-whelming apartment. Let's get this bird off the ground and get home," adds Shelly.

"10-4. Buckle-up."

The trip to Costa Rica turned out to be one of many two-day trips to luxury abodes of Mr. & Mrs. Thompson, and the reasons for the trip were always fairly ridiculous in Shelly's mind.  Once she went to Aspen to select white fabric designated to upholster a sofa in the Thompson's Aspen house.  The entire trip was geared around a decorator presenting various shades of white fabric, and Shelly's job was to pick the correct fabric. The Thompson's hired a high profile decorator but sent Shelly to make the final decision on the shade of white fabric.  As she chose the brighter white over the creamier white she wondered what the right answer should be, but more that than, she wondered about the inefficiency of economy of flying a jet halfway across the country to let a recent college graduate select the "right" fabric when a more qualified professional had already been hired to do the job.

Another time, Shelly took the jet to Palm Beach.

"Shelly, I want you to go down there and figure out what in the hell is going on. I keep getting calls from Johansen about how the idiot tennis court company is ripping out all the landscaping." 

Shelly, knowing as much about tennis court repair as she knew about shades of white fabric or swimming pool tiles, arrived in Palm Beach and lunched with Mr. Johansen. Johansen was Mr. Thompson's Palm Beach manservant and was always referred to in the most formal way - Mr. Johansen. The very many days of year that Mr. Thompson was in New York or any other city than Palm Beach, like 340 or so, Mr. Johansen spent his days preparing for a visit from the man himself. Of course, lately his time had been spent spying on the tennis court repair people and dialing Mr. Thompson in New York to tattletale. 

When Shelly Lynch arrived to represent the big boss of the tony Palm Beach estate, Mr. Johansen was sorely disappointed. It was bad enough that he only saw his master, Mr. Thompson, about two weeks of the year, and now that he had gone to all the trouble of creating an emergency situation designed to beckon Mr. Thompson to Palm Beach, Mr. Thompson didn't even bother show up, but sent a little girl to handle the situation.  How small Mr. Johansen felt.  In his mind, he worked for a big man and he wanted the attention from the big man, not this girl lackey.

"This wine is perfectly paired for this menu, and as I anticipated Mr. Thompson himself, I have taken opened our best Golden Osetra caviar," says a sullen and disappointed Mr. Johansen.

Shelly reluctantly sits down at the beautifully set table on the patio overlooking the beach and reads the menu that Mr. Johansen has written in calligraphy:

DUCK FOIE GRAS TERRINE
WATERMELON-PORT WINE ASPIC AND AGED BALSAMICO

GOLDEN OSETRA

BROUCHETTE OF MARINATED JUMBO SHRIMPS
BASQUE STYLE RED PEPPER AND FENNEL COMPOTE, MICRO HERB SALAD AND PESTO

MUSCOVY DUCK BREAST AND LEG CONFIT

"Looks great, Lionel. No dessert?" jokes Shelly.

Mr. Johansen fills Shelly's water glass and sniffs, "I guess you can microwave the Muscovy duck breast and leg confit I started for dinner." 

Shelly is intrigued by this fussy man who apparently lives alone in this grand house and bosses the cleaning lady around and takes tender loving care of the giant Scarlet McCall parrott that lives in a gilded cage.

"Mr. Johansen, please do sit down and enjoy this spectacular meal with me. I have never had watermelon-port wine aspic and aged balsamico, and in fact, I have no idea what I am about to eat. Please sit and tell me all about them," soothes Shelly.

"Madame, I am employed in a highly sensitive position, and I cannot afford a moment of distraction to sit and educate you on the finer points of dining," pouts Mr. Johansen.

"Well, if you must know, I outrank you in the hierarchy of Mr. Thompson's world, as I am an employee the New York headquarters of Thompson & Bridges, which oversees the Palm Beach estate. So, have a seat, Jeeves, and tell about this delicious food so that I can convey every bit of your culinary skill to Mr. Thompson.  He will want to know all about your fabulous presentation and the care that you took selecting this wine."

Several hours of debriefing about his personal life and Mr. Johansen is much looser and reveals that he harbors a prejudice for the illegal immigrants who are involved in the tennis court repair.  Shelly serves Mr. Johansen the last bit of Burgundy pinot noir that he had carefully selected to offset the slight gaminess of the duck and says,

"Lionel, do you really care what happens to the tennis court or would your nerves be more calm if you took a little vacation with me to Nantucket and visited Mr. Thompson?  Next week the Executive Board of the Board of Trustees from Choate School is coming to meet at the Thompson's house and Mrs. Greer, the housekeeper, can't handle all the arrangements by herself.  Certainly your talent and superb taste will be greatly appreciated." 

Mr. Johansen resumes his controlled demeanor and quickly, though stiffly, accepts Shelly's offer to depart from the pomp of Palm Beach for Nantucket.  However, Shelly does not figure that Lionel will turn his nose up at the $19 million shingle style house on the premium real estate of Moriches Bay. 

Despite the 12,000-square feet of gracious living, the understated Nantucket style did not impress the snobby self-titled manservant who thinks "farm" living is beneath excessive, posh Palm Beach mansion living.  The bluestone patio and grotto pool catches his attention, but only for a moment because the fact that Mrs. Greer is busy cooking clam chowder to serve as a main dish to the revered guests sends poor Mr. Johansen into a tailspin.  Shelly is too busy assisting the guests with extraordinary requests to deal with Mr. Johansen's tantrums. When the two-day planning meeting is finished, Larry gases-up the jet and deposits Mr. Thompson in New York, Mrs. Thompson and Shelly in Connecticut and Lionel Johansen back in Palm Beach. Alone on the flight from Connecticut to Florida, Mr. Johansen consumes almost entire bottle of chilled vodka and has to be carried from the plane back to his golden palace.

The Board of Trustee’s annual meeting has given Mrs. Thompson a few extra tasks and Mr. Thompson has loaned Shelly to assist his wife for what Mrs. Thompson categorizes as hard work - arranging interviews with eight "must see" candidates for Choate. The Executive Committee has identified eight candidates whom because of their parent's social standing and their family's potential to contribute to the upcoming Triple C (Choate Capitol Campaign) must be interviewed, no matter how dismal their academic scores.

"Shelly, you can arrange yourself in the pantry. There is plenty of room in there and there is a desk and a phone.  Call these people and find a time and date that I can meet with the applicants. For the five who live in the Northeast, let them know I will be in residence here for the next two weeks and they may come here to see me.  As for the California girl, well, see if she will be in the City or Aspen within the month and we can try to arrange a visit, but don't try too hard. This is a favor to one of the other board members, but I am not doing this girl any favors - no matter how much money her parents send."

Shelly sets about the political task of scheduling an audience with Mrs. Thompson for these socially prominent, yet intellectually challenged potential students.  Audrey Lancaster who lives at home and attends Greenwich Country Day is easy to schedule and eager to take the first available appointment Mrs. Thompson has to offer. In fact, Audrey arrives in New Milford, Connecticut via black Lincoln Town Car chauffer service the very next day after Shelly's telephone call.

Audrey’s driver pulls into the circular drive and opens the car door closest the enormous country mansion. The impressive 17th century landmark makes virtually no impact on Audrey, as she has seen her share of grand and beautiful homes. She does, however, make a mental note that the house meets her level of expectation and that she will not have to break the news to her mother that the Thompson's have erred in judgment or taste in any manner.

Audrey assertively uses the knocker on the front door and adjusts her tweed skirt and tries to untwist her tights in a not-so-lady-like movement. Shelly opens the door,

"Hello. You must be Audrey. I’m Shelly Lynch who called you. Glad you could make it to New Milford so quickly."

Audrey astutely ascertains that Shelly is the hired help, but obviously in a position to hurt or help her.

"Thank you for calling me Miss Lynch. I know you must be very busy, and I very much appreciate your help."

Shelly directs Audrey into the living room where she takes a crystal glass and fills it with cold water from a pitcher.

"Have a seat, and I will get Mrs. Thompson. Excuse me," Shelly says politely. How different life had become for Shelly -- she wondered where Judilou was living, and for a flash she imagines what it would be like if Judilou would pull into the circular drive in her Good Times van.

Shelly returns to the living room to find Audrey admiring the antique painted wall.  The wall, hand painted from floor to ceiling with a hunt scene, is peeling in places, which tells Audrey it must be a significant treasure or the Thompsons would have it repaired.

"I am so sorry, but Mrs. Thompson is on a conference call that should have ended thirty minutes ago. She asked that you come to her office," says Shelly. 

The two girls who are only eight years apart seem to notice the age difference as a huge gap between themselves and they avoid chitchat as they ascend the polished marble stairs to the second floor.

Mrs. Thompson's office features a beautiful French Provencal desk, a chaise lounge and two antique needlepoint chairs. The telephone conversation fills the room through the phone’s speaker. Mrs. Thomson's side of the conversation is muted.

"I am sorry for this rude intrusion into our meeting, Audrey. I am Beverly Thompson, and I'm delighted to meet you and am so thrilled that we've caught your interest in our little school. Please pardon this dreadful background noise, but I am on the Library Committee for Choate and this meeting has been going on for over an hour. My part is essentially done, but I need to keep an ear open for my name. In fact, Shelly, pick up the phone and listen to see if I am needed," says Mrs. Thompson.

"Oh, it is my privilege to meet you Mrs. Thompson, and I want to thank you very much for visiting with me about Choate. I know my grades might not be as good as the Admissions office would like, but I wanted to tell you that I have a note from my doctor that says I have an inability to learn foreign languages, and if my French grades were taken out of my average, then my GPA would increase to a 3.3!" rationalizes Audrey.

The visit between Mrs. Thompson and Audrey continues for a short time, and it is obvious that Mrs. Thompson is bored. Shelly senses that Mrs. Thompson wants the meeting to end, and says,

"I think you will need to get back on this call in a few minutes, as they are starting to talk about your project again."

Mrs. Thompson extends apologies to Audrey and Shelly hastens the girl from the room, down the stairs and to her awaiting car.

"Good luck to you, Audrey," calls Shelly.

"Thank you for helping me," says Audrey as she places something in Shelly's hand.  Shelly is confused and looks to find that Audrey has placed $20 in her hand.  Poor Audrey.

Poor Audrey, indeed. When Shelly gets back inside the house, Mrs. Thompson is standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands on skinny hips and glasses on nose. 

"Please follow me," Mrs. Thompson says in a clipped tone.

Like a dog who has peed on the floor and is being taken to the scene of the infraction to have his nose rubbed in the mess, Shelly follows the shriveled woman.

The women enter Mrs. Thompson's office, and Mrs. Thompson points to the chair where Audrey had been sitting. 

"Look at that. Just look at that.  I am beside myself. Kitty and I bought that pair of chairs in France at the Marche aux Puces in 1985, and neither chair has had any parts replaced-- that is the chair’s original needlepoint! I paid over $20,000 for those two chairs," points and rages Mrs. Thompson.

"How in the name of God, could that bumpkin have bled on my original 18th century French needlepoint chair?  It's ruined.  Just ruined. Good-quality antiques, IF YOU TAKE CARE OF THEM, can double in value in five years. Never can that 'girlhood handwork’ be replaced, and prices have been running up on these rare pieces. I expect that one hour ago I could have gotten close to $100,000 for those chairs, and now, this pair of chairs is ruined because Audrey couldn't bother to change her tampon before she came into my office!  I am Li VID. Just livid. Old money est completement disparu."

"Shelly, get out some paper. Compose a letter to Audrey's parents at their faux chateau and demand restitution. Bring the letter to me for review when you are done. Take photographs. Get Sotheby's on the phone.  And, get me a drink. I'm sick. Just sick," rails Mrs. Thompson.

As Mrs. Thompson exits through the secret wall panel in her office and goes into her dressing room presumably to lie down, Shelly stands in utter amazement.  What in the world will a letter to Audrey say?  No time to think about Audrey's feelings or flooding menstrual days, Shelly gets Mrs. Thompson a Pimms cocktail and begins to compose the letter to Audrey:

Miss Audrey Lancaster
Faux Chateau
Greenwich, Conn.

Dear Miss Lancaster:

It was kind of you to visit Henley Grove Farm today and visit with Mrs. Thompson about your desired enrollment at The Choate School. Regrettably, you left something of importance and the household staff is unsure how to handle your loss.

It appears that while in Mrs. Thompson's office you sat on a rare French antique chair with original 18th century needlepoint. The chair is soiled by what "The Needlework Doctor", Ms. Mary Kay Davis, has determined is menstrual blood. Ms. Davis consulted with an upholstery expert recommended by Sotheby's and the plan is for the Textile Conservation Center at the American Textile History Museum in Lowell, Massachusetts remove the needlepoint from the frame, and all attempts will be made to remove the stain.

Removing the stain will prevent the chair from being sent to the woodpile, but the chair’s value stemmed from the fact it was in excellent condition with all original parts. The chair's value has been cut in half, at a minimum, and there is absolutely nothing that can be done to regain that untouched quality. However, I will be sending you a series of invoices over the next couple of months for the consultation with Ms. Davis, the upholstery work and the cleaning.

If you have questions about this situation, please do not hesitate to telephone me directly.

Sincerely,

Shelly Lynch
Assistant to Mrs. Frank Thompson

 

Here's Chapter 8.

SOS, as always, is hosted by Thalia,  Brillig and Kateastrophe.

If you are just tuning in and want to read the work from the beginning, go to the sidebar at the right, click Soap Opera Sunday and get yourself up to speed.  Chapters 1-8 are in reverse order.

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   Shelly settles into her new digs at Ms. Graber’s brownstone in Greenwich Village which is significantly different than the sunny environment she left in the Hamptons. The Greenberg's house was bright and white and filled with windows, new furniture and happy objects d'art relating to the sea.  The brownstone is dank, dark, dated and furnished with the basics; bed, dresser, chair, table.  Shelly does not contrast the apartment to the Greenberg's home in physical terms, but she does compare the two abodes in terms of peace, solitude and void of warped mental energies. 

    As if playing the role of a new wife in a new home, Shelly unpacks her limited personal items and settles into a new world that she instinctively colors bright and positive. She drags a straight back chair beside the window that overlooks a typical New York street and resumes reading The Fountainhead. As she refreshes her mind and reviews the characters, Shelly wonders if any of Ms. Graber's other staff members, who reside in the same housing complex, will provide such complex character traits.  According to an employee contact sheet, the staff members are: 

    Kenny, Video management
    Vivi Anne, Telephone and Filing
    Josephina, Personal Projects
    Juiliana and Georgette, Day and Night Nurses
    Tony, Handyman
    Baby, Acquisitions
    George, Sales
    Digby, Driver

    Shelly's job title is Correspondence and Research. Ms. Graber lives in an apartment on Park Avenue, but her staff lives in a brownstone building that Ms. Graber owns in the Village, and Digby constantly transports the employees back and forth across town from the brownstone to Midtown.  Generally, Ms. Graber's office hours begin around 4:00 in the afternoon and end around 1:00 in the morning.  Of course, after the employees knock off at 1:00 a.m., Ms. Graber is up and busy until around dawn when she goes to bed. The irregular hours make for some confusion as to whether the night nurse is really the day nurse and vice versa. 

    Since the group essentially works a night shift, they have somewhat different tendencies and schedules than most New Yorkers, but to say they are different is an understatement. Each one of the employees was hired because of their own eccentricities and perhaps because only a burgeoning eccentric could work for a true eccentric. To say that Ms. Graber is an eccentric is the understatement of the century. 

    Why Shelly was hired, remained a mystery to her - perhaps just desperation to fill a needed position. Shelly had heard that Ms. Graber was on the bizarre side, but she had heard this from Melanie's realtor who had never actually seen Ms. Graber, nor had she ever met anyone who had actually seen Ms. Graber.  Furthermore, every employee of Ms. Graber's signed a non-disclosure contract when they began their service.  So, if any bizarreness leaked out it was a true overflow of craziness that was impossible to conceal.

    Shelly moved her belongings into the brownstone on a Friday afternoon and began to meet her co-workers over the weekend, and in doing so began to get a feel for Ms. Graber's world. While these experiences were telling, nothing could ever compare to the actual experience of meeting the real Ms. Graber. 

    On Monday afternoon around 3:30 pm Digby drove Shelly, Georgette, Vivi Anne, Baby, Kenny and George from the employee residence to Ms. Graber's residence on Park Avenue.  The six oddballs got into the limousine as if they were as were going to a meeting on Wall Street. Digby stopped the car in front of Ms. Graber's tony address where her workers exited the car, marched through the majestic lobby, and packed into the small elevator.

    As the doors of the elevator opened on the fifth floor, the crew exited the elevator into Ms. Graber's grand apartment. The entry hall was filled with classic late 18th and early 19th century antiques and featured an imposing staircase parting the formal living areas.  Exquisite French porcelain art decorated the generally American furnished rooms in what should have been an inspirational arrangement, but the beautiful furnishings, including the lavish fabric of the massive draperies presented a dull, lifeless impression.  Clearly, the rooms had not been used in some time, and were dark and spooky.  Shelly looked twice a marble bust looming on a stand in the dim light -- was it a ghost?

    "Shelly, follow me up here. Ms. Graber wants me to bring you to her first thing," states Vivi Anne pointing to the marble staircase.

    "Should I bring my coat, or leave it down here?" asks Shelly.

    "Bring it up the stairs. We all work on the second floor." 

    At the top of the stairs, George and Baby turned left and Georgette, Kenny, Vivi Anne and Shelly headed right down a hallway. Shelly was awed could barely walk for staring.  At the top of the stairs the world swiftly turned from fine furnishings with a dead affect to worn, dirty and possibly fine-quality appointments but because everything was so haggard that it was difficult to tell. For instance, the wall featured paintings that looked substantive but were hung crooked, looked precarious and were cared for like they were worthless.  Shelly dragged her feet along the once dark pink carpet that was soiled and threadbare looked like it belonged in a shelter. Entering the bedroom of Ms. Graber caused Shelly to gasp out loud.

    Ms. Graber was enormous and perched in the middle of a mammoth satin covered bed. She wore big, square, gold glasses and had short, teased ‘n sprayed, sandy brown hair that was smushed and dented from sleep. Her attire consisted of a lavender polyester nightgown with spaghetti straps that was worn over a dingy white bra. Both garments looked like they had been on Ms. Graber's body for many, many days. Under the gown she wore pink and yellow flowered pajama bottoms that were visibly ripped at the crotch -- one might guess the rip was from excessive scratching.

    Ms. Graber stops sucking on a lollipop, smiles, and reveals that she has no teeth, "Oh, that's right. It's Shelly Hanson day. Great. Shelly come sit by me and I'll tell you what I want you to do for me. First, let me get Kenny and Vivi Anne started." 

    Shelly forces her legs to cooperate and against its natural judgment she forces her body to move toward the bed and sit on the bedspread covered in hair shed from some type of white animal.  The smell in the room is wretched and Shelly wants to vomit and run.

    "Kenny, I watched the "Golden Girls", "60 Minutes" and "Murder, She Wrote", but I didn't finish "Rosanne" or "LA Law". What I want you to find out is when the "A-Team" will be rerun. I haven't seen that show since it went off almost two years ago, and I loved it. There was a commercial that said it was showing somewhere. Today, in addition to taping the regular shows, I want you to watch those other three tapes I gave you and see if you can find the advertisement that says when the "A-Team" will show again." 

    Ms. Graber leans her rolled, stiff hair-sprayed hair back onto her satin pillow and inhales deeply through her nose and closes her eyes. Shelly looks worriedly at the nurse, Georgette, and hopes she will intervene.

    Georgette has been reviewing papers sitting on a desk by the bed that look to be charts, presumably about Ms. Graber's physical health.

    "Mrs. G, do you think you need a Percocet?  Are the Fentanyl pops working?  Juiliana noted that she changed your Duragesic patch before you went to bed this morning. Let me check to see if you are getting a rash." 

    Georgette separates the fat from Ms. Graber's left arm and left breast and digs in the rolls of skin for the pain patch and corresponding rash.

    "Yes, Georgie, get me a Percocet. I've got a big night ahead of me and don't need this pesky pain. Now, on to you Miss Shelly Hanson. Tell me about yourself." Mrs. Garber directs her attention to Shelly, who is trying to hide any sign of disgust she might be showing.

    "Well, my name is Shelly Lynch, and I graduated from Vanderbilt University in December with a degree in art history and English. I moved into your apartment building on Friday and have met everyone else who works here.  I think I have a vague idea about what everyone does. However, I am still not exactly certain what you do, and of course, I not want to be presumptuous and ask something that is none of my business." 

    Ms. Graber pushes her obese body back toward the headboard of the bed and says, "Good."

    Kenny was busy adjusting the four television sets in the room and fiddling with the various controls on the VCRs. 

    "Kenny, darling, I reviewed the TV Guide and have circled my choices.  Tonight I want you to tape McGuyver at 8, Murphy Brown at 9, Designing Women at 10 and Newhart at 10:30.  I'm going to try to watch all those shows in real time, but Shelly and I have work to do and I am getting a manicure at 10, so, I will be distracted. At the 9:30 break I want you to have last weeks "Moonlighting" cued up with the commercials cut and I'll watch it on #2."

    Kenny nods in understanding and exits the room with his wavy hair drooping down under his baseball cap and his Def Leppard t-shirt hanging over his baggy jeans.

    "Shelly, be a dear, and run get Tony. Tell him I want to talk to him about building a cabinet for my Tira Lira's," dictates Ms. Graber.

    Shelly walks to what must have been a bedroom at some point and is now one of two offices for the nine people Ms. Graber employees to maintain her eccentric lifestyle.  Tony is dispensed and Vivi Anne asks Shelly, "You look like you've seen a ghost. Was that your first time seeing Ms. G?" 

    Shelly nods and starts to open her mouth as if to ask how it was possible that Ms. Graber was such a beast, but she can't form the words and instead stands in front of Vivi Anne with mouth gaping and her head shaking slowly back and forth in a "no" motion.

    "How much do you know about Ms. Graber?" questions Vivi Anne. 

    "I got this job by talking to my old boss’ realtor who knew Baby.  Baby works with the realtor and told her that Ms. Graber needed a new assistant. I talked to Baby on the telephone and met her when she came to the Hamptons this summer.  I talked to Ms. Graber on the telephone once. I just wasn't prepared for such a...a..."

    Vivi Anne jumps in, "Let's go have some dinner and I'll fill you in."

    At Jin Phong restaurant around the corner from Ms. Graber's apartment, Vivi Anne and Shelly slide into a booth and order hot tea, dumplings and an order of Moo Shoo Pork. Vivi Anne gets busy explaining the weird woman who is their employer and the extenuating circumstances surrounding her odd environment.

    "I know it's hard to believe, but Ms. Graber was once as skinny as a rail and thoroughly glamorous. Her grandfather was the founder of Lenoil Petroleum, and her father expanded the business he inherited and also bought various sugar companies abroad. When Ms. Graber's parents died in the late 1960's Ms. Graber, whose first name is Louise, was a popular debutante and a fashionable girl-about-town. She had lots of boyfriends and was photographed in newspapers and magazines. When we get back to the apartment, I'll show you some of her scrapbooks."

    Shelly says, "You are kidding?  I can't believe that woman, who must weigh close to 400 pounds was once a glamorous-puss. What happened?  Why doesn't she have any teeth?" 

    Vivi Ann chokes on a fried wonton, "I'm fine. I forget how shocking Mrs. G must appear as I have worked for her for over 12 years, and while I do see that she is getting bigger and bigger, it doesn’t always register with me. Also, her teeth have only started to fall out in the past four or five years.  Did you notice that she always sucks on those lollipops?" Shelly nods yes, and Vivi Anne continues, "Well, they are morphine suckers to dispense pain medicine for her Fibromyalgia.  She sucks on them constantly and the sugar has rotted her teeth.  Part of my job is to order the lollipops for Georgette and Juiliana and each one of those babies costs $11 a piece.  She eats about ten a day. One day I calculated that she spends $30,000 a year on lollipops! That doesn't count the patch or the pills.

    "Anyway, Ms. G is plagued by Fibromyalgia and its accompanying pain.  For years, she has had Cortisone-steroid shots that have caused her to blow-up like a balloon.  She never sees any of her friends. She talks to them constantly on the telephone, but she never actually sees them.  Society reporters call her too, but she truly never sees anyone. She knows everybody's personal business and who is in love with whom, and what everyone wore and is going to wear to the big parties. Heck, she even pays for the big parties, but she never goes. She always says something like 'Doll, I'm not feeling too good today.' or she lies, 'I am going to be Palm Beach and can't make it.'  I was offered $3,000 by a reporter from the Wandering Eye to give him a current photograph of her. I told Ms. G about the offer and she thanked me for telling her and gave me a hefty bonus.  I figured it would take about two seconds for her to figure out that I was the leak, and $3,000 isn't worth my job or any of the other nice perks you get from working for Ms. G. She may be laid-up in the bed and jacked-up on morphine, but she's as smart as a tack and knows EVERYthing that goes on in her house, her city and most of the world.  Don't ever try to put one over on her. She'll fire you in a minute -- and wrap you up in a lawsuit."

    Shelly muses on the paradox of the enormous, dirty lady with no teeth, ostensibly lying in her own filth, as a young, active, pert and socially desirable icon.  Night and day.

    "Did she inherit all her money? I've asked a couple of times about her line of business and never really gotten an answer.  Is there any income or does she just spend?"  asks Shelly. 

    "Well, as I said, her parents and grandparents were extremely wealthy, and left her, what I guess is alot of money. I know that in addition to some heavy bank accounts that part of her estate includes some really nice houses in Palm Beach, Charleston, Snowmass, the Adirondacks, an apartment in Paris and who knows what else. Those are just the houses that I have heard mentioned. I am positive that she owns much more real estate because that is Baby's job, managing all the properties. Lots of the houses are rented because Ms. G never visits them.  She tells people that she is going to visit them as an excuse to beg off of attending a party, but she never goes. Then, her friends call her up and ask to borrow them, and Ms. G usually lets them if nobody is renting them. I have seen pictures of the Palm Beach house and it's massive -- a real mansion. Actually, I saw photos of the Charleston Plantation too, and it's gorgeous.  She donated a weeklong stay at the plantation for a MOMA silent auction and the winners sent some pictures with a thank-you note. Apparently, there is a guy named Joe Penderick who manages the plantation. He's a cutie.  Not much older than you. Maybe you'll meet him some day. Find a way to get Ms. G to send you on a Charleston errand!"

Day by day Shelly becomes more acclimated and accepting of the eccentric behavior of Ms. Graber that includes hours upon hours of "research".  Ms. G prides herself on accuracy and Shelly spends hours each day researching random facts like how many automobiles can fit in one train car; does one 75 watt light bulb last longer than three 25 watt bulbs, how many babies are born in India each year; are first cousins allowed to marry in Utah, and Shelly spends countless hours locating phone numbers of celebrities and feeding lawyers various tidbits essential information for inessential lawsuits that Ms. Graber files. Ms. Graber has elaborate telephone relationships with Phyllis Diller, Carol Channing and several other older actresses.  Again, Ms. G never sees any of these people, but she talks on the phone to them all day, or really, all night.

One day about a year after Shelly began working for Ms. G, Shelly announces to Baby and Josephina, "I am going to the library to find out about the history of pretzels-- Ms. G's curiosity of the day. We've already melted her pearls in vinegar, and by the way, it is true that vinegar will melt pearls.  I saw it for myself  -- Ms. G's Mikimoto's disappeared. God, it's insane how much money is wasted around here!  So, in order to continue the tradition, I'm off to spend valuable time researching more useless facts.  At any rate, I was wondering if either of you need me to do anything for you while I'm out."

Baby suddenly remembers a chore, "Yes, it would be nice if you could deliver this key and folder of information about the Charleston plantation to Mr. Frank Thompson at Madison and 72nd. The actual address is on the envelope. Mr. Thompson is in the city today and will be going to Charleston in the morning to look at the plantation. Ms. G said she might sell it to him.  I was going to ask Digby take it over, but if Digby can drop you, he won't have to park and will save himself an hour."

Digby drives Shelly to Madison and she enters Mr. Thompson's building expecting to drop the key and folder with the doorman, but instead is directed up to Mr. Thompson's apartment.  Mr. Thompson himself opens the door and visually digests Shelly's womanly features as if he were viewing the original Madame X. 

"I work for Ms. Graber and was asked to bring you this key and folder for her Charleston plantation," Shelly factually states as she holds the envelope for Mr. Thompson to accept. However, he just stares at her and does not take the envelope. Shelly shakes the envelope in a way that insists Mr. Thompson take it from her hands. He receives the envelope and begins to put his hand on Shelly's shoulder as if to guide her into his apartment as he says, "Please come in. I want to send Ms. Graber a note. Will you be so kind as to take it to her?" 

Shelly's first instinct is to retreat from his touch, but after hearing that he only wants her to continue in her role as employee, she agreeably accepts his touch as a rare gentlemanly courtesy in the fast-paced world of Manhattan. "Most certainly," agrees Shelly as she enters the apartment and remains in the entry hall.

"Please. Come, sit down while I find some stationary," say Mr. Thompson.

Shelly sits on the chintz, down-filled chair and sinks into elegance as she gazes around the tastefully decorated room.  Mr. Thompson returns and sits at a desk to write his note.  As he writes, he pauses to look at Shelly as if in deep thought.  Shelly feels him looking at her and tries to avert the attention by asking about a painting.

"Who is the artist of that painting?" 

Mr. Thompson looks at the room and the furnishings that he has never really considered and locates the painting in question. He looks from the painting to Shelley and with an up-turned chin, he cocks his head and softy delivers hard words "Hell if I know. My wife and her decorator are in charge of paintings. I am sure, however, that it cost me alot of money and that at a minimum the decorator took at least a 20% cut of the over-inflated price." 

Shelly is unsure how to respond to Mr. Thompson's assertion. His eyes are still fixed on her after his incongruent statement and voice tone. She gives a tight, closed mouth smile and nods in acknowledgement to Mr. Thompson's plight.

Still staring and seemingly contemplating Shelly, Mr. Thompson ventures, "Shelly, this is a hasty decision, but I get a good feeling about you, and I am in a difficult situation. My office is located in Massachusetts, and usually when I have meetings in the city I bring a lawyer or an accountant or a project manager, but I do not have a general administrative staff person in the city.  I will be in town working on a deal quite a bit during the next month or two.  Is there any chance I could hire you to help me on a short-term basis?  Basically, I need someone to help me set-up meetings and dinners for a group of Japanese venture capitalists who are looking into buying some buildings from me.  They are a needy lot and my people at headquarters are tied-up with other projects and duties.  It would be great to have someone leading the schedule for these guys.  It wouldn't be a full time job, so it would not interfere with your work with Ms. Graber, I don't believe, but it might put some extra change in your pocketbook. I'll pay you $50 an hour, and you can bill me weekly.  What do you say? I know it's sudden, and you don't know me or my business, but if I were in your situation, and had about ten extra hours a week, I would accept my proposition." 

Shelly is flattered that she made a good impression and was excited by an extra $500 a week for what sounded like easy and interesting work. Mr. Thompson was obviously a successful businessman and he said that if he were in her shoes he would take the job.

"Uh, at the risk of sounding impulsive and not doing my homework, I want to say yes to your offer. Here is my phone number."

Shelly felt like the hours she spent researching little known facts to satisfy Ms. Graber's morphine directed education were a colossal waste of time and that professionally she was nowhere and was on a fast train going to next-to-nowhere. At the worst, this job with Mr. Thompson couldn't be any bigger a waste of time than working for Mrs. G, and hopefully, it could lead to something better. At a minimum, the Japanese investors might not be as hideous looking as the obese, toothless Mrs. G.

Shortly before Soap Opera Sunday becomes Monday, here's Chapter 7.

SOS, as always, is hosted by Brillig and Kateastrophe.

If you are just tuning in and want to read the work from the beginning, go to the sidebar at the right, click Soap Opera Sunday and get yourself up to speed.  Chapters 1-7 are in reverse order.

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Shelly moved in with Lee and AE and immediately began to separate from the two beauty queens in physical appearance and in philosophy.  Not that Shelly had ever been much of a make-up wearer or hair-curler, but now she philosophically opposed the idea of painting herself in a way to court attention and subjugation from the opposite sex. In fact, the opposite sex seemed like an invitation for trouble to Shelly.

"Wear your white net shirt with the paisleys and the ribbed leggings. Here, accessorize with these silver bracelets with that red hang-y belt, " directs AE whose own style is ironically less progressive than current fashion.

The pageant world keeps AE accentuating the positive, her small waist and long legs, and avoiding the en vogue long torn t-shirts and belts that hang on the hips as opposed to cinching the waist.  Shelly acknowledges the kindness of AE's suggestion, but she harbors a small resentment to AE's charity when Shelly feels as if her own style is more unique and fashionable than AE's dictated version of 1984.

"I think I'm going to wear the red, corduroy jumpsuit and espadrilles because it's comfortable, and it's not too flashy.  I want the admissions director to think I am serious, and the bracelets and net shirt will make her think I just left the dance floor." 

Of course, Shelly, in fact, had just left the dance floor.  Life, for a high school senior in a suburban town was somewhat confining and Shelly's unconscious plan was to integrate into big city culture. Shelly's direct means of integration were frequenting cosmopolitan dance clubs at night and wandering in art galleries and museums by day.  Only a teenager could maintain the strenuous schedule of attending school, and excelling with high grades, working two part-time jobs, and dancing all night.  However, for a college interview, Shelly wisely decided to present herself as a reasonable teenager as the stakes were high, and she could not afford to blow-up the only bridge she saw as an exit in a war in which she had fought all her life.

Little did Shelly know that the new war on the other side of the bridge would be a harder fight than all the years spent in the midst of Judalou's insanity and instability.  The war would be over with one brutal fight worse than all the cumulative battles of the past seventeen years of Shelly's life. The effect of the one nasty battle would also be worse than any scar Judilou ever left, but if the battle were traced back, it would be Judilou's fault in the end.  Her awareness and guidance could have prevented the ultimate jab that would change Shelly forever.

The interview went well, and Shelly entered Vanderbilt College in 1985. The four years came and went for Shelly, as she gave her schoolwork moderate consideration and kept a decent grade point average. In comparison to other college students Shelly's college schedule and responsibilities were incredibly burdensome, as in addition to handling her course work, she worked as a waitress in a local restaurant and as a babysitter for one of her professors who had a handicapped child.  Shelly was paying for most of her college with student loans and scholarships, but she also had to generate income to pay for her dinky room in a hovel called off-campus student housing.

Summer jobs were important to Shelly's financial bottom line, and she could not afford a low-paying campus job, much less the unpaid internships her friends were taking at newspapers, magazines and advertising firms. However, employers who paid well did not want to hire a college student who could only work for three months. Shelly came to understand this after a period of futile interviews her freshman summer. She still had the waitressing job, which she kept year-round for four years, and tips at Dos Amigos were decent enough to hold her commitment, but during the summer she needed a full-time job that paid more than babysitting. 

During the school year, in addition to working at Dos Amigos, Shelly worked for Vanderbilt as a conference assistant and was responsible for serving as a hostess to visiting groups as well as handling pre-arrival and post-departure duties to ensure successful conferences.  The job was easy in comparison to the physically demanding work of waitressing. The problem was that Shelly made $4.10/hour, and to pay for her living expenses, she could not afford to work for $4.10 all summer.  Shelly's true nature was quiet, thoughtful and worked in slow motion, but the "live or die" edict facing her every day that required her to stay afloat without emotional or financial support from a family forced her to become bold, lively and fierce. These traits may sound like good qualities for a person to affect, and certainly might be good characteristics to hone, but the traits were antithetical to Shelly's nature, and the twisted emotional mess that struggled against Judilou's oddness for years became more twisted with each forced affectation.

    Shelly ventured out of Vanderbilt's self-professed 323 contiguous acres, designated as a national arboretum, where students live among ancient magnolias, sweeping lawns, and buildings that balance Victorian dignity with high-tech elegance, and with her bold and lively fierceness took on the historic James Dubaque Hotel in Nashville.  From a second-hand store Shelly bought a business suit, complete with padded shoulders and black pumps and presented herself to the hiring wench at the hotel. Saying she had completed one year of college and was dropping out for financial reasons, Shelly convinced the human resource director that she was ready for a career in hotel management.

"School is great and all, but I like working more than studying," Shelly lied to the interviewer.  "I see myself using the knowledge I gained during my successful one year at Vanderbilt and using it to rise in the hotel industry."

Sensing that Shelly had intelligence beyond that of the local Nashville high school graduate that applied for jobs at the James Dubaque Hotel, the director, Mr. Simms decided to hire Shelly as a full-time front desk receptionist with the grand salary of $6.50/hour.

"Girl, you better use those bright eyes and fast mind to make the guests happy because I am hiring you over Edith Barker and she has a family to feed," Mr. Simms said out loud.

After Shelly handled numerous dicey situations at the hotel and worked like her life depended on it (because it did), Mr. Simms quickly rewarded Shelly by moving her to the position of Acting Concierge. Actually, the manager was in a bind and desperately needed a concierge. The manager fully expected the situation to be temporary because he assumed Shelly would not be qualified to handle the job. However, arranging the tedious details of reservations and calming the hysterical tyrants called guests was a piece of cake for Shelly, as her standard of comparison was six hours of hoisting heavy trays of margaritas on to the top of her shoulder and serving sizzling platters of fajitas.  The summer wore on and Shelly arranged limousines, tours and babysitters without a hitch. The only real trial was in late August when Shelly had to conjure a fake emotional display as she falsely confessed to Mr. Simms that she had changed her mind about dropping out of college and would be quitting her job to resume her sophomore year at Vanderbilt. 
After three summers of securing fulltime jobs in May as she pretended she was dropping out of school and feigning despair as she quit in August, Shelly was really good at getting jobs, but she had also exhausted all the hotel employers in Nashville. So when she came across a nanny job in Scarsdale, New York that was tacked to the Vanderbilt Alumni Jobs bulletin board, Shelly decided that this might be the way out of the growing-smaller Nashville and oppressive squalor of her rat-trap student flop house.  With a bachelor's degree in art history, Shelly was qualified for little else.

"Over the phone the woman sounds friendly, and even if she doesn't hire me, I’ll have gotten a free trip to New York," Shelly rambles to her roommate, Cynthia Rowland.  "I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon and will be back Monday afternoon. So, I'm missing a Friday and Saturday night worth of tips at Dos Am's.  This Melanie woman better hire me if I've given up at least $100!" 

Cynthia is excited for her friend Shelly because she has witnessed the unending hours upon hours of work that Shelly has done over the past three years to keep herself fed and sheltered. Cynthia's father owns a shipping company in Ohio and while he has plenty of money to pay for college, he and Mrs. Rowland are fairly disconnected from Cynthia, as she has not lived in their house for the past ten years.  Two years for seventh and eighth grade at the Andrews School in Ohio, four years of high school at the Millbrook School in New York and four years at Vanderbilt has made Cynthia into an independent soul who is solely motivated by achieving good grades.  Making the grade is the only way Cynthia has of gaining recognition from her parents or from anyone else for that matter. Cynthia works diligently from early morning to evening to keep up with all the reading and assignments in her classes.  She is not particularly intelligent, but the learned organization and adherence to schedules qualifies Cynthia to own the Phi Beta Kappa key.

Shelly and Cynthia's friendship operates without many glitches, but it has little depth, and the depth that it does have is gained from the culmination of time afforded by four years of living together and being polite to one another. On parents weekend Freshman year and on Easter sophomore year and at the beginning of junior year Mr. & Mrs. Rowland visited Vanderbilt from Ohio and took Cynthia and Shelly to dinner at the Nashville City Club, a private membership club that when only used once a year makes for an expensive dinner.  Actually, Cynthia had made use of the membership twice before, once on the occasion of Shelly's birthday and once for dinner before a formal dance when the girls took their Sadie Hawkins Dance dates to dinner.  As far as friends, Cynthia, by default, was Shelly's best friend. Of course, AE was still in the picture, but she lived in Santa Barbara as she had traded Texas pageants for California acting.

Cynthia drove Shelly to the Nashville airport where Shelly flew off in a new direction -- Scarsdale, New York where she was greeted by a driver who whisked her away from JFK Airport to Scarsdale and to the home of Melanie and Jack Greenberg and their children, Devin (4) and Charlie (8 months). The Greenberg home was located in the centrally situated Heathcote area, specifically in Murray Hill, the neighborhood containing the community's most expensive residences, ranging from $1 million to $2 million in 1988 dollars.

The driver stops in front of the Greenberg house and takes Shelly's bags to the door.  Shelly follows, mistakenly thinking that the driver is employed by the Greenberg's and not by the car service. When the driver does not ring the bell, Shelly stares at him in silenced confusion that is interrupted by Melanie's quiet opening of the door.

The mammoth glass and wooden door glides open without a sound and Melanie's tiny body is slowly revealed first by her widely opened green eyes, then by her black, mid-length wavy hair that occupies a large amount of space in comparison to her body, and finally by her expensively and fashionably clothed body.  Melanie wears heavy knit black, straight pants and a long black cable-knit cashmere sweater that extends to her mid-thighs and black, hard, highly polished, lace-up ankle boots. Shelly drinks in Melanie's look and can't understand what makes the simple black pants and sweater look so magnificent -- the fact that the outfit cost upward of $2,000 does not register in Shelly's mind.  Wearing the Laura Ashley dress she borrowed from Cynthia, Shelly looks the part of a sweet and concerned nanny, which makes an impression on Melanie.

"Come in," Melanie oozes in a mellow voice as she takes a folded $20 secretly tucked in her hand and simultaneously makes contact with the driver's hand and unconsciously guides him away from the house with her hand. 

Shelly stands in the entry hall and tries to comprehend the decor of the house. It's very dark with all the windows covered by yards of raw silk drapes and the unpainted woodwork that is dark and accented by olive green, mustard and brown appointments.  The art is striking, harsh and unhappy as it features heavy, jagged metal contrasted against soft ivory porcelain. Shelly's gut reaction to the art is that Melanie must have been gullible enough to believe an overrated art dealer's highbrow opinion of what constitutes art. In actuality, Melanie was emotionally moved by the art as it speaks to her present physical position in the world, Scarsdale, and her present state of mind, trapped in the rat race of social schedules and expectations. 

"I am so glad you were able to come this weekend even though it must be troubling to make an additional trip when you must be getting ready for Spring Break. Are you going skiing or to the beach?  May I offer you some lavender infused lemonade?" asks Melanie.

"Oh, uh, well, yes, I would like a glass of, um, the lemonade you said, and I'm not actually going anywhere for Spring Break," Shelly says as she makes hasty mental plans on how to disguise the fact that she can't afford to take a trip for Spring Break, but instead plans to work double shifts at Dos Amigos, nor does she have a home to which she can retreat and "hang out" like her friends.

"I am a double major in art history and English and have to write an intense paper, so, I am going to stick around Nashville to be near the library and finish the paper and review some slides," lies Shelly.

"Wow, you are more diligent than I was when I was at Vanderbilt. I have some great, although hazy, memories of Aspen during Spring Break. My friend's father loaned us his house every March. In fact, that is where I met my husband, Jack, on my senior Spring Break. He was working for Takeco Oil, and it was his first job.  He brought some guys out to the big Takeco company house, and my friends and I met he and his friends on the slopes. It was a glorious week, and we were married that next spring. I really wanted to have my wedding in Aspen, but our life was really in New York, and it only made sense to have the wedding in the City."

Shelly gazes around the modern kitchen and makes note of the various contraptions and high-style of the design.  Through the French doors off the breakfast room she sees a little girl playing in the backyard.
"That's Devin, the girl in question. Come on, I'll introduce you," says Melanie as she straightens the twisted-stem glassware she has placed on a tray to serve visitors the unique sounding but bad tasting lavender infused lemonade.

Setting down the awkward, large glass of lemonade Shelly follows Melanie into the backyard wonderland that is complete with a hedge maze, three-tiered sandbox shaped like a flower and full-scale gymnastic equipment nestled into a sparkly, green, rubbery surface designed to break a fall.

"Watch me! Watch me!" screams an excited little girl with dark, short hair and bangs and a skinny body. 

The girl tries to hang upside down and attempt a back flip, but her hand slips and she falls. Standing up, the child yanks up the waist of her pants and balls her fists in anger. 

"I can't do it! I am stupid! " screeches Devin as she begins to spin into a tirade and rip flowers off the stems.

"God, Devin, why can't you get that? You have been working on it for a week. Stop ruining the flowers!!! Time out! Time Out!  Go sit in the corner! RIGHT NOW!" Melanie drags the little girl by the arm into the house. Shelly is horrified at how cold and mean Melanie was to the child. 

Melanie comes back outside and says,

"She needs to sit in the corner on the Bad Chair for four minutes - one minute for each year. Our discipline theory is to act swiftly and consistently every time. Can you handle that?  I can't afford to miss one discipline opportunity or Devin will never learn to monitor herself and the Scarsdale schools are so difficult. Education is the central theme in Scarsdale and the students are highly competitive and score well on national tests and all typically get into good colleges.  Heck, they should do well because they come from very supportive homes where education is highly valued.  Sometimes I worry that there is too much pressure," laments Melanie.

"Right," thinks Shelly.

The two women go into the house to find Devin screaming and banging her head against the wall.  Shelly wants to walk out the door and leave the insanity, but the desperate site of the tormented little girl with the seemingly emotionally unsuited mother triggers a sense of duty and evokes the impulse that moves Shelly to grab the little girls arms and wrap them around the girl's tiny body and hold her tightly as she rocks her and repeats, "It's ok. It's all right.  You're fine." 

Instead of accepting the warmth and assurance that Shelly offers, Devin turns up the intensity of her tantrum and begins to flail her arms and hit Shelly.

"Devin, goddamnit, SIT DOWN and put your nose in that corner.  Shelly, you may not offer positive energy to this negative behavior. Think about it.  It makes no sense to reward bad behavior, or the bad behavior will continue," lectures Melanie, whose wavy hair has come loose from its enameled barrette.

Leaving Devin sniffling in the corner, Melanie composes herself and leads Shelly up the grand staircase to the guest room. Relative to the house, the bedroom is small and just short of being surreal, mostly because of the high density of fine objects per square inch, and also because the tone of the room is somewhat spooky with the presence of over-ornate, glittery Victorian angels.  The tall, carved, intensely fluffy bed is fitted into a corner and is covered with pillows made from grand, rich fabrics.  An impressive stepping stool stands beside the bed and a fine, museum quality Hook desk sits against the wall and holds a rare, silver pen set and blotter, several sterling silver and jewel encrusted picture frames, and a pair of porcelain candlesticks.  The wall is adorned with a huge painting of an18th century lady.

"This is a stunning painting," admires Shelly.

"It's a Reynolds painting called Portrait of Mary Wordsworth, Lady Kent," states Melanie.

"Wait, do you mean Sir Joshua Reynolds?  Is this an original painting?" asks Shelly.

"Yes, it is! I'm so glad you know your art. That's right, I remember you mentioned you were an art history major.  Ironically, I was an art major at Vanderbilt, and my current medium is jewelry," continues Melanie.

Shelly misses the comment about Melanie making jewelry as she is still focused on the fact that she will be sleeping in the room with an original Sir Joshua Reynolds painting. How much could that painting have cost? Shelly is relieved to dismiss her earlier worries that it was costing the Greenberg’s too much to pay for her airline tickets. Apparently, they could afford an airline ticket.

Refreshed and settled, Shelly makes her way downstairs and into the kitchen where she finds Devin coloring at the counter while a heavy Haitian woman holds a baby and stirs a boiling pot.

The woman says, "Oiy, mama, I hope you get this job because I need some help. I can't be cleaning this house and cooking this food and tending these babies all by myself." 

Shelly naturally goes to the woman and takes the baby who gratefully accepts her offer to hold and hug and him. 

"Are you Charlie?" coos Shelly. "I bet you are a sweet baby, aren't you.  Can you say 'hi'?  Hi, sweet Charlie," Shelly says as she gives the soft, warm baby a hug. 

Devin slyly stares at Shelly, "He poops in his diapers." 

Shelly moves closer to Devin in order to meet the need to be recognized that has been revealed.

"Babies are like that aren't they?  Big girls like us don't have those problems. Is that Big Bird you are coloring?  I like Big Bird."

Devin revels in the attention and begins to chatter nonstop about her likes and desires,

"I like Big Bird too. My mommy lets me watch television on Saturday and mornings. The television is in that cabinet in the den and it's bigger than the television in Esme's room. Esme gets to watch television any time she wants to, and when my mommy is gone at night Esme lets me go in her bed and watch the Wheel of Fortune.   That lady, Myrna, made $10 when she spinned the wheel!"

Melanie enters the room wearing long velvet pants, a gold lame, sleeveless top with a cowl neck and gigantic gold hoop earrings holding colored gems that slide back and forth along the wire of the hoop. In a hurried voice, Melanie says,

"All, especially you Shelly, I hate to leave you on your first night here, but Jack needs me to help him host a group of colleagues in the City tonight.  Oh, God, there is the driver. I have to blast out of here. Esme, fill Shelly in on the bedtime routine and give Charlie his medicine. Shelly, I'm sorry to leave you, but duty calls, you know how that is.  Devin, love, get to know Shelly, and we'll discuss it later. Love to all." 

With the toss of her head, Melanie grabs her rhinestone purse and flits out the door to the awaiting black car. 

All is quiet in the kitchen as the stunned group stares at each other. Finally, Esme says,

"Ching go-a, that lady tries to pretend she gonna stay here one night, and I know better. She ain't never stay here with these children, but you like it when Esme stay," points Esme.  Right, babies?"

Devin rushes to Esme and hugs her wide hips and says, "Esme, can we watch Wheel of Fortune?" 

Esme does a little dance, and says, "There is a party in my room in 15 minutes. We eating huevos and queso tonight!"  exclaims Esme.

"And popcorn, too!  Come on Shelly, let's go to Esme's room!"  says free and happy Devin.

The excited and relaxed party retires upstairs for a night of junk food and television.

Soap Opera Sunday has almost come and gone without my addition, but in the knick of time, here's Chapter 6. Maybe you will be interested to know that this might be the last time you read about Judilou.

SOS as always is hosted by Brillig and Kateastrophe.

If you are just tuning in and want to read the work from the beginning, go to the sidebar at the right, click Soap Opera Sunday and get yourself up to speed.  Chapters 1-6 are in reverse order.

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Chapter 6

The new move to Texas had Judilou stretching her creativity and recreating her existence yet one more time.  Ever the social butterfly or barfly, Judilou met C.A. and Ray in a bar in Florida. The middle aged men were having one last drink before they hit the road to return home to the famous Gilley's Bar in Pasadena, Texas.  Over several cocktails, well, twelve to be exact, but nobody was counting, Judilou learned that the bar needed some help in the office.  Judilou considered the mention of the open job to be a clear invitation for employment, enough to pack Marvin and Shelly into the Good Times van and drive across the country to Texas.

In a little rent house near t