Belabored Chapter 5: Bonny and David

     "Who, being loved, is poor?” – Oscar Wilde

            Tanya and Chuck took the baby to the playground yesterday. That’s another thing – I’ve got to stop calling her that. Poor child keeps reminding me she’s not a baby, she’s three and a half (that half really means a lot to her), goes to the potty all by herself, even picks out her own clothes.

 I’ll be 40 next month, and Jessica will almost certainly be my last child. It’s hard to let go of the concept of my own fertility. Makes me feel old. When I moan about it to Dave, he smiles and says he loves every wrinkle, something no woman wants to hear.

            The way Tanya tells it, Jess took off for the swings like a rocket the minute Tanya unhooked the straps on her car seat. I guess that’s when the diaper bag fell off the back seat, spilling its contents all over the grass. Oh, that’s right, I’m not supposed to call it that. Jess wants me to call it her “big girl bag” now that she’s out of diapers. Whatever. It still comes in handy to carry snacks and juice, and makes for a nice dumping ground to shove things in when I run out of room in my purse, which is most of the time.

Apparently, I neglected to remove the coin filled baby bottle Colleen Caspar gave me last Sunday for the pregnancy center’s fundraising drive. I stuffed it into Jess’s bag and forgot all about it. It must have rolled under the car or something, because when Chuck repacked everything, he didn’t see it. Dave and I went back to the park to search for it, but no luck. Some undeserving kid probably has a nice chunk of change in his piggy bank now. 
I'm so mad at myself. The pregnancy center works on a shoestring budget, and we could have used that cash, especially with Christmas just around the corner. Colleen had even stuffed some paper money in there.

            Dave says I have to let it go, and he’s right.

            “Earth to Bon. You in there, Bon?” my husband jumps into my reverie. I look up from the onions I’m slicing for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Don’t ask me why, but Dave loves creamed onions.

            “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, Hon. Just thinking about the baby bottle again. I know, I know. It’s over and done with, but still.”

            He smiles indulgently and starts cutting up the carrots I hand him. My husband’s the first to admit to being a consumer rather than creator of meals, but he’s more than willing to help out. We have some of our best conversations under the fluorescent light in our antiquated kitchen. It’s on Dave’s long to-do list to hang the new one I picked out, but given his level of handyman expertise, maybe I’m better off waiting.

Suddenly, I catch a distinct twinkle in his eye.

            “Dave Gullickson, what’s up with you?” I say with mock suspicion.

            “Oh, nothing that a kiss from a ravishing woman can’t get out of me,” he teases.

            “Oh, yeah? Well, if I see one, I’ll send her right over.”

            “Now, that’s enough of that, Mrs. Gullickson – oh, Lord, how I wish I could’ve given you a more normal name!”

            I agree, but I’ll never tell him that.

            “Listen, I took you for better or worse, for richer or poorer. If I had wanted a guy named ‘Smith,’ that’s who I’d have married. So let’s get off of the name subject and tell me what’s up with the Cheshire cat grin?”

            “Alright, alright, you wormed it out of me. It so happens that today was a banner day. I’m about to show you something that I have a feeling is gonna make you forget all about the pittance in that bottle. Now, all I need is that kiss so I can show you what I have in my pocket.”

            Every once in a while, I like to catch Dave off guard. I know he won’t expect me to lunge at him with my eyes full of onion tears. So that’s exactly what I do.

                                                                        ***

“Whoa, woman, give a guy a chance to protect himself!” I snort when she grabs for the letter. Actually, it’s a “paid in full” hospital bill for a longstanding debt she incurred before we were married. When she reads it, she breaks down in tears – real tears, not from the onions – and hugs me so hard I almost disgrace myself.

            The bill goes back to when Tanya was five or six. The poor kid had broken her arm and needed surgery to have it set right. Bon’s insurance has always been lousy, and she still owed almost two grand when I married her. I’m not Sir Galahad, but I try to do what’s right. Getting Bonny out of debt comes under that category.

            “Oh, Dave, what a great Thanksgiving present!  I’m so glad this is where we were headed!” she squeals as I kiss the top of her head. That’s something I do often, since I’m 6’2” to her 5’7”.

            She’s referring, of course, to the unforgettable conversation we had the night she asked me to marry her. You heard that right. Bonny’s no shrinking violet, and she knows what she wants. Oh, my lips popped the question, but Bon brought it to the table.

She opened the subject by asking coyly, “Dave, where are we headed?”

Her attempt at subtlety amused me, so I decided to tease her.

“Why, home, of course,” I responded with a rogue smile.
            “Dave Gullickson, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about!” she grumped, mock hitting me on the shoulder as she did so. That’s a mannerism I find endearing; I joke that she should find a support group to help her kick the habit.

I looked her right in the eye and said, “We’re heading for the altar. We both know that.”

She smiled, then frowned.

“What’s the matter, Bon?” I put to her. “I just asked you to marry me. Why doesn’t that make your day?”

“Oh, it does, Sweetie! Nothing’s the matter. It’s just, well, we’re not exactly setting the world on fire with our salaries. Are we gonna be able to make it with kids and all?”

I pulled her close – well, as close as the bucket seats in my 2005 Honda Civic would allow. I bought it new when I got out of college and landed my first real job in graphic design. It’s getting a little long in the tooth now.

“We’re gonna be fine,” I assured her. In the back of my mind, I was having a lot of the same reservations she was, but I knew we loved each other, and that would make penny pinching a little easier. I’m not one of those romantics who believes love conquers all, but neither do I think wealth makes for happiness. Too often, I’ve seen just the opposite. Look at Hollywood.

So we tied the knot, and part of the package in my mind was Tanya’s outstanding medical bill. I told Bon not to worry about it anymore, and took over the monthly payments she had been struggling to make. I added a little extra whenever I could, and after three and half years, the deed was done.

“Dave Gullickson, you are the sweetest, most wonderful man who ever walked the earth!” she crows as we continue prepping for Thanksgiving. As usual, I chop and she cooks. My idea of haute cuisine is my signature tuna salad, the secret ingredient being just the right amount of wine vinegar, but the girls don’t want to have that every night, so I humor them by pretending to enjoy the amazing meals Bon turns out. My jobs are things I can’t get into too much trouble with, like peeling potatoes and tearing up bread for stuffing.

“That’s what they tell me,” I say in response to her gushing. “So how was work today?”
“Oh, it was good. A little sad. A woman came in today with her husband. They’re

looking for hope ’cause they just found out their baby’s gonna be born disabled. May

 never walk. They don’t know where to turn, so they came to us.”

“Man, that is sad. I can’t imagine what we’d have done if that had happened with Jess.”

“Or Tanya, for that matter,” she reminds me.

“Oh, sure, of course, but I mean, I wasn’t around then, so I’m just thinking of Jess.”

“I know what you mean, Sweetie. Anyway, we referred them to some agencies that deal with their child’s disability and gave them a few pamphlets. We told them we can help them out with diapers and things like that, clothes even, if they need it. I don’t think they’re gonna take us up on our offer of counseling, not that we have much to say that could cheer them up at this point, but we just hope we can steer them away from abortion.”

“Y’know, Bon, I’d like to know what you could say to keep them from going that route. I mean, you know I'm not for it, but in all honesty, what a burden.”

“Well, the good thing is they’re religious. They attend a Catholic church and their priest actually sent them to us. Works out better when ministers don’t try to tackle these sorts of problems long term. They can’t be experts on everything, but this is all we do, day in and day out. We know who to connect them with, the mountains they’re gonna have to climb. We don’t just say, ‘Don’t abort; God doesn’t like that.’ We come alongside them and stick with them.”

This is Bon’s passion, but for me, it’s just part of our bread and butter. But I do know this: I meant what I said to Bon. I wouldn’t want to know how I’d react if something like this came my way. I consider myself a God-fearing man, but this is one trial I’m glad He didn’t see fit to send me.

I guess my eyes are starting to glaze over because Bonny changes the subject.

“Listen, let’s not talk about work. We have so much to be thankful for. Two healthy kids, a nice home, one less medical bill, thanks to my wonderful husband, good jobs where we make a difference – oops, there I go again, talking about work!”

“You do good work, Hon,” I reply, then turn my attention to hacking up celery for the stuffing. 

“No, Sweetie, it’s gotta be minced fine, like this. Remember how I showed you last year?” Bon says, smiling indulgently and taking the knife from my clumsy hands.