My father never remarried. Mom died when she was forty-nine. Grady was fifty-two.
Two years later a shift in the natural order of things was in the air. I knew it. Grady started taking baths. He stole my bottle of English Leather.
She was a waitress at Grady’s favorite greasy spoon. He sold a lot of Royal Crown Cola there. Her name was Ovaline, and she was a good ten years younger. Her hands were all over him.
I was sixteen and sick to my stomach. He never took us to the movies. He ate popcorn in the dark with Ovaline every Saturday. He never went to church with Mom. He attended Ovaline’s church every Sunday. I had just gotten my driver’s license and looked forward to dating. I could get the car on Friday nights, maybe.
The worst part for me was that Ovaline’s son was one year ahead of me in school. I sang in the choir. When I told Grady we were having a concert he had only one question.
“Was Ovaline’s son in the choir?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well. She wouldn’t be interested.”
And if Ovaline wasn’t going, then Grady wasn’t going.
The only problem with Ovaline’s son—whose name I have mercifully forgotten—was that his only interest in high school was banging girls in the back seat of his car. Of course, he didn’t want mommy and her new boyfriend intruding.
On the other hand, I had no private life. I had a public life with activities at church—not Ovaline’s church. My other favorites were Key Club, DeMolays and school choir. Nothing on her radar. In other words Grady was not a witness to my life.
My brothers, twenty-two and twenty-eight and still living at home, absolutely despised Ovaline. When Dad wasn’t around, all three of us would call her Ovaltine.
“After all,” one of them said, “Grandpa didn’t remarry after Grandma died.”
Grandpa died in the state mental hospital. I can’t say whether he was institutionalized over the lack of Grandma’s love or because he was always frigging crazy.
“Dad’s disrespecting Mother’s memory,” the other brother said.
It was too late to respect Mom, I thought, but kept to myself. He should have taken her to church or the movies or anywhere for that matter. It didn’t make any difference now.
The truth is this: he was unhappy when Mom was alive. He woke up early, went to work, came home late, ate supper, watched some Westerns on television and went to bed. He never smiled.
Now he was out among the living. Ovaline’s friends were Grady’s friends. They went on picnics in the park. They actually invited me along one time. I saw my father laugh.
Even at sixteen I acknowledged the pain of losing a wife after thirty-five years of marriage. It was none of my business why he was unhappy. Everyone had the innate right to laugh. I wanted him to be happy with a woman.
Just not with Ovaltine.