Keeper
My Brother's Wife's Keeper
FOR THE LIFE
of me, I never saw what she saw in him. Oh, my oldest brother, Bud, wasn’t stupid. You could say he had talent -- first chair French horn, reasonably accomplished piano player, although he never did finish memorizing Rhapsody in Blue -- you know, the United Airline’s theme song by George Gershwin.
But knowing how girls think?
My clearest recollection of his girl sense was when he and I were in high school and elementary school respectively. One of the few socially sanctioned events at our school was roller skating -- with clamp-on skates on the gymnasium’s hardwood floor. Somehow, he had managed to trip the girl he was skating with. She went down like a sack of potatoes!
By the time he circled back to assist her, she’d managed to assume a seated-on-bum position, legs splayed at 45 degrees, both hands rubbing her left knee through her dress.
Bud gallantly got down on one knee. “Are you all right?”
She looked up at him with a mixture of annoyance and pain. “It’s my leg.”
Bud instinctively reached for her leg, safely ensconced under her dress. “Here, let me have a look--”
To which her response was to brush him aside, get up in a huff, and skate off …
That’s why I was surprised, a few years later, when he came home from college driving Jackie’s Barracuda -- Jackie in tow. She was bright, engaging, had a personality -- so why was she with him?! I wouldn’t say I was smitten -- duly impressed, maybe …
* * *
Fast forward a year or two. Along with the rest of the clan, I sojourn to Canada to attend their wedding before they both take up teaching positions at Kingsway College -- he in music, she in English.
* * *
Further fast forward ten years. I’m now married to Faye with three kids. Bud and Jackie are divorced with three kids. His youngest is one day younger than my oldest.
They must have had kindly thoughts towards me, since they named their youngest, David.
Faye and I must have had kindly thoughts towards me, since we named our oldest son, David. This would complicate things down the road …
I take my David down to Florida while I pitch a hospital there on some software I had developed.
Jackie takes her three on a six-week cross-country drive to meet their relatives.
Quite by coincidence, we both end up domiciling at my folk’s place in Lakeland …
My David -- we call him DJ, short for David John -- bonds well with her David. We check out the Kennedy Space Center.
Jackie’s done a good job raising two daughters and a son alone.
Enter the power of poetry …
Our paths intersect for three days. I want to let her know I’m in her corner. Often it’s assumed that blood is thicker than water. I want her to know this isn’t the case -- if there are sides to be taken as to who wears the white hat -- her or my brother -- I won’t automatically be siding with Bud. How best to convey this …
She -- being an English teacher -- might get a kick out of poetic license.
I can’t just say, “You’re a good mom, stellar human being -- soldier on.” Too direct. There’s gotta be a way to convey how good, how stellar, in an oblique, but clearly understandable way. Maybe a backhanded compliment of some kind …
Too bad we didn’t meet up before
Under diff’rent circumstance.
You’re just the type of person
Who, if one gave half a chance,
Would undoubtedly develop
Into blossoming romance …
Or words to that effect …
I expected a heart-felt “Thanks for the thought” nod or note. Was totally unprepared for a response the very next day in similar meter and rhyme essentially saying --
What’s too bad about it?
It’s never too late …
Hmmm …
DJ and I were headed back to D.C. We wanted to get there in time for the 4th of July fireworks on the mall between the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol, right at the base of the Washington Monument -- always an extravaganza.
Jackie was planning to continue her journey to check out a few remaining relatives on her side of the family.
Since her next stop was near Daytona Beach, I suggested we caravan at least that far. She said she’d always wanted to go swimming on that beach at midnight.
Done deal.
She’d grown up in these parts, so I let her lead the way. DJ and I had swimsuits. Apparently, Jackie and clan didn’t.
I was shocked and awed seeing Jackie and her two daughters -- did I mention they were 14 and 16 -- Jennifer, the oldest, was a spittin’ image of Katherine Hepburn in her early days. Seeing the three of them strip down to T-shirts and underwear was a sight to behold! That, apparently, was only the prelim. Under a full moon, white turns transparent at the first splash of ocean spray … Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase: “frolicking good time!”
DJ looks at me to see if we should be embarrassed for them. I’d heard about West Coast liberals -- I simply shrugged and smiled. “When with Romans …” We tried not to ogle.
That night, we stayed in a motel room with two double beds -- Jackie and clan took one -- DJ and I took the other. After the kids were asleep, Jackie and I sit on the floor between the beds and talk. She thinks it’d be fun to see D.C., my wife, Faye, and let the kids meet their other two cousins. We have a trampoline and it seems consistent with her plan to have her kids meet their relatives.
The fireworks are fabulous. Faye has to work, so wishes us well. She can see invisible words being written on invisible walls -- how Jackie and I interact so freely -- the new-found sparkle in my eye.
To her credit, Faye doesn’t make a scene. She’s been seeing John, off and on now, for more than 10 years. Perhaps she feels a bit outclassed. If so, she holds her feelings in check -- even helps Jackie pack lunches for our tour of the town --
the monuments,
the Smithsonian,
a craft fair on the mall,
Tyson's Corner shopping center,
lunch on the Tidal Basin.
A good time is had by all --
but change is in the air.
After they leave, Faye and I sit down for “the talk.”
“Be honest,” I say. “I don’t make you happy. We tolerate each other, but that’s about it.
"Let’s do this: We’ll give us another year. Try counseling. If we can’t make each other happy after one year of really trying, let’s give each other the chance to find happiness elsewhere.”
She agrees.
We try. We really do.
Counseling is a bust. The only good thing is the temporary feeling of togetherness each time we leave the counselor's office -- like how one feels after being trapped in an elevator with someone for an hour and a half …
I’ve been working on a patient verification system for Care First - a Baltimore HMO. Lately, several West Coast HMOs have expressed interest.
It’s time.
I tell my boys I have to go out west to market my software -- don’t know how long it’ll be.
Kids take things at face value. They say, “OK," and promptly go back to jumping on the tramp.
There’s nothing more to say.
Three days later, I’m in Paradise -- Paradise, California, that is.
My nieces and nephew are glad to see me. To them, I’m good ol’ Uncle Dave -- fun-loving, pizza-eating -- what’s not to like.
To Jackie, I’m hope -- someone to share the burden of raising two teenage daughters and an up-and-coming son. She seems excited to show me around.
Paradise isn’t much -- one road runs through the town. I don’t think I see so much as a single traffic light.
Used to be a gamblin’ town -- Pair-of-Dice was the original moniker. Over time, civic-minded citizens clean up its image and update the spelling of “Pair-of-Dice” to “Paradise.”
Jackie wants me to see where she works -- a surprisingly neat and modern nursing home where she’s the administrator’s assistant. It doesn’t have that nursing-home smell, although patients in wheelchairs still list to one side, moaning loudly.
She shows me her office -- it has an outer room for people to sit while waiting to see the administrator. A door separates her office from people waiting. They have to come through her office to get to the inner sanctum -- her boss’s office.
She sits me in her chair, saying she’ll be right back, then leaves. I hear the door to the hallway latch.
Next thing I know, she’s poking her head around the door from the waiting room.
I’m a bit of a shutterbug. She’s got a bit of a conspiratorial smile on her face as she grabs one side of the door jamb with both hands--
I aim and shoot.
Still looking through the viewfinder with one eye -- my other squinted shut -- I see her pull herself into the room, striking a Marilyn Monroe pose -- hand behind her head, other hand on her hip, head tilted -- only Marilyn had clothes on …
That’s when you’re glad you paid extra for that 1-gig memory chip!
This is not only totally unexpected, it actually makes me nervous!
Did she lock the door to the hall?
Does her boss have a key?
Is he out to lunch or out of town?
Nervously, I snap shot after shot, trying not to drool on my camera …
My kind of welcome! This, from my brother’s wife, no less.
Don’t let anyone fool you -- West Coast norms are not the same as East Coast …
.
* * *
Jackie’s house is small -- one bathroom for three teenagers, Jackie, her mom and me.
Day 2. I’m still recovering from Day 1. Everyone’s up and about. They seem to have this bathroom thing down.
First, Young Dave goes in. Takes a leak. In and out in three minutes.
Next, Szablis (self named), the younger of the two girls. Ten minutes. Fine. She’s a girl.
Then Grandma -- Fifteen minutes. She moves kinda slow. You gotta make allowances.
Then Jackie -- in and out. I like that -- probably due to the fact that my bladder’s about to splatter …
Finally Jennifer, the now nearly 18-year-old-Hepburn-lookalike -- Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes. That’s when I hear the shower turn on -- tub shower to be more specific -- with those sliding ripple-glass doors.
Patience.
Five more minutes go by. Then ten. This is morphing into a soon-to-be medical emergency.
I knock on the door. “Are you going to be long?”
“What do you need?” comes the steamy reply.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, crossing my legs in a lame attempt to maintain.
“Go ahead. Don’t mind me,” she says -- too casual for my comfort.
Hesitantly I turn the knob.
I gotta tell you, ripple glass doesn’t ripple all that much! Standing three feet away is the original model for Venus, Goddess of Love statue like the one I bought -- minus the sea shell …
I unbuckle my belt, trying to stare at the floor with a non-functioning, swollen-shut piece of plumbing no longer at the ready.
West Coast norms!
I somehow manage to get through that ordeal, only to exit the bathroom to another culture shocker.
The door to Grandma's room is open -- enough to catch a glimpse of Granny slipping into her granny-size undies, bent over from the waist, tubular breasts undulating out of rhythm.
Jackie tries to cushion the blow -- “She’s got macular degeneration -- can only see things right in front of her.”
I don’t know whether this explains why Grandma has to bend so far over to see her underwear, or why she doesn’t notice that the door is half open …
The takeaway is: “Don’t worry about Grandma -- she won’t mind if you see her in her altogether.”
* * *
Ahhhh! … the weekend! My first out-west-day-of-rest -- which for us is Saturday.
Jackie is the church secretary. Her kids aren’t all that into church. Apparently her only stipulation is that they go. What they do once they get there or what they wear getting there is up to them.
Which explains -- perhaps -- why Jennifer chooses to wear an over-sized, off-the-Salvation-Army-rack men’s sport coat -- that and underwear. Oh yeah, and boots.
Szablis -- ever the wannabee -- follows suit. Young Dave sports a fake diamond ear stud.
This should be interesting …
The jackets, when closed, don’t cover much. They come down mid thigh, but you don’t have to have Superman’s laser vision to deduce the color or contour of either girls’ underwear.
Jewelry is a no-no. Young Dave’s hair isn’t long enough to even reach the top of his ear, let alone his sparkling stud.
This particular denomination is about as conservative as they come. On the East Coast, they wouldn’t make it past the vestibule -- even if they were visitors …
Nobody bats an eye. It’s, “Good morning!” Happy Sabbaths all around. Jackie introduces me to the minister -- her other boss -- as her brother-in-law. He keeps a straight face.
A good time is had by all. Later I find five out of the eight graduating seniors from their little church school are gay … West Coast …
After lunch, Jackie wants to take me for a drive up into the pine-covered mountains behind Paradise. Tall, close pines form an alley the road cuts through. After miles and miles, we come to a turnoff which leads to a remote lagoon, worthy of an Ideal’s Magazine photo shoot.
We’re the only ones there. Still dressed in our Sunday (Saturday?) best, we stand at the edge of the pool. Jackie lets go of my hand and starts unbuttoning her dress -- from neck to ankles. That’s a lot of unbuttoning! I content myself to watch.
“Come on,” she encourages, “let’s go skinny dipping.”
I hesitate. Her dress is now flapping in the breeze around her Victoria Secret-clad body. She undoes my tie and starts in on my shirt buttons.
I peel her dress off. She peels my suit coat and shirt, then starts in on my pants.
I’ve never been skinny dipping before. She acts like this is an everyday occurrence.
Down to our under grunders, she invites me to unclasp her bra, the clasp conveniently located between her double Ds. She then, with some difficulty, liberates my appreciative junk, stands back up, now waiting for me to reciprocate. With hands trembling, I dutifully comply. Shoes and socks last, we neatly pile our clothes behind a fallen log, then face the pool.
The sun is shining brightly. Air temperature is in the low 70s.
“Ready?” she prompts.
Hand-in-hand, we step off the edge into the lagoon.
Brrrrr!
Any previous physical manifestations of arousal shrivel in an instant! Her nipples miniaturize into rock-hard pebbles on contracting globes. Instinctively, we hug each other while treading water to try to preserve what remnants of body heat that has managed to survive.
Just as our lips start tingeing blue, we hear a car pull up. We peer through some branches at the edge of the pool.
“Those folks are from church!" Jackie whispers excitedly. “No one ever comes up here!” She pulls me tighter towards her.
On the East Coast, wading in a creek is about as recreational as one gets on the Sabbath. Apparently skinny dipping crosses the line even by West Coast standards -- especially with your brother-in-law!
I ponder the conversation that might very shortly ensue:
“Is that you, Jackie?! You look cold!”
“No, actually the water’s fine. Care to join us?”
“That’s all right. We didn’t bring our suits.”
“Nor did we.”
“Oh, look at the time, Fred. We really must be going.”
“Sorry you couldn’t stay.”
Happily, it never came to that …
As our teeth start to chatter, a couple and their young daughter get out of their car, wander to the exact spot of our unbuttoning. We’re still behind the bushes, treading water, lips turning blue ...
Luckily they don’t have a cooler. Satisfied that they’ve shown their daughter Paradise’s version of Eden -- never grocking the fact that Adam and Eve are turning cyanotic in their respective shrink-wrapped birthday suits just inches away, they slowly make their way back to the car -- take an inordinate amount of time buckling up, then back up and drive away.
I’m almost too cold to get out. Having no towels, we dress, dripping wet, get in the car, turn the heat on full blast, laughing all the way home.
* * *
Over the course of the next couple of weeks, Jackie finds a Clark Cortez motor home like the kind the Smothers Brothers used to tour in -- cheap. Doesn’t look like much, but seems mechanically sound. From the buckshot mail outs I sent to every HMO in the country, describing the relative merits of my touch-tone-driven patient-verification system, several West Coast HMOs expressed interest.
I load the RV with three computers and continue to program while Jackie drives. Her mom is watching the kids. Sometimes I drive while she fixes sandwiches.
Traveling in casual attire, we pull into a parking lot, do a quick change into sales garb in the cramped RV, make our pitch, then change back into casual duds before moving on to the next appointment. The camper has two beds, so sleeping together (yet to be experienced) isn’t an issue.
Long story short, we sell to both Blue Cross and MetLife of California.
During the next year, I park in their respective parking lots while customizing the program to their individual needs.
On weekends, I drive 400 miles north; she drives 400 miles south -- where we meet up in Fresno for 24 hours of “getting-to-know-you” time before heading back to our respective California corners.
* * *
It’s the last month of summer. I’ve been back for only a week or so when Jackie gets the call. A long-time friend of hers -- now living in Hawaii -- says they need an English teacher post haste -- she has to leave immediately if she wants the job.
I’m left in charge of closing up the house, getting Grandma re-situated and getting the kids ready to fly over three weeks later. Turns out the school also needs a computer guru, a math teacher, bus driver and substitute for when other teachers take a leave of absence or get sick.
Kauai beckons.
The good news is they’re just finishing new faculty housing. In the meantime, we stay in a converted classroom in the old school a few miles down the road -- out of sight, out of mind.
It doesn’t hurt that we share the same last name. Eventually we’ll move into our new digs -- a three-bedroom house at the base of Kahili Mountain on the Garden Island -- Kauai -- wettest spot on earth. It rains every morning, but stops before 8 o’clock. Seven miles away stands Mt. Waieleele -- average rainfall: 460 inches. Record a few years back: 670 inches!
Seven miles to the south: Poipu Beach -- rated among the top 10 beaches in the world for eight consecutive years. Average rainfall: 22 inches.
In what turns out to be my son DJ’s future brother-in-law, Mike Jensen joins us to form a quartet we call Three Daves and a Mike consisting of DJ, Young Dave, myself and Mike. We sing at various churches on the Island for several years.
It’s somewhat clumsy having three Dave Ruskjers under the same roof. The phone rings:
“Is Dave there?”
“Which one?”
“You know, the young one?”
“‘Which one?”
“The blonde-haired one.”
“Oh, that one. Hold on.”
DJ had come to live with us almost from the get-go. Faye moves to Kauai next with my other two sons. She thinks the boys should interact with their father.
Although she and the two younger ones don’t live with us, the presence of two Ruskjer families causes some angst in the parochial community. It’s thought that two adults, living under one roof -- me and Jackie -- might oughta be married.
Somewhat awkwardly the topic is broached.
Jackie is incensed.
I think it’s funny!
“You OK being married?” That's my sensitive, romantic proposal.
“If you’re OK with it,” is her non-emotionally-charged response.
We throw together a marriage ceremony in less than two weeks. Flanked by my three sons and her David and two daughters, we say, “I do.”
As an act of defiance, Jackie arranges to get married in a little white church in Koloa, rather than at the church from which the ultimatum originated. She does allow that the reception can be held in the fellowship hall of “our” church -- the one that sponsors the school we both teach at.
That seems to satisfy everyone. No names change. Everyone sleeps right where they did before with the same people as before.
We both agree six kids is enough. My function is to help raise my brother’s kids. “Uncle Dave” is replaced with “Uncle Dad” so even the “UD” moniker remains.
When the last one -- Young Dave - turns eighteen, Jackie leaves teaching and moves back to the mainland. Young Dave stays with me, developing modules for the iPhone that tie into my Global Language Learning
website.
A word of caution: If you decide, like Jackie and I did, that a vasectomy is the least-hassled way to insure the lack of surge in population -- don’t drive a full-size school bus for six hours the next day … Just sayin’ …
Before marrying Jackie, I ask my oldest brother what he thinks.
“Didn’t work out for me,” he says. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
If I had it to do over again?
Wouldn’t change a thing.
* * *
Jackie’s happily married to an engineer from England. They live in Boulder, Colorado.
Mariko, my Japanese wife, and I spent a pleasant Christmas with them not so long ago.
Faye -- my first wife and mother of my children -- ended up marrying John.
Mariko and I stayed at their place for several months in Salem, Oregon, before they moved to Michigan.
A marriage of convenience? To be sure. With no regrets … and many happy memories.
I heartily recommend it!
Mariko now lives in Sapporo, Japan. We talk using Skype almost daily.