Girtha Rising — Part 8 — Oil and Water Don’t Mix

This story is a narrative reconstruction inspired by family history, place, and imagination.

Girtha looked around furtively, hid her face with her hat veil and hoped no one she knew would see her in this part of town.  She had never been in a tavern before. The air felt sketchy, mingling stale perfume, gin and smoke.  Girtha was entirely out of her element. If only there were some other way to get Frankie’s life back in order and keep those babies safe.

Girtha had arrived at The Oyster early to meet Fern, Frankie’s mother-in-law. Jack’s mother.

Everything about Jack had been nothing but trouble from the moment he had started sweet talking Frankie in California. “You don’t understand mama, he’s an artist. He’s had a hard life.”

Hard life Jack. Feel sorry for poor Jack. Girtha didn’t buy it then and the facade had crumbled over the years. Frannie had come to see Jack for what he really was. A two bit card hustler, taking pictures of prostitutes, helping his tramp mother run her ungodly hotels. It was just impossible. Edgar had tried to talk sense into Frannie when she arrived back home pregnant with a crazy story of having married this Jack Montgomery in San Francisco.  She most certainly was not married to Jack, she was still married to Andy. Frankie, Frankie how do you get yourself into these pickles?

I really tried to raise her right and give her some common sense. Just didn’t know how to say no to the girl and this is what happens. Sitting in this cafe waiting for a whore. Hoping I can pay her to get out of town and not pollute those precious babies any more.  Why, just the other day little Sandra was counting out Fern’s dirty change, happily separating out the quarters and dimes. Frankie had just left her alone with that woman. No sense of what is proper, always stretching the bounds, pushing against the rules. If only I hadn’t given in to her so many times. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Oh we certainly spared the rod on those girls.

Bells jingled as the door opened, Fern made her entrance in high style – tight sweater, pencil skirt, high heels and lighting up a cigarette

. Flaming red lips curled into defiant smirk when she looked Girtha up and down. She looked ridiculous perched uncomfortably on the bar stool.  

“Fancy seeing you here GeeGee. Stay awhile, loosen up, you might get to like it.  You here to bury the hatchet and have a drink, Baby Doll?”

Girtha felt like a stone cold mountain as Fern entered the empty cafe. It was sickening to be in the same room with her, inexplicable that she was also the grandmother of her precious babies. She had no desire to sit down with the woman. Their business was best conducted standing up.  Her fingers tightened on the purse clasp. Jaw clenched tight and willing herself to breathe, she stepped forward to take charge of the situation.

“Mrs. Craghead, my name is not GeeGee, please refer to me as Mrs. Blanchard.  It will be easier if we behave in a business like fashion. This has gone on long enough. I want you to leave Portland and don’t come back. Leave my grandchildren alone.”

“It’s a free country honey. I come and go when and where I please. You ain’t my boss.”

“Your drunkard son has abandoned his family, he utterly failed to provide for them at all and now you come here expecting something more out of Frankie. Your reputation, this work the two of you do–it’s…it’s…say, it is just appalling. Have you no shame?”

“Oh yeah, you and your sainted Edgar are quite the pair. I’ve seen your story a thousand times. I watched you. He bought you from your daddy when you were 14, ripe and ready to break in and pretended it was a marriage.  Honey, he was a grown man who wanted to play with his precious Baby Doll.  At least I’m honest about how I get paid for working hard on my back.” 

Girtha, sweet and sheltered had never before felt so insulted and enraged.  How dare she tarnish the light and true love she had shared with her darling husband!  This brothel owner was judging her marriage as tawdry. Turning everything upside down.

“People like you try to make beautiful things dirty.  But it’s you who defiles everything you touch.  No standards!  No respect! Where is your dignity? Keep away from my family, get out of here!” 

Fern snickered at her outburst. “Buzz off Baby Doll. I’ll see you around. Kinda like it up here in P-town. Good business, you know.” Her high heels clicked across the linoleum. When she reached the doorway, she turned, took a long drag on her cigarette, and taunted Girtha with her smoke rings, “You know honey,  Jack tells me Frankie could make some extra moolah renting out too. She’s really got what it takes.”

When the door closed after Fern and the bells stopped jingling, Girtha looked around to see who had witnessed this debacle. If only Edgar were here to help here figure this out. Everyday, she missed him, teasing out his advice, sorting out the problems of the day.

Then it clicked inside her head. The solution to her problem with Fern was so simple after all!

“Thank you, Edgar my love” she softly whispered, walked out to the phone booth, dropped a dime and dialed an old familiar number.

“Hey Pete. This is Girtha, it meant so much at Edgar’s funeral when you assured me the boys would be there if I ever needed help .  Say, I hate to bother you but I’ve got a family situation and could really use some old fashioned Portland Police Department back up with this.”

Series Navigation

← Part 7 — Picking Up Dreams
→ Part 9 — Crowning Glory