Good Grief!: About Relationships. and Other Short Stories That Make You Wish They Were Shorter

By Eddie Brady

This is a book about tears and laughter in relationships. As the world gets more complex, so does the interfacing between man and woman. Issues are raised from these stories. Whatever solution lines up with your own values is the right answer. My vision is that a man and a woman will read this book, discuss the issues it raises and reach agreed solutions. Then, having agreed on their common values, they will be furnished with a foundation for a happy future that started with absorbing what these stories tell and teach us.

Eddie Brady

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462807482

Eddie Brady

He graduated from Northeastern University, Boston, Massachusetts, with a major in business as well as graduating from Suffolk University School of Law, also in Boston, Massachusetts. He was invited to be a guest columnist and was published in suburban newspapers in the Boston Metropolitan area. He practiced law as in a corporate environment, as well as being a self-employed sole practitioner, specializing in personal injury law and civil trial practice. His published writings included memoirs, short story collections, a novel, a novelette, and a screenplay.

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Copyright © 2003 by Eddie Brady.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Readers of this book should feel free to offer any comments to the Author by e-mail at [e-mail].

The characters and events depicted in this book are fictional. Any similarity between real persons and the representations in this book are co-incidental.

Other Books by Eddie Brady

Last In My Class

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Contents

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD/

BACKWORD—

DEPENDING

GAMES NON- ALCOHOLICS ARE FOOLED INTO PLAYING

BATTLING BETTY

THE ENEMY

HOSPITAL IMPATIENT

FROZEN FENWAY

MY LEFT EYEBALL

BY IT’S COVER

MURDER BY MOUTH

HI HO! THE CHEERIO!

ARE YOU WITH ME!

HALING MEMORIES

GOOD GRIEF!

DEDICATION

To my mother and father, who taught me by their example, how to get along with others, and how not to get along with others. Their relationship to each other, which was my model and my first teacher, was cooperative and conflicting, at different times, and sometimes simultaneously. They instructed me in discerning the profound lesson that people are not good or bad, they are good and bad. And that if you can accept that, you can go a long way toward understanding people.

Eddie Brady

LET THE BUYER BEWARE OR THE HELL WITH IT

Enter here only those who aren’t afraid to laugh, smile or cry. Poker faces need not apply.

—The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Michael Canavan for his persistent encouragement and valuable commentary; to Mary Flanagan, Esquire for her English Major’s erudition, Frederick Niland, Esquire, for his reluctant but valued critique; to James Brady, my brother, for liking everything I write, good and not so good, and to you the reader for taking your valuable time to read this literary pretension. I earnestly hope that this book has entertained you, touched your emotions and enriched your life.

The Author

FOREWORD/

BACKWORD—

DEPENDING

This book is about tears and laughter. It’s about relationships. Pardon my redundancy, but they do go together to bracket the opposite ends of our emotional experience, enchanting our enraptured, fascinating lives. This book is written based on my own limited experience, and little else. It may also be considered a How-To, or a How-Not-To approach, to dealing with this significant subject. More specifically, your success in getting along with others may be attributable to avoiding what I did in this book, or following it. It’s your call. Therefore, depending on your post-book results, this introductory comment may be considered a foreword or backword.

The Author

GAMES NON- ALCOHOLICS ARE FOOLED INTO PLAYING

"Charlie! They put a gun to my head!"

What!? What are you talking about!?

They robbed me! They took all my money!

Who did?

How the hell do I know?! Just some guys!

Are you all right?

Yeah, I’m all right. I just need a ride.

Where are you?

I’m in Harvard Square, outside the Wursthaus Restaurant.

"OK, stay right there; I’ll call the Police and be there as soon can.

"No! No! Don’t call the Police. Just pick me up."

All right, all right. I’m on my way.

I hung up the ‘phone, angry and puzzled. And still trying to shake the cobwebs from my eyes. It was one o’clock in the morning. The ring of the telephone woke me up from a sound sleep. I thought I was dreaming. The ring had been faint, at first. Then it got louder as it rang and rang and my consciousness rose to the surface. Startled with the sudden realization that it was the telephone ringing, I flung off the warm blanket, irritated. I grunted as I fell out of bed, shuffling my feet, searching for where my slippers were, to avoid the cold wooden floor.

My wife, Martha, groaned and uttered something inaudible, as I sank into the mattress and it shuddered as I got up. We had only been married a year and had just moved into a modest 5 room ranch style house outside Boston. We only had one telephone and it was hanging on a wall in the kitchen, at the other end of the house. So I had to feel my way along the hallway wall, with my hand hopping along the painted wall, lighted by the moon and streetlights coming through the windows. I didn’t want to turn the lights on because it would sting my eyes and wake up Martha. But as I staggered toward the other end of the house, I wondered who was calling at this hour. A mixture of apprehensive feelings whirled around me. Who calls at this hour with good news?

It was my 60-year-old father. He never calls me during the day, never mind this ungodly hour. I was twenty-five years old, three years out of College.

Just sit tight. I’ll be right along. It’ll take me about half an hour, I said to my father. The town of Wakefield is about 10 miles away in the suburbs.

Despite my father’s impatient order not to call the Police, I instinctively called the Cambridge Police Headquarters and reported the armed robbery and told them that I was on my way to pick up my father. I was told that they would send a cruiser and the Police would meet me there.

It was eerily silent as I drove my dark blue, 2-year-old, Mercury Comet, compact car through the early morning hour with almost no traffic. Intersections, normally crowded with cars and people, were ghostly silent. It was surreal, I thought to myself as I drove along. I doggedly kept looking at the speed limit signs, and tried to stay within the posted speed limits, because I didn’t want to get stopped for speeding by a bored Police Officer sitting in a cruiser, waiting for action. It sure was a strange sensation. As was this whole incident. In no time at all, it seemed, I reached famed Harvard Square. Famed for it’s world renowned University, and the most richly endowed one in the United States, thanks to it’s grateful graduates and benefactors. Anyway, the reasons for it’s prestige were far different and at the opposite end of the scale, than the reason for this odd rescue mission. As you can imagine, at this early morning hour, I had no trouble finding a parking spot, even in the normally bustling Harvard Square, which was a rarity, let me tell you.

I parked my car, jumped out without locking it, and hastily half-ran to the center of the square. As I approached the landmark Wursthaus Restaurant, I strained ahead looking for my father. I hurriedly walked up to and past the restaurant, with most of the stores lit up, but closed. I made a U-turn and walked back the other way, when I encountered a huge Policeman walking towards me. He asked me:

Are you the one who called in a Robbery?

Yes , I said. My father called me and said he was robbed by 2 men with guns.

Guns!Snapped back the policeman. Damn it! Nobody told me anything about guns!

He seemed to be angry with the Police Dispatcher for omitting this important fact. Later on, I realized this made sense because a loaded gun is a lethal weapon and puts him at great risk. Both of us for that matter. But, at the moment, I was more concerned about finding my father. After a futile search, we both went our separate ways, he shaking his head in disgust and I wondering where my father was. I drove back home more slowly and puzzled, trying to figure out why my father wasn’t there.

When I arrived home, I quietly picked up the telephone and dialed my parent’s home to see if my father got home safely and why he didn’t wait for me. No one answered. So I went back to bed too tired to wrestle with this bizarre happening any longer. I’d find out tomorrow.

And I did.

My mother told me what happened. I would never have figured it out. She did because similar incidents had happened before. Too many times.

Your father wasn’t robbed by anybody, she said, in a weary and angry tone of voice.

"He was drinking again, went to the track with his buddies and lost all his money betting on horses. You were his alibi for a phony armed robbery. He took a taxi home, once his ‘alibi’ was established.

"But he can never admit to that. So he makes up this dramatic story to cover his tracks. If you buy into his grandiose tale, instead of getting angry with him, you feel sorry for him and thankful he wasn’t injured. It’s a game he plays. I’m sorry you had to find out this way."

So that was it.

I was duped by an Academy Award performance. And to add to my feelings of being made a fool of, I was telephoned a few days later by a Detective in the Cambridge Police Department.

Are you the one who called in an armed robbery in Harvard Square?

Yes, I readily admitted.

I continued, I’m sorry to have bothered you. But I’m embarrassed to tell you that I was fooled by my father. He drank too much, blew his money at a race track and made up the robbery story as a ruse. And my mother told me it wasn’t the first time, either. It’s so humiliating.

Detective: Yeah, we hear all sorts of stories here. You’d be surprised.

By the way, can you figure out how we found out where you worked?

Well, I may be educated in a certain area, but I’m not a Detective. So, no, I don’t know how you did it.

Then you’ll have your secret and we’ll have ours.

In thinking about this weird episode later, I realized that I might have, and my father more certainly, could have been prosecuted for filing a false crime report and perhaps fined for the Police and Court’s time.

The Detective’s final comment was instructive and would become more so in the future:

You know, there are better actors in bars than on the stage.

BATTLING BETTY

I must have been forewarned.

Otherwise, why would I have taken out and hidden the knives from the kitchen drawer. And the forks also. Anything that could be used as a weapon against me.

Their had to be something in her demeanor that tipped me off that she was dangerous. Though she never raised her voice or lost her temper in the 2 years that I knew her, she had a tendency to brood. She mumbled under her breath a lot as if to smother a smoldering anger. You couldn’t help thinking of a rumbling volcano that had yet to erupt.

She would tenaciously ask questions and analyze things until she was satisfied. She could be willful and headstrong. She was more controlled than I was and I kept a pretty good grip on my emotions.

Of course, all of these facets of her personality were praiseworthy up to a point. Perseverance was a virtue and stubbornness was a vice. Sometimes, I didn’t know which side of the line she was on. One facet displayed mental health, while the other was a mental waste.

Physically, Betty was a strikingly gorgeous and beautiful blonde. She was as tall as I was and taller when in high heel shoes. And I consider myself of medium height. She had smooth white ivory skin, a straight Roman nose and a robust figure. She had a serious bearing and did not smile very often. Her sense of humor was underwhelming. She showed me a picture of herself when she was 3 years old in a white frilly dress in front of a 1930’s vintage car and she looked beautiful, but sad.

She was brought up on a farm in rural Massachusetts with an older brother. Their circumstances were poor. She almost never talked about her mother or father. And when I asked her about them, she gave me curt answers and changed the subject. I gathered that her childhood was not happy. But she sure dressed well and adorned herself in a flattering wardrobe. Very feminine. She looked Danish or Swedish but was actually of French and Polish origin. That’s what she told me, anyway.

We were at a point in our relationship where we were going to get more serious and head toward an engagement and marriage, or split. Though we were both 48 years of age, she was 2 months younger than I. She was pressing me to move out of my condominium and move in with her. She had an expanded Cape type house that she and her former husband added to, including a large indoor greenhouse. Like herself, it was a very attractive and unique piece of architecture. She seldom talked about her ex-husband. I also was divorced. I wondered if this indoor garden, pretty as it was, facilitated her isolation tendencies. Regarding my moving in with her, I told her she was ahead of me and I wanted to think about it. This put her off for a while, without putting her down. This also gave me some time.

But not for long.

Friction was building up as she pressed me to move in. She was then out of work for a year and a half with an injured shoulder from a fall at work and receiving Workers Compensation benefits. The Insurance Company was pressing her to return to work, their Doctor claiming she had some capacity to work and threatening to cut her benefits down. Her Doctor contested this. She seldom complained to me about her injured shoulder and was looking through the Want Ads for future employment. I wondered if she had financial concerns and if this had any connection with her pressing me to move in. I didn’t inquire and she didn’t volunteer any information on that account.

In retrospect, I fault myself in not, sensitively, inquiring about this. But, at that time, I had my own problems with communicating. But it may not have mattered, because, in the end, I wasn’t ready to move in with anyone, then. My reasons were diffuse and unclear to me then, but most likely it had something to do with my not yet finishing sifting through the ashes and getting over my divorce of a few years before. Healing takes time. How much time? It’s individual, is my view.

My requests for patience and time were getting less vigorous and this seemed to embolden her. I wanted to sell my condominium and buy a house in case my 2 children came to Boston and needed a place to stay while they looked for employment after graduating from college in the Mid-West during the next 2 years. She also had 2 children, who, though single, were living on their own, independently. She suggested that my children could also move in with me to her house. This seemed to me to be a potential big burden to her and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this. Besides, if it didn’t work out, 3 of us would have to scramble, not one. I learned earlier, at my cost, to look on the other side of an action, to gauge its probable consequences.

My biggest concern was whether I wanted to get engaged, get married, and if I did, to her. She well knew of my hesitation, but wanted me to try it anyway. Finally, I told her I would give it a try, but privately I regretted my commitment almost immediately. On the surface, I didn’t think our personalities would merge over the long run. We were too much alike. I wanted someone more extrovertish to balance my introverted tendencies and reserve. More deeply, I liked her, but I didn’t love her. Or more precisely, I loved her physically, but not emotionally. I simply didn’t think we were emotionally compatible. Theoretically, that could change with time, but I didn’t then want to take that chance.

Much to my surprise, my condominium sold fast. Now I was really being squeezed by time, as I only had 6 weeks to decide where to go. Even much less, if I decided to buy my own house. We became irritable and contentious in each other’s presence. We argued. As I tried to pull away, she held on more tenaciously. It became a tug of war. I became resentful, easily upset and developed headaches. I was miserable and she wasn’t far behind me.

I’ve heard it said that if you make a mistake and don’t correct it, you’ve made a second mistake. So I changed my mind. I felt immediate relief, but then had to steel myself for the final showdown.

This all lead to my cleaning out the kitchen drawers of all knives and forks and any other dangerous sharp edged kitchenware. We had to meet and reach a final understanding. I didn’t expect her to necessarily agree with me or my reasons, but to at least understand why I had to disengage. The sooner the better, as far as I was concerned. My friend, Phil Finegan, with whom I confided, also agreed with my wanting to split. Only he wanted me to break off early, and the earlier the better. Dumbly, I thought the later, the better. But I was wrong and he was right. By slowly disengaging, and delaying the inevitable, I wasn’t being compassionate, and sparing her feelings, I was prolonging her suffering. And it would cost me, in her accumulated rage. But that was to clobber me in a time I inadvertently selected. As has been said better than I could write:

It comes ill from the mouth of a complainant to cry foul, when he has been the architect of his own destruction.

Amen.

But I’m a little ahead of my sorry story. In my time, I finally telephoned her and she agreed to meet me at my place. I’ll never forget the date because it was the same date George Bush defeated Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis for the Presidency of the United States, November, 1988.

She arrived about 7:00 PM and after some early pleasantries and desultory sidetalk, I said with a sigh:

Betty, I have to let you know that I’ve reconsidered and will not be moving in with you. It just doesn’t feel right to me and I don’t want to start something that I can’t finish.

She seemed stunned for a moment and then testily said: "What do you mean you don’t want to ‘start’ something? We ‘started’ something 2years ago, remember?"

Well, yes, we ‘started’ going out 2 years ago, but now you’re talking about living together and marriage. And I don’t want to live together if I don’t intend to get married, I said in a conciliatory tone.

Petulantly, she retorted: Did mention getting ‘married!’

But you inferred as much. Isn’t that what you ultimately want to do?

"Not necessarily. I may decide I don’t want to marry you.! Did you ever consider that? Don’t flatter yourself. This is a two way street, you know."

Of course it is. That’s why it’s not fair to you, for me to move in feeling the way I do. It’ll save both of us a bigger heartache later on. Can’t we still befriends?

No! I don’t want to be friends with a coward who’s afraid to commit. You spineless turncoat! I can do better than you, anyway. You ‘re nothing! I deserve more! I can’t stand the sight of you! Get out of my way!

She then grabbed her coat and stormed out sputtering indignantly, while slamming the door with a loud Wham!

The sudden silence stunned me. I let go of bracing myself, breathed a long sigh of relief and decompressed. Whew! It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I then hurried to the ‘phone and called my friend Phil.

"Phil, Jackie here. Well, it’s over. She left. It didn’t turn out to be as bad as I thought it would.