"Do you love him?" Karen asked.
"He's kind of a jerk too. No, I guess I don't really love him, not like on TV."
"Do you at least like him?" Karen asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess he's all right. He doesn't get in my face and he's pretty good with Nathan. He doesn't hit me or hassle me much."
"Cathy, there's more to life than that," my wise daughter said.
Cathy shrugged her shoulders. "We'll have our own place and I won't have to listen to Ma bitch at me all the time. It's not like I got a lot of options, do I? Maybe good enough is better than no good at all."
Mrs. Peck tended Cathy more hours than needed but I didn't complain. Nor did Cathy always take them. Cathy often didn't show up when she was supposed to, either at the store or for other appointments. It was as if she'd become so bored with life she let it take her along like the tide. She exercised no control over her life, even when she had an infrequent opportunity to do so. I once heard an expression, Go day, come day, God sends Sunday, what the hell. That seemed to be Cathy's philosophy, sad as it was. It was as if she shunned help, even when it was infrequently offered. The girl saddened me.
Karen frequently questioned Cathy about her independence; letting society address her life's problems. While Cathy's life was replete with troubles, she seemed somehow free from the agony of the everyday turmoil. I had wondered if Karen might harbor some small spark of envy at this so-called freedom.
Now, hearing Karen's feelings about Mary Ellen, I was once again proud of her judgment. I reluctantly let her go back to her homework.
Paul's penchant for over spending ceased with our marriage. My husband was a quick learner. Any early concern I harbored never materialized. He was content to let me dictate our financial life style and live by it. Some office bound IRS agent must have wondered if Mr. Paul North had fallen on hard times to so drastically reduced was his expenditures! We didn't live like paupers, his house hold staff alone dropped from, perhaps a score in Newton to poor Angelina at less than a hundred dollars, twice a month for cleaning. Oh, and there was the yard boy, but Paul paid him in cash.
My monthly bills were handled by good ol' Thatcher-the-liar-Wright, now reformed. Those bills weren't much. I was a tiger about turning off lights when a room was not in use, a previously unknown concept. The air conditioner was for infrequent emergencies when our sea breeze wasn't cooling sufficiently. My household budget magically appeared in my house account. It was never questioned and always only partially used. Our only extravagance was the quality of the wine Paul ordered. I never knew the price, but even dead-palette Sarah knew from our two-at-most a night, the quality was superb.