She lived at the end of our street. Mrs. Schlepeck—four children under the age of six, bags under her eyes, skin an ashen tone, hair poking out every which way, wearing an apron over her housedress, slippers on her feet—did not socialize with the other mothers in the neighborhood. Even as a seven-year-old, I knew something was desperately wrong in the Schlepeck household. There were dirty faces, clothes that needed mending, a house that needed paint, and a general pall to the aura of a home that otherwise resided in an affluent neighborhood. Ramshackle is a word that comes to mind.
Time being an elusive substantiator when a child, I have no notion of how much had passed before she became Mrs. Long. But Mrs. Long invited the entire village to her home on the day she married Mr. Long.
I was thunderstruck by the transformation—the boys in short breeches and matching suit jackets with boutineers, the girls in cinched waist dresses replete with crinolines, white gloves, and corsages. The new Mrs. Long wore an ivory dress of satin and lace that showed off her svelte figure. Her matching hat and veil sat pertly upon her head, her bouquet of white roses the perfect complement. But it was her makeup that dazzled me. Red lips, tastefully shadowed eyes with a thin line of eyeliner and thick mascara that brought out the best that her brown eyes had to offer. It was the twinkle in those eyes—the abject joy—that made the biggest impression. Here was a woman who seemed to be an allegory of happiness. I couldn’t get over it. I was truly in awe of what I saw. I thought surely magic had taken place here.
Some time after Mrs. Schlepeck became Mrs. Long, I was traipsing about and beyond the neighborhood taking orders for Girl Scout cookies. A good half-mile from home, I knocked on the door of a tiny little house, which was nestled between two large homes on Lake Shore Drive. I looked about at the gutters coming loose from the eaves, the peeling paint on the clapboards, and the weeds and vines threatening to swallow up the fragile structure. As the seconds ticked by, I very nearly turned to be on my way but paused as I heard the click of the door handle. The pleasant, but sallow, face of Mr. Schlepeck stood before me on the threshold. He wore a no-longer white sleeveless t-shirt and wrinkled khaki slacks—no belt, no shoes, no socks. Beaten by life, by drink, by bad luck, by who knows what, his sad features held no spark. I felt sorry for him. I always thought he was nice. Even in his misery, he was still nice. He looked at my order form, pointed to the Thin Mints, and said he’d take two boxes. As I carefully recorded his request, he reached into his back pocket and counted out $2 worth of quarters, dimes, and nickels. I told him I’d be back in month with his cookies, and he wished me luck.
When I returned with his order, he thanked me, but when I went back a year later to see if Mr. Schlepeck wanted to buy Girl Scout cookies again, no one answered the door.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2017
