Shotgun Wedding

By Charlotte Lewis

Carrie Johnson met Glenn Bettel the morning she took her new car in for minor maintenance. He was a divorced man with two children and a very vindictive ex-wife. Carrie knew about the divorce and the children. She had no idea about the ex. Nothing she could have thought would come close to the nasty and downright mean things the ex did over the next year – starting before Carrie moved in with Glenn. Carrie learned that Glenn had married immediately after high school; not actually a shotgun wedding but it was 1964. Carrie lived with Glenn a year before she began having medical problems. Doctor said menopause even though she was only 35. Glenn dismissed that and believed he was headed toward another shotgun wedding. No mention of marriage was made and his anger was unwarranted. When a surprise verdict in Family Court was made a month later, Carrie moved from his home, from his life. It would be years before he learned the rest of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669859697

Charlotte Lewis

Charlotte Lewis, a retired accountant, lives in Southeast Kansas. Charlotte graduated from University of Southern California with a major in elementary education and a minor in music. Since retirement, she has self-published several novels and has published in Reminisce Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Hackathon Short Stories, Readers Digest Online, and Mused – an online journal. There's more to learn at charlottelewisonline.com

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dedicated to the memory of my most trusted friend,

my brother Marvin.

CHAPTER ONE

Last night I dreamed of Glenn.

It has been years since I last dreamed of him I think of Glenn often but seldom dream of him. That in itself is strange as there was a time I believed he was the love of my life. The movies and romance novels would have me believe I should dream of him every night. But I don’t. And never have. So why dream of him now; a happy dream that brought tears? It seems it was a happy dream - I remember so little of it. I remember a red kite in a cloudless blue sky. Could that have been the entire dream? No. There was more.

We stood on a knob of land overlooking the Pacific Ocean, flying a kite. The kite was bright red -though it was hard to see the color well. The tail was pretty wimpy but stuck straight out behind the kite. The kite was so high and the wind was so strong; we had to hold the string bobbin with both our hands. He stood behind me with his arms around me to insure his grip on the bobbin. We were laughing, wind-blown, and having a thoroughly good time. It was like a clip from a television commercial.

That was the entire dream. I think. Like a fifteen second beer commercial. There may have been more but I don’t think so. It wasn’t long, or especially intense. Yet, when I woke, there were tears on my face. It was a dream but it had actually happened – once a long, long time ago. Why would this wisp of memory come to me in a dream. Why am I still crying?

I remember how very much I loved him -- perhaps love him still. It’s difficult to say. Very difficult.

I was in my thirties when I met Glenn. While I’d had a couple serious relationships, none were ever serious enough to get married. My job was responsible; I made good money; I had friends and hobbies that kept me in the mix of things. And, I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. In fact, I wasn’t looking for a relationship of any kind. Perhaps that is why I am surprised this even happened.

The first time I ever saw Glenn was a very brief sighting. It was November 1971. I was buying my very first new car. My old car was barely respectable. My employers never saw it - we parked in a garage under the building. It certainly didn’t say I was single and making good money. It was time to invest in a car, a new car. Not a status symbol car but something dependable and better looking - you know, no dings or dents. Not a dozen years old and showing its age.

There was an auto dealership I passed every day as I went to and from work; a reputable manufacturer. The cars in the new car lot looked good. After several days of glancing at cars as I passed, I saw one I wanted. Odd model but it had panache. And the color was perfect; it stood out but wasn’t garish. I found myself in a sales cubicle with a salesman who believed he was as gorgeous as any of the new cars on the lot. He flirted as hard as he tried to sell the car - maybe more. There was no doubt I wanted to buy the car but he tried to make it look that he had convinced me. At least, that’s how I saw it. He made an offer which was slightly less than the advertised price on the windshield. I accepted the offer. My bank and I came to an agreement a week before as to the amount they’d finance Then came the waiting game - a manager with a magic marker had to approve the deal. As we waited, the same dark-haired man in a mechanic’s uniform passed by the open office door several times. After a third or fourth pass, I asked the salesman who he was.

The salesman was rather off-handed. Oh, he’s just one of the mechanics.

It was at least 7pm. I got here at 5:30; waited by the car I was interested in until a salesman came; and have been in this stupid little cubicle almost ever since. It had to be at least 7. At least.

Isn’t it a bit late for a mechanic to be on premise?

This observation was obviously funny as the salesman laughed rather heartily. True, mechanics are usually gone no later than 5:30, if that late.

Then he picked up the phone and asked for Glenn. Is the Gremlin ready for delivery? … Great. Bring it around front.

Glenn was the get-ready mechanic. The salesman knew that when I asked. He could have said the mechanic was ready to leave for the day when he was told this unit would probably go out the door tonight - if it was ready. It had come into the dealership just that afternoon and there’s a protocol in place before a new car rolls off the lot. I had looked at several cars, offhandedly - you know, without a salesman, nearly every evening the past week. I liked the ridiculous look of the Gremlin but none of the colors impressed me. Every day I asked when there would be new Gremlins delivered. Everyone had a different answer. As I passed by today - there it was. AMC called it Baja Bronze or some fancy name. Ha, it is root beer color. The salesman laughed when I told him that was the color I’d been waiting to see. He couldn’t believe it; there were so many other colors available. But a car that looks as the Gremlin looks needs to be something other than black, white, blue, or red. It had to be Baja Bronze to be credible.

Later Glenn told me he was hanging around to get a good look at my legs. The car was just his excuse. Of course, he told me that much, much later. He also told me the salesman was rather peeved because, he had talked the sales manager into such a good deal, he only got a $25 commission. I didn’t understand. Glenn shook his head. He thought you would go out with him. I know he had to have asked. Jim believes he’s God’s gift to beautiful women.

Yes, indeed, the salesman had asked me out. That night and a couple times later by phone - called to see how the new car was running. How about dinner? It took half a dozen calls before he was convinced the car was running fine and I had no interest in him.

I have a rule about dating guys who think they’re the true Adonis. This guy thought it. The rule slapped into place. I don’t date Adonis.

That was November 1971.

Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went. The race track at Santa Anita opened the day after Christmas and I was busy early mornings. Before going to my day job, I do photography for a couple of the trainers during morning workouts. Horses fascinate me. Santa Anita Race Track is an old, established track with an excellent reputation. A female photographer was not the norm but several of the older trainers were willing to take a chance when I handed out my first flyers. By 1971, I’d been around for a lot of years and most of my referrals, now, are word of mouth. I no longer looked like a teeny-bopper and my reputation was solid. The backside of the track is clean and orderly. The grooms and trainers appear to be nice guys. The trainers pay timely. It was a good short term gig three times a year. There are some horses on the grounds all year round but there were three racing seasons. Every new season brought new horses, new trainers, new owners.

On Friday, January 14, 1972, I was at the track, and more or less done for the morning when my favorite camera jammed. The contracted shots were done. If they hadn’t been, I would have used another camera. I always carry at least two, so a camera failure would never shut me down. It was nearly 7, I’d been there a couple hours already. So I just packed it in. As usual I wore a short skirt, sweater, and boots. Definitely not attire for my day job as office manager/accountant for an advertising agency in downtown Los Angeles. As was my custom, I went home to change. Casual Fridays were observed at my agency but not quite that casual.

You’d think it was Friday the 13th - things did not go well. I arrived at home to find I had locked myself out of my apartment. The apartment manager was on vacation. I couldn’t get into my apartment to change. My Irish temper kicked into high gear. I got into my new car, slammed the door and, as I backed out of the driveway, I heard a plop.

Plop!??

Plop? Not a heavy plop but solid enough to scare me.

I pulled to the curb and got out of the car. A walk-around showed nothing amiss on the outside. When I opened a back door, I could see an interior panel had fallen. It took me a minute to realize what that odd shaped thing was. It’s more decorative than functional but that didn’t matter. This was a new car; it should not be falling apart.

It was an effort not to slam the door as I reentered the car. I drove immediately to the dealership.

The service drive doesn’t officially open until 7:30am. Well, that was just too bad. Poor Victor, the service writer, was early to work and caught my ire. He tried to reason with me. Usually I’m not so obstinate but I had already reached my limit of stupid stuff that morning.

Victor relented under pressure. Well, this is the kind of stuff Glenn does. He’s here already. Just drive around to the right. First stall on the right - Glenn will take care of you.

Victor called Glenn to tell him a crazy blonde in a Gremlin was headed his way. Glenn was cleaning his hands when I stopped behind his stall. As I got out of the car he greeted me with a clean hand shake. I was surprised. Guys don’t offer to shake hands very often.

Glenn, that morning, will always be the first image I have when I think of him. He appeared to be about 5’ 8" tall - but he was wearing riding boots and my guess could be a off a bit. Black, glossy, clean hair - but he was losing it in front. An obvious candidate for male pattern baldness - though what he had was neatly cut and combed. All the mechanics wore a uniform of blue trousers and a long-sleeved blue/white pin-striped shirt. His sleeves were rolled probably twice. His uniform was very clean, neat. Of course, it was early in the morning. He wore a tidy mustache - not a thin one like David Niven, a bit more Clark Gable. I didn’t go quite so far as to think fastidious but I had the definite impression he was not a slob. His complexion was good. He was very attractive actually - I guessed him to be somewhere between 25 and thirty. I did notice he was not wearing a wedding band. As a single woman, I notice that kind of stuff as a matter of course.

He asked what time I had to be at work - 9am. Where did I work? I noticed that he was scoping me out. At the time, I was trim, more curvy than slim, blonde as I still am, and 5’2". He looked a bit surprised when I said I worked for an ad agency downtown.

Downtown as in L.A.? I nodded.

Do you always dress like this or is it casual Friday or something? I don’t know why that question surprised me. Somehow this guy didn’t look like the type who might have a clue about office dress codes. I’m not saying he looked dumb or anything. He just didn’t look like a guy who even thought about office dress. I also thought it was odd that he’d actually ask. Most people would observe and not say anything.

Since he brought it up, I related my morning to him. He was a good listener and asked questions as I talked. The fact that I was up and at the track by 5:30 every morning seemed to intrigue him. He said he wasn’t a horse racing fan...didn’t know they were up so early. While he seemed to work the entire time we talked, it seemed to take quite a while to replace the panel. He secured it with fancy headed screws and then decided he had to put the same screws in the matching panel on the other side of the car. He made work, no doubt about it. Once I stopped talking, he talked almost steadily.

At 8:20 he declared the car was repaired. I asked who do I pay. And he said, Don’t worry. This isn’t even covered in Chilton. It’s on the house. I knew that Victor had written a work order but Glenn said he’d take care of it. Maybe it’s a warranty issue. Probably. By this time I felt I deserved some sort of break and thanked him for his speedy repair. He shook hands again and made some comment about coming back if I had any little problem.

The freeway wasn’t too bad that morning. Unusual for a Friday. I arrived at work with time to spare.

Fridays tend to be hectic at the agency and that Friday was no exception. By noon, I had pretty much forgotten the morning and Glenn. He had been a calming interlude in a crazy morning. No one at work commented on my casual attire. Maybe because I stayed behind my desk as much as possible. Maybe because my clothes weren’t as casual as I thought. I am the only woman in the agency so perhaps having no comparisons saved my day. We had no clients in that Friday either. Thankfully. The agency had been around since before the second world war. It was considered staid. Settled. I didn’t resemble that reputation that morning.

At 5:15 I called my only brother to ask if he could break into my apartment for me. For dinner, he said, he could do anything. Asking Marvin to get me into my apartment was asking for the third degree. I have a reputation of being on top of everything, all the time. During the telling of the miseries of the morning, I did mention the mechanic and the fact that I didn’t pay for the work. Marvin laughed. It probably was a high point for the guy. Besides, that kind of stuff should be covered under warranty.

I had considered that. Having my only brother confirm it made me feel good. Much later I realized how lucky I truly was. Marvin is career military and was home on leave.

We went to our favorite Italian restaurant - my treat. All during dinner, Marvin insisted I get another house key made and put it in the car. Most people carry all their keys on one ring - I never have. So, after dinner, we had a key made to put on the ring with my car keys. My brother teased me about that lockout for several years. He even gave me a membership to the Automobile Club for Christmas. He can be such a dork. He even renews it every year for me.

The weekend passed quietly. Morning workouts getting ready for the season. Laundry, some housekeeping, and grocery shopping, the stuff you have to do. And I took the Minolta into the shop; fortunately it was a simple repair.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday morning I delivered prints from the Friday photo shoot to three trainers and scheduled to photograph a new horse coming in Wednesday to Whittingham’s barn. When I can schedule a shoot, I know there will be income. Many mornings I shoot on speculation. Over the years, Mr. Whittingham has hired me often for new arrivals. He also checks with me for speculation shots knowing I get some good stuff when he’s not looking.

The art department starts stumbling in about 9:20 so I am always first in the office. The coffee is ready long before they arrive. Once they’re all in, I make a second pot. This Monday, before 9, I had a mug of coffee on my desk and was taking calls from the answering machine when the telephone rang.

I spewed out the long agency name followed by Good morning, how may I help you?

I’m looking for Carrie. Is she in yet? Very pleasant male voice, vaguely familiar, very vaguely.

This is Carrie.

Clearing of the throat, low but audible. Hi, this is Glenn.

Glenn?

Pause, very long pause.

Glenn from Fox’s. I fixed an interior panel for you Friday.

Embarrassing. I should have recognized his voice. Hi, Glenn. What’s up?

You do remember me?

Oh, I most certainly do. I felt terrible. He thought he’d made an impression and I’d have immediate recall of him. He did make an impression. I just wasn’t on the ball this morning. Forgive me for being so vague. It’s been a busy day, already.

No problem. Hey, I know this is really short notice but I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me this evening.

This was a surprise. How did you know where to call me, Glenn?

He laughed. A work order has your office number on it. Remember?

Of course. Guess I should have known though I haven’t had my car worked on before. It’s still pretty new.

What did I remember from our conversation Friday? He had talked a lot - I tried frantically to recall something.

He laughed again. He has a really odd laugh - makes you smile just hearing it. Like I said, I know this is short notice and you probably already have plans but I thought I’d take a chance.

Thank you for thinking of me. Actually, I seldom schedule anything for Monday evening. Why in the world did I say that? That’s an opening if I ever heard one.

Good. I mean, does that mean you’ll have dinner with me? I have to be in night traffic court in Pasadena. It shouldn’t take long - we could go to the Peppermill or someplace for dinner.

Night traffic court? I didn’t know there was such a thing. What do they do in night traffic court? I mean, why night traffic court? A real judge?

Yeah, if you get a traffic citation you don’t have to miss work to go to court. They have night court every Monday. I picked up a speeding ticket a couple weeks ago. And I don’t want to just accept whatever fine some clerk would determine at the window. Besides, if you go to court sometime you can beat the ticket. Court’s a real gas. Honest. Better than some of these TV shows.

What time?

You live on Leroy, right?

Right. Of course he’d know that - the service order.

It would be best to pick you up no later than 6:15.

You’re serious. Night traffic court?

Yeah, I’m serious.

Okay. I live in the back apartment. I will be ready.

See you then. I’ve gotta get back to work. Bye.

He hung up and I sat there for a good five minutes trying to figure what had just happened. A mechanic who worked on my car Friday has invited me to go to Night Traffic court with him on Monday. Well. That’s certainly a new pick up line. Some of Friday’s conversation drifted back to me. He was divorced; had two kids; what else?

I refilled my coffee cup. It took me a few minutes to get back to retrieving phone messages. By then most of the staff was in and the day was officially underway. As it seemed a bit surreal, I wrote myself a reminder and taped it to my purse. I did say I’d be ready. And I know I’ll space it without some sort of prompt. How weird can things get?

The day seemed to drag by - second by second. Ordinarily, I’m in no hurry to leave. But at 5, I picked up my purse, told the art department head I was leaving, and locked the front door behind me. The art department would never hear the door chime. But they will hear the phone.

The next thing - what does one wear to Night Traffic Court? Or should I dress for a nice dinner instead? He mentioned the Pepper Mill. It’s one of the nicer restaurants in town. By the time I got home I had mentally teamed a slim skirt with a bulky silk sweater. Hopefully it’s suitable for court and dinner and will override the ‘casual Friday’ image he most likely has of me.

Glenn knocked on the door promptly at 6:15.

He looked so different in street clothes. Quite dapper in gray dress slacks and a long-sleeved purple pin stripe shirt. Standing close to him, I decided he was not quite 5’ 8". He wore riding boots as he had at work. Tonight they were well-dressed, black, Tony Lamas. I’ve learned a lot about boots at the track. We walked to the street where he had parked. His car was a surprise. I expected a mechanic to have a well maintained vehicle but this was more than well maintained. Beautiful. It shone like new. It looked new. Later I learned a lot about that car. It wasn’t new.

There’s a lot parking available around the court house at night. We walked half a block from public parking, usually jammed during the day, to the side door of the courthouse.

He was right about night traffic court. It was a hoot. He was called after court had been in session about 45 minutes. The people who had gone before him were, for the most part, unbelievable. Glenn had said that sometimes you could get out of the ticket but I had never heard such lame excuses before. Before Glenn was called, no one got out of a ticket. When Glenn’s turn came, the judge peered over his glasses at him and said, Well, Mr. Bettel, this is quite a violation. How do you plead?

Guilty mostly, Your Honor.

If that’s the case, why are you here instead of just paying the ticket?

Well, Sir, I hope to be able to go to traffic school and keep this violation off my license.

The judge looked almost pensive before asking, May I ask what exactly you were driving to achieve a speed of 125 on the New York Extension? I see the officer’s notation but am not sure I’m reading it correctly. AMC Javelin?

There were whistles and hoots from the audience. There must have been forty other people in the court room. A hundred twenty-five was a new high for the evening.

Glenn took the question literally and said, Yes, Sir.

I think that took the judge by surprise. He cleared his throat and rephrased his question, Exactly what were you driving when you were cited.

Glenn looked almost proud when he answered, An American Motors 1969 Javelin, 380 short-block, blue-printed engine.

Blue-printed? Like a race car? The judge leaned over his desk. He seemed interested.

Yes, Sir. Fox’s Five Acres raced this car for two years at Irwindale Speedway.

And how did you come to own it, Mr. Bettel?

When Mr. Fox decided to pull the car from the track, I offered to buy it.

I take it that you work at Fox’s?

Yes, Sir. I’m a mechanic there, was one of the race team, and the usual driver.

The judge stroked his chin. I was getting nervous but Glenn seemed to have it under control. And you saw this beautiful new two-lane road and forgot where you were. Is that it?

Without hesitation Glenn said, Well, not really, Sir. It was 6am and no one around - well, except the officer who was sitting in the drive of the Y.

You saw the officer?

Not until I was almost on top of him. There are a lot of hedges just before the Y. I slowed down as much as I could, without braking, before he hit the street behind me.

So you may have been going faster than 125?

I don’t think so, Sir. He had to speed up to catch me and may have clocked me early.

The judge turned to the bailiff and asked for something. The bailiff left by a back door. There wasn’t a sound in the courtroom. No one had a clue what was going on but everyone was interested. People were still whispering about a 125 mile per hour ticket. So far, the biggest had been 68 in a 40 zone. The bailiff returned and handed the judge a map. The judge spread it out in front of him and beckoned the bailiff to look. They whispered between themselves for a minute before the judge looked up from the map and asked, Is the citing officer in court?

He was. Glenn said later that if he hadn’t been the judge may have thrown out the ticket.

The judge addressed the officer. Did you use a radar gun?

No, Sir. He came up so fast I didn’t have time.

Where on the Extension did he actually pull over?

Just past the Swim Club.

The judge looked at the map again. So you paced him less than a quarter mile?

The officer didn’t seem so sure. I don’t know about that, Sir.

Well, looking at the map, I believe you did not pace him long enough to actually determine only his speed without your accelerated speed to catch him.

The officer said nothing. He looked more than a bit ticked off.

The judge asked Glenn, How fast do you think you were going when the patrol car pulled behind you?

I really don’t know, Sir. It could’ve been a hundred. But I don’t think so. I honestly don’t know. Glenn was standing at ease with his hands folded behind his back. He looked more comfortable than the ticketing officer standing next to him.

The judge reviewed the ticket, the map, glanced at the officer and Glenn before he said, Well, Sir, I believe we all agree you were traveling more than the posted 50mph. Agreed?

Glenn nodded. Yes, Sir, we can agree on that.

To the officer, the judge said, And you agree to that, Officer - (He seemed to be trying to read the signature on the ticket) - do you agree? Evidently the scrawl wasn’t clear enough.

Yes, Sir, I can agree to that.

Officer, please review the rules for pacing speeders. As it is, I believe you may have pulled this gentleman over early. And, as for you, Mr. Bettel, (Glenn almost stood at attention.) there is a 50 mph speed limit on the New York Extension. I am fining you for doing 75 in a 50 zone. But if you show up in this court again, I will not be so lenient. Traffic school approved; pay the clerk.

By this time, the officer looked totally ticked and didn’t try to hide it. Many of the people in the courtroom whistled, clapped and a few stomped their feet. Glenn paid the clerk in cash, got his receipt and came back to me. He took my arm and we walked quickly, but not too quickly, out of the courtroom and out of the courthouse. Glenn turned to me and said, Didn’t I tell you night traffic court is a real hoot?

It was obvious that Glenn was relieved at the decision. But I felt he also believed he had been righteous in contesting the ticket. He opened the car door for me. When he got behind the wheel, he leaned backed against the seat. Is the Peppermill okay?

I nodded. It’s one of the oldest supper clubs in town - posh.

CHAPTER THREE

As it was Monday evening, there wasn’t a wait and we were ushered into a small dining room. After we were seated, he said, I went to the bank at noon. I just knew this was going to cost at least three bills, maybe four. Wow! I can’t believe what just happened.

I can’t either. Of course, I can’t imagine going 125 either. You seemed so cool, calm and collected. I would never be so sure of myself in front of a judge like that.

He laughed. The Javelin has a 380 short block engine. It could have gone 150 easy; there was another half mile before I would have shut it down. Probably would have hit the 125 if I hadn’t seen the cop.

Speed like that is a bit beyond me - at least, then it was. We ordered a drink before dinner. And Glenn talked about the car. No doubt he was in the right profession; he really loves automobiles. He loves anything on wheels. He talked about his dirt bike, his mini bike and told how his Dad was a great influence in getting a go-cart track built when Glenn was a kid. He still has his go-carts, he said. I didn’t say much. I have never heard anyone talk about things on wheels so eloquently without being a bore.

Maybe the one drink loosened his tongue but I don’t think that was it. He had a lot of pent up emotion that had nothing to do with the speeding ticket or the drink. It also sounded as though he had no one he could dump on. Why he chose me I’ll never know. Maybe he hadn’t thought of me as an outlet. Maybe he just felt comfortable with me. I don’t know. But before dinner was over, there was very little I didn’t know about him. I asked why he wore riding boots. He broke his ankle a year or so before while riding his motorcycle and had to wear a cast that had a built-in heel. He said he he had to wear a boot to walk evenly with the cast. He got so used to the boot he decided to wear boots even after his ankle heeled. I felt that the inch and a half he gained in height may have been worked into that equation, but he didn’t mention that. And maybe it didn’t. He didn’t seem to have a great deal of personal ego.

He reminisced for a few minutes about riding motorcycles and somehow that led to some childhood memories. It sounded to me as though he had a really great childhood. Only boy and youngest child - yeah, for sure. But those memories brought up high school.

He met his wife in high school. She was gung-ho to get married; he was worried about finding a good job. He said he had a prospect though he didn’t go into detail. Just a week before graduation she announced she was pregnant. He said he was quite upset as she’d led him to believe she was on birth control. Her parents were such great people. He felt they had let her parents down. I noticed he didn’t mention what his parents thought. Glenn was not quite 19 when they married. Back in those days, that’s what you did. He found a job at Fox’s. He didn’t say too much more about marriage; he just kind of drifted back to talking about his job and how much he enjoys it.

Glenn seemed pretty much easy come, easy go. He had a job; he had savings. He was a frugal man. By the time their second child was on the way, he bought a house. A big house in his old neighborhood. There had been a family tragedy or something and his neighbor just wanted to get rid of the house. The asking price was ridiculous and Glenn jumped at it. Two story 1915 Janeway house with a swimming pool and badminton court in back. As far as he was concerned, it was perfect. He had grown up in that neighborhood and had gone to the local schools. His was the only swimming pool on the block; his parents lived across the street. What’s not to like?

After they lived there a few years, his wife told him she didn’t like living so close to his parents. But other than that, she seemed to enjoy the marvelous old house