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discovered that grave blankets were also
available tocelebrate a variety of occasions. You could (and
apparently still can) buy birthday blankets, Christmas blankets, Valentine’s Day
blankets, and more. I still have no idea how the custom originated but I had to give
credit to the good old American entrepreneurial spirit. They certainly knew how to make
money, even out of their dead.
    Driving around in the suburbs was a strange,
almost surreal experience. It bothered me that nothing looked permanent. All of the
shopping areas, or strip malls, as they were called, were single storey and strung out
along concrete parking strips. Little of the construction was in bricks and mortar and
most buildings reminded me of the prefabricated houses built in Britain after the war. I
remember wondering why they didn’t construct multi-storey buildings, as they did
in Europe and in the larger American cities, where shops usually had apartments or other
businesses above them. Bob said it was because there was more land to build on in
America. Everything reminded me of what I’d seen in movies about the old Wild
West, except that there were proper roads and the shops had modern frontages. I hoped
that I wouldn’t have to live in that wasteland: I needed to be somewhere that felt
more lived in, where I didn’t feel so unattached, so disconnected, like an
untethered balloon blowing about in the wind. Those wide-open places, which looked
barely used, didn’t seem very different from ghost towns. Years later, watching
the American television series
The Twilight Zone
, I was reminded of my early
impressions of Chicago’s newer suburbs; there had been something eerie about them
back then.
    The most important visit of all, as far as
the Irvines wereconcerned, was to the church that the family
attended. They were Lutheran, a denomination I had never heard of before. Mrs Irvine
worked as housekeeper to the minister and his wife, which surprised me: every vicar or
minister I had known in England, not that I had known many, was poor. They could not
have afforded a housekeeper, and certainly wouldn’t have been driving a brand new
Cadillac or spending their winters in Florida, as this minister did. I was also shocked
that members of the church had to sign a pledge as to how much they would give it each
week or year since the church’s budget was based on projected income. Apparently,
the pledge could be as binding as any other contract. I remember thinking how mercenary
it sounded. It was definitely not my idea of religion. American churches seemed to
operate like businesses and I hated the idea.
    I was amazed again when I saw how
Bob’s mother and sister dressed for church on cold days. Along with their Sunday
dresses, full-length fur coats and high-heeled shoes, they wore white ankle socks over
their nylon stockings. I found that most unattractive and peculiar and hoped they
wouldn’t expect me to follow suit. I’d rather have died than wear socks over
my nylons.
    Every Sunday after church, the family would
gather at the Irvines’ house for midday dinner, and then at Roberta’s for
the evening meal, or supper, as they called it. I would mentally hold my nose against
whatever strong food smells prevailed and pray for something I could eat without
gagging.
    At first I thought it was nice that the
family spent so much time together, but soon the obligation became anuisance. They expected us every Sunday, which gave us no freedom to do anything else
at weekends, especially if Bob was working overtime on Saturdays. Those Sunday meals,
always served on the best china, crystal and silver, meant lots of washing-up
afterwards: every piece had to be cleaned individually, by hand, never allowing one to
bang against another. Then, each item wrapped in its special protective cloth, it all
went back into storage until the next Sunday. The process took hours and, believe me, I
dreaded the routine; there were times when I would have given anything for our