An Independent Woman by Howard Fast Page A

“Ms. Lavette. You must forgive me for that silly letter. I’m afraid I don’t know how to address a woman and ask her to dinner—I’ve never done it before—I mean, except for my wife. Will you have dinner with me?”
    â€œCertainly. I’m baby-sitting tonight, but tomorrow, if that’s clear for you?”
    â€œFriday. Of course. When should I pick you up?”
    â€œSeven?”
    â€œGood. Yes.”
    â€œI’m on Green Street. The number—”
    â€œI know the number. Then tomorrow, at seven. Is there any special place you’d like to eat?”
    â€œI’ll leave that up to you.”
    â€œWherever you choose.”
    â€œGood. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    He sounded like a young boy on his first date, Barbara thought. Well, it is his first date. Five years without taking a woman to dinner—or to bed, I imagine. Now what have I gotten into ? She went to a mirror and examined herself thoughtfully. Not too many wrinkles, considering her age. She wore her white hair pulled back and clasped at her neck, but wouldn’t it look better if she simply combed it out and let the cowlick shape it? She tried that and shook her head. Too young, much too young, Barbara . She retreated from the mirror, and then turned around quickly, trying to see herself as a stranger. Well, I rather like it . She decided that she would wear it that way tonight and note her son Sam’s reaction. Then she reversed the thought. Sam would scowl. She would not be pushed around by Sam. His comment about having her committed had been teasing but utterly thoughtless, and like all surgeons she had ever met, he was dictatorial, convinced that surgeons were the chosen of God. She recalled his irritation when Sally came to him to find someone to do a face-lift. Her husband, Joe, a general practitioner, had bridled at the thought, so she went to Sam, who told her sourly that she was beautiful enough and that she did not need a face-lift; she had found her own surgeon, and fortunately he was a good one. Sam’s wife, Mary Lou, was a gentle, submissive Southern girl who was totally willing to wear her hair, or anything else, exactly as Sam desired.
    Barbara’s hair was cut shoulder length, and unlike most straight hair, it was thick and still lustrous. Once it had been a fine honey color, and Barbara had always delighted in it; but most of its turning white had happened in the six months after Carson’s death, and Barbara, deeply depressed, had had no thought of touching up the white streaks. As with all slow changes, she had looked into the mirror one day and realized it: She had gone white. She rather liked it; it set a seal on Carson’s departure. He would be the last man in her life; she’d had enough of marriage and men, and now it was over.
    Yet she could not help thinking of how good Sally had looked after the face-lift. Sally was only twelve years younger than Barbara, yet when they walked on the Embarcadero, men’s heads turned to look at her, not at Barbara.
    It was Barbara who made that distinction. Her eyesight was still good—not 20—20, but good enough for walking if not for driving—yet she insisted on wearing her glasses. Sally once whispered to her, via Dorothy Parker, “Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses,” and somewhere in Barbara’s mind that must have stuck. She had not worn her glasses when she spoke to Philip Carter.
    But she would never have a face-lift. As she said once to Eloise, she had earned every wrinkle, not on the sands of some Hawaiian beach, but under the hot sun of North Africa during World War II; and. as for her hair, she would comb it out and wear it that way—let Sam say whatever he would. She sensed the contradictions and the general confusion of her thoughts, and admitted to herself that in spite of her initial reaction to the letter, she was quite excited about