wrong drawer. But I didn’t care. Helen and I were in the open now, and I was ready for the relief of an all-out spat. I waited.
Helen turned to face me and blinked in feigned bewilderment. I recognized it again from the repertoire she often practiced in the mirror. “Oh!” she said, as though suddenly remembering something. “Why, yes, you’re right; I almost forgot.” She got up from the vanity, crossed to her armoire, and extracted something. “Here are your gloves back—I’m sorry I kept them so long.” With an air of generosity, she moved to hand me back a pair of burgundy-brown leather gloves I had not seen since last year. I did not remember loaning them to her. I had thought them lost, and before winter had rolled around I had scrimped together some money to buy a much less attractive replacement pair in gray.
Now Helen was dangling my long-lost gloves before my face. With white-hot indignation still smoldering just beneath my skin, I took the gloves, the weight and sheen of them like the very slender, slack bodies of two small trout. So this was how she was going to play things. I told myself I couldn’t be bothered any further to extract an apology from a girl who was too much of a weasel to admit when she was wrong. I turned and began to walk away. But then I changed my mind. It wasn’t fair, I thought, to be left alone with the injustice of it all. I was quaking with anger, practically shivering all over my body. I retraced my steps back to Helen with a stiff, automatic gait, almost like a windup doll.
I drew up close and stood squarely in front of her, our noses almost touching. She looked into my face with a benign smile. Then, as if someone had pulled the plug on an invisible drain, I watched the color leave her face. It was in that moment, I think, she began to comprehend exactly what I was about to do, and what I was capable of doing if she angered me further. Still with a stiff, automatic quality to my movements, I lifted the hand that held the pair of gloves and brought them swiftly through the air, whereupon they landed with a satisfying
SLAP!
across Helen’s cheek. Helen, for her part, began crying and carrying on immediately.
“You wretch!” she shouted bitterly at me. But I no longer heard anything. Calmly and deliberately, I pulled the gloves onto my hands. I fitted them neatly over each finger and exited the room with the notion of taking an evening walk.
I stayed out for several hours, dithering here and there, and didn’t return until long after the dinner hour had come and gone. Once upstairs, it was obvious that Helen had retreated somewhat. I couldn’t see her, as she was completely obscured by the sheet that divided the room, which I noted had been drawn so as to achieve maximum privacy. But I knew she was there; I could hear her sniffling a bit—leftovers, I presume, from the drama-filled “good cry” she’d likely had while I was out on my walk. I tucked the gloves away in a dresser drawer (certain only that they would disappear again very soon, as Helen was an incorrigible little thief) and crawled under the covers of my bed to resume the book I had been trying to read earlier.
I assumed it would be more relaxing now that I’d confronted Helen and a small measure of justice had been done, but it remained difficult to concentrate. Once more, I found myself turning pages without really seeing them. I could sense Helen on the other side of the sheet, probably thinking she’d been done a grave wrong. She would tell Dotty first thing in the morning—if she hadn’t already, of course. She would probably even take the trouble to embroider the story here and there. They both would. I got up from bed and, with a vague tyrannical impulse, switched off the only electric lamp in the room. Helen did not protest. I crawled back under the covers and closed my eyes. I knew I was not likely to get much shut-eye for the night, but one thing was certain: This was no place for me
Helen turned to face me and blinked in feigned bewilderment. I recognized it again from the repertoire she often practiced in the mirror. “Oh!” she said, as though suddenly remembering something. “Why, yes, you’re right; I almost forgot.” She got up from the vanity, crossed to her armoire, and extracted something. “Here are your gloves back—I’m sorry I kept them so long.” With an air of generosity, she moved to hand me back a pair of burgundy-brown leather gloves I had not seen since last year. I did not remember loaning them to her. I had thought them lost, and before winter had rolled around I had scrimped together some money to buy a much less attractive replacement pair in gray.
Now Helen was dangling my long-lost gloves before my face. With white-hot indignation still smoldering just beneath my skin, I took the gloves, the weight and sheen of them like the very slender, slack bodies of two small trout. So this was how she was going to play things. I told myself I couldn’t be bothered any further to extract an apology from a girl who was too much of a weasel to admit when she was wrong. I turned and began to walk away. But then I changed my mind. It wasn’t fair, I thought, to be left alone with the injustice of it all. I was quaking with anger, practically shivering all over my body. I retraced my steps back to Helen with a stiff, automatic gait, almost like a windup doll.
I drew up close and stood squarely in front of her, our noses almost touching. She looked into my face with a benign smile. Then, as if someone had pulled the plug on an invisible drain, I watched the color leave her face. It was in that moment, I think, she began to comprehend exactly what I was about to do, and what I was capable of doing if she angered me further. Still with a stiff, automatic quality to my movements, I lifted the hand that held the pair of gloves and brought them swiftly through the air, whereupon they landed with a satisfying
SLAP!
across Helen’s cheek. Helen, for her part, began crying and carrying on immediately.
“You wretch!” she shouted bitterly at me. But I no longer heard anything. Calmly and deliberately, I pulled the gloves onto my hands. I fitted them neatly over each finger and exited the room with the notion of taking an evening walk.
I stayed out for several hours, dithering here and there, and didn’t return until long after the dinner hour had come and gone. Once upstairs, it was obvious that Helen had retreated somewhat. I couldn’t see her, as she was completely obscured by the sheet that divided the room, which I noted had been drawn so as to achieve maximum privacy. But I knew she was there; I could hear her sniffling a bit—leftovers, I presume, from the drama-filled “good cry” she’d likely had while I was out on my walk. I tucked the gloves away in a dresser drawer (certain only that they would disappear again very soon, as Helen was an incorrigible little thief) and crawled under the covers of my bed to resume the book I had been trying to read earlier.
I assumed it would be more relaxing now that I’d confronted Helen and a small measure of justice had been done, but it remained difficult to concentrate. Once more, I found myself turning pages without really seeing them. I could sense Helen on the other side of the sheet, probably thinking she’d been done a grave wrong. She would tell Dotty first thing in the morning—if she hadn’t already, of course. She would probably even take the trouble to embroider the story here and there. They both would. I got up from bed and, with a vague tyrannical impulse, switched off the only electric lamp in the room. Helen did not protest. I crawled back under the covers and closed my eyes. I knew I was not likely to get much shut-eye for the night, but one thing was certain: This was no place for me
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