1943; possibly the man who used to tear the pages had gone to war and not come back, the modern version of those pocket watches in murder mysteries that always crack and fail at the hour of death.
I sat two pews behind Annabel, quiet as a widow in church, in the back of the shop where Mr. Hussey preferred his Negroes. A weary soldier smiled across from me, nursing his root beer as if it were real beer. What was I drinking? A lemon phosphate, thank you, William—tablet in a glass, quickly drowned by a flood of fizzing water. A decent married woman’s order. I forced myself to ignore William, the ugly term he muttered as I left. And there I sat, hidden in the shadow of a column, in my best hat and coat with the phosphate pricking my nose and glowing like an antidote. I had planned my confrontation only to realize we are as cowardly with rivals as with those loved from afar.
She was not beautiful. I decided that immediately as I saw her puckering her lips over the stiff red tip of the straw. But she had managed, with her sharp nose, her filbert-shaped face visibly freckled beneath the powder (flecks of vanilla in the cream), to create an illusion of beauty. A plain white girl who had learned to act as if she were pretty. The way she sat: mermaid-like, with her legs drawn up beneath her, and her voice modulated with a delicate ring that rose, now and then, into laughter the way my grandmother’s porch chime often broke into a wind-busied clangor. Her charm bracelet also rang, mostly with light, as its various hearts, books, and anchors caught the sun, and a single silver ring hung gleaming on her breast like an acrobat’s hoop. All the time, as she chatted with her friend, she drummed on her ziggurat of schoolbooks with a brush-tipped eraser.
“White with navy polka dots, and the top is navy with white polka dots.”
“Sounds lovely, doll.”
“I hope so, it cost a pretty penny.”
She was not what I’d thought she would be, nor what I’d hoped. I had imagined a cute, simpering airhead, not a bright girl desperate for something greater than life in our Sunset. Overhearing her conversation, I learned Annabel was studying chemistry at State in an astounding fantasy that a woman could be a scientist in 1953. That is what she talked about, as her friend tried to tempt her with sillier topics, as her straw went in and out of her Suicide: those chemistry classes, and the professors who ridiculed her, her disapproving father and the male students who pinched her. She talked about it all with humor, but the strain was already showing in the tired circles that her makeup could not hide.
“You won’t guess what they put in my lab notebook.”
“Oh, I don’t want to know.”
“Dirty pictures of course. Filthy, filthy pictures.”
“Annabel, what did you do?”
“Said it was hilarious, of course. What else could I do? You can’t let them know they’ve got you.”
A burst of birdlike laughter: a young married white couple across from Annabel, the bride very pregnant, the groom very dusty. They were clearly passing through; I could see their road-mangled car sleeping by the curb, bags tied to the top. Inside, a dog readjusted its position of longing. They had come far to escape the Nebraska of their license plate, and who knows what surefire plan they’d cooked up in Mexico or Alaska? Seeing them, I could not help but feel an American stab of hope.
From the booth, a familiar name.
The friend produced a waterfall of mirth: “Isn’t that rich?”
“Where did you hear that?” Annabel asked, looking around but not catching sight of me. “There’s nothing to it, I’m sure.”
“I thought you’d know all about it!” and more silvery laughter followed. “A married woman carrying on beneath her husband’s nose—”
“Hush, I’ve never even met his wife.” Annabel DeLawn turned to her dark cupcake and, picking at its pleated silver skirt with her nails, began to undress it on the table like a doll.
I sat two pews behind Annabel, quiet as a widow in church, in the back of the shop where Mr. Hussey preferred his Negroes. A weary soldier smiled across from me, nursing his root beer as if it were real beer. What was I drinking? A lemon phosphate, thank you, William—tablet in a glass, quickly drowned by a flood of fizzing water. A decent married woman’s order. I forced myself to ignore William, the ugly term he muttered as I left. And there I sat, hidden in the shadow of a column, in my best hat and coat with the phosphate pricking my nose and glowing like an antidote. I had planned my confrontation only to realize we are as cowardly with rivals as with those loved from afar.
She was not beautiful. I decided that immediately as I saw her puckering her lips over the stiff red tip of the straw. But she had managed, with her sharp nose, her filbert-shaped face visibly freckled beneath the powder (flecks of vanilla in the cream), to create an illusion of beauty. A plain white girl who had learned to act as if she were pretty. The way she sat: mermaid-like, with her legs drawn up beneath her, and her voice modulated with a delicate ring that rose, now and then, into laughter the way my grandmother’s porch chime often broke into a wind-busied clangor. Her charm bracelet also rang, mostly with light, as its various hearts, books, and anchors caught the sun, and a single silver ring hung gleaming on her breast like an acrobat’s hoop. All the time, as she chatted with her friend, she drummed on her ziggurat of schoolbooks with a brush-tipped eraser.
“White with navy polka dots, and the top is navy with white polka dots.”
“Sounds lovely, doll.”
“I hope so, it cost a pretty penny.”
She was not what I’d thought she would be, nor what I’d hoped. I had imagined a cute, simpering airhead, not a bright girl desperate for something greater than life in our Sunset. Overhearing her conversation, I learned Annabel was studying chemistry at State in an astounding fantasy that a woman could be a scientist in 1953. That is what she talked about, as her friend tried to tempt her with sillier topics, as her straw went in and out of her Suicide: those chemistry classes, and the professors who ridiculed her, her disapproving father and the male students who pinched her. She talked about it all with humor, but the strain was already showing in the tired circles that her makeup could not hide.
“You won’t guess what they put in my lab notebook.”
“Oh, I don’t want to know.”
“Dirty pictures of course. Filthy, filthy pictures.”
“Annabel, what did you do?”
“Said it was hilarious, of course. What else could I do? You can’t let them know they’ve got you.”
A burst of birdlike laughter: a young married white couple across from Annabel, the bride very pregnant, the groom very dusty. They were clearly passing through; I could see their road-mangled car sleeping by the curb, bags tied to the top. Inside, a dog readjusted its position of longing. They had come far to escape the Nebraska of their license plate, and who knows what surefire plan they’d cooked up in Mexico or Alaska? Seeing them, I could not help but feel an American stab of hope.
From the booth, a familiar name.
The friend produced a waterfall of mirth: “Isn’t that rich?”
“Where did you hear that?” Annabel asked, looking around but not catching sight of me. “There’s nothing to it, I’m sure.”
“I thought you’d know all about it!” and more silvery laughter followed. “A married woman carrying on beneath her husband’s nose—”
“Hush, I’ve never even met his wife.” Annabel DeLawn turned to her dark cupcake and, picking at its pleated silver skirt with her nails, began to undress it on the table like a doll.
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