Bliss

  Nancy pats me and says, “Good puppy. Nice puppy.” When her mother bends down to pull her away, she wraps both arms around my leg and wails. “No! My puppy!”

  “Oh, Nance,” her mother says. To Grandmother and me, she says, “I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem,” I say. I like this goofy kid. I like her warm, sticky hug; I haven’t gotten many hugs recently. My smile feels wobbly, but probably in a way that only I can sense.

  “Nancy, let go of the nice girl now,” her mother says. Above Nancy’s head, she gives us a look that conveys loving exasperation. “What can I say? She’s a spirited child.”

  “Bless her heart,” says Grandmother, which in the language of the South implies not one ounce of actual blessing. She turns to me with pursed lips. “Bliss?”

  Reluctantly, I extricate myself from Nancy’s grasp. Nancy wails, and Nancy’s mother, who has discerned Grandmother’s lack of approval, quickly wheels her off.

  Grandmother follows them with her gaze. “And there are things about your mother I don’t miss,” she says.

  It takes me a minute to understand. When I do, I grow hot with shame. Mom isn’t a toddler, and neither am I.

  Grandmother selects another blouse. “Now,” she says, “what do you think about this one?”

  fter purchasing my new clothes—two blouses, two skirts, and, astonishingly, one pair of flared jeans—Grandmother treats me to the Ladies’ Luncheon in the Magnolia Room. We have frozen fruit salad, fried chicken, and homemade yeast rolls. We wash it down with sweet tea. The meal restores Grandmother’s mood, and she suggests we stop by the Lancôme counter before going back home.

  “I always enjoy seeing what their bonus is,” she says.

  I don’t know what that means, but I say, “Sure, okay.”

  “Hmm,” Grandmother says when we reach the cosmetics department. She sorts professionally through the contents of the black-and-white pouch on display by the “Gift with Purchase” card. “The blush isn’t a shade I would use. The lipstick might work.”

  “Have you tried our new foundation?” the salesclerk asks. She reaches over and takes the sample from the pouch. “It’s formulated with vitamin E, which is excellent for maintaining elasticity.”

  I lean against the counter. Flying V was a big fan of vitamin E, squishing it from golden capsules and smearing it on Daisy and Clementine’s cuts.

  “And what’s the minimum purchase?” Grandmother asks.

  “Eight dollars.”

  “Well, I hate to spend so much on myself . . .”

  The saleslady brings forth other products. She squeezes a dollop of lavender-scented lotion onto the back of Grandmother’s hand, and Grandmother brings her hand to her nose and inhales.

  Grandmother and the saleslady discuss, their voices like hummingbirds. Grandmother turns to me. “Bliss, why don’t you pick something?”

  “I’m sorry . . . what?” I’ve tuned out and have no idea what’s expected of me.

  “Go on, Bliss,” Grandmother says. When I hesitate, Grandmother makes a tch-ing sound. To the saleslady, she says, “Bliss is my granddaughter. Her upbringing has been . . . unconventional.”

  “I see,” the saleslady says. Her expression suggests she doesn’t.

  “I wonder if we could do a full work-up,” Grandmother says, “given that I doubt she’s had a makeover in her life. What do you think, Bliss? How does that sound?”

  It sounds terrifying. A full work-up?

  But Grandmother is waiting, and I sense that she sees this as a treat she’s offering.

  “Hop on up here, sweetie,” the saleslady says. She pats a stool in front of the counter. “This will be fun.”

  I climb up and smooth my skirt over my legs. “So . . . what do I do?”

  The saleslady laughs. “Just sit and enjoy! That’s all there is to it.”

  She clips my hair back with two large bobby pins. “This toner will remove excess oil without stripping your skin of essential moisture,” she says, dabbing my forehead with a moist cotton ball. “Are you currently using a cream-based cleanser or a gel?”

  “I just use Ivory,” I say.

  “My, my,” she saleslady says. She studies me and says, “I would recommend our creamy cleanser for combination skin. Your T-zone is one of your challenge areas, but you don’t want to overdry the skin around your mouth.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Absolutely not,” Grandmother confirms.

  “Oh,” I say. And here I’ve been so pleased with the Ivory I discovered in the bathroom cabinet. It’s a vast improvement on Flying V’s homemade lye soap, that’s for sure.

  The saleslady dots moisturizer on my cheeks and around my lips. “There. That will address the patchiness without promoting further breakouts.”

  Patchiness? Further breakouts? I look at myself in the mirror, which magnifies my face to three times its normal size. My nose is shiny from the toner, and there does seem to be some flakiness around my mouth. Gross.

  “Shall we try some concealer?” the saleslady says. “Even out those skin tones?”

  I try not to fidget as she layers on concealer, foundation, and blush. Grandmother watches from over her shoulder and supplies a stream of commentary.

  “Vast improvement,” she says to the saleslady after she strokes on a second coat of mascara. “She’s got such funny, stubby eyelashes, doesn’t she? She gets them from her father.” And later, “Such a pretty girl, if only she’d take advantage of it. These women’s libbers, they forget what power a woman can have. A woman’s looks are a woman’s best weapon, if only she’s smart enough to use them.”

  Grandmother brushes back a wisp of my hair that’s escaped from the bobby pin, and I feel a mix of emotions. I’m pleased she thinks I’m pretty, but I’m dismayed by the thought that being pretty is a woman’s best weapon. Weapon against what?

  The saleslady fills in my lips with a pink lipstick that smells like bath beads. I need a break from my oversize reflection, so I glance out at the growing number of people browsing the aisles. I spot a familiar face, and my heart skips a beat. It’s Sarah Lynn Lancaster. She’s with Melissa and Heather, the girls from the quad that day.

  Sarah Lynn is laughing, her eyes bright, and I watch as she nudges Melissa and points at a mannequin wearing a plaid miniskirt. Heather says something that makes Melissa squeal, and Sarah Lynn laughs harder.

  My shoulders scrunch in, as does the space behind my breastbone. I watch Sarah Lynn strike a pose beside the mannequin, jutting her hips and pursing her lips, and I don’t know what’s going on inside me, just that it’s twisty and confusing. Then, with a jolt, I recognize it for what it is: jealousy. I’m jealous, and I absolutely didn’t see it coming.

  I’ve noted her beauty, of course. I’ve wished my hair was as glossy as hers. But my primary response to Sarah Lynn, until this moment, has been fascination combined with disdain.

  Looking at her now, I feel . . . less than, and it dawns on me my jealousy is related to the whole “being pretty” conversation. Sarah Lynn is what “being pretty” is all about, and it’s so much more than her features, her makeup, her clothes.

  That’s why Lawrence looks at her with such piercing intensity, as if he would die for her. That’s why Melissa and Heather act as her handmaidens. That’s why Thelma claims to be her “pretty much best friend,” when their interactions have been few and far between.

  Is that why Sandy hates her so? Hatred can certainly spring from jealousy—and such jealousy isn’t pretty at all.

  “Don’t jerk,” the saleslady chides. She steps back, lipstick held aloft. “So do we like this shade, or do we want to try something more dramatic?”

  I don’t respond, because somehow, unbelievably, Sarah Lynn is walking toward me. She lifts her hand and calls, “Hey, what’s up?”

  My pulse quickens. “Um, not much,” I manage. “What’s up with you?”

  Her brows draw together. Then she widens her eyes and
says, “Oh. Hi.”

  Her gaze flickers to a spot behind me, and I twist around to see Lacy McConnell at the perfume counter. Lacy of the briefly pierced ears. Lacy who goes out with Burt, the captain of the football team.

  Lacy hides her smile with her hand. But good breeding dictates politeness, at least on the surface, so she comes over to the Lancôme counter. Pretending my faux pas was no big thing, she says, “Hi, I’m Lacy.”

  “I’m Bliss,” I say, wanting to melt into the chair. Having Grandmother here does not help. Sarah Lynn joins us, and having her here doesn’t help either.

  “Bliss,” Sarah Lynn says. She makes a face. “I’m so bad with names.”

  Now Melissa and Heather come over. They don’t make eye contact with me.

  “Come with us to Woolworth’s,” Heather says to Lacy. “I’m absolutely aching for a cherry Coke.”

  “Sure,” Lacy says. “Just let me pay for my perfume.”

  The four of them head for the cash register. Halfway there, Sarah Lynn turns around. “Bliss? Want to come?”

  Her invitation is genuine, I’m almost positive. I know her motivation has little to do with wanting to spend time with me and a great deal to do with wanting to make me feel less stupid about my gaffe. But even so, it’s an act of kindness, isn’t it?

  It is. Her expression, as she waits for my reply, is friendly.

  “No, thanks,” I say nonetheless.

  Sarah Lynn hesitates, and Heather grabs her arm. “She said she doesn’t want to. Come on.”

  I turn back toward the makeup counter, telling myself I was right to decline.

  It was nice to be asked, though. And maybe it wasn’t just kindness. Maybe Sarah Lynn saw something in me that made her think she might want to hang out with me, and not just out of pity.

  Then I see my reflection in the round mirror. Oh, God. Wide, startled eyes and shiny pink lips, plump as jellied candies. Hair clipped back. Forehead paler than a night crawler.

  I feel sick all the way to my bones.

  “Shall I ring up the concealer?” the saleslady asks.

  “I think yes,” Grandmother says.

  “Excellent. And what did you decide about the mascara?”

  “Bliss?” Grandmother asks. “What do you think?”

  I reach into my hair and tug at the bobby pins. One of them sticks, and I have to yank it free before flinging it on the counter.

  Grandmother and the saleslady share a glance.

  “Bliss,” Grandmother says.

  Humiliation burns through me.

  “Oh, why not,” Grandmother says. “We’ll take the mascara and the lipstick, too. And of course my gift-with-purchase.”

  coot over,” Sandy says.

  “I am over,” I say.

  Sandy glances over and sees that sure enough, I’m squished to the size of a flea against the passenger-side door of her mom’s station wagon. She laughs her man-giggle.

  “Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”

  Mrs. Lear, Sandy, and I are crammed together in the wide front seat of Mrs. Lear’s station wagon, along with a bag stuffed with buttons, felt, and fake fur, which somehow ended up in my lap. Behind us—the backseat folded down to make room for it—lies Sandy’s harp. Also, Mrs. Lear’s walker. Mrs. Lear is a sour-faced woman, thin and hunched, and she smells of whiskey, though I could be wrong.

  Be nice, I tell myself. I clear my throat and say, “So, Mrs. Lear, you’re going to a crafts class?”

  “Waa,” she says. It’s the scolding caw of a crow. “Yes, yes, I already said that. Pint-size teddy bears. I plan to make three.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Um, cool.”

  “I’ll put them in the bathroom.” She shoots me a sidelong glance. “Last week, we carved radishes into tiny rosebuds.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Week before, we made Bibles out of bars of soap.” She sounds angry about it. Not just the soap-bar Bibles, but all of it.

  “Well, um, that’s nice.”

  “Waa,” she says, disgusted.

  Beside me, Sandy turns deliberately from her mother and says, “Tell me again what Sarah Lynn said to you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I protest.

  She makes praying hands, a feat in this cramped space. “Please?”

  The story of my run-in with Sarah Lynn has proven quite a hit. Sandy’s the ideal audience, and I’m not so dumb as to take her gleeful indignation as an accurate read of the incident. But I guess my ego needs nursing.

  “She said she was bad with names,” I say, trotting out the critical details one more time.

  Sandy chortles. “Yeah, sure, like ‘Bliss’ is a name you could forget. And then she asked if you wanted to get a Coke?”

  “A cherry Coke,” I confirm. “But Heather was the one who brought up Woolworth’s. Sarah Lynn just asked if I wanted to come too.”

  “All sticky-sweet, ‘I’m-so-nice, I’m-a-little-princess,’ right? When she didn’t even know your name. Good one, Sarah Lynn! Real believable.”

  “Waa!” Mrs. Lear interrupts. “This is why you have no friends. So judgmental!”

  Sandy blushes, yet she keeps on as if she didn’t hear. “What was she wearing? A micromini?”

  “Um . . .” I remember Sarah Lynn’s kind expression, but I don’t remember her outfit.

  “If she wore a micro, it was probably Heather’s or Melissa’s. I bet she had to sneak it on after she left her house.”

  “So catty,” Mrs. Lear rebukes. “What do you care what she wore?”

  “I think she wore just a normal skirt,” I say.

  Sandy leans close and breathes into my ear. “Bet she wears fancy little panties, don’t you? With ruffles along her ass, and when she bends over to pick up a lipstick that she accidentally dropped—oops!” She pitches her voice to a falsetto. “Oh my goodness, oh my gwacious! Did anyone see my widdle bottom?”

  Mrs. Lear smacks her. “Nasty!”

  I sink in the seat. This is the first time my story has prompted references to Sarah Lynn’s “widdle bottom,” and I vow not to tell it again.

  “I was just teasing,” Sandy says petulantly. She points out the window. “There’s the turn.” She raises her voice. “I said there’s the turn!”

  The tires squeal as we veer into the Eternal Fountains parking lot. For a long second Sandy is thrown against me, and then we rock back into place.

  Mrs. Lear stops the car, and Sandy nudges me with her thigh. “We’re here. Get out.”

  I open the door and step into the sunlight—oh, it’s good to be free of the car—and Sandy pushes past me to the back of the station wagon. First she unloads a special wheeled cart. Then she tugs at her harp. Mrs. Lear’s walker thunks as it’s dislodged.

  “A little help, please?” Sandy says over her shoulder.

  I dart forward and grab the harp’s base, and we maneuver it onto the cart. Sandy shuts the trunk, and Mrs. Lear roars off.

  “Um, thanks for the ride!” I call.

  The station wagon expels a cloud of smoke.

  Sandy pulls the cart toward the nursing home, and I jog to catch up.

  “Why does your mom use a walker?” I ask.

  “To help her walk,” Sandy says.

  “Yes, thanks,” I say. “But why does she need help walking?”

  She steals a glance at me. “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.” I hesitate. “I mean, why wouldn’t I? Is it bad?”

  “’Course not. Charming story, sure to delight.”

  “If it’s something private, then never mind.”

  Sandy sighs. “If you must know, she has chronic back problems from a car accident.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah? Well, get ready to be even sorrier: It was my fault.”

  “It was? How?”

  “I was six, and she and I were on the way to the grocery. Except we hadn’t left yet. Mam’s door was still open.”

  Her tone stays light, as if we’re discussing a new hair
style. Not that Sandy and I would ever discuss hairstyles, unless it was Sarah Lynn’s, and unless Sandy was making fun of it.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say.

  “You asked, didn’t you?” She heaves the front edge of the cart over a cement step. “Mam dropped the grocery list. She leaned to get it, and while she wasn’t looking, I shifted the car into reverse.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Mam fell out. The car rolled over her.”

  I suck in my breath, and air whistles over my teeth.

  “It gets worse,” Sandy says. “I just sat there, see? With Mam pinned beneath the car.”

  “Well . . . you were six,” I say.

  “Six-year-olds know how to go inside and use the phone,” she says. “Six-year-olds know that when someone’s screaming in agony, chances are that person needs help.”

  “You were a kid! Oh, Sandy, you must have been terrified.”

  “I suppose. I don’t really remember.”

  “But your mom . . . she can still walk and everything?”

  “As long as she uses the walker,” Sandy says. “But she doesn’t like it. Can we stop talking about it now? It’s so embarrassing.”

  Embarrassing—not the word I would have chosen. Her attempt at bravado makes me feel tender toward her, and I think, No wonder she hates life’s cruelties. No wonder she helped Gayla that day.

  We reach the entrance to the nursing home, and Sandy shoves open the door with her shoulder. The cart gets lodged in a metal ridge at the door’s base, and the harp totters.

  “Whoa,” I say. I hurry to her side, and together we steady the harp and ease it over the hump.

  andy signs in at the front desk, and the receptionist says, “Knock ’em dead, doll.” I follow her down a wide hall to the recreation room, where twenty or so old people sit in a semicircle. Most of them seem out of it, staring into space or slumping in their wheelchairs. One old lady gazes at the floor with her mouth half open. With a sudden twitchlike motion, she flings her leg up and over the arm of her wheelchair, exposing the flesh of her thigh. An aide steps over and coaxes the leg back down. I look away.

  I guess I’m not so accustomed to old people, other than Grandmother.