“A knit shop. I had a nice little knit shop where I sold yarns and things and helped people with their instructions and blocked sweaters and so on. The Knitting Bag, I called it.”
“That’s a cute name. How come you don’t have it any more?”
“Well, it got to be quite a burden,” she said vaguely. “Oh—they’re going to have some skyrockets now.”
We dropped the talk and watched again, and I stole glances about the room. It did look as if Miss Heater lived in pretty straitened circumstances. The two chairs were shabby, there were worn spots on the curtains, and the rug was almost threadbare. The place had a stripped look, too, as if a lot of ornaments were missing. I wondered how she could have lent Mrs. Dunningham any money. Or was that why she was poor?
The second commercial was less successful, conversationally, than the first, and the third was worst of all. Miss Heater had withdrawn into her pained smiles and strained silences again, and all either of us wanted to say was “good-by.” This we did as soon as possible.
I went back to my room feeling as disgruntled and discouraged as I had two other times this same stupid evening. Why had she drawn in her antennae like that? Maybe I’d slipped out of character again without knowing it. What’s come over me? I thought. I’ve been popping in and out of this role like a jack-in-the-box all day. What’s the matter?
I’m tired—that’s what’s the matter, I answered myself grumpily. When I examined this reply, I discovered it meant, “I’m tired of the role.” I was. The fact, and I had to face it, was that I was very tired of Georgetta and her family and her flat vowels—tired of wearing my domino. There it always was, between me and people I wanted to talk to.
Very well, Shannon, I thought as I hung up my skirt. You’re tired of Georgetta. You’ve got it all clear. So you go right on sticking with Georgetta anyway, my girl. You’re stuck with Georgetta. So face that fact.
I got into my dressing gown, and since the cuckoo was announcing it was only ten-thirty, I sat down at my desk and began trying to put Georgetta on paper—a refresher course, so to speak. The thing that surprised me was that the longer I scribbled, the more fun I had. I was entranced, when I stopped an hour later to read the thing over, to find Georgetta herself flouncing across my page, patting her hairdo, big as life; I’d never dreamed I could do it. It made me think back to that period during grade school when I was always scribbling—as Uncle Frosty had said, I’d had my mind made up to win the Pulitzer Prize someday.
I stuffed my papers into a drawer and went over to take off the cuckoo’s weights so he wouldn’t yell at me all night, then leaned on the windowsill, breathing the mild, rose-scented air that drifted in from the dark garden and thinking about those naively sanguine days. I could still remember the plot of one of my numerous masterpieces. It was about an absolutely incredibly beautiful sixteen-year-old girl who was desperately in love with an absolutely incredibly handsome seventeen-year-old boy, and you’d never believe the trouble they had getting married. There was a flood and an earthquake, much parental opposition, and a shocking old party—a sinister Tibetan or somebody—who was always tripping them up for reasons of his own. On the last page, when they were about to be captured by Communist spies, here came this old Tibetan closing in from the other direction in a sort of pincers movement. But luckily a friend happened to have an airplane sitting about in his garage, and they climbed joyfully in and flew away into the sunset.
So much for my plotting ability. You can’t say there wasn’t lots of plot, but if quality counted, it would amount to a misdemeanor to loose me on the fiction-reading world.
So that old hope died a-borning. Its second death. Meanwhile, I was asleep on my feet, and Georgetta had to work tomorrow, and I still hadn’t entered today’s spate of information in my journal—and here I was depressed again. I dug out the journal and scrawled some hieroglyphs, then went bitterly to bed.
7
Friday, 5th July . . . Woke up worrying about Mrs. J. and Wynola’s hair, feeling dissatisfied about Miss Heater, and simply dreading to face Sherry. What excuse can you give for plain, offensive rudeness? Isn’t any. He came in the Rainbow about noon. I smiled, rather tentatively, and when he smiled back—pretty tentatively, too—I went up to his end of the counter and braved it out. Just said please would he put my flight-off-the-handle down to nerves, Mrs. Jackson, and temporary insanity, because I didn’t understand it myself.
Lame enough, but he accepted it with perfect calm. “Don’t worry, Greensleeves. There’s still a lot I don’t understand about you, too. Such as why you say ‘lorry’ sometimes instead of ‘truck.’” Then he smiled his gentle quizzical smile and tactfully drank some coffee while I went goose-bumpy and asked myself when I had said that and how often? He set down his cup and added, “Of course, it doesn’t matter. If everybody understood everybody else, life might be real dull. Is Mrs. Jackson still mad at you this morning?”
She was (still is this evening), and I said so. No greeting when we met at the mail table, just a look from under those eyebrows that bracketed me with dog poisoners. Sherry said she was bound to get over it, probably as soon as Wynola gets a good haircut, and again told me not to worry. Yesterday Miss Heater kept telling me not to worry. This afternoon Wynola assured me, with a rather obviously stiffened upper lip, that Mom would like her hair once she got used to it, and anyway it was done—and not to worry. I’m still worrying.
Saturday, 6th July . . . Mrs. J. has begun speaking—but not to me, just to the air in my vicinity. She makes remarks about hair. I don’t defend myself, because I keep feeling I deserve this—or at least that she deserves a chance to punish me, since she got none to prevent my ill-judged deed. But I’m beginning to feel like a barefoot penitent who’ll never make it to the shrine. Why can’t I learn not to follow impulses?
Sunday, 7th July . . . My flagellating arm is getting tired. So is my temper-holding mechanism. Really, you’d think I’d maimed Wynola instead of improving her! I spilled over to Rose about it today, and she said, “For heaven’s sake, relax. The kid looks great. I’ve been noticing her.”
No wonder. Wynola’s become ever-present in the Rainbow. She keeps dropping in “on her way” to or from the grocer’s or the cleaner’s or the mailbox—which is in the opposite direction—to confide things in me or ask my advice or just keep a devoted eye on me in general.
Today she said, “Georgetta, do you think a person fifteen and a quarter years old is too young to wear eye shadow?” I said yes and nearly dropped a milk shake at the vision of Wynola daubed with Georgetta’s irridescent blue. “Well,” she said, “but I’m not too young for lipstick, am I? Look—I got the prettiest one yesterday, with my own money, and now Mom says I can’t use it.” She dug the lipstick out of her pocket, and to my relief it wasn’t Passionate Pimento or anything, just a nice pale rose exactly matching that attractive flush along her cheekbones. But never mind. I said, “You better do what your mom says. Maybe she’ll let you wear it just for dress-up.”
WYNOLA (darkly): She won’t. She won’t let me have high heels, either. She won’t let me do anything.
I told her quickly that I hardly ever wore high heels myself and that they didn’t look right with ankle socks anyhow.
WYNOLA: But I want some nylons, too. And just some little high heels, to wear with my pink dress.
I remembered the big black oxfords and couldn’t help agreeing, but I kept quiet. I’m through stirring hornets’ nests. Then she began brooding about finances. “If I could buy my own clothes, she’d have to let me wear them. I wish I could get a job, for after school and weekends. Georgetta, where could I get a job?”
This sort of thing makes me feel exactly like Alice with the White Queen’s chin resting heavily on her shoulder. Still, it’s my own doing. I started the rebellion; Wynola now assumes she can count on me to stick by her through the hostilities, and I can’t blame her, but my word how I would love t
o withdraw my fingers from this very sticky pie. On the other hand, drat it, here Wynola is showing signs of spunk at last, back on a slimming routine, and acting sort of generally alive. And every time I look at her hair—professionally trimmed yesterday and a big success—I ask myself if my sister Charmeen could have been wrong after all about my going into hairdressing as a career. Until the next time I see Mrs. J., who keeps right on making me feel like the only little skunk at the woodlands picnic. So I swing like a berserk pendulum between angry defensiveness and a sort of hunted guilt.
I could do with some support from the other lodgers, but Miss Heater’s back in her shell, and Dr. Edmonds and Dave Kulka must have gone away for the weekend—haven’t seen them since Wednesday. For all I know, my excommunication is complete, which will mean the end of Georgetta E. Smith, Girl Detective. It may anyway—I’m so on edge I’m ready to go off like a rocket if anybody looks sidewise at me.
9:30 a.m., Monday, 8th July . . . Well, half an hour ago Dave Kulka looked sidewise at me. Everything may be in smithereens.
I’d been over to the grocer’s for oranges. Just as I was letting myself in the front door, Dave came down the stairs. “Oh, there you are,” he said in his usual surly tone. Since I was feeling taut as a bowstring without any help from him, I just muttered, “Good morning,” and made the jog around the staircase, heading for my room. To my absolute astonishment, he leaned over the banister and stretched out a long arm to bar my way. When I glared up at him, he merely looked contemptuous. “Why did you cut Wynola’s hair?” he demanded.
“Oh, REALLY,” I snapped. “Because she wanted me to—that’s why.”
“Well, you’ve ruined her. She was pure Gothic. That fright wig was just right.”
My eyes and mouth both opened wide, but I couldn’t say a word for a minute, I was too enraged.
With a shrug Dave added, “Artistically, she’s all wrong now.”
The rocket went off. I felt as if my whole head were full of sparks. “Why, you arrogant, unmitigated beastly blob of glup,” I said. “Who do you think you are to talk that way about a human being? Of all the utterly sophomoric statements I ever heard, that wins the coconut, besides being none of your business in the . . .” And then I stopped, with the sparks burning out to little cold blue cinders. Dave’s grin was slashing clear across his face, and those black Renaissance eyes of his were simply Machiavellian.
He said, “I thought so. Just wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” I gasped. My lungs couldn’t decide whether to work overtime or not at all.
“Sure you were a fake. Where did you get that educated accent all of a sudden, Miss Greensleeves Smith?”
I began nasally, “I caaan’t imaagine what you—”
“Oh, drop it. You know exactly what I mean. You should see your face right now.” He propped both elbows on the banister, obviously enjoying the sight. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to spoil your little game, whatever it is,” he added, while I resolved that if anybody else told me not to worry, I would go straight downtown and jump off the Pacific Power Building. His eyes were running over me frankly and in minute detail, and under their heavy lids I’d swear there was a gleam of amused respect. “It’s good,” he said. “I’ve got to hand it to you—you’re perfect. Just a little too perfect—that’s the only flaw.”
I attempted some withering remark beginning with “Gee” and was ordered to cut it out. “You’re wasting your time—with me, anyhow. Just be yourself, whoever you are. Don’t you want to know what tipped me off?”
I didn’t answer, just stared up at him lounging there on the banister in his faded brown shirt, with the usual lock of hair falling over his forehead, and longed to slit his throat.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he went on conversationally. “It was Wynola’s haircut. Good job, even before she got it slicked up. Showed a real eye for form and composition.” He smiled. “Yours doesn’t. See? Dead giveaway.”
His voice was casual—maybe disinterested is the word. But not uninterested. He gave me another heavy-lidded appraisal, hairdo to shoe bows, before easing his shoulder off the newel post, remarking, “I’m not going to say a word,” and ambling lazily down the last step and off toward the front door.
I walked rigidly to my room feeling as though I’d forgotten how to work my knees, set my bag of oranges down carefully on a drawer edge (they’re still all over the floor), then made it here to my desk and sat. I continued to sit, like a stone image—with stone brains—until it occurred to me to try thinking it out on paper, in this journal. Not that it’s helped much—though I do rather believe Dave meant what he said and actually intends to keep his large, revolting mouth closed.
Well it isn’t really large and revolting. It’s large and curiously attractive when it isn’t twisting scornfully, as it usually is around me but certainly wasn’t this morning. Not precisely large, either—wide. With a thin, curving upper lip and a very full lower one, cleft in the middle.
Anyway, regardless of Dave’s mouth. Whether he mentions this to a soul or not, I’ll bet he makes life difficult for me. Worse than Sherry ever did, because he hasn’t Sherry’s tact and Sherry’s regard for people’s feelings. Of course, he hasn’t Sherry’s devouring curiosity, either—I guess. I don’t know. Neither do I know whether he keeps promises or ignores them. There’s a lot I don’t know about Dave Kulka, starting at A and going straight to Zed. All I’m sure of is that he (1) likes weeds, (2) dislikes people, and (3) is an artist—a jolly good one. And uncommonly perceptive. It never entered my head, that discrepancy between my tasteless hairdo and Wynola’s tasteful one. Drat his artist’s eye—and his quick mind that asked who was responsible for both coiffures. That’s all it took to bring the unmistakable odor of fish and a chance to ruin my day by wafting it under my nose. He’d never forego that pleasure—but it just may be all he wants to do.
Evening . . . Today kept right on being eventful. I’d no sooner shut this journal this morning and headed for work than I encountered Dr. Edmonds, standing at the hall table. The mail had just come. I spotted something for me, disguised in one of Miss Jensen’s discreet white envelopes. Dr. Edmonds had a book; he was struggling to free it from the corrugated paper and iron-clad staples Americans always use to wrap them. He said, “Good morning, Miss Greensleeves!”—cordial as ever—then paused in his struggles, glanced toward the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “I want to say right now—that was a real favor you did Wynola. She’s amazingly improved. Remarkably. How did—it come about?”
I had a strong feeling he’d started to say, “How did you ever think of it?” His eyes had gone automatically to my tower, and they were blue and puzzled. I thought, Oh, my word, here’s another one. Not artistic maybe, but frightfully intelligent. If he doesn’t have the answer now, he’ll have it in a minute.
Meanwhile, I was rapidly saying a lot of things intended to give the impression that I thought a coiffure more like mine would have been an even greater improvement, but that I just hadn’t quite managed to—
Didn’t work. Dr. Edmonds listened politely but couldn’t quite hide the slight skepticism in his eyes. I could just see him thinking, “The lady doth protest too much.” I quit overprotesting—too abruptly, and I saw him notice that, too—and switched to Mrs. Jackson. He commiserated and told me not to worry. Then he offered to try smoothing things over with her a bit. “She’s difficult sometimes. I’ll just have a word with her when an opportunity presents itself, Miss—er—Greensleeves.”
His eyes went briefly to my hair again, then courteously back to his half-unwrapped book. One thing’s certain: he’ll not say a word, even to me. Too polite. He’d no more ask me why I’m in disguise than he’d ask me how often I wash my ears. To show my gratitude, I helped him wrestle his book free, and oh, what a book! Large and handsome and opulent-looking, with one of those fantastically beautiful archaic Greek horses on the dust jacket. The titl
e was Early Greek Sculpture.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Dr. Edmonds said softly. He was staring at the horse as if nothing else on earth had any importance. And I believe that for him, at that moment, nothing else had. He muttered something under his breath—in classical Greek, I was almost certain. I’m quite certain that what shone in his eyes as he thumbed reverently through the book was plain monomania. That man is madly in love; he just happens to have fastened on a dead civilization instead of a live human being as the object of his affections.
When I asked what he’d said, he repeated the phrase—gently and with love, not at all the way Nevin gobbles his occasional Greek tags. It sounded like a phrase of music. For a minute he even had me interested in how the old Greeks sounded when they talked.
“Is it poetry?” I asked him.
“No. It’s the cornerstone of Greek philosophy and art and thought. ‘Nothing in excess.’ The line’s inscribed on the temple of Apollo at Delphi—so I’ve heard.”
So he’d heard. His voice had gone wistful as he turned back to his book. I thought of Delphi—that high, high, breathtaking place full of quiet and ivory-colored broken columns, with mountaintops down below you. That spring Dad and I were there, the little almond trees were blooming in the snow. Why haven’t I realized what Mrs. Dunningham meant? She wanted him to see Delphi—and Mycenae and Thermopylae and Epidaurus, and the part of Athens on the hill, not around the Hilton. And suddenly, and very badly, I wanted him to see it, too.
Well, we talked a bit longer, chiefly about early Greek sculpture—he couldn’t keep his eyes or his mind off his book, and I didn’t blame him—and then about Sherry and the private lessons in Greek. Dr. Edmonds said he hoped Sherry would go on with the study, because the reward was well worth any labor. He added thoughtfully, “It’s been far and away the most rewarding labor in my life.”