At the end of this same block was the Standard Ledger and above it Hanlon Land and Investments, where, in an hour or so, Doyle Hanlon would assist his father at dabbling in futures. Would he show up bleary and slow after his late night? Would Herbert Hanlon ask how he’d come by those dark circles under his eyes and advise him to stay home at night?
That home which he shared with a wife named Jean, and twin boys whose names Bess did not know, was out by the Navarins’ on North End Road. Houses along that unpaved street were set on half-acre and acre lots carved from farmland twenty years ago. Many, like the Navarins’, had orchards. Bess could not recall whether Doyle Hanlon’s house had apple trees. Amazing, the things you didn’t notice when you hadn’t a reason.
Herbert and Rebecca Hanlon lived in a substantial old house with broad porches on Catalpa Street, a block from the tiny clapboard Episcopal church where Rebecca Hanlon was a leading light. Bess tried to recall when the Episcopalians had their bazaar. Wasn’t it around Thanksgiving? If she were home from college then, she would tag along with Aunt Kate and Harriet, and make it a point to buy something Doyle Hanlon’s mother had made.
Perhaps she and Mrs. Hanlon would strike up a conversation. Bess rebuked herself for the several ignored opportunities she had had in the past for talking with that lady. Had she chatted with her at a bazaar, she might know some important or even negligible details of Doyle Hanlon’s history. But what could be negligible?
Home from college. Going away to school had overnight lost its appeal. She wasn’t considering changing her mind about college, of course. And naturally she wasn’t considering meeting Doyle Hanlon at the Lucky Club.
When she’d awakened at seven, a fist-size lump of guilt had lain in her stomach, a heaviness she’d never known before. It was still there, weighing her down, and wouldn’t go away until she told Doyle that she couldn’t meet him.
Despite her resolve, Bess knew that she would love Doyle Hanlon as long as she lived. She could do nothing about that. Shuddering, she lay a hand on her midsection, where the stone of guilt lay.
Dora was in the kitchen heating the grill while her sixteen-year-old niece Shirley filled sugar dispensers. Dora glanced at the clock behind the counter as Bess rushed in. Seven twenty-eight. Bess was two minutes early. Dora liked that, and Bess wanted to please her. When she came home for summer vacation, she wanted to work at the Loon Cafe, at least part-time. She would need the money.
Snatching an apron from under the counter, suddenly Bess stood unmoving, the garment halfway to her waist—unless Doyle Hanlon moved away, Christ forbid, he would be in the Loon Cafe and the Lucky Club, at the Dakota Ballroom and elsewhere when she came home from college. How could she endure it? How, for that matter, could she endure the next couple of weeks, catching sight of him in his car or, worse, waiting on him in the cafe? She could stop going to the Lucky, but she couldn’t quit her job.
Wrapping the apron around her waist with slow-motion attention to each detail, she stared at the Coca-Cola calendar on the wall behind the counter. Wasn’t it fortunate that she hadn’t met Doyle Hanlon sooner? She would already have suffered the loss of him.
“Back booths!” Dora yelled at her.
Bess grabbed an order pad from beside the cash register and stuck a pencil in her hair. Breakfast was busy. Bess and Shirley ran back and forth from counter to booths to kitchen. Shirley was a good waitress—not very smart, but she had the routine down. She knew the menu backward and forward, and she knew what could be special-ordered and what couldn’t. She could even quote prices for banquets and gala occasions. Shirley took pride in being more restaurant wise than Bess. Bess might be going off to St. Cloud Teachers College, but she, Shirley, could handle four booths and the counter during a busy lunch, while Bess had trouble with two booths and the counter.
After the breakfast rush, Bess and Shirley were supposed to busy themselves with “housekeeping.” This morning Dora handed Bess a stack of old newspapers and a bottle of ammonia.
“The front window’s all flyspecked.”
Bess was standing on the wide ledge inside the window where Dora displayed handbills for the Dakota Ballroom and the St. Bridget County Fair. Embarrassed to be on display herself, Bess hoped that Doyle Hanlon wouldn’t choose this moment to stop in for coffee. If he did, Shirley would get to wait on him. Shirley was sitting at the counter, although Dora had told her to clean the toilets.
At ten-thirty Donna climbed onto a revolving stool at the counter and spun around, perky as hell, like Betty Garrett in On the Town, and ordered a Coke from Shirley, who scurried to wait on her. Donna was a favorite of Shirley’s. Not only was she a graduating senior, pretty and popular, but she took the time to discuss movie stars and their clothes. Looking immaculate and innocent in jeans and a freshly ironed white blouse, Donna told Bess, “Jack Comstock’s in front of Anderson’s, watching you.”
Bess craned. Yes, there he was, lounging on the front fender of Sherman Worley’s Plymouth and flashing her an imbecilic grin.
Giving the window a final swipe with the crumpled newspaper, Bess hopped down. “There’s no law against looking,” she observed.
“You wouldn’t give him another chance?” Donna asked.
“I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
This was the sort of thing Shirley wanted to hear, the kind of exciting seventeen-year-old talk she longed to be part of.
Bess did not like discussing anything personal in front of Shirley, who was all ears and no brain. “You got home all right last night?” she asked Donna.
“Oh, sure.”
“What did you think of your escort?” She did not say “Bob Arliss,” because it was none of Shirley’s business.
“He’s all right.”
“Will you go out with him again?”
Donna played with her straw and blew bubbles in the Coke. “I don’t know. He’s very sweet and a good dancer, but he didn’t go to college.”
Three men came in for coffee, settling into the front booth. Since Bess’s hands were full of ammonia and wadded newspaper, Shirley took the order.
Quickly Donna asked, “What about you last night?”
“I got home fine, just fine. No problems.” Bess turned away to dispose of the newspaper. “I’ll be right back. I have to wash my hands.”
Bess had never lied to Donna. She hadn’t actually lied to her now, but she’d implied something which wasn’t true, namely that Doyle Hanlon had brought her immediately home from the Dakota.
In the ladies’ rest room, which had formerly been a closet and was large enough for only one person, Bess studied herself in the crazed mirror and wondered how much Donna would know simply by looking at her. Was it written on her face that she was in love with a married man? Did guilt flush in her cheeks?
Donna was perceptive. Would she be hurt or angry if she saw that Bess was lying? Bess sat down on the toilet and held her head. If she sensed that Donna was going to break off their friendship, she would have to break it off first. She wasn’t sure how, since Donna hadn’t done anything, but she would find an excuse.
Should she tell Donna about Doyle? But, Christ, loving a married man was a scandal. Donna was bound to be revolted. Even if Bess swore that she was not going to see him again, Donna might be uncomfortable with their friendship. Guilt by association, or something like that. Would everyone turn against her if they knew that she loved Doyle Hanlon? Well, of course they would.
“There’s customers!” Dora was pounding on the door.
“Sorry,” Bess muttered, unlocking the door and hurrying out. “I felt sick.”
“There’s a whole lot of coffee-breakers out there. Too many for Shirley to handle. Get sick later.”
The counter was filled and nearly all of the booths had a couple of customers. Most of them only wanted coffee and a doughnut or roll, but they were in a hurry. Unless they were bosses, they only had fifteen minutes.
Bess and Shirley flew back and forth while Dora ran the cash r
egister. Within minutes things were under control.
“I’m sorry,” Bess told Dora. She could not afford to lose her job.
“You getting your period?” Dora inquired under her breath.
“I think so.”
“You got pads?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Donna was still at the counter. “Doyle Hanlon came in while you were washing your hands. He was looking around for someone. I guess he didn’t find them because he left.”
Since yesterday, life was dense with inference. Bess’s hands shook and she stuffed them into the pockets of her apron. Was Donna implying something?
And Doyle, what had become of him? He’d probably gone back to work, assuming that she was avoiding him, that she was sorry she’d let him kiss her.
“I wonder who he was looking for,” Bess said.
“Maybe Earl Ingbretson.”
“Probably.”
“I have to get home and help my mom shampoo the living room rug. I’ll talk to you later. What time do you get off?”
“Three-thirty.”
The lunch crowd began trickling in around eleven-thirty. By noon the place was full and several people were clustered by the door, waiting. Business hadn’t been this hectic in weeks. Although it was too much work for three, especially with Dora fry-cooking, Bess was grateful to have no time to think about Doyle Hanlon. She whipped about, handling the counter and two booths, but also filling fountain orders and making sandwiches. Both she and Shirley had to run the cash register.
At a quarter to one Harriet and Rose turned up. Normally Harriet carried a lunch pail to the Water and Power Company, and Rose ate at the Friendship Arms Nursing Home, where she worked. What was the occasion? Bess wondered.
Harriet was spiffed up, wearing a shell-pink sleeveless dress of linen-like fabric, which she had worn only to church and to Bess’s graduation early in June. On her wrist was a Black Hills gold bracelet, which she never wore to work. Maybe they were meeting some other women for a luncheon party, a baby or bridal shower. If so, Bess knew nothing about it and they hadn’t arranged it with Dora.
As the two women sailed past, headed for an empty booth, Harriet smiled benevolently in all directions and wafted Shalimar, her special-occasions scent, onto the hamburger-reeking afternoon. Rose winked at Bess. “Wait’ll you hear the news.”
Shirley was servicing the far booths and Bess was running the cash register, so she had no opportunity to talk to Harriet until much later, when the lunch crowd petered out.
“Your cousin ordered T-bone,” Shirley told Bess. “She must be celebrating.” Maybe Harriet had gotten a promotion or a big raise.
At one-thirty Dora told Bess to take a break. “You girls have been running pretty hard the last couple of hours, and you with the curse.” Dora was always in a good mood when the cafe was busy.
For lying about her period, God would probably send Bess really bad cramps next time. She shrugged and poured a tall glass of iced tea. Helping herself to two scoops of butter brickle ice cream, she carried her lunch back to Harriet and Rose’s booth.
“Hello, little girl,” Harriet said, moving over to make room for Bess. “Dora give you a break?”
Bess nodded. “You’re all dolled up,” she observed, scraping small spoonfuls of ice cream, savoring each as though it were individual and slightly different from the others. “Did you get a raise or something?”
Harriet and Rose were eating cherry pie à la mode. Harriet finished hers and wiped her mouth on the paper napkin. Nearly all her lipstick came off, and she was suddenly colorless and vulnerable. Bess was touched. Hardworking and brave and laughable Harriet. And loyal.
Rose stood. “Excuse me, ladies. Nature calls.” As Rose walked away, Harriet said, “I saw you at the Dakota last night.”
Oh, God, here it comes, Bess thought.
“Yes,” Bess said. “I was going to say hi, but I couldn’t find you.”
“It was so hot. I got a little overheated and went outside.”
Bess nodded.
“Were you with Doyle Hanlon and Earl Ingbretson?”
“I got a ride with them. I wasn’t with them.”
“You seemed to be dancing a lot with Doyle Hanlon.”
“I didn’t know many people.”
“Some people might think the wrong thing, seeing you dancing so many numbers with the same man. A married man.”
“They’d be wrong,” Bess lied.
“You and I know that, but people are quick to criticize. You don’t want to get a bad name.”
“Of course not.” Throughout this little conversation, Bess’s pulse pounded so hard, she wondered if Harriet couldn’t see it in her temple and down the side of her neck. She kept her eyes on the butter brickle ice cream and concentrated on speaking with a calm, disinterested voice.
“I didn’t mention Doyle Hanlon to Kate,” Harriet told her.
“Thanks, Harriet.” Bess scooped up a spoonful of candy-studded ice cream and held it to Harriet’s mouth. “Try this. It’s really good.”
When Harriet had swallowed the ice cream and again wiped her mouth, she began to play nervously with her coffee spoon. She smiled what seemed a pointless smile. Must be something to do with the promotion, Bess thought.
“I want to tell you something before Rose comes back,” Harriet launched. “I hope it will make you happy, because you’re like a daughter to me. I’ve never said that, but I’ve felt it. And I think you’ve felt it.”
Bess nodded.
Harriet’s eyes were misty and her long nose was red, as if she was about to cry. Bess put an arm across the woman’s shoulders.
“What is it, Harriet? What can be so wonderful if it upsets you?” Suddenly Bess knew what. Her belly froze and stiffened against the news.
“I’m getting married.”
Slowly, her arm prickling with revulsion, Bess withdrew it, hugging it to herself.
“Last night DeVore Weiss asked me to marry him and I said yes.” For the second time that day, Harriet wept. “Please don’t be angry, Bess.”
“Don’t be angry?”
“I can see that you’re angry.”
“I don’t understand you, Harriet,” Bess heard herself say coldly. “You’re always calling yourself an old maid. Don’t you see, that’s what you’re supposed to be. Now you’re going to make a fool of yourself, marrying some stupid clodhopper who’s looking for a cheap hired girl. Well, go right ahead. Go right ahead. Mother a houseful of morons. They can probably use a hired girl to clean up after them, but don’t come telling me how much you love me, because I’ll never believe you.”
With some dignity Harriet told her, “He isn’t a stupid clodhopper, and his children aren’t morons.”
They faced each other for a moment, before Bess shoved the metal ice cream dish, sending it careering across the table and onto the seat where Rose had been sitting. Flinging herself away, Bess nearly knocked Rose down. Her face burned with hatred and injury. She would not cry. And she wouldn’t hang around where Harriet could see her.
In the kitchen Dora was surprised to see Bess plunge into the stacks of dirty dishes. “Here,” she said, “put on a bigger apron. You’ll need it.”
Bess couldn’t believe that Harriet was marrying DeVore Weiss. It wasn’t a thing that could be envisioned. But, at the same time, she did envision it, and she was nauseated: Harriet embracing DeVore’s children, his two little girls, much younger than Bess.
It was that damned business with Dixie all over again, only much worse, because this time Harriet really was leaving. Scrubbing away the pinkish goo of cherry pie à la mode, Bess thrust the plate deep into the big cast-iron sink, seeing in the dirty dishwater a bleak landscape of desertion.
The temperature was about a hundred degrees in the kitchen. Perspiration ran down Bess’s face and fell from her nose and chin into the dishwater, but her insides were frozen, just as they had been nine years ago when the damnable, curly-headed moppet from Mason City had s
hown up.
At two-thirty, when the coffee-break customers flocked in again, Bess hung upon their casual remarks and lingered over their orders, as if the warm juices of human contact might drive both DeVore Weiss and Dixie away.
But when the customers were gone, Bess felt false and empty. Hungry for something indefinable, something that Dora didn’t serve in the Loon Cafe. She returned to the steaming sink and white dishes, from each of which Dixie’s face smiled out triumphantly.
Chapter 17
HARRIET
Don’t tell them you have a dentist’s appointment!” Kate had cried with impatience. “Tell them you’re engaged and you’re taking the day off.”
That was the advice that Harriet wanted to hear, and she called the Water and Power Company, warbling into the receiver, “I’m an engaged woman!”
Martha had answered the phone, and she of course hollered the news to the rest of the office, and all the girls had gotten on the line to congratulate Harriet and inquire when the happy day was to be. To each Harriet confided that she didn’t know, since it had all happened out of the blue and she and DeVore hadn’t talked about dates. She hoped by tomorrow to be able to inform them. She could count on them for a bridal shower, they assured her, and Harriet hung up pleased and as pink as her crinkle-cotton robe.
Being affianced was good for Harriet’s complexion, rouging her cheeks with satisfaction, even plumping out her figure a little, she liked to think. Of course, she’d packed away two hearty meals between 2:00 and 6:00 A.M.
Next she rang Rose at the Friendship Arms Nursing Home. Rose was away from her desk. “I’ll wait,” Harriet told the person on the line. “I’ve got plenty of time.” She sat at Kate’s desk, legs crossed, swinging her free leg restlessly. She might have plenty of time, but she was nearly wetting her pants to tell Rose the news.
“Rose! Guess what!” But then she was overcome with glee and couldn’t talk. She made little squealing, mouse noises, laughing between each and ending up with hiccoughs. When she was composed enough to speak coherently, each sentence was punctuated by a hiccough. Eventually she and Rose were laughing too hard to talk, so they hung up, and Harriet, still hiccoughing, went upstairs to luxuriate in her new well-being.
What a Woman Must Do Page 11