My Mrs. Brown

by William Norwich

  Somehow, some way, she’d save up for it—even if it took the rest of her life.

  And then, heaven help her, she’d go to New York, where she’d never been, which she was always afraid of, and buy the dress.

  Of course she knew that people shopped for clothing online, even expensive clothing like this. But this required something more, discovery and expedition.

  She’d find her way. She’d bring the dress home.

  IT WAS SUPPERTIME BEFORE every last bit and remnant of Mrs. Groton’s material life in Ashville was packed and accounted for.

  There was a bitter wind and, if not rain, even the threat of snow.

  Mrs. Brown walked home in the dark with the little novel that Rachel had given her tucked in her handbag. She thought she might mail it to Mrs. Fox to read first, or lend it to Alice, but decided that she would begin reading it tonight, and then pass it along if either of them would be interested to read it. She’d been as drawn to the book as she was to Mrs. Groton’s perfect dress.

  Mrs. Brown was in her kitchen less than five minutes, warming a serving of a ham and pea soup she had made over the weekend, good cat Santo positioned like a contented little Buddha on a kitchen chair, when there was a familiar tap on the door. Here was Alice.

  “Have you eaten, Alice?” Mrs. Brown asked.

  “Yes. It’s late. I’ve finished grading my papers and I’m ready for some television and bed. You’re home so late, late, I mean, for you. Where have you been? Are you okay?” Alice settled into her position at Mrs. Brown’s table. She had been surprised earlier in the evening how worried she was when Mrs. Brown wasn’t home yet.

  Mrs. Brown made Alice a cup of the smoky tea that only yesterday Alice had said smelt like old rubber, but tonight it was ambrosia.

  Heating up her supper, Mrs. Brown described the events of the day. She described how, as Rachel got sweeter and friendlier, Delphine Staunton had become haughtier.

  “It’s a stuck-up world, Mrs. Brown,” Alice opined.

  Was it always? Mrs. Brown wondered.

  Mrs. Brown recounted in detail the contentious conversation about Queen Elizabeth.

  “Rachel is right,” Mrs. Brown said. “No one, especially the cynics, will know what is lost until she passes.”

  Alice had her doubts. She had no sense of the Queen of England except she was the grandmother-in-law of Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge, whose wedding she had watched on television along with the rest of the world. She didn’t admit this too often or too loudly, because she didn’t think it too cool, but that royal wedding was amazing. And she sure wouldn’t say no if it happened to her.

  Alice changed her mind about not eating and joined Mrs. Brown in a cup of the pea soup and a piece of rye toast.

  “Good stuff, Mrs. Brown.”

  “You like the soup, dear?” Mrs. Brown asked.

  “Oh, yeah, the soup’s good. But I meant your stories about Mrs. Groton’s today. It’s like an episode of Ashville’s local Downton Abbey or Upstairs, Downstairs, except no one is upstairs anymore, with Mrs. Groton gone and all,” Alice observed. “Unless you count that auction house lady, who doesn’t sound like much of a lady, if you ask me.”

  Alice returned to her place across the way to watch some television before bed. She promised Mrs. Brown she’d drop by again tomorrow night for more conversation.

  After Alice left, Mrs. Brown fed Santo his kibble and put water in his bowl. She washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. By 9:30, in her white nightgown, she was ready for bed.

  She knelt at the side of her bed, and thanked her God for keeping her faithful that day. That was always her prayer; nothing felt as bad in life as when she was lacking faith. She prayed for Mrs. Fox, and for Alice, who was such an unexpected new friend; for Bonnie at the beauty salon; for the neighbors across the street who fought; she prayed for Rachel’s safe return to New York City, and Delphine Staunton’s as well.

  Once in bed, she opened her bedside table drawer and brought out the framed family photographs she kept out of sight during the day.

  The photographs always gave her pause. The room crowded with memories.

  Santo jumped on the bed and laid his head on top of the Paul Gallico novel she’d brought from Mrs. Groton’s.

  Mrs. Brown took the book from underneath the cat and opened it. Some four hours later, she had read over a third of the novel.

  Set in the 1950s, Mrs. ’Arris Goes to Paris is the story of a London charwoman who happens upon an exquisitely beautiful and colorful haute couture Christian Dior long dress hanging in the closet of one of the sirens she cleans for. After the dark horrors, the sanctions, and the rationings of World War II, the color and opulence of the silky gown is life changing to behold.

  Although the dress that Mrs. Brown discovered in Mrs. Groton’s closet was the complete opposite of the frilly, confectionery dress Mrs. ’Arris encounters, she identified with the character’s longing for something transforming.

  The dress that would change Mrs. Brown’s life and motivate her soul was not chiffon froth and sparkling color. Hers was the dress of the subtle lady rather than the eternal siren. And it was an awakening, one that Mrs. Brown carried into her dreams that night and into morning the next day.

  Of sweet dreams and schemes, Mrs. Brown promised herself that as soon as possible tomorrow she would come up with her plan for getting the dress.

  AT SIX THE NEXT morning, her alarm went off. At the sound, Santo, asleep at the foot of her bed, jumped on her stomach. That woke her up for sure. Her two days in Mrs. Groton’s wonderland were over. It was time to return to work, back of the house, as they say in showbiz, at Bonnie’s Beauty Salon.

  Santo led the way into the kitchen. Mrs. Brown filled her electric kettle with tap water for her tea, extra-strong this morning. She then returned to her bedroom and made her bed, put the treasured photographs back in their drawer, and with them went the cherished copy of Mrs. Groton’s novel about the London charwoman. Despite not having had the long night’s sleep she was typically accustomed to, Mrs. Brown was galvanized by a sense of purpose she hadn’t felt in years.

  She bathed quickly and, never fussing over what to wear, dressed in her standard mufti, gray pants and a brown sweater.

  A piece of toast with a dab of butter and a spoonful of the orange marmalade she’d made before Christmas last year—her mother’s recipe that mixed Seville and blood oranges—and she was out her door at 7:30, some thirty minutes later than usual. She had the key to the beauty parlor, and it was her job to get in first, open the place, make the coffee, and tidy up before the first beautician and customer arrived at eight.

  It was just a twenty-minute walk to work, so Mrs. Brown had sold her car several years ago. Alice had the keys to Mrs. Fox’s car if she needed to get anywhere, as Alice also had access to her grandmother’s computer, not to mention her own laptop, if Mrs. Brown ever wanted to look something up, like a recipe, or buy something online, which she rarely did. She preferred shopping locally, not as an eco trend but because it was her custom.

  As she went briskly toward Andover Street, the cold Ashville morning air was as bracing as it was familiar. Mrs. Brown was glad for the walk. It always did her good, except when there was heavy snow and ice and she had to be especially careful not to fall. She couldn’t afford to lose work because of an injury.

  Walking across Jefferson Street now and onto Main Street, she saw Bonnie’s sandwiched between the Village Cheese Shop and the barbershop owned by Ashville’s biggest gossip, Solomon Aquilino. Her mind was focused on the events of yesterday at Mrs. Groton’s and keeping her promise to herself to figure out a plan for getting her dress. But how? When she got home tonight after work she would make a budget, somehow, some way, create a plan to earn and save enough money to buy that dress.

  At Bonnie’s, Mrs. Brown found that the white Cape Cod–style door to the beauty parlor was unlocked. Bonnie came in early to work when she couldn’t sleep well (and could be nasty and ornery a
ll day as a result).

  Stepping inside this salon box of feminine self-preservation, where walls and furnishings were either white or turquoise, Mrs. Brown heard an unusual sound, moaning, almost a deep wailing. She cautiously inched inside and surveyed the space just in case there had been a break-in, not that there was a lot of crime in Ashville, but there were those unfortunate moments. Everything appeared in order: a salon with six workstations—sinks, parlor chairs, counters, and cupboards flanking the walls.

  The puzzling sound Mrs. Brown heard was coming from Bonnie’s office. She was worried. Maybe Bonnie Provost was a bit much at times, too self-involved, too dramatic, too New Age, but Mrs. Brown always wished her well; she was decent enough, most of the time. It would be awful if anything bad had happened to her.

  You probably will not be surprised to know that Bonnie had great hair, as well as good skin—she’d stopped sunbathing in her early twenties, a dermatological godsend. Because of her sable-colored hair, glowing complexion, distinctive nose, excellent manicure, and feminine curves, she fancied herself a younger Barbra Streisand.

  At the sound of another wail, Mrs. Brown rushed to Bonnie’s office in the back of the salon, praying she wasn’t having a heart attack or some other deadly convulsive disorder.

  Mr. Brown had had a heart attack, and the memory of it flashed across her mind. Not for the first time, he’d come home drunk from the bar over on Washington Street. Mrs. Brown had struggled to get him into bed. She’d finally succeeded and, as she did on these nights, was sleeping on the sofa in the front room when she heard yelping and groaning from the bedroom.

  She rushed to Mr. Brown and tried to help.

  Seconds before the paramedics arrived, the ambulance waking up not just the neighbors but practically everyone on their side of town, her husband died in her embrace. In his eyes was a look of profound apology—and abject terror.

  But Mrs. Brown stopped before she reached Bonnie’s office. She remembered something—she couldn’t forget this either—something she’d never told another soul.

  One summer morning a few years ago, arriving at the salon just after seven, Mrs. Brown had heard rumbling from Bonnie’s office. Concerned, she’d rushed to her employer’s aid that morning, too. She had discovered Bonnie akimbo upon her desk being made love to—the only polite term for the corpulent mashing that she saw—by Solomon Aquilino, owner of the barbershop next door.

  Solomon, hairier than a goat, and Bonnie were married at the time, except not to each other.

  Mrs. Brown might have been provincial, but she wasn’t all that easy to shock. Seeing Bonnie and Solomon going at it had rattled her but did not shock her—well, so much corpulence in such fast motion was disturbing. It was an awful lot of flesh so early in the morning for her—for anyone—to see.

  Bonnie had made her promise she would never say a word, and Mrs. Brown never did, not even telling Mrs. Fox when she asked that night how her day had gone. Her discretion endeared her to her boss, although Bonnie never made this apparent in the salon when the beauticians were around. Too bad, it would have helped Mrs. Brown. The beauticians were often dismissive and belittling.

  “AAAAaaaaahhhhhmmmmm . . .”

  Now, though, fearing the worst, Mrs. Brown rushed into Bonnie’s office ready to grab the phone and call for an ambulance.

  Bonnie, fully clothed in blue jeans, a blue and white striped, long-sleeve T-shirt, her platform pink espadrilles by her side, was seated on the floor in the lotus yoga position facing the full-length mirror on her office wall, and as she explained when she saw Mrs. Brown, she was chanting.

  She waved her finely manicured right hand, her nails painted a deep black-red, and mouthed the words “skim latte doppio,” her beverage of choice, which Mrs. Brown had learned how to make on the fancy espresso and cappuccino machine in the salon’s kitchen. Besides cleaning and sweeping, her job included mending Bonnie’s clothes and taking and making beverage orders for the staff and clientele. Sometimes, if the salon was very busy, she was given the okay to outsource the drinks order at the Village Cheese Shop next door, but her lattes, so carefully prepared, were better.

  “My niece,” Bonnie explained when Mrs. Brown returned with her coffee, “taught me last night how to chant for money—well, actually not money but for her guru’s good grace and high, very high connections with the Source, which translates into abundance, which translates into money—and so that’s what I was doing. I’m broke, well, like, I could be broke soon like every other motherfucker in this country. So I’m chanting. How are you?” Bonnie asked, ripping the corner of a packet of sugar substitute and pouring it into her latte.

  Mrs. Brown’s time at the beauty parlor rarely required that she divulge anything personal. No one inquired about her well-being, and that was okay; privacy is its own luxury. But today she offered some intimate detail of her own.

  “Me, too. I am thinking about ways to find more money.”

  “Sssh, quiet,” Bonnie said, her index finger to her lips. “My niece says to shore up our money potential we shouldn’t talk about it with anyone. Never break the spell when you’re incubating. I hope we already haven’t said too much!”

  The beauticians soon arrived, and the day was off full gallop, beginning with the first client, the wife of the mayor of Ashville, and she was dissatisfied with her color, again.

  Mrs. Brown found the turquoise work jacket that she was required to wear (the beauticians could dress as they liked, which Mrs. Brown didn’t mind because their choices in what they wore kept things interesting.) She grabbed her broom. Bonnie had given her a new one for Christmas along with a card that informed her that a donation in her name had been made to advance the efforts of the Dalai Lama. Mrs. Brown got to work, a full and busy day, a worker among workers, always a source of pride, except Mrs. Brown worked harder than anyone else at Bonnie’s salon, so added to her pride was a fatigue she tried never to admit to.

  PROBABLY ALL ACROSS AMERICA that night, in at least one out of every three households, someone was sitting at the kitchen table crunching numbers to see how and where they could find or make some extra, much-needed cash.

  As Santo snoozed on bended paws at one end of the table, Mrs. Brown, pencil and pad in hand, sat at the other end reviewing her income and her expenses.

  She had nothing in terms of art or furnishings she could sell. Concerning financial securities, there was a very modest investment in a retirement fund that she couldn’t in all good conscience invade. In a savings-checking account was a slender stash of cash for April’s taxes. To pay her monthly bills she relied not just on what she earned but also the income she received each month from Mrs. Fox, and now from Alice, who’d begun to contribute to the rent despite her grandmother’s kind offer to pay it all herself.

  No, she could not, she would not, ever think of raising her friend’s rent. A few years ago, Mrs. Fox had proposed she might pay a bit more every month—not that she could afford any extra expense either. Mrs. Brown wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You’re too good a friend, and too excellent a tenant,” she said and immediately changed the subject.

  What were her options? Her only reason to raise the rent now would be greed, and this, despite her dress calling to her, went against every spiritual principle she believed in.

  She could try chanting, like Bonnie this morning. Except Mrs. Brown couldn’t imagine herself chanting, making sounds like an old, cold seal on a slippery rock. She could advertise in the local newspaper for babysitting jobs in the evening, although parents weren’t going out so much these nights because they too were saving their money. Ashville’s restaurants were suffering as a result. There were lottery tickets, of course. Mrs. Brown, unlike everyone she knew, never bought these. She considered them an obsession and a waste of time—hoping, watching for the results, being disappointed when one didn’t score; they were little paper heartbreakers.

  Maybe it was time to reconsider? Just the other day, the television news had been fill
ed with the good-luck story of a twenty-three-year-old, dirt-poor rancher in South Dakota who won $232.1 million in the Powerball lottery.

  “I want to thank the Lord for giving me this opportunity and blessing me with this great fortune. I will not squander it,” the rancher said as he took a lump-sum payout of $118 million.

  Mrs. Brown was looking in her kitchen cupboards for signs of any purchases she could do without in the future when Alice tapped at her door.

  Seeing the cupboards opened, the yellow legal pad on the table with an itemized list, her open checkbook . . . Alice figured that Mrs. Brown had been laid off today.

  “Everything okay?” Alice asked with great concern.

  Mrs. Brown paused. “Sure it is. No complaints. In fact, I never had it so good.”

  The women laughed. Mrs. Brown explained to Alice that was something a beloved uncle used to answer, regardless of the real truth, when you asked him how he was. “Always tell a better story, Emilia,” he would say. “And you’ll feel better.” He was the same uncle who also always insisted she take second helpings when she ate at his house. “Eat, Emilia, eat. We’ll say you ate anyway.”

  Mrs. Brown was so prepared to pinch pennies that tonight she thought twice before putting the kettle on for tea, since doing so involved the cost of electricity.

  Alice watched the older woman; she seemed a bit jumbled up somehow. Something about Mrs. Brown’s expression told Alice more than tea was in order tonight.

  “I have been having trouble sleeping the past few nights,” she lied to help Mrs. Brown say yes, “and I was wondering if you might want to have a glass of my grandmother’s sherry with me. It will make me sleepy, but I wouldn’t drink alone.”