“Yes, may I help you?”
The woman, a girl really, was wringing her gloved hands in a way that said she was there for more than bread.
“You are Mrs. Charlie Graybill?”
I froze. “Yes.”
“My fiancé told me I would find you here. He is in the same outfit as your husband. I don’t live far from here. I am a student at the business school.”
I knew what she wanted from me, and it was something I wasn’t prepared to give away too easily, much less to a stranger. She wanted camaraderie, a women’s circle. To give in to her would mean admitting that I needed support, and that my husband was in danger. Yet, in spite of the implications, I could not turn her away. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. I’m sorry. My name is Lena. Lena Lefever.”
I looked her over suspiciously. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen. I will be nineteen in March. I am getting married a week after my birthday when the men come home on leave.”
That is when she caught my attention. “The men have leave?”
“Yes, they are coming home in March for a week before they get shipped out.”
She had said the magic words. From that moment, I spent every evening with Lena. I didn’t want her company, but any bit of news she could give me was worthy of my time. We were not idle in our hours together; idleness would activate our terrible imaginations. Instead we used the time to knit. We stitched sock after sock for our soldiers so they would not get damp feet in the jungles of the Philippines. Lena chatted about her upcoming wedding and her plans for a home when Hank returned from war. Hank Littlehail. He was just a faceless name to me. Lena carried his picture in her locket, but it was too small for me to get a sense of the man. I did not know how small a man he really was.
On my calendar, March was the impetus for my every action. I was glad that February was such a short month, but Lena seemed to grow more agitated as the end of February neared.
We grew closer as we incubated ourselves for war. I did not reveal everything about myself, but I did ask Lena to proofread some of my letters to Charlie. My spoken English was flawless, but my written word needed help, and I did not want to appear uneducated in front of my new husband. (Remember, Judy, how I did grammar homework with you every night. I was not trying to teach, so much as learn with you. I think you knew that.)
Because of her task as editor, Lena was privy to some intimacies that women rarely spoke aloud. One evening, as I was rewriting my letter, making the corrections, Lena asked me, “How do you know if you please your husband?”
“Please my husband? What do you mean?” I had a good idea what she meant, but I didn’t want to embarrass her if I was wrong.
“You know, in the marriage bed.” She blushed.
I thought that it was a very naive question, but luckily I saw the look on Lena’s face before I started to laugh. She was earnest, and I could see how difficult this subject was for her.
I could have said, “You will know when the time comes,” or “That is not something you will have to guess,” but Lena required more. Her needles were shaking as she dropped her knitting into her lap.
“Lena, have you kissed Hank?”
“Yes.” Tears swelled in her brown eyes.
“Did you enjoy kissing him?”
“Yes.”
“Could you tell? Did he like it, too?”
“I think so.”
“Well, then start with that. Start with something you know he likes. Then touch him. Touch his arm, his face, and watch his eyes.”
“What if they’re closed?” Her innocence touched me.
“Then close your eyes, and you will feel it.”
I don’t know if I helped her, but she didn’t broach the subject again.
May 12, 1991
One week before the men were due, Lena came running into the bakery.
“Anja! I have a surprise for you. Can you come now?”
Business was slow. Mama shooed me away with one hand. I washed my face, applied lipstick (another American habit I had acquired), grabbed my hat and purse, and followed Lena across town to a dress shop.
I assessed the clothing in the showroom while Lena disappeared into the back. When she did not reappear within minutes, I sat on a Victorian era settee to wait for her. The saleswoman was the first to emerge. “Wait until you see her,” she whispered in a reverent hush.
She pulled the curtain aside, and I got my first glance at Lena. She was wearing her wedding gown, a dress like those I had only seen in movies. It was made of white satin, cut smartly on the bias so that it draped her slim body beautifully. There were other details, lace collar perhaps or buttons, I don’t remember. All I remember was the lovely look on Lena’s face. I am sure you are waiting for me to say that I fell in love with Lena at the moment, but that would be crass and untrue. My heart belonged to an enlistee, not the imminent Mrs. Littlehail before me. I thought that Lena was quite breathtaking in her creamy satin, dark hair and flushed cheeks, but I can’t say I had any rush of emotion. That would come in hindsight when I would experience gratitude because it was I, not Private Henry Littlehail, who got to see Lena in her bridal splendor.
“Do you think Hank will like it?”
I touched her shoulders and slowly turned her toward the mirror so she would know her own loveliness. Lena reached out to touch her reflection, but realized the glass was not her person. She stood with her arm in midair as if she were hailing a cab, unaware that the preferred mode of transportation for a princess was a carriage pulled by a white horse.
“You will take his breath away,” I assured her.
She lowered her arm and turned to me. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Lena went into the back room to change. She would never wear her wedding gown again.
♦ 41 ♦
WE SAT IN THE TRUCK, neither of us speaking. The decision to drive instead of walk was a practical conclusion based on the number of things we had to carry: blankets, chairs, the thermos, and picnic basket. And now I fumbled with those props to avoid Travis and his words.
“You can’t ignore me, Barbara Jean. I’ll just say it again. I love you. It’s not too soon to say it. I’ve probably always loved you.”
After several days of conjuring pictures in my mind, the hour had come for words. I glanced at Travis and saw the dangerous yearning in his eyes—the blinking amber caution of a changing traffic light. I stumbled out of the truck. The crowds were thick through the parking lot. The play would soon begin. Travis could not possibly want to pursue this conversation here, surrounded by hundreds of people.
I tried to yank the basket from the back bed of the truck, but it caught on the lip of the built-in tool case. Travis caught up with me and coolly lifted the basket away from the impediment. With his free arm he pressed me into his torso.
“It’s not too soon, BJ. Unless you are just using me to get over your divorce.”
“No!” I exclaimed too quickly. I pulled myself from his grasp. “It isn’t like that.”
“Do you want to explain it to me?” Travis prodded.
“Not here.”
We started walking. I reached out my hand as consolation for my missing words. Travis accepted it. Along the way, people, mostly clientele, stopped Travis to say hello or inquire about a job. I retained my anonymity under my baseball cap and dark glasses, and he did not introduce me.
“We’re not finished with this,” Travis said.
But I was perfectly willing to ignore the whole issue, so I busied myself with the details of the evening.
“What about there, beside the center aisle.” I pointed to an empty section.
“It is too far away from the action.”
After considering a few more possible locations, we agreed on a spot to the side of the stage. We could barely see the actors from this angle, but it was a private area off by some pine trees and away from most of the crowd. While the view was less than ideal, the sound
was good: a nearby cluster of speakers issued a mix of oldies.
I opened the basket and spread its contents over the blanket. Brie, some grapes, assorted crackers, and cold fried chicken. All that food and I didn’t really want to eat, but I didn’t want to appear out of sorts. Loading my plate proved to be a sleight of hand. Travis grabbed a plate and followed my lead. He was hungry after his day of manual labor.
“So how many productions of Shakespeare by the Lake have you seen?” I asked between bites.
“None. They only started these a few years ago, from what I’ve been told. I thought maybe I’d try out for the production next year.”
“Have you ever acted before?”
“Not as well as you.”
I stared at him. He had that look again. He was not going to drop this.
I lowered my voice. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you tell me what you feel.”
“But what if I don’t feel the same way you do?”
“Honey, you aren’t that good an actress.” Travis popped a grape into his mouth. “I know the answer; I just want you to admit it to yourself.”
A song by the Temptations stopped midchorus, and the crowd hushed. When the stage remained empty, conversation resumed on a lower, anticipative frequency. Travis leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“Do you remember that time that last summer when I plowed the John Deere into Anja’s porch?”
I gave him a little smile. “That’s a hard scene to forget.”
“I saw you in the window there, and the words, ‘There she is,’ popped into my head. And that quick, I lost control of the tractor.”
“So you think we were fated to be?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is that your husband didn’t even wait for your marriage to be over before he decided to fall in love with another woman. Why should you yourself hold back? Don’t give him that power.”
“Do you really want to bring Bryce into this?”
“He’s already here, isn’t he?”
“Look, Travis—you don’t understand. It was months ago, weeks ago really, that my husband of nine years came to me and told me he wasn’t sure if he ever loved me. And now you are saying that you think you’ve always loved me. What am I supposed to think?”
“That’s your problem. You are thinking too much.”
A loose group of actors filed onto the stage. Daylight was failing just enough to warrant a spotlight, though from my vantage point, I couldn’t appreciate it. Travis turned his head slightly to show that his attention had shifted. He was letting our dialogue die. Once again the audience quieted. The silence was a sharp chasm.
“Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny …”
“Travis?” I scooted closer until my face was brushing his ear. “I do love you.”
♦ 42 ♦
A NEW PROFESSOR was heading the metals department at Tyler School of Art. Though Greg Millhouse hadn’t taught when I was a student, he was familiar with my work.
“I’m pleased to finally meet you. Your spoons have been held up as an example for me many times.” Greg’s reputation had preceded him as well. His use of cast elements and found objects had transformed fine-art jewelry. Shaking his hand, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be attracted enough to pursue this man had I not encountered Travis earlier this summer.
Greg had graduated from Cranbrook Academy of Art only five years ago, but he already had an impressive resume. The president of a Japanese-American conglomerate found Greg’s work to be so worthy that he had bought a bracelet for his wife and commissioned the exact piece to be replicated at ten times the scale as a sculpture for his office. The commission had garnered Greg the cover of Art in America.
“The pleasure is all mine. I have admired your work for some time.”
Many times during my marriage, I had the desperate wish I’d married someone who could comprehend the artist mind. Now that I was seeing Travis, a man who could speak in metaphors, that fancy became gratuitous. After my introduction to Greg, I felt a relief that I hadn’t experienced in years. I had made physical contact with a handsome artist, someone I didn’t necessarily fantasize about bedding (possibly after a long discourse on reductionism in twentieth-century painting that masqueraded as foreplay). Either I didn’t need it, or I already had it. I sighed. Even in absentia, Travis was passing every litmus test I put to our new relationship, and I smiled thinking about him.
GREG WATCHED OVER my shoulder as I arranged my place setting in the showcase. The gallery curator had given me creative control over the space. I placed the utensils on a granite slab with two chalk-drawn circles on it to represent cup and plate placement. For a napkin, I folded a square of rough burlap. The rough textures played against the gleam of the silverware, enhancing the luster of the pieces.
“I like your use of the gemstones. Brilliant.”
“Is that a pun?” I backed away from the case to critique my work. The arrangement was pleasing. The last two pieces held their own against the first three I had completed. The knife represented my father’s image, stoic and steadfast, with a rigidity I’d come to expect. I had used the soupspoon as my self-portrait, depicting myself as mother, the role from which I took my identity at present. The spoon curved into the sculptural likeness of a bare-breasted mother nursing her baby. The baby’s head obscured one breast. The other nipple was my engagement diamond.
Upon the completion of my place setting, Travis had languished praise until I blushed. I wasn’t used to such enthusiasm.
“Stop. You are embarrassing me.”
How could I explain that the first time Bryce had seen my spoons, he had asked, “Are people really supposed to eat with these?”
“They’re a little lavish, but perfectly serviceable,” I had countered, contempt in my voice.
These days, I didn’t have to explain my whimsy or apologize for an idea that defied rationalism. Especially here, on Temple’s remote northern campus, the population understood my undertaking. They should; they had nurtured my sensibility. I remembered the days when I tried my hand at performance art. In my junior year, I had dressed all in black and then proceeded to wrap myself in vinyl tubing and nylons, calling it theater jewelry. A jeweler by the name of Bruce Metcalf had been my inspiration.
“You need to come down and do a workshop with the students. We have a small budget for visiting artists. I could hook you up. They could really benefit from a demonstration of your forging techniques.”
“I’d love that,” I said, and I meant it.
Returning to this place afforded me freedom beyond that of divorce. Yet another reason to stay in Pennsylvania. The reasons were building, or maybe I was just more open to them.
“Can you hold on a sec?” Greg excused himself and jogged down the hall. In a moment he reappeared leading a young woman by the elbow.
“Lucy Divinko, this is Bobbi Ellington. Lucy is my graduate assistant.”
Greg did not have to introduce me further. Lucy gushed and extended a newly manicured hand in my direction. I stared and then shook the younger woman’s hand. As if she could read my mind, Lucy explained that her sister just got married over the weekend and she had been the maid of honor.
I laughed nervously. “You knew what I was thinking about your nails.”
“I’m sure by the end of the day, they’ll be gone. Call it my Cinderella moment.”
I laughed again, more warmly this time.
“When you are done setting up, we should all have lunch. I know that Lucy, here, is dying to pick your brain a little,” Greg suggested.
“Sure, I’ll only be another minute.”
The three of us got a table at a crowded pub. Lucy wasted no time pulling me into a conversation about female jewelers.
“I don’t know. I just feel with so many women in this concentration, we should have better coverage in the art magazines.”
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I refrained from saying that Lucy should have seen it back in my day, as if more than eight years separated us in age. Greg sat back with a bemused smile and let us rant and bond over the disgrace of the number of female goldsmiths compared to our representation in major shows and galleries.
“Oh believe me—the great gender divide has been broached at a number of SNAG conferences. I don’t know which is worse, the artists who are in the dark about the injustices, or the ones who know about it, but choose to ignore it,” I heard myself saying.
“I agree. We need more action. We’ve got to reach more of the art publications and get more galleries on board. Who do you know in the gallery world?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Where are you showing your work besides the alumni show?” Lucy asked me.
I sputtered my drink and felt hypocrisy rising in my throat. “I’m kind of going through some personal stuff right now.”
“Oh,” the younger woman said. As if on cue, the waitress came, shouldering our order on a large tray.
I wiped my mouth on my napkin, but refused to be demoralized. I would never be able to defend my journey to Lucy. Some lessons need to be lived. But sitting in that pub, I held on to the certainty that my life was changing for the better, and it would soon be evident in my work, if it wasn’t already.
Despite that moment of thorniness, I left the campus feeling uplifted. The opening of the show was fast approaching, and I was eager. I still had a week; the extra time would give me a chance to polish my artist’s statement, and perhaps I might even do something as drastic as highlighting my hair. For once in my life, I felt that my life was completely my own to forge. The effervescence of the moment made me giddy. I don’t have to be afraid of anything anymore.
Traffic had not yet swelled with commuters. I turned off the radio to give my mind a chance to chase key phrases I wanted to use in my artist’s statement. I definitely wanted to highlight the upcoming decade anniversary of FemininiTEA, but I also wanted to emphasize the new directions of my work. It seemed perfectly natural that my art should reflect the changes I was going through. While figures had always been prominent in my metal work, I was starting to redirect my focus. My latest sketches had been less about people and more about place, architecture and landscape. I felt the pulse of my grandfathers through my veins. I had never known them, Nonna’s father and her husband, but since I had caught glimpses of them in my grandmother’s letter, I felt compelled to incorporate them into my life. It was as if their genetic code had just come out of dormancy, overturning the dominance of my grandmother’s DNA. The architect and the landscape painter surged.
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