She's Gone: A Novel

by Emmens, Joye

  In the crowd of pedestrians, Will strode toward her, tall and self-assured. Their eyes met, and he smiled his beautiful, wide smile that he saved just for her. When he reached her, she too was smiling with her good news.

  “How’d it go?” he said.

  “I got a job. I start tomorrow.”

  “I knew you would.” He hugged her tight.

  “No tips though. I have to get promoted to a waitress for tips.”

  “No tips? We need your tips. It’s expensive here, if you haven’t already figured that out.”

  A flash of heat rose and swelled in her head. Her chest seized up. Of course she knew that. Tears welled. Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry.

  They zigzagged through the streets. Food aromas wafted in the air. Hungry for lunch, they found a diner on a side street. The cheapest items on the menu were grilled cheese or fried egg sandwiches. They ordered one of each and shared. They debated which was better.

  “We can’t eat out again until we have money coming in,” Will said.

  She nodded, still hungry.

  “I found Liberation Books and talked to the owner, Martin. The Weatherman bomb blast in New York freaked everyone out. The movement’s so fractured now. There’s no common platform. It needs leadership.” His eyes flashed with an intensity she had not seen before.

  “We won’t see any change until we overthrow the capitalists and abolish the classes of society.” He drummed his fingers on the counter.

  She pondered the enormous task. How would it ever work? It would take a revolution, that’s for sure. Distracted by the dessert case, her mouth watered at the glistening Boston cream pie on display next to a strawberry cheesecake and lemon meringue pie. When she got paid, she would treat them to dessert.

  Outside, they gravitated toward the Charles River footbridge. The bridge’s graceful arches spanned the river, skillfully built out of brick and stone. They walked halfway out, staying clear of bicycles whirring past, and looked across at Boston and back to Cambridge.

  “I think we should live in Cambridge when we save enough money to rent a place,” Will said.

  “We could rent an old brick house,” Jolie said.

  “There are rentals listed on the bulletin board at the bookstore. We could start by renting a room in a house with others,” Will said.

  Please, not a commune. She would not live in another commune. “Not another commune.”

  “No, just roommates. But if we found one that was listed at the bookstore, at least we’d have similar politics.”

  Politics, he lived and breathed politics.

  “I met a Harvard law student today, and he gave me a tour of Harvard Yard. It is so beautiful and historic. I want to go to college someday.”

  “You what?”

  “I want to go to college someday.”

  “You went off with some guy you don’t know?”

  “Well…I know him now.”

  “Jesus, Jolie. You just don’t go off with guys you meet. Not everyone has good intentions.”

  “He’s a first-year law student.”

  “He could be a psychopath. I’m not kidding. This is a big city, and there are weirdos out there looking for prey. You’d fall right into their trap. You’re so naïve.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. He’d never raised his voice with her before. He tugged her to him.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  Home? Berkeley Street would never be home. They walked on across the bridge. His words still stung. She remained silent, only half listening to his plans to expand the socialist movement.

  In their room, Will counted their remaining money and calculated how much Jolie would make her first four days. When she got paid on Friday, they could afford another week’s rent and a meager food allowance.

  Lying in bed that night, Will’s remark still hurt. If she was so naïve, why was she the one who had landed a job on their first day there? He hadn’t even responded to her comment about college.

  Jolie was up early the next morning, nervous about her first day at work. While she waited for her turn in the shared bathroom, she meditated. She tried to center herself and breathe. Brigham’s restaurant was three times the size of the restaurant in Eugene, and the pace far more frenetic. Would she be able to do it? She focused her thoughts on the green moonstone around her neck, a bright jewel, pulsating with pure vibrations from the universe. She channeled the light into her core. Opening her eyes, the chipped paint on the window sills and water stains on the floor jarred her into reality.

  Will walked her to the T station. They could only afford one fare. She hopped on the subway train and found a seat next to students babbling about a professor’s unreasonable assignment.

  At Brigham’s, Frank asked Millie, the older waitress from the day before, to show Jolie the locker room and get her a uniform. Millie muttered something, and Jolie followed her down a greasy stairwell into the basement. In the women’s locker room, Millie sized her up and handed her a pink dress and white apron.

  “Come upstairs when you’re changed,” Millie said in her hard Boston accent.

  She’d be gruff too, if she still worked there at Millie’s age.

  She held the uniform, waiting for Millie to leave. Pink was not a color she wore. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something run along the floor. A rat, a big rat. It reached the door just as Millie did. Millie screamed and fled the locker room in a blur of pink. Jolie wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be afraid. She quickly brushed her hair and braided it into a single, thick braid that fell down her back. She locked up her clothes and purse and put the key in her pink dress pocket, all the time on the lookout for rats.

  Frank trained her on the ice cream counter. There was a cash register, metal milkshake machines, and an infinite number of ice cream tubs in the glass-topped freezer case. He demonstrated how to make a milkshake.

  “There’s no ice cream in milkshakes here?” Jolie asked, surprised.

  Frank looked at her and shook his head. “No, ice cream goes in frappes. Do you know how to make a lime rickey?”

  “What’s a lime rickey?”

  Frank studied her. “Where are you from again?”

  “California.”

  “That figures,” he said, shaking his head.

  He mixed lime syrup and seltzer water and added a lime twist. It looked so inviting. Her mouth began to water.

  “That’s it,” Frank said. “That’s all there is to the counter. The crowds start about noon.” He put a straw in the glass and took a sip.

  “Am I here by myself?”

  “Yes, I’ll check on you now and again. Your lunch break is at two thirty. You get one meal a day free.”

  Jolie oriented herself to the counter. Would she be able to remember everything? Her first customer ordered a coffee milkshake. That was easy. Two squirts of coffee syrup, milk to the line, blend, and pour. Around noon a line began to form and it never let up. She worked as fast as she could. The customer’s eyes were on her every move. She was self-conscience and clumsy, and she was starving. She’d eaten a piece of bread for breakfast. Before she knew it, Millie was there to relieve her for a lunch break. Millie muttered under her breath about what a dirty mess the counter was. Small bits of ice cream had melted on the counter. Jolie had tried to keep it clean but the customers were never-ending.

  Jolie clocked out for lunch and ordered from one of the waitresses. She took her food into the back room to eat. There wasn’t much of a lunch room. One of the cooks was on his break, too. She sat down across from him at a small table in the corner. “Hi,” she said.

  He muttered something she couldn’t understand and returned to reading a foreign newspaper written in a strangely beautiful alphabet.

  Jolie focused on her food. She only had fifteen minutes left on her break. When the cook was done eating,
he lit an unfiltered cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head.

  “Where are you from originally?” she asked.

  “Greece.”

  “Will you teach me some Greek words?”

  He grunted something and buried himself behind the paper.

  She returned to the ice cream counter. The line was just as long. It was three o’clock, and her shift was over at seven. Millie had left the counter just as messy. She couldn’t keep up with the non-stop customers either.

  The afternoon turned to evening as Jolie served lime rickeys, hot fudge sundaes on mint chocolate chip, and an endless combination of flavors. She scooped cone after cone until her wrist hurt. Coffee, chocolate, chocolate chip, mocha almond, Irish cream, rum raisin, peppermint stick, vanilla…she began to analyze the customers by the flavors they ordered. Why would anyone order vanilla when there were countless flavors before them?

  At seven p.m., a young college girl arrived to start her shift. Jolie went to change in the locker room, keeping an eye out for rats. Exhausted and hungry, she had survived her first shift.

  Outside, she breathed in the fresh night air in the brightly lit Square. On the T, she closed her eyes and nodded off. Her eyes flew open when the train jerked to a stop.

  At her stop, she ascended the stairs to the street. She should have asked Will to meet her there. It wasn’t the best part of town. Although there were families in the row houses, there were other characters hanging around doorways. At the top of the stairs, she walked toward Berkeley Street. A tall figure leaned against an elm tree. Should she cross the street to avoid him? He moved toward her. Her muscles contracted, and she bolted across the street.

  “Jolie.”

  It was Will. He’d come to meet her.

  In their room Will laid out cheese, bread, and canned fish for their dinner. “I went to Boston College and met the RYM representative.”

  She took a bite of bread and cheese. She had been so busy at work she hadn’t even thought about what he had done that day.

  “All of the organizations have splintered. I’m going to combine them into a cohesive movement. Separate we have no power, no mass. They’re thinking small.” His words were weighted with his fervor.

  “But didn’t you create a splinter group in Eugene?”

  “Eugene was for amateurs.”

  She lay on the bed reading The Prophet. She must have read it ten times before, but she craved calm after her hectic day. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she saw ice cream cones.

  That week Jolie took the subway every day. On her return in the darkness Will met her outside the T entrance. She ate lunch with the Greek cook while Millie covered for her break. Millie seemed to be melting around the edges and didn’t seem as gruff. She didn’t interact with Frank much, but she caught him observing her as she worked the counter alone.

  Thursday morning she spent their last twenty cents on a one-way subway fare. They were flat out broke, but she still needed to get home that night and get to work the next morning. She didn’t get paid until Friday afternoon. When she mentioned the dilemma to Will he nonchalantly told her to borrow it.

  She went through the first half of her shift distracted by her problem. Should she ask Millie or Frank to lend her subway fare? What would they think? That she didn’t have fifty cents to her name? But it was true. She could take it out of the cash register during a sale and pay it back double when she got paid. No, she couldn’t steal, she could lose her job and then where would they be? She could ask the girl student who took over her shift at seven. But what if she didn’t have any change on her? Then it would be too late to ask Millie or Frank or get it from the till. She wished she got tips, but only the waitresses did. If she worked hard at the ice cream counter, Frank might transfer her to waiting tables. But that wouldn’t help her today. Millie’s shift ended at four, Frank left at six, and the cook only muttered in Greek. She’d had no contact with the other staff since she was at the front counter by herself.

  When Millie relieved her for her break, Jolie tried to ask, but Millie was already taking orders and tisking under her breath about how messy everything was.

  Jolie ordered her lunch and took it into the lunch room. The Greek was eating and reading his paper. She sat down, sighed, and stared at her food, too distressed to eat.

  “What, what?” he said. He peered over the paper at her.

  She looked up, surprised. He never spoke except for the grunt he uttered when she said “hi.” Should she tell him? She was too embarrassed. Her eyes met his. His lower face was obscured by the paper, and the creases around his eyes and forehead aged him beyond his years, but his brown eyes shone warm.

  “I don’t have subway fare to get home tonight or to work tomorrow,” she said.

  “You don’t have any money? Not even twenty cents?”

  She shook her head and her eyes welled with tears. He set the newspaper down and pulled out a worn, brown leather wallet. He took out a dollar and handed it to Jolie.

  “Is this enough?”

  “Plenty, thank you. I’ll pay you back Monday,” she said, trying to smile.

  He muttered something in Greek and shook his head.

  “We were never introduced. I’m Jolie.”

  “Dimitrius. You call me Dimitri. Now you know a Greek word.” He went back to reading his paper.

  Despite her humiliation, all the worry fell away. Not only did she have subway fare but enough to buy a can of tomato soup and bread at the Italian grocery for dinner.

  What was Will doing right then? Had he even looked for work?

  Friday during Jolie’s lunch break, the manager, Frank, handed out paychecks. “The banks are closed when you get off work. If you need to cash this today you’d better scoot now. There’s a bank two doors down.”

  “Thank you.” She held the precious check in her hand.

  Dimitri winked at her over his paper.

  Jolie practically skipped down the street. In the bank she approached a young teller in a suit and tie. She signed the check and handed it to him feeling self conscious in her pink uniform with ice cream smudges on the white apron.

  “Would you like to open a bank account?”

  She hesitated. With this check she could pay another week’s rent and have money for groceries and her subway fare.

  “The minimum deposit is five dollars,” he explained.

  She smiled faintly. “Yes, I would.” It would be a tight week. Will didn’t believe in banks but he didn’t need to know. Every week she would save a portion of her check. She would never be penniless again.

  18

  You Say You Want a Revolution

  On Saturday, Will and Jolie headed to Cambridge for the anti-war protest. They were meeting Adam at Liberation Books. Jolie buttoned her wool pea coat and tugged her beanie down to keep out the spring chill while hurrying to keep up with Will’s long stride. She’d told Will a customer had left the hat. What was wrong with her? Now she was lying to Will. But he would never let her wear it if he knew the truth and she loved the Harvard emblem.

  In Harvard Square, students and shoppers flooded the sidewalks. Will and Jolie crossed the street and a car horn blared. Jolie jumped, startled by the angry blast. The drivers were so rude. They didn’t care if pedestrians had the right of way. In California, no one honked.

  They walked past Brigham’s. She stopped and looked through the window. The long line at the ice cream counter snaked to the door.

  “That’s me during the week,” she said, looking at the girl behind the counter.

  Will hadn’t stopped and was already halfway down the street. She ran to catch up with him. Wasn’t he interested in what she did all day?

  Musicians serenaded passers-by, hopeful for some coins. The jazz trumpeter commanded his usual corner with sweet Miles Davis tunes. Panhandlers were out in force with a choru
s of “Spare change?” A white-faced mime imitated people, exaggerating their walk.

  She followed Will six blocks down the Avenue to Liberation Books. They entered the bookshop to an aroma of fresh coffee. Shelves of books lined the walls. In the middle of the room a plaid couch and a few chairs welcomed readers. So this was Liberation Books. Posters of Lenin, Mao Tse Tung, and Ché Guevara hung on the walls. Underground newspapers were piled high on the table. It was more like a private library. Will led her into the back room where she recognized Adam from the week before.

  “Where’ve you been, man?” Adam said. “We missed you at the meeting Wednesday night.”

  “Hanging out in Boston,” Will said.

  A twinge of humble pride spread through Jolie. She looked away, embarrassed. He was too proud to say he didn’t have subway fare.

  “Did you bring it?” Martin, the bookshop owner, asked.

  Will nodded and handed him a hand written copy of his socialist manifesto.

  “I’ll read it this weekend,” Martin said. “Let’s get together Monday morning.”

  Martin introduced them to a group of men and women. Pamphlets and signs for the protest were stacked on the table. In the back of the room, stacks of folding chairs lined the wall. Jolie envisioned the lively meetings held there.

  Carrying signs and pamphlets, Will and Jolie set out with the group to the Common. A crowd had gathered near the three historic cannons. The earthy scent of patchouli oil wafted in the air. Musical refrains from the steel band and a string quartet tangled together overhead. Adam quickly took charge, handing out signs and giving instructions for an orderly protest.

  “No violence, even if the pigs want to clash. Absolutely no violence,” Adam said. “Stay out of the street. Do not disrupt traffic.”

  After more instructions on the protest route, Adam assigned a handful of people to pass out pamphlets at the entrances to the Common. Jolie was directed to the familiar corner with the steel band. She glanced at Will and their eyes met. She didn’t want to separate from him. It was her day off and she wanted to be near him. But he nodded and she headed off with an armload of pamphlets, reading one as she walked: BRING OUR TROOPS HOME.