The Operator

by Gretchen Berg

  “We need it to be big,” had been his response.

  He’d laughed at her unexplainable affinity for Wooster, a place he’d never appreciated in the least. “Don’t you find the people to be unsophisticated? After all, you lived in New York.”

  “A little.” Flora would grin and her dimples would sink deep into her cheeks. “But I love it. I love the charm, the coziness, the predictability of it all. Mostly the people. They’ll never really surprise you, small-town people, you know?”

  Gilbert had raised one eyebrow and leaned back on the sofa with his hands behind his head as a slow smile spread across his face. Even when he felt he couldn’t possibly know her any better, she’d surprise him. And she could always make him smile.

  “But everyone knows everyone else’s business.” He liked to play devil’s advocate with Flora.

  “Not if you’re careful,” she had said as she raised both eyebrows back at him. “I like that you know what to expect,” she’d gone on. “You know, when you step out your door, they’ll watch you because they don’t have anything else to do. When you’re at the store, they’ll peek at what you’re buying, because they’re bored and want to compare their lives to yours or his or hers. ‘Ooooh, look who’s getting the nice cuts of meat.’ Or ‘Did you see all the marshmallows in her cart? What on earth is she making with all those marshmallows?’”

  Gilbert slapped a hand on his knee, laughing.

  “They’re always passing judgment on what you wear, what you eat, what you do, who you love.” Flora shrugged. “And if you’re smart enough to keep your distance, you can sit back and watch them the same way. Just enjoy it all, like you’d enjoy a stage play or a movie.”

  Flora had certainly seen a few people who swanned dramatically around their everyday lives as if Mr. Frank Capra had just called, “Action!” from behind his camera.

  Chapter 15

  The Christmas party had been the talk of the town; Betty’s best yet. Yes, 1952’s Savior’s Celebratory Soirée (an unofficial title, but one Betty would evaluate for consideration) was going to be the one to beat. The decorations were outstanding, the food and drinks superb, and her dress had positively stolen the show. Not that the party had been a show, mind you. It wasn’t as if it were a Christmas pageant, although if anyone wanted to refer to it as such Betty wouldn’t have blamed them. But if it had been a pageant, which it really wasn’t, Betty’s dress would have won the competition. Not that it was a competition. Not a close one, at any rate.

  She’d thought she’d have to go up to Akron or Cleveland, but Beulah Bechtel had come through for her in the end with a midweek delivery of a stunning deep crimson wool number, a heavy, substantial wool, with bracelet-length sleeves, and a perfectly cinched waist and flamboyant flared skirt, made even more dramatic by the petticoats underneath. She had added her own flair to the neckline of the dress by having Dolly stitch a border of fluffy white ermine, which both gave a nod to the timeless holiday apparel of Santa and Mrs. Claus, and also drew attention to Betty’s décolletage. The décolletage was the only thing keeping Betty from wearing the dress to church services on Christmas Eve. As attractive as it was, especially for someone her age, it simply wouldn’t be appropriate.

  Vivian Dalton, apparently, didn’t share Betty’s feelings about what was or was not appropriate on the eve of Our Lord and Savior’s birth, with her face painted up like a cheap B-movie starlet’s. The moment the Daltons crossed the church threshold Betty was reminded of the telephone conversation. Her eyes widened as she watched them walk down the left side of the aisle. She could not be-lieve she had allowed herself to forget about something like that. Well, she could, what with the children’s school Christmas pageants, and the Miller Christmas pageant (it really wasn’t a pageant), and Charles’s recent promotion and bonus news, she really wasn’t surprised she had forgotten. Vivian Dalton hardly registered on her radar in the first place, although the story was shocking, and a true bit of scandal.

  She watched as the Daltons took their seats in the pews, Eddie Dalton looking respectable enough in his wool Trilby and overcoat, and their daughter Charlotte, how old must Charlotte be now, high school, she knew that much, she was just a year or two older than Margie, my, she was a gangly thing, wasn’t she, absolutely no bust whatsoever, and Vivian, wearing that hat, although who would notice the hat when she was wearing all that makeup. Betty gave herself a quick pinch on the soft skin under her wrist beneath her wristwatch where she’d attached the angel charm. It had been her analyst’s idea, and was supposed to be a reminder to rein in her judgment. Remember why we are here. Vivian’s fur-collared coat was quite lovely. Probably dyed squirrel, though. It’s Christmas, Betty thought to herself, and then reflexively touched the sleeve of her mink.

  She wondered if she should reconsider her original plan to disseminate the gossip she had heard. She cast a glance at the life-sized crucifix hanging on the far wall, and then lowered her eyes. She was bigger than that, really. She was a pillar of the community. It was up to people like Betty to set an example; to guide the rest of Wooster’s denizens to be the very best they could be.

  Just like she did every Christmas Eve, Betty had made sure the Millers arrived at the church early enough to greet Reverend Alsop before he adjourned to his study to do his last-minute preparations for the sermon. She made sure they were early enough to give the vestibule and worship hall a final once-over, and tidy up the holiday décor. Because, although Betty chaired the Worship Committee, Harriet Barnham was the one who oversaw the decorations, and everyone knew Harriet could get sloppy. After Betty had adjusted most of the pine garlands and holly branches linked together along the tops of the pews, and ordered Harriet to place a dish under every candle so she didn’t burn the church down in a fiery inferno on Jesus’s birthday, she then lined up her four children, Margie, Duncan, Little Bitty, and Charles Junior, next to their father, so that they could greet most of the congregation as they entered the church. Betty also made sure the Millers were all tucked into their pew exactly ten minutes before the service was to begin. Punctuality showed proper respect. Early arrival ensured that necessary adjustments could be made, and reminded everyone who was really in charge.

  The interior of Forest Chapel Methodist Church was bathed in the warm glow of candles, humming with the melodic chorus of singing parishioners, and swelling with the magical aura of the Christmas spirit. Naturally, some of the younger children were restless and fussy, and some of the older children pretended they weren’t enjoying themselves, but for the most part, the entire congregation became one swaying, praying, love-filled entity, which was precisely what Jesus deserved on the eve of his birth. Praise the Lord.

  It was after the services ended that the warm and magical, love-filled, but also perfectly scheduled and structured evening began to unravel. For one thing, Vivian Dalton must have been launched from her seat in the pew by holy catapult before the hymn had even ended, as she was the first person up at the pulpit to wish Reverend Alsop a merry Christmas. Betty, who was always the first person to the pulpit, suddenly found herself second in line. Standing behind Vivian, fuming at that hideously tacky hat, and wondering if that was liquor she smelled coming from Vivian, as she had to wait her turn.

  Betty shook Reverend Alsop’s hand in both of hers and gave him the most fervent “Mer-ry Christ-mas” she could muster, in an effort to be the most memorable since she had not been the first. She then remained at the front of the church, and made polite small talk with Mary and Gerald Houder, as she tried to temper her fuming on the eve of Christ Our Savior’s birth. Louder Houder, as some referred to Gerald in their less charitable moments, was testing her nerves. He refused to wear a hearing aid and always demanded that everyone repeat everything. “What’s that? I can’t hear you. Speak up. Louder!”

  “I SAID”—she raised her voice to an almost-shout—“ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO SPENDING TIME WITH YOUR GRANDCHILDREN?”

  Vivian acted as if she hadn’t even noticed Bett
y standing behind her, and had wished Reverend Alsop a theatrical “Merry Christmas,” and then made her way back toward her family. From the corner of her eye, Betty could see Eddie Dalton was talking with John Randall, and the Dalton girl had plopped back into the pew next to Lacy Granger and they were probably talking about how they wished Margie would include them in her social group. Margie was extremely popular at school. Betty glanced between the Daltons and the faces of Mary and Louder Houder, and saw Vivian standing behind Eddie while he talked to John. The two men were likely discussing something related to snow shovels.

  Betty knew Charles was probably thinking of the stiff martini he planned to pour as soon as the Millers returned home, and was shaking hands with their fellow worshippers, moving down the center aisle. When he reached Vivian Dalton, Betty’s antennae shot up and her attention suddenly snapped completely away from Louder Houder. He had been able to hear her just fine this time, but only because he had moved to just two inches away from her, and had obviously forgotten his Clorets. She shot her glare in Charles’s direction. Vivian was positively fawning over Charles, brushing imaginary threads from his suit, touching his arm repeatedly, and then fingering his pocket square; fluttering her eyelashes as she giggled in a manner better suited to someone much younger than she.

  Betty squared her shoulders, flared her nostrils, excused herself from the Houders, and pushed her way past the Hoopers and the Chandlers, barely remembering to say, “Merry Christmas,” through her tight smile. She quickly pinched her husband’s elbow and pulled him away from Vivian, who then turned her attentions to Burt Chandler. Betty swore under her breath, casting an apologetic glance at Reverend Alsop, who had made his way from the pulpit and down the aisle, and was standing within hearing range, although she was certain he hadn’t heard her.

  “Merry Christmas, Reverend Alsop,” she said again, this time through just slightly clenched teeth.

  She waved in irritation to Margie and Duncan, who were holding Little Bitty’s and Charles Junior’s hands, but still standing in the pew up at the front. We’re leaving, she mouthed, and continued to push Charles down the aisle toward the front entrance. At the vestibule she realized she had forgotten her mink back in the pew. She was rigid with irritation, and struggling to keep her eyes bright and her smile upturned as people passed them and sang, “Merry Christmas!”

  “Darling,” Charles said, with a hand on her shoulder, “where is your coat?”

  “Here, Mom.” Margie, in her red velvet dress with the white lace collar, was carrying the mink over her left shoulder and propelling Little Bitty, in her candy-cane-striped dress and bloomers, forward with her right hand. Duncan and Charles Junior followed single file, in their matching charcoal-gray suits and evergreen silk ties, behind them.

  Betty looked at her children and then at her husband.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a good girl.” She gave Margie an affectionate pinch on the cheek, and then had three thoughts: how glad she was that Margie had her delicate features, how Christmas truly was the most wonderful time of year, and how Vivian Dalton would get what was coming to her.

  Chapter 16

  In the grand karmic scheme of things, Vivian wouldn’t have thought she was due any sort of righteous retribution for any of her past actions or behavior.

  Retribution:

  1: recompense, reward

  2: the dispensing or receiving of reward or punishment especially in the hereafter

  3: something given or exacted in recompense; especially: punishment

  But she might’ve forgotten a few things over the years. Who remembered every little thing they said or did? Vivian was much better at remembering all the slights, taunts, and teasing she’d had to suffer than recalling anything she might’ve said or done to someone else. And, currently, she was suffering more than she thought she deserved to.

  Since the Betty Miller telephone conversation, on the horrible, black day of December fifteenth, Vivian’s emotions had run through shock, disbelief, rage, then anxiety, and were holding at a combination of the rage and anxiety. Christmas Eve had been the one night she’d tucked it all away in a lockbox in the very deepest part of her brain. It had been a mild distraction; a dreamlike kind of event, where Vivian, who did not usually drink alcohol of any sort, had thrown caution to the wind and polished off a tall glass of cooking sherry before the Daltons left for church. She was a little tipsy when she retouched her makeup, but the dark circles under her eyes needed a lot of powder, and then the powder had made her look washed out so she’d added more pink rouge. And, what was a little more eye shadow? After all, Christmas comes but once a year!

  The fuzzy warmth from the sherry had spread all around her insides and out into her limbs on the car ride to the church. The toilet paper roll in the cramped church bathroom made the funniest sound as she pulled hard and watched it flap-flap-flap-flap as it unrolled, giggling at the soft pile that fell to the floor when she finally ripped it free. By the time Reverend Alsop asked them to stand for “Angels We Have Heard on High,” the candles were blazing in the stained-glass windows, the nave was filled with the scent of fresh pine needles, various perfumes, and colognes, and Vivian was bursting with the spirit of the Lord and celebrating the eve of His birth. Loudly.

  By the final “Amen” of the service, Vivian’s warmth and bursting spirit had tapered off a little, and she wanted to make sure she wished the reverend a “Merry Christmas” before all her holiday cheer turned into a mild headache and soft, sherry-scented belches. She wouldn’t say she remembered too much of the evening, but, boy, if that sherry didn’t make her like everyone at church just a little better! People weren’t so bad!

  When the Christmas decorations had been taken down, and all that holiday cheer swept off the floor of Forest Chapel Methodist Church, Vivian felt as if she, too, had been stripped of the holiday décor. What was left was her simmering hostility and extreme paranoia. During the next Sunday service she was too preoccupied with the congregation to pay attention to any of the divine guidance coming from Reverend Alsop at the pulpit. She barely noticed that Dora Archer was there by herself, and in the past that would’ve been the perfect occasion for a joke about Earl Archer’s forgetfulness. The old fart forgot to bring himself to church! She also barely noticed that Stewart Bowen’s wife had herself a new hat and coat, and maybe that meant Stewart had gotten a new job. And Maxine Butler was there with her mother, maybe up for the holidays and maybe she’d finally thanked her for the quilt. These things barely registered for Vivian. The focus for Vivian was herself. Herself and how everyone else was behaving toward her. Every one of her senses was attuned to the attention directed, or not directed, at her. The looks, whispers, and gestures coming from all around her. She was aware of Betty Miller, but careful not to meet her eye.

  Vivian had made a trip to the stationery section of Woolworth’s in between Christmas and New Year’s, and had bought herself a small brown notebook and a small calendar booklet. She circled December 15 in the calendar booklet. The day that her life had changed. She made small checkmarks in the corners of each of the days that had followed that one. It was her own Advent calendar of anxiety.

  The days leading up to Christmas showed a light penciled checkmark in the corner of each box. She’d been on her guard, listening in on each and every telephone conversation she connected at the switchboard, and keeping her other ear alert to the chatter and reactions of the other operators in the room, in case they happened to talk about something they’d overheard. December nineteenth showed a small x in the corner of the calendar booklet, instead of the usual checkmark. That was the night she’d succeeded in angering Edward with her dinner party for the Tomasettis. How did that feel, Edward?

  More checkmarks followed that, but another small x had been placed in the corner of December twenty-fourth. Edward had sure been sore at her behavior at church, and had done more of his angry muttering during the drive home, and a little on Christmas Day. Good.

  Che
ckmark, checkmark, checkmark, checkmark, checkmark. Vivian’s agitation settled into an uneasy quiet. The kind that had a lid kept on it, just like the spring-loaded clown-in-a-box before the final bar of “Pop! Goes the Weasel.”

  New Year’s Eve was just another checkmark. Vivian claimed an awful headache to avoid celebrating the evening with the Giffords next door. While Edward went off to drink a couple of beers and smoke cigars with Quentin Gifford, and Charlotte went to Sue Barker’s for an overnight, Vivian sat up in bed in her flannel nightgown and curlers. She took out her teeth, slathered on her face cream, and played a few rounds of solitaire. The cheese stands alone, the cheese stands alone . . .

  The raised voices and laughter from next door traveled up and filtered through the walls of the Daltons’ second-floor bedroom, and Vivian turned toward the sound in irritation before reaching for her drink. She tipped up the glass, draining the last few drops of the cooking sherry. She’d wanted it to relax her, like it had before church on Christmas Eve, but her mood had just turned darker. She stared at the glass, squinting at the diamond pattern, remembering the first time she’d placed a glass against a wall in order to listen in on a conversation she wasn’t supposed to hear. She drew her arm back and hurled the glass as hard as she could. It hit the tall dresser just beyond the bed and broke into pieces that dropped to the carpet and settled into a small island of glass shards.

  Vivian had seen movies where a startling move like that had triggered a breakthrough for the main character; awakened them to the Truth of something. Shocked them into some kind of realization, usually accompanied by the crash of cymbals or the blaring of trumpets. But Vivian’s broken glass hadn’t done anything more than make a mess for her to clean up. She reached for Edward’s pillow, buried her face in it, and screamed.