When it came right down to it, Vivian didn’t think she could manage solely on her salary. The money from Bell gave the Daltons just enough extra to be able to buy new clothes when the old ones wore out, and to afford a nicer cut of meat at the butcher’s on Saturdays. But it wasn’t enough for a person to live on. That was the reason Bell hired women in the first place. They worked cheap. If Vivian let herself think about it for too long, she’d work herself up into a lather about how unfair it was, and how women ended up trapped in their marriages with mouths to feed, and how there was no chance of them ever getting out of that, and the next thing you know she’d be waving a sign or wearing a pair of trousers. So she didn’t think about it too long. Just long enough to know that leaving Edward wasn’t an option for her at this point in life. The cheese stands alone. That was all fine and good for the cheese, but it wasn’t going to work for her.
To his credit, Edward had been bending over backward to please her. He’d even splurged for Valentine’s Day. He’d paid a visit to Bowman Street Barber Shop and had Elmer take a little off the top and a lot off the sides and back, and while he was at it, he trimmed up the nose and ear hair as well. (He knew that Vivian hated that he’d been getting lazy about his grooming habits.) And there were a dozen red roses from Barrett’s sitting in the Daltons’ crystal (first) wedding vase in the middle of the dining room table on Friday. Where had he even found that thing? Vivian hadn’t seen or thought about it in years. He must have gone into the basement and rooted through boxes, unwrapping all the newspaper-wrapped knickknacks in order to find it.
He even went to Beulah Bechtel’s and bought her a new dress, which was the be-all-and-end-all, and it was sitting in a box on the dining room table next to the roses. Edward had once said to her that her half of the closet was like another planet to him, and he was afraid to touch anything, or it might leave him smelling like lilies of the valley or something. Wouldn’t the guys at the Mason Lodge just love that? But he must’ve gone through her closet and looked at the labels of the dresses she hadn’t made herself, in order to find her size. She could only imagine what he would’ve looked like, bumbling around Beulah Bechtel’s, surrounded by hats and furs and gowns. If she hadn’t been so furious about the secret son, she might’ve been able to appreciate all the effort he had gone to.
There were things you did for people out of love, and things you did out of guilt. Everything Edward was doing was out of guilt. When he was courting her, and even the first few years they were married, he’d show up at the door with clusters of lilacs or bouquets of wildflowers he had picked himself from the side of the road, because he’d been thinking about her. Roses were the “sorry blooms,” the apology bouquets he’d buy her, later on in the marriage, whenever he messed up. He thought that since they were expensive, she’d like them and all would be forgiven. But every time she looked at them she was reminded of whatever stupid thing he’d done to make her angry.
If she’d been feeling the least bit romantic she might’ve considered going to Buehler’s before work to pick up ingredients for a special dinner for them on Saturday. Pork chops, like he liked, maybe. With the mint sauce. Or was that for lamb? Or she might’ve asked Dorothy for her chocolate mousse recipe that she got from that fancy French cookbook her brother bought her when he was stationed overseas.
But Vivian wasn’t feeling romantic, and Edward should consider himself lucky to be getting meat loaf and lima beans and another very tense dinner for Valentine’s Day, while Vivian decided whether or not she was going to ask him about Mildred’s birdhouse and his goddamned son.
Chapter 39
In an attempt to tune out her parents and escape the tension that filled the Daltons’ house, Charlotte had been keeping her bedroom door shut. In her room, the only stress came from homework and wardrobe decisions. Charlotte was going to wear her red cardigan sweater today, in honor of Valentine’s Day. Except Valentine’s Day was tomorrow, and today was Friday the thirteenth.
Charlotte wasn’t superstitious, unless a black cat crossed her path or she accidentally walked under a ladder, and she also couldn’t remember what she was supposed to do to ward off the evil spirits of Friday the thirteenth. Something was wrong with today. She could just feel it.
“Darn it!” She stomped her bare foot on the rug, pulling at her hair in exasperation at the sweat that had broken out under her arms, dampening the shirt she’d just buttoned up.
She blew a gust of breath out into the stupid balmy warmth of her bedroom, which had the best-working radiator in the entire house. She usually had to open her window in order to sleep, which made her dad furious. “I’m not paying to heat the neighborhood,” he’d mutter, along with a string of curses, if he was passing by her room and happened to see the window open. It didn’t help at all, either, when she was trying to remain cool while getting dressed.
She went to the window and shoved up the sash, peeled paint chips dropping onto the rug. The bushes that separated the Daltons’ house from the Giffords’ house rustled, dropping a spray of dry snow on the Daltons’ side. Charlotte did a double-take and squinted at the bushes. Was someone there? Her skin prickled and she stepped back from the window, her sweat chilling on her skin. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the weird shiver. It was probably just the Giffords’ cat (which was not black).
Charlotte tried to focus on getting dressed and not on the weird feeling that someone was watching her. If she pulled the roll shade down, her room would be too dark. No one was out there anyway. She shook her head again and reached into the closet for her boring old black pencil skirt. She remembered Max Zimmerman saying he liked when girls looked casual. “Like they don’t really care.”
Well, she thought, nothing says “I don’t really care” like this skirt. She had flattened herself against the wall farthest from the window to pull on the skirt, and then reached out to snag the red cardigan from the back of her chair. Her paranoia flashed briefly with what she imagined Sue would say about her sweater as she fastened the buttons. “Ugh, red, on Valentine’s Day, Char?” or “Oh, Charlotte, red? Really?” The thought annoyed her enough to distract her from thinking about the rustling bushes. She didn’t care what Sue had to say on this occasion, because Max Zimmerman wouldn’t be putting anything in Sue’s locker. Not that he would be putting anything in Charlotte’s, either; she had to remind herself not to get her hopes up.
Charlotte turned sideways as she eyed herself in the mirror, jutting out her chest and wondering if she should add just a little padding, maybe. Her mother refused to buy her a pointy bra, so she did what she could to draw attention to her breasts. She faced forward again, and then turned to the other side, smoothing the sweater over her stomach. She felt another prickle of suspicion crawl over her scalp, and shot a look at the window, wondering how much someone standing outside on the ground could see into her room.
“CHARLOTTE!” The shout came up the stairs.
“Coming!” she shouted back, quickly pulling on her white socks and penny loafers, then stepping over to the window to push it back down into place.
Charlotte had to keep the red sweater covered up with her winter coat for the walk to school. It was still freezing outside. And today she had too much to carry, so she had to bring her book bag, which always made her feel juvenile. The hat would mess up her hair, of course, but she, Sue, and Barb always left a few spare minutes before the bell rang so they could go to the bathroom on the main floor, next to the principal’s office, and redo their hair. Charlotte brought a can of Spray Net, Sue brought the comb and brush, and Barb brought bobby pins and ribbons. By the time they were seated in first period, their hair was as perfectly coiffed and sprayed and pinned as if they had just come from Durstine’s Beauty Shop.
The first few periods at school dragged, and Charlotte had a hard time focusing on the lessons. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had followed her as she walked to school. She didn’t see anyone, even the few times she stopped and turned ar
ound. But the feeling was there. It made her walk a lot faster than she normally would have, and in the boring black pencil skirt that wasn’t exactly easy. As soon as she pushed through the front doors of the school, she stepped to the side and turned to look out through the window at the street, but she didn’t see anything unusual. Just other students and a few passing cars.
The whole day felt off. Darn Friday the thirteenth! Sue hadn’t said anything about her red sweater, Barb had forgotten the bobby pins, so they all had to use a lot more of the Spray Net, and Charlotte hadn’t seen Max Zimmerman at all. She wondered if he had even come to school today. After lunch Charlotte went to her locker, and when she opened it she found a pink envelope that had been slipped through the locker vent.
She pulled her hat down over her ears to keep out the wind. The temperature had risen to the mid-forties throughout the day, but the wind was still fierce. She had stayed behind for a half hour to do some research in the library on her history paper, and also to avoid having to walk behind any four-flushers who might’ve still been gossiping about the Daltons’ unfortunate situation.
All alone out in the late afternoon cold, she set a brisk pace, intent on getting home so that she could go to her room and reread Max’s valentine. It said he hoped to see her at the dance. As basic and noncommittal as that was, she still wanted to read it again. Having a crush made you a little stupid. She knew that.
Charlotte was going to the Valentine’s Day dance with her group of friends. It wasn’t like Homecoming or Prom, where you had to be asked to go. She didn’t need to be asked because she knew Max would be there, and he was “hoping to see” her there. Her penny loafers slapped over the damp sidewalk and she tried to keep her mind on the valentine, but, just like that morning, she had the distinct feeling she was being watched. If her hair wasn’t all smushed down by her woolen hat it would’ve been standing on end. Every half block or so, she’d stop and turn her head to listen. The whistle of the wind was all she could hear. When the streets of Wooster were empty, they were really empty, and it was late in the day and getting dark.
She turned down the alley between Mulberry and Ohio Streets that she used as a shortcut, but as soon as she’d made the turn into the deserted alley she realized she was out of view of neighbors or drivers or anyone else who might help her if she needed it. She kept her stride even and tried to control her breathing as she pulled her book bag across her chest like a shield.
Her loafers were still slapping the pavement, but now she could hear another set of footsteps behind her. How far behind, she couldn’t tell, and she was now too scared to turn around. Her anxiety prickled across the back of her neck and her breath had shortened to terrified spurts. The footsteps behind her quickened, and she could tell they were getting closer. She kept moving forward, but reached her right hand into her book bag and wedged her finger into the crevice between the Spray Net canister and its lid, pushing until the lid popped off. She then closed her fingers around the canister as the footsteps came up right behind her. Don’t wait, don’t wait, just do it. Do it now!
In a flurry of jerky movements Charlotte pulled her arm from the book bag and whipped around.
“Get awaaaaaaay!” she shouted as she pressed down hard on the nozzle of the Spray Net.
The aerosol went full-force into the face of the person behind her, and she heard an agonized cry and a loud “FUCK!” before she dropped the can and took off at a scramble down the alley and around the corner, moving as fast as her black pencil skirt would allow. She didn’t stop running until she had shuffled up the porch steps, fumbling with the doorknob and then flinging open the door and slamming it shut behind her.
Her heart was beating its way out of her chest and her eyes zeroed in on the telephone sitting on the side table next to the couch. Would that be too rash? Hysterical? Calling for help? She hadn’t exactly been attacked, had she? Charlotte stalked into the kitchen and peered out the window at the backyard, her arms wrapped around her chest as her eyes darted from the hedges to the back shed and beyond into the neighbors’ yards. Going back into the living room, her heart still pounding, she looked out the front window. She didn’t know what to do next, but the nagging pressure on her bladder steered her toward the bathroom.
She shot another look at the front door and then the telephone. Should she call someone? The police? Her mother? She imagined what they would ask her. What did he look like? Could you tell us what he was wearing? And she had no idea. But it had been a “he.” That was the only thing she was sure of. She went to the hallway bathroom and locked herself in, feeling some comfort in the narrow, enclosed space. Could it have been Max Zimmerman? Could she have just Spray Netted Max Zimmerman?
She sat fretting on the toilet long enough for the seat to make a red ring around the back of her thighs, and she would have stayed there longer except her legs had started to fall asleep. She was drying her hands on the pink embroidered hand towel when she heard a knock on the front door. She froze and looked at the lock on the bathroom door. The knock came again and Charlotte unhooked the lock and cracked the door just a couple of inches.
“Vivian?” the muffled voice sounded through the front door sidelights. “Anybody home?”
It was Mrs. Gifford, their neighbor. Charlotte released her breath, left the temporary safety of the bathroom, and stumbled back through the living room, rushing to the front door, desperate to see a familiar face.
“Hi!” She flung the door open.
“Oh, Charlotte,” Mrs. Gifford said. “Hi, honey. Is your mom home?”
“Not right now,” Charlotte answered, no longer breathless, but still speaking more quickly than usual. “She’ll be at work until eleven tonight.”
“Okay, could you just give her these for me? I found them out in the alley, behind the Messners’ garage, when I got home.” She handed Charlotte the can of Spray Net she had dropped, and a small white card. “They must have fallen out of her purse. She must have been in an awful hurry if she didn’t hear that can hit the ground!”
Charlotte looked down at the small card Mrs. Gifford had handed her and saw that it was her mother’s driver’s license.
“Thanks,” she said, still staring, puzzled, at the license.
“Tell your mom to give me a call!”
“I will.”
Charlotte closed and locked the door as Mrs. Gifford made her way down the porch steps. Her mother’s driver’s license. Could it have fallen out of her book bag when she grabbed the Spray Net? What was her mother’s driver’s license doing in her book bag? She went to the kitchen and placed the license next to the empty cookie jar.
Charlotte couldn’t focus on her homework, or even on My Cousin Rachel. She had read and reread the same sentence at least ten times, so she gave up and decided to go to bed early. She and her dad had had a quiet dinner of leftover ham-noodle casserole, and then they’d played checkers for a while. She didn’t know if she should tell him what had happened. The more she thought about it, the more she thought maybe even she didn’t really know.
As she put on her pajamas, she glanced uneasily at the window. She had pulled down the roll shade as soon as she entered the room. It hadn’t even been dark at the time, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Now the room felt too warm. She normally would have raised the shade halfway and pushed the window open, just a few inches, to let in the cool outside air. But not tonight. Someone was still out there, and it wasn’t Max Zimmerman.
Chapter 40
Vivian walked in the front door of the darkened house. She shut off the porch light as she stepped out of her ankle boots, which were no longer brand-new, and were another reminder of Edward’s lies. As if she needed more of those. She hung her coat in the hall closet before heading for the kitchen, flipping the light on as she went to the counter. She was starving. She’d worked for Maria Tomasetti today, because Maria had taken her shifts last Thursday and Friday when Vivian had gone to “Akron.”
The cookie jar stood empty on
the counter, with light beige crumbs and pieces of white frosting lining the bottom. Oh, for chrissakes. She’d baked the damned cookies Saturday night, and now they were gone and it wasn’t even Valentine’s Day yet. She looked at the clock above the refrigerator. Twenty after eleven. She heaved a sigh and then spotted something on the counter that hadn’t been there earlier. She leaned closer and saw that it was her old driver’s license.
Vivian inhaled sharply as she picked it up, and her heart began to pound and she felt her bowels loosen and shift. Mildred Fischer. Oh, Jesus Christ, Mildred Fischer was in Wooster. Had she been to the house? How did the driver’s license get there? She caught her reflection in the window over the kitchen sink. She’d kept meaning to put full curtains on that window. She couldn’t see anything but the blackness of night, and she was suddenly aware that anyone outside could see her if they were looking in. She walked quickly back to the light switch and flipped it off, plunging the kitchen into darkness. She let her eyes adjust, and then squinted at the window. All the shadows along the perimeter of the backyard looked like people crouching, lying in wait. Vivian felt like screaming, but the house was quiet and she didn’t want to break the silence.
She climbed the stairs quickly and looked at the door to Charlotte’s room. The light was still on, a slim sliver between the door and the hallway rug.
“Charlotte?” she whispered through the crack in the door.
Charlotte shrieked.
Vivian pushed the door open wide to see Charlotte in her bed, with the covers pulled up beneath her chin, looking like she had just seen a ghost. Or a bat. One time they had a small family of bats in the attic, and Edward had to get after them with a broom.
The Operator Page 23