by Joyce Meyer
“You fixing that hat won’t make your face any different,” Dungarees said.
The other tugged at his jacket hem to straighten out the wrinkles. He cocked his knees, moved his jaw to and fro in the mirror and scrubbed his fingers in a V against his chin, looking for stray whiskers.
“Not going to get her attention doing that Creature-from-the-Black-Lagoon imitation, either,” Dungarees taunted.
Intrigued, I switched my weight soundlessly from one haunch to the other. After everything they’d said, it was too late to rise from my hiding place and ask if they needed my assistance.
They exchanged boyish jabs even though the one in dungarees looked older than dirt—older than forty.
“You got to stop making things up in your head, Joe. What makes you think I’d want to get Opal Shaw’s attention, anyway?”
“That thirty-dollar suit from Boyd’s makes me think so. I’ve known you thirty years, Del, and you’ve never owned a suit like that. You never even had a suit like that before your wife died.”
Del brushed off the lapel like he was brushing off his friend’s comment. “I did, too. I had a nice suit when I married Camille.”
But Joe kept going on. “One minute you’re yammering on like a tree jay, and next thing I know, here comes Miss White Gloves looking like a Life magazine cover, and you clam up like you have wallpaper glue on your tongue.”
“I don’t clam up, Joe—” the widower said. Then, thinking more of it: “But I don’t yammer on, either.”
Joe wasn’t near finished. “That, and the dozen times you’ve come in here buying charms for your granddaughter’s bracelet. Last time, you let Miss Gloves talk you into buying a charm of the Eiffel Tower. How could an Eiffel Tower be the thing for Donna? You’re supposed to go to Paris to get an Eiffel Tower charm, not Grand Avenue in St. Louis.”
“Can’t come in her store and not buy anything.” Del examined his hat in the mirror meant for customers trying on pendants. He practically had to fold himself in half to see into it. “What if Donna never gets to Paris? The world is full of people dreaming of things they never get to have.”
“Like you. Dreaming about Opal Shaw and not doing anything about it.”
I was new to the world of love and sure hadn’t learned much from watching Jean and Billy. I wasn’t much for romance, anyway. After what Daddy had done to me, I didn’t figure anybody would ever want me. But the idea of Del being sweet on Miss Shaw introduced a whole new realm of possibility. I remembered the lonely way she’d picked at her lunch-counter tuna while folks who must’ve recognized her made a broad circle around her. I recalled the faint regret in her voice when she mentioned that she often invited her housekeeper to eat with her so she didn’t have to eat alone. Picturing Miss Shaw running a gloved hand over a grave, I imagined she might have lost the only person who had ever cared for her.
Miss Shaw gave me rides in her convertible and taught me how to use eyelash curlers. I may have made up my mind not to fully trust her, but even so I couldn’t help wanting her to find true love. Hearing Joe and Del talk made me suddenly ache to help Miss Shaw find someone to stand beside her the way she kept trying to stand beside me. It made me ache for both of us.
“Since when did you get to be such an expert on women, Joe?” Del asked.
Joe poked him in the ribs. “Since I was born, I’ve known more than you.”
I laid out a Timex with a linked gold band and waited for one or the other of them to thump the small counter bell to get her attention. From the back, we could all hear Miss Shaw humming in rhythm with her buffing wheel—a familiar song, although I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it before. She warbled like a bluebird. Even then, when she didn’t know anyone was listening but me, she didn’t hit a wrong note.
Joe said, “And why do you think a woman would ask you for a box of bricks? What would anybody need with a box of bricks in a jewelry store? Could be she’s interested, too.”
Del gave up on his hat. He ripped it off his head and held it like a steering wheel between his two hands. “She asked for the most historical Laclede bricks I had in my possession.” When Del talked about his bricks, his voice took on more authority. “What I got in this box represents the last hundred years of St. Louis.”
“You’ve got to do something about this. I hope you see it.” Joe stood with his hand poised over the bell. “Now, let’s find out if that Boyd’s suit will do you any good.”
“I’m not afraid of Opal Shaw, Joe. I respect her. That’s two different things.”
“You ought to ask her to a nice dinner. Maybe take her to Rigazzi’s for Italian. I’ll bet she’d like that.”
With no further ado, Joe thumped the bell.
“Wait. I’m not ready.”
“Time to get the show on the road.”
“Joe.”
But it was too late. The bell had summoned her. The singing and the sound of the buffer subsided in the workroom. Miss Shaw emerged as if she were stepping through the curtain at Carnegie Hall.
“Well, hello, you two,” she said with genuine warmth. Del had gone stiff as a stork with his fedora gripped in both hands. I couldn’t tell whether he was going to present his hat to her as a peace offering or use it for himself as a shield. Quickly, he plopped it atop his head at a slant more comical than any he’d tried in the mirror.
“What about you, Delbert? Did you bring me my bricks?”
From the way Del’s face went scarlet, his tie must’ve gone tighter than a bassett hound’s choke collar. He worked his finger inside it as if he were close to suffocating.
“He sure did, Miss Opal,” Joe answered for him.
I saw her quick glance at Del’s red ears. Del cleared his throat again and straightened his tie. Miss Shaw met his eyes briefly, then nodded toward the bricks on the floor. “I could have picked those up at the brickworks, you know.”
“No, you couldn’t have,” Joe said with gusto, obviously exasperated by the silence. He heaved the whole box onto his shoulder, a regular he-man. “Wouldn’t do for any lady to carry something this heavy, especially not a lady like you.”
Del shot Joe a look laden with resentment. What? You showing off your muscles? If Miss Shaw hadn’t been fidgeting with the ruffles on her blouse, she would have read the whole thing, too.
“Wouldn’t have you mess up that suit, Delbert,” Joe said pointedly and hefted the box higher. “Now, where do you want me to put these for you?”
“In the back by the bench, please.”
She pointed toward the workroom, and while Joe lugged the bricks away, Miss Shaw and Del faced off across the cash register. For a very long time, they said nothing. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to speak up first.
That didn’t work. After several beats of silence, they spoke at the same time instead.
“How are—?”
“You been—?”
Silence again. He darted back into his shell like a turtle that’s been poked with a stick.
“Thanks for bringing in those bricks,” she prompted. “I know you must’ve wondered what on earth I could be using them for.”
“Yes,” he said, tugging the wrinkles out of his jacket self-consciously. “I did wonder. What on earth?”
“I’m using your bricks for my display cases. The brickworks are such a part of St. Louis, and necklaces will be beautiful draped over them in the windows. That, and the sense of irony, I suppose. Robbers throw bricks to smash and steal. And here the bricks will be untouchable, in lighted vaults for all to see.”
In a rush, Del asked, “You think you might be willing to help me pick out another charm for Donna? She liked the Eiffel Tower well enough. Maybe I ought to get her the London Bridge.”
“Why, Delbert, another one? That girl has so many charms, I’m scared she’ll pop her wrist out of joint when she wears that charm bracelet. If she ever fell into the river with that thing on, she’d sink straight to the bottom.”
He picked up the placard of
gemstones beside his elbow. “Maybe we ought to start on her birthstone then. Let’s see. April. May. It says right here, June is alexandrite.” He set the placard down and it toppled over. He had to set it up twice to make it stay. “That’s what she needs. Alexandrite.”
“Maybe your granddaughter would like a pair of roller skates or a paint set or a walking Ginny doll. Something that doesn’t come from a jewelry store.”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, but what, Delbert?” She leaned so far across the cash register toward him, I thought she was going to ring up a sale with her belt buckle.
“Then I wouldn’t have any reason to—”
“Any reason to what, Delbert?”
He seemed caught between her question and a deep Ozark gorge. I could almost feel his terror from here. I wanted to jump from my hiding place and shout, Say it! Say, “Then I wouldn’t have any reason to see you again.”
Miss Shaw opened the register drawer with a light ding and immediately slid it shut again. She stood for a long time, waiting, pressing the drawer with her gloves.
When Joe returned from his task, he made it clear he felt as frustrated with Del as I did. “The silence is killing me, Del. I’m leaving. You ever decide to tell Miss Opal what we were talking about, you can let me know.”
“I knew you’d do something nice with those bricks, Miss Opal,” Del said. “You always think of nice things.”
“Why, Delbert. What a lovely compliment.”
“Right.” He slapped his thigh in agreement, narrowed his eyes at her. They both spoke at the same time again. “Well—”
“Well—”
Del turned to go, took another three steps and stopped. He stood stock still, neither turning toward her nor proceeding toward the exit. The seconds ticked past.
She pressed, “What did Joe mean, ‘what you were talking about’?”
When Del said, “Nothing much,” it was everything I could do not to jump from my hiding place and shout, Tell her you like her! Tell her you want to take her to Rigazzi’s! When Del said, “Guess we’d better get going,” Miss Shaw exhaled a deep breath and I could hardly stand it, either.
That was the first time I realized you could be left alone by someone who admired you just as much as you could be left alone by someone who thought you weren’t worth much. That was the first time I realized there are plenty of different kinds of loneliness.
“Of course,” she said, standing in a pond of isolation. I could feel her disappointment clear from my lair in the display case.
Chapter Fourteen
We shared a party line with the Smiths, who lived opposite us upstairs, and the Pattersons and the Shipleys, who lived below. The telephone rang in our kitchen only when someone dialed Parkview 7-5768. But every so often when Mama or Jean or I wanted to dial out, we would pick up the receiver and roll our eyes—cut off from the world once again by the prolonged and delicious conversations of Mrs. Ralph Patterson and her best friend, Miss Mona Miner.
That afternoon, Jean stood with her arms crossed and passed the time, shifting her weight resolutely from one hip to the other, the receiver cocked against her ear. She initiated long sighs loud enough to be heard as far away as DeBaliviere Boulevard. Then she shifted her weight again and flopped her wrist against her forearm, her jaw extending ostrich-like with irritation.
All of that, and the chattering women still ignored her. At last Jean said, “Excuse me, but there are other people who need to use this line. Could you please finish your conversation so others can use the telephone?”
That was the problem. The conversation never quite finished. From across the room I could hear the babble of apology as the two women assured my sister they were just winding up, that they’d hang up in a minute or two, that she should have let them know sooner if she’d been waiting.
So Jean hung up and waited some more. I watched her hold down the switch with one finger while she stealthily lifted the handset to her ear. In a silent motion, she released the switch. If Mrs. Patterson was still on, she didn’t even hear a click as Jean joined the conversation. Jean listened for a while and then said as loud as she dared, “Is someone still on this line?”
“What could they be talking about for so long?” I asked when she gave up and returned the receiver to its cradle.
“Nothing much,” she said. “Mona Miner’s brother got picked up for siphoning gas out of someone’s car last night. And Mrs. Patterson didn’t like the chuck roast she bought at the butcher’s this morning. He trimmed it wrong and left too much fat.”
Although these specifics did not appeal much to my imagination, the idea of eavesdropping did. It gave me a feeling of power, knowing I could listen in any time at my discretion.
I learned the skill of party-line snooping from my sister. Like Jean, I kept my finger on the button while, phantomlike, I lifted the earpiece to my head. Like Jean, I lifted my finger off the switch with the stealth of a spy.
Mrs. Patterson’s daughter had problems with breast-feeding her baby so she’d given it up and tried Similac. Miss Mona’s family reunion was next week and they made her promise to bring a caramel pie. Mrs. Patterson’s arthritis had flared up. Miss Mona’s brother’s wife had told him she was leaving him after the gas-siphoning incident.
Poor Billy had been trying to call Jean for a week, and every time he managed to get through on the line, she hung up on him. But I didn’t blame Jean. Who could tell who else might be listening? Our eavesdropping adventures always reminded us that we could never be too careful. It would be as easy as pie for Daddy to catch wind of things.
Both of us learned so much over the party line that summer, you’d have thought I’d have heard about the man who got his arm cut off, too. But, I didn’t. Daddy made me go to the barbershop, and that’s the first time I heard about it.
Daddy said I was way overdue for a haircut. He said he didn’t like the way I kept brushing my bangs to one side and pinning them back with a bobby pin. He thought it made me look fast and too old for my age, like I wanted to chase boys.
I didn’t dare tell him that Miss Shaw told me I looked amazing that way, that she’d showed me in the mirror how it brought out the shape and color of my eyes.
I took my seat in the high brass chair, and Daddy’s favorite barber, George, tied a black plastic cape under my chin. George raised the chair with three pumps of the pedal. He got the comb good and wet, tapped it on the sink’s edge, and went about untangling my bangs. He worked on them until they were sopping and stuck flat as a flounder to my forehead. “How’s that look to you, Mr. Blake?”
I couldn’t see because of the water in my eyes. My bangs dripped clear down past the tip of my nose. I heard the perverse pleasure in Daddy’s voice. “Take as much as you can off the top, George. Make her look more like a boy.”
The newspaper must have belonged to Mr. Cyrus Pete, the man who warmed the shaving cream and fetched towels and polished up the barber’s pole by the front door, all sorts of tonsorial duties, because the newspaper was the edition for St. Louis colored people. I’d just wiped my bangs out of my eyes with the intention of fighting to the death for my hair when the headline caught my attention. My bones chilled.
“Can I see that?” I didn’t wait for George or Daddy or Mr. Clyde to answer. I grabbed it up and started skimming the article.
“Hey, sit still,” George threatened. “You go to jumping around like that and you’ll be lucky if you don’t end up bald.”
The story told about a punch-press operator who’d lost his arm when it got caught in a press at American Stove Company. He’d been reaching into the press to remove some metal when he accidentally stepped on the foot pedal. The limb had come off clean. No breaking first or dangling or wrenching in two. Just snip, like the metal he’d been cutting, and there it lay, a part of him, beside him.
The man had been rushed to the hospital for surgery, that’s what the story said. I figured there were plenty of Ville people who worked at the stov
e company. Whoever it was, it wouldn’t be anybody I cared about. Besides, I didn’t care much about anybody down there anymore.
“Isn’t it something?” George asked when he followed my gaze to the story. “Cut his bone right through. Sliced it clean off, just as easy as I’m trimming your hair.”
If this was a trim, then so was the bulldozing going on in outlying St. Louis County. Mama had told me how everywhere you looked, some construction company was plowing under old trees and knocking over farmhouses for more “quality-built” homes like the ones in St. Louis Hills. “No down payment! G.I. loan!” the advertisements hawked.
So was the bulldozing that had taken out the entire neighborhood of Mill Creek earlier in the year because the flats were all falling down and the City of St. Louis intended, in the name of urban renewal, to build a large housing project for working families, both white and black. Progress or Decay, the headlines had blared. St. Louis Must Choose.
I endured the bulldoze of a haircut with the same suppressed dread with which I endured everything from Daddy. When George stepped aside so I could see, I couldn’t have been more horrified. I gripped the arms of the chair and half-raised myself out of it in shock. I felt bare, and so ashamed. The barber hadn’t left enough for me to even comb flat. So many times I’d explained away Daddy’s actions to myself. So many times I’d decided that what happened to me must be okay because I wasn’t worth much—I must have done something to deserve it. Staring at my likeness in the mirror, I felt like I was staring at a stranger. A stranger who had been totally betrayed.
“Oh, my,” Mama said when we walked in the door and she saw my new coiffure. “Jenny, what happened to your hair?”
“Well, maybe if you had taken me to the beauty parlor yourself, it would have turned out better,” I accused her with a fling of my shorn head.
Daddy’s mistreatment and his cruel words drilled over and over into my head how dirty and ugly I must be. Miss Shaw kept trying to show me during all those hours at Shaw Jewelers that I wasn’t as I saw myself. But no matter how she tried to coax me with her stories of iron-strength in my eyes or my uncanny aptitude for numbers or my adroitness at coming up with ideas, I still didn’t believe her. Especially when she told me how pretty she thought I was. I felt ugly inside and out, and I was so ashamed that I wanted to die. I respected Miss Shaw too much to tell her to her face that she was wrong about me. But when the time came to prove my corruptness to myself once and for all, it came in a way that even I couldn’t have expected.