Dreaming In Color

by Charlotte Vale-Allen

  Bobby set Emma's box down on the coffee table while she got the child out of her coat.

  "I brought stuff," Emma announced, and the two girls at once began removing items from the box: a pair of Barbie dolls with several changes of clothing, a 64-pack of Crayolas and a pad of drawing paper, some games, and a box of junk jewelry.

  "Where's your room?" Emma asked, looking around.

  "Over there." Penny pointed. "Wanna watch cartoons?"

  "Yeah, okay."

  The two girls flopped down in front of the TV set and Bobby hung up Emma's coat, then came back to say, "I'll be upstairs, Pen, if you need me."

  Engrossed in the cartoon, Penny murmured, "Uh-hunh."

  Bobby left the kitchen door open so she'd be able to hear if the girls started making too much noise. Eva was already at work in her office, and Alma was in the living room going section by section through the Times. Bobby took her book from the kitchen table and went to join Alma in the living room.

  She tried to get back into the story, but she was so agitated by the prospect of having to go out with Dennis that she couldn't concentrate, and wished for something to keep her hands busy. Maybe next time she went out she'd pick up a pattern and some wool, start a sweater for Pen. She hadn't done any knitting in years, not since she'd nursed Grandpa, when she'd sat for hours at a stretch at his bedside.

  Why had she agreed to go out with Dennis? After half an hour in her company he'd be bored. He'd think she was stupid. Then he'd fall into brooding silence as he stared into his glass of beer, and she'd sit agonized, waiting for the blowup that would come the minute they got in his car. He'd assault her with insults, flinging hurtful words and threats, until she was cringing in her seat, knowing he'd go on ranting until they arrived home, when he'd take his anger out on her with his fists.

  It didn't help telling herself it wasn't Joe she was going to see. Somehow Joe had become a part of every man; she'd keep on encountering him in one form or another for the rest of her life. If there was one thing Joe had taught her, it was that anger and violence lived right beneath the surface of most people—not just men. Eva was an example, the way she could be so nice and then all of a sudden turn mean.

  "What's bothering you?" Alma rasped, startling her.

  "Nothing," Bobby said guiltily, wondering for a moment if she'd been talking out loud to herself. Sometimes, at home, she'd done that: She'd gone through the house doing her chores, the whole time talking things out with herself, trying to understand why her life was the way it was.

  "What is it?" Alma asked again, her tone softer. "You've got that same look in your eyes you had the first day you came here."

  She did? Bobby wondered what that look might be. She had no idea her face could be so easily read. Was that one of the reasons why Joe had always been so mad at her? Or was it a matter of Alma's being someone who had a special gift for reading people's faces?

  "I was just thinking," Bobby said. "If I had that Dennis's number, I'd call him and tell him I've changed my mind about Monday night."

  "Why?"

  "I shouldn't've said I'd go."

  "Why not?" Alma persisted, the business section of the paper resting open on her lap.

  "I don't know. Maybe he thinks I'm more interesting than I am. I don't know. I feel like it's a mistake."

  "And what if it is?" Alma asked, puzzled by her thinking. "Are you not allowed to make mistakes?"

  Almost inaudibly, Bobby replied, "No." Looking down at the cover of Eva's book, she wet her lips, then said, "That's how come I was always in trouble with Joe."

  "That's why," Alma corrected her.

  "That's why," Bobby said. "Because I could never do anything right, the way he wanted."

  "I see. And you imagine Dennis will find fault with you?"

  "Uh-hunh."

  "Is it possible you might find fault with Dennis?" Alma asked shrewdly.

  Bobby was stymied by the question.

  "Is it?" Alma asked.

  "I never thought of that," Bobby admitted. "I'm used to being told how stupid I am."

  "You're not stupid," Alma said. "We've got to break you of the habit of believing that you are. That's number one. And number two, you need to discover for yourself that all men are different. I can't conceive of Dennis being remotely like your husband. But even on the off chance Dennis has some hidden similarities you dislike, you can simply refuse future invitations from him. You've merely agreed to spend an evening with him, not the rest of your life."

  "That's true."

  "Bear in mind that you have choices, Bobby. You're a free agent, with the right to say no, if you so choose."

  "It's okay for you to say that," Bobby said, with a faint flutter of anger in her chest, "but you've never had anybody holding you down, telling you you don't have choices."

  "No, I haven't," Alma agreed. "But that doesn't alter the fact that whether you're prepared to accept it or not, you do have choices. You do not have to obey simply because in the past that's what was expected. My understanding is that you ran away from an abusive situation because it had become intolerable, and you wanted things to change. It's up to you to make those changes, and you begin by refining your attitude. Dennis may only be the first of any number of men who find you attractive. Learn from the experience. If he suggests something that displeases you, say so. It's been my experience that the majority of men will respect that."

  "I think maybe I'd be just as happy not to have to go through it."

  "That, of course, is your decision. But since you've already consented to spending a few hours with the man, go along and see what's to be learned, if anything, from the experience."

  "Okay," Bobby said, no less doubt-filled than before, and wishing they could drop the subject.

  "How are you getting on with Eva's book?" Alma asked, as if having read Bobby's mind.

  "Oh, I love it," Bobby said enthusiastically.

  "Yes," Alma said contentedly. "She's good, isn't she?"

  "Wonderful," Bobby declared.

  "Writing that trash is eating her up," Alma said, looking over toward the windows. "It's a prime example of what we've been discussing: someone exercising her choices mistakenly. What a shameful waste!" She sat in silence for a time, then finally returned to the newspaper.

  Bobby opened the book and tried to read, but was still unable to concentrate. She doubted she'd be able to read another line until this date with Dennis was out of the way.

  Alma stared at the newspaper, able, on one level, to sympathize with Bobby's nervousness. For more than a year after her breakup with Randy Wheeler, she'd made her job the focus of her life. She took extra care marking the girls' essays and compositions, and spent hours reviewing the curriculum, revising the recommended reading lists to include books she believed would be of interest to her classes. Whenever the school required someone to accompany a group on a field trip or to chaperone a dance, Alma volunteered. She was willing to do absolutely anything so long as she didn't have to sit home alone evenings or weekends, when the temptation to feel sorry for herself was overwhelming. In very short order it became automatic to ask Alma first if something came up that required supervision.

  She was chaperoning a senior class dance when she met Joel Whittaker, a phys-ed teacher at the boys' school where the dance was being held. After being introduced, he offered to get her some punch. She declined, thinking he'd go away. He didn't. He remained by her side, and a short while later he asked if she'd care to dance. She'd turned to take a good look at him then, wondering if he was too thick to read her signals or if he'd read them and decided to make a pitch anyway.

  He was reasonably attractive, solidly built, and had an innocent-looking smile. She said, "Thank you, but no." And he said, "Fair enough." But instead of going away, he continued to stand there smiling at her. "You're a good height," he said approvingly, as if there'd been some contest and he'd been the adjudicator.

  "I think so," she'd said, wishing he'd go. Couldn't he tell she w
anted to be left alone?

  "Not too many women I can talk with eye to eye. It can be a problem."

  "Why?" she'd asked, disinterested.

  "Lower back pain, for one thing," he'd said, straight-faced.

  She'd laughed, and her laughter had taken her by surprise. She'd thought she might never again find anything amusing. It was his ability to make her laugh that prompted her to accept his subsequent invitation to go out to dinner the following weekend.

  As soon as she'd agreed to go she'd wanted to back out. But she could-n't find any legitimate way to do that. So she spent the intervening days angry with herself for accepting, and angry with him for upsetting her precious equilibrium.

  During their dinner she kept trying to find faults in him, and failing. He was pleasant and witty and even more attractive than she'd thought initially. She found herself studying his large, broad hands, taking note of the way he used his utensils, the way his fingers wrapped themselves around a water or wine glass. He had a certain grace that she hadn't expected to find in someone who'd gone through college playing football. Joel was altogether unexpected, and she liked him. She never relaxed her guard for an instant, but she had a far better time than she'd thought she might. So she agreed to see him again. And, just like that, there was another man in her life. Her parents were visibly relieved. Cora took to asking outrageously personal questions to which Alma didn't bother to respond. As a teenager her sister had spent hours giggling with her girlfriends about the boys they knew. Even when she'd been engaged to Randy, Alma had never been tempted to discuss him with her sister. She couldn't abide giggly, confessional conversations.

  She knew her family thought she was finally picking up the threads of her life. She could almost hear them heaving sighs of relief, imagining that in the not too distant future she'd be announcing her engagement to this new young man they found so pleasant, and so very suitable. She found her family touchingly transparent. But she had no intention of becoming emotionally involved with Joel Whittaker.

  She did become sexually involved with him, though. They went to his small apartment after their third Friday night date, and before his startled eyes she took off her clothes and climbed into his bed, deriving great pleasure and relief from the encounter. Unfortunately, Joel assumed that allowing him access to her body signified a depth of feeling. She tried to set him straight without coming across as cold and calculating, but it was difficult. He was essentially a simple man, who believed that sex equated with love, and since she'd made herself sexually accessible, it was only logical she must therefore love him. At the moment of his climax, he professed to love her, and she thought that was very sweet, but she couldn't make him see that what he really felt was gratitude.

  "Let's enjoy it for what it is," she told him many many times.

  But that concept was a violation of everything he'd been taught about women. He believed that sex without marriage basically dishonored a woman. Nothing she said would convince him that she preferred to be what he considered dishonored rather than committed to a relationship she knew had no future. He wanted to marry her. She wanted to go on making love with him. He simply couldn't comprehend her attitude, and something began to alter in his eyes when he looked at her. They managed to get through seven months before she knew she had to end it. The expression in his eyes was turning hard; he was beginning to think of her in unpleasant terms. She thought it was a pity. If he'd been satisfied with things the way they were, she'd have been content to continue the relationship, possibly for years. She liked having a male companion; she liked their lovemaking. She liked men in general. She just didn't want to play out the role most men were so anxious to assign to women. She didn't want—at least not then—to be anyone's property.

  And so, during dinner one evening, she set him free. At the time it felt to her as if she'd landed a large game fish that put up a tremendous fight while she tried to free the hook from its mouth. She had to let it go because she had no interest in trophies, and in purely practical terms the flesh would go bad long before she could possibly consume it all.

  Joel Whittaker was intelligent and kind. She tried to tell him he deserved someone who would cherish these qualities. He insisted she was that person, and was clearly distraught at her calm, quiet declaration otherwise. He took it, however, like the athlete he was, squarely and without flinching. He saw her home and said if she changed her mind he'd be waiting. Not six months later, he married someone else. Alma wasn't in the least surprised.

  In retrospect, though, she could see she'd been unkind. And she regretted the fairly cold-hearted way she'd stated her position. For some months after the affair ended she wished she'd handled matters differently. In future, she decided, she'd pick more wisely and deal more gently. It was not her intention to give pain. She simply wished to spare herself any. The affair with Joel established a pattern from which she'd never deviated since. She took up with slightly older men who had an experienced air, even a somewhat wearied one. They were invariably free of delusions, and almost always grateful.

  What was truly ironic—and she'd long since savored life's ironies—was the fact that her attempt to lose herself in her work proved to be the foundation of her later success. The head of the school took note of her willingness to be available for any and all duties. It was interpreted, not necessarily incorrectly, as dedication. Despite her comparative youth and lack of seniority, she was nominated as a viable candidate to replace the retiring head of the English department. And two years later, at the age of twenty-eight, Alma became the youngest department head in the school's long history. Two years after that, having completely revised the curriculum and revitalized the department, the retiring head mistress named Alma her successor, and the board went along with the recommendation. Alma accepted the post, but only on the condition that she be allowed to continue teaching senior English. Since, in essence, she was offering to do two jobs, the board was more than happy to acquiesce.

  In time, as the administrative demands on her proliferated, she was forced to concede she could no longer teach and attend to the nuts and bolts of running the school, as well as being mother to a teenage girl. So, at the age of thirty-eight, she gave up teaching. Relinquishing her classes meant she had more energy as well as more time for Eva, who, at fourteen, was actively testing the boundaries Alma had established for her. Eva was going through a phase of lip-curled contempt for adults. She was demanding more freedom, and the right to set her own curfews. Her bedroom walls were covered with posters of pop stars and college pennants; the top of her dresser was filled with an assortment of cosmetics and colognes; and she seemed bent on trying every hair product that had ever been marketed. Alma had her hands full, both at school and at home.

  But now and then, when a teacher was taken ill or was for some reason unable to make it to school on a given day, she would let the secretary take charge while Alma, secretly pleased, took over the class. In a way, it was Randy Wheeler who was responsible for her success.

  Throughout the remainder of the weekend, Bobby mulled over Alma's remarks, trying to find some comfort in them. She couldn't. Regardless of her supposed rights and freedoms, she was dreading Monday evening. The part of her that had agreed to the date was a younger Bobby, from the time before Joe. That other Bobby had been full of optimism, envisioning a happy future. She'd believed, as her friends did, that the future held only good things. Eight years later she was another woman altogether, one who believed that the future was all for Penny. She'd run from Joe more for Penny's sake than her own. Whatever future she herself might have left was directed toward Penny. For her own part, she wanted only to be allowed to live in peace, without some man shouting orders. She'd never once thought about another man, even though Joe was forever accusing her of seeing other men on the sly.

  She had to wonder about his brain when he made those accusations. Why would he think any other man would be interested in a woman who was all banged up half the time, and scared to breathe the othe
r half? She'd thought for a long time that there was something wrong with the inside of Joe's head. There had to be. So often the things he said and did made no sense. Like the way he talked about his mother. He hated her. But they had to spend every Christmas with her, and Joe spent good money buying her presents she never seemed to like. It was the same every year, with Joe making out like the proud family man, the responsible hardworking breadwinner, and his mother looking at him like he was dirt.

  They'd exchange presents, then they'd eat, then Bobby would help Ruth clean up the kitchen while Joe pretended to play with Pen in the living room. Then they'd pack up and go home. And the minute they came through the door, Joe would start in about what a bitch his mother was. The one time Bobby asked—very reasonably, she'd thought—why they bothered to see her if he hated her so much, Joe had screamed, "She's my fucking mother, isn't she?" as if that explained everything, and then he'd backhanded Bobby so hard he broke her nose. She'd ended up spending what was left of Christmas Day in the emergency room at the hospital while Aunt Helen baby-sat Pen and Joe was out somewhere. He didn't come home until late the next morning.

  She'd believed in all kinds of things once upon a time, before she met Joe. Now she wasn't sure what she believed in. She only knew she was always nervous when she happened to find herself alone with a man, any man, even nice Mr. Grainger, the manager of the Burger King back in Jamestown. She didn't understand men, didn't understand what they wanted. And it didn't matter how many people told her that Joe was an exception, she couldn't quite believe that. So why had she agreed to go out with Dennis Forster? She was setting herself up for more of everything she'd run away from.

  She scarcely slept Sunday night. Each time she descended into sleep she had such frightful nightmares that she forced herself to wake up. Three times she got up and went into the kitchen, heart racing and hands trembling, to smoke a cigarette and try to shake off the dreams. They weren't so much dreams as re-creations of scenes of torment, nighttime variations on the horrors she'd experienced in reality with Joe. She sat at the kitchen table thinking that if someone had told her at the age of nineteen what would happen to her in the subsequent years, she'd have run for her life there and then. It amazed her to realize how much pain the human body could withstand and still continue to live, even when, in the midst of the pain, she'd been convinced that this time he'd succeed in killing her. She'd confronted the prospect of her death dozens of times, and it was in large measure her fear for Penny's well-being and her determination to protect the child that had ensured her own survival. Never again would she allow Penny to be put at risk.