Dreaming In Color

by Charlotte Vale-Allen

  There was no check for her on the refrigerator door on Monday. Throughout the day she kept popping in to look, but it wasn't there. Her two weeks were up, and by the time Penny got home from school she was convinced Alma and Eva were going to let her go. Somehow, in some way, she'd failed; they were dissatisfied with her. She was so upset by the prospect of having to leave that she was on the verge of tears throughout dinner, automatically cutting Penny's food and Alma's, then carefully avoiding looking at either of the women.

  Dennis arrived at five to eight. A bitter taste in her mouth, Bobby said, "I'm all ready to go. I can't be out too late. Pen's not used to being left alone."

  "That's fine," he said, walking with her to his Beetle and holding the passenger door open for her. "I start work pretty early in the morning myself."

  Shivering, she got her seat belt fastened and waited for him to climb behind the wheel.

  "Hungry?" he asked with a smile as he fitted his key into the ignition.

  "A little." Her teeth were chattering and she couldn't get warm.

  "Good. You like Indian food?"

  "I've never had it."

  "Want to try?" he asked, reversing out of the driveway.

  "What's it like?"

  "A little spicy, but good."

  "Okay," she said, keeping her eyes on the road, wishing she'd brought her gloves. She could feel him looking at her.

  "Don't worry," he said. "I'm a careful driver."

  She glanced over at him. "I guess I'm kind of a nervous passenger. You can tell, hunh?"

  He laughed, and said, "Oh, hell no. Everybody sits in that seat and keeps slamming an imaginary brake pedal. I'm used to it."

  "You're joking, right?"

  "Right. Your husband a lousy driver?"

  "Terrible," she said, feeling disloyal, yet relieved to have an opportunity to talk about it. "Joe drives too fast and too close to the car ahead. He's always honking and cursing out the other drivers."

  "One of those, hunh. I know the type," Dennis said. "What's he drive, something hot?"

  She smiled, surprised. "A Firebird."

  "It figures. It's usually that or a Trans Am." He chuckled and said, "You can tell I'm not into speed. I just love this car." He patted the steering wheel. "I'm only sorry Volkswagen stopped making the bugs. Far as I'm concerned, they're the greatest cars ever."

  "I read in this magazine where they still make them in Mexico," she said, her teeth no longer chattering.

  "That's right," he said approvingly. "I'd love to get my hands on a brand-new one. So, how's it going? Think you'll be staying?"

  "I don't know. I hope so.'

  "I don't think you've got anything to worry about," he said, picking up the edge in her voice. "Alma's pretty high on you. More than any of the others, that's for sure. A couple of those women, I don't know how Alma put up with them."

  "Is that right?" she said politely.

  "No kidding. This one, Shirley, was hopeless, couldn't get anything right. I mean, the woman was a registered nurse, and she had the worst attitude I've ever encountered. Seriously. Everything was too much trouble for her. She'd get Alma downstairs in the morning then go sit in the apartment until it was time for lunch. After lunch, she'd get Alma back upstairs and off she'd go again until it was time for Alma to get up. Alma said she wouldn't do the exercises, that was fine with Shirley. Alma put up with a week of that, then kicked her out. From what I hear, you're spending all kinds of time with her, and you're the first one to get her to do the exercises."

  "I like her," Bobby said. "We talk a lot."

  "That's great," he said, smiling over at her. "It's what she needs. You, too, I guess."

  "How d'you mean?" Bobby asked warily.

  "I get the impression you've had kind of a rough time."

  She stared straight ahead, trying to think what to say.

  "You don't have to talk about it," he said, "if you don't want to."

  "I don't want to," she said nervously.

  "Sure. I understand. Oh, beautiful!" he exclaimed. "A parking spot right in front of the restaurant." He directed the small car into the curb, then switched off the engine. "You like Mexican food?"

  "I thought we were having Indian," she said, ducking her head to look over at the restaurant across the street.

  "We are. I figure if you like Mexican you'll like Indian."

  "I don't know," she said. "All I've ever tasted were tacos."

  "Well, let's find out. Okay?"

  She busied herself unbuckling her seat belt, then reached for the door handle, but he'd already come around to open the door for her. Unaccustomed to such treatment, she carefully avoided the hand he extended to assist her out of the car.

  It was a pretty restaurant with pink and pale gray decor and white tablecloths and real cloth napkins. They were given a table by the window and Bobby sat down with her coat on, still feeling chilled.

  "How about if I order for both of us?" Dennis offered. "I promise not to get anything weird." He smiled, and she nodded. He asked the waiter for two lassis, explaining, "They're yogurt drinks. Delicious, you'll see. You want to take your coat off?"

  "I'm kind of cold," she said.

  "Got any pictures of your little girl?" he asked, taking her completely by surprise.

  "Yeah, I do," she said. "You want to see them?"

  "Why so surprised? I thought everybody carried pictures of their kids so they could show them off."

  "Is that why? I carry them so I can look at Pen when I'm not with her."

  "Let's see," he asked.

  Opening her bag, she got out the two color photos she kept with her all the time and handed them across the table to him. "Do you like children?" she asked.

  "Some children," he answered. "She's a real sweetie, isn't she?" he said, smiling. "She looks a bit like you."

  "She's got my chin and my forehead, I think."

  He looked over at her, eyebrows lifted. "Why those parts?" he asked. "Usually people say she's got my eyes or my nose. Chin and forehead's a first."

  She shrugged, waiting for him to return the pictures.

  He handed them back. "Maybe one weekend I could take the two of you to the zoo or something."

  "Why?"

  "So I can feed you both to the lions," he joked. "Don't be so suspicious. I'm harmless. Ask anybody. I'll give you my parents' number; you can ask my mom, or my sister. My brother might not be such a good idea. We have major differences of opinion on almost everything. You have any brothers or sisters?"

  She shook her head. "Not that I know of."

  "You mean you might and not know it?" He sat with his chin in his hand, looking interested.

  "Maybe," she said. "My mother had me at seventeen and ran off. For all I know she got married and had a bunch more kids."

  "So who raised you?" he asked as the waiter brought their lassis.

  "My grandpa and my aunt Helen."

  "What about your grandmother?"

  "She died when my mother and aunt were real … really young."

  "Oh, that's too bad. Try the lassi," he urged.

  She did and was pleased to find the drink sweetly cool. "It's good," she told him.

  "I knew you'd like it," he said happily. "Wait'll you try the food. You'll want to come here all the time."

  He seemed so nice, she thought, so unguarded. She took another sip of the yogurt drink, wondering what he was like when something made him mad. He didn't look like someone who'd start using his fists, but you could never tell. Still, she was beginning to relax a little, and she'd finally stopped shivering. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all.

  Fourteen

  Eva went downstairs to check on Penny and to her surprise found the child sitting up in bed reading one of Mellie's old books.

  "Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" an amused Eva asked, sitting down on the side of the bed.

  "Uh-hunh," Penny answered, her eyes remaining on the book as if unable to tear herself away.

&nbs
p; "It's almost eight-thirty," Eva said. "I think maybe you've read enough for one night."

  At last looking up, Penny said, "It's a very good story."

  With a smile and a shake of her head, Eva said, "You're an amazing little girl. Are you actually reading that?"

  "Sure. Want me to read you some?"

  "No, I believe you." Eva gently removed the book from the girl's hands, asking, "Have you got a bookmark?"

  "Uh-hunh." Penny reached over and grabbed a piece of paper from the bedside table. "My mom says you mustn't ever fold the corners of a book or write anything in it but maybe your name, to show it's yours."

  "That's absolutely right," Eva said, marking Penny's place and setting the book aside. "Why don't you slide down now, and I'll tuck you in."

  Penny obeyed, then held her arms out—a gesture Eva perceived to be automatic but which touched her nonetheless, like a subtle stabbing in her chest. She bent to kiss the child's soft cheek, remembering the hundreds of times she'd bid Mellie good night in this fashion, inhaling the incomparable purity of her little-girl flesh. "Sleep well," she murmured, momentarily caught up in a time warp, her own daughter and this child briefly becoming one.

  Penny turned onto her side, tucked her hands under her cheek, and closed her eyes, then opened them again, saying, "My mom leaves the bathroom light on for me."

  "Okay," Eva said, and returned upstairs to the living room, still feeling the yielding warmth of Penny's cheek beneath her lips, that subtle stabbing gradually fading to a kind of distant ache. Putting another log on the fire, she stood for a few moments watching the flames, thinking.

  "Was she sleeping?" Alma asked.

  "No," Eva answered, eyes still on the fire. "She was sitting up, reading. I persuaded her it was time to go to sleep."

  Alma gave a soft laugh. "She's wonderfully bright."

  "Did you have girls like that at school?"

  "Perhaps a handful over the years. I was like her, as a child. With books, that is," Alma clarified.

  "Were you?" A hand on the mantel, Eva looked over at her aunt.

  "I used to read under the covers with a flashlight. My mother was forev

  er telling me I'd go blind. Obviously, I didn't."

  Eva suddenly remembered riding a tricycle up and down the driveway of the house where they'd lived before her parents died. She could recall the moment perfectly, even to the feel of the pedals under her feet and the bumpy surface of the paved driveway. A few seconds, then it was gone, replaced by the equally clear memory of herself at six years old, being left to stay for two weeks with Aunt Alma while her mother and father flew off for a skiing vacation out west. As a child she'd adored her visits with her aunt, finding her exotic and elegant. Unlike her mother who fussed and fretted if Eva got dirty or disarranged anything in the living room, Aunt Alma said, "Children are supposed to get dirty," and allowed Eva to play anywhere she liked. It was understood that Eva was to put things back where she'd found them and to try her best not to break anything, but it was also understood that Aunt Alma wouldn't punish her for the occasional accident. The only not so good part about visiting was the food. Her aunt didn't make regular meals the way her mother did. Sometimes they had sandwiches for dinner, or odd combinations of things her aunt liked to eat—fresh asparagus and toasted English muffins with jelly, sliced tomatoes and bowls of corn flakes with raisins. Eva actually came to enjoy these peculiar combinations. The odd dinners merely added to her aunt's appeal.

  Her parents' plane crashed; they'd never returned home, and she'd simply stayed on with her aunt.

  "You seem a tad distracted," Alma said.

  "Do I?" Again Eva looked over at her. "Bobby's two weeks are up tomorrow. How do you feel about keeping her on?" "Surely you're asking me as a formality," Alma said. "Of course we'll keep her on. Already, I see improvements in her." Eva laughed. "You're the one who's supposed to be showing improvement." "I am what I am, and evermore shall be so. But that young woman has potential."

  "For what?" Eva asked, at last going over to sit on the sofa.

  "Among other things, for becoming her own person."

  "Someone who doesn't allow herself to get beaten again."

  "That's one thing," Alma said. "One very big thing. She's been brainwashed, programmed to believe she's useless and stupid; it's been beaten into her. That infuriates me."

  "So you're going to oversee her emancipation," Eva said somewhat caustically.

  "I may just do that." Alma's chin lifted stubbornly. "You're being bitchy. Perhaps it's time to go visit Charlie."

  Eva gave in with a smile. "Perhaps it is. As it happens, we're having dinner tomorrow night." Her eyes going back to the fire, she asked, "What kind of potential do you imagine for her?"

  "Purely personal," Alma said. "A great part of the joy of teaching was seeing young minds blossom. Bobby has a young mind. Great areas of it are still untapped. And," she added, as if it were of no consequence, "I'm growing quite fond of her."

  "I never dreamed she'd last a week," Eva said. "But she does have a knack for making herself fairly indispensable. The thing is, her willingness tends to set my teeth on edge."

  "That's because you're a control junkie."

  "A what?"

  "You need to be in control," Alma elaborated. "I used to. And I savored it. Now I haven't all that much choice; circumstances have rendered me dependent. But you, Eva, hate to concede an inch, if you don't have to."

  "What's wrong with that?" Eva asked defensively.

  "I didn't say there was anything wrong with it. I'm merely stating a salient fact."

  "Well, I don't happen to agree with you. We're all subject to externalized powers, for God's sake. I simply try to stay on top of what I can control."

  "That's fine," her aunt said indulgently. "No one's criticizing you."

  "It certainly sounded that way. Calling me a control junkie. God! Where do you come up with these things?"

  "From limited television viewing and reading the daily newspapers," Alma said blithely.

  Penny came padding barefoot into the room, complaining, "I'm not sleepy." Going directly to Alma, she leaned on the arm of the wheelchair, asking, "Whatcha doin'?"

  "We are conversing," Alma said, lifting her right hand to stroke the girl's hair. "It's long past your bedtime, miss."

  "I know, but I'm not one bit sleepy. When's my mom comin' home?"

  "In another hour or so," Alma told her.

  "I'll tell you what," Eva said. "I'll make you some hot chocolate. And after you drink it, you'll go back to bed. Okay?"

  "Okay." Penny took the hand Eva offered and went along with her, twisting around when she was halfway out of the room to wave good-bye to her granny.

  Eva lifted her onto the counter saying, "Sit there while I make it," and Penny placidly said, "Okay. You gonna make it with water or milk?"

  "Milk."

  "Good. Milk's better." She watched Eva pour milk into a pan, then asked, "When's your little girl comin' home?"

  "In a week or so, for Thanksgiving."

  "Are you gonna have a turkey party?"

  With a laugh, Eva said, "Yup."

  "Can me and mom come too?"

  "Yup."

  "Oh, good!" Penny said. "I love stuffin' best."

  Eva stirred the hot chocolate mix into the warm milk and handed the glass to Penny saying, "Drink this, then straight to bed."

  "You not havin' any?"

  "No. I don't care much for sweet things."

  Penny looked scandalized. "You don't like candy?"

  "Not much, no."

  "Chocolate?"

  "No."

  "Boy!" Penny was impressed. "Not even gummy bears?"

  "Especially not gummy bears."

  "Granny does," Penny said. "I gived her some of mine and she liked 'em real good."

  "You gave her some of yours and she liked them very much."

  "That's right!" Penny smiled widely, then drank more of the hot chocolate. "This is good, not
too hot. I don't like it when it's too hot."

  "Finish it up, Penny," Eva said warningly. "You've got to go back to bed. I think your mother would be upset to come home and find you still up."

  Penny thought about that, her dainty features firming. Then she drained the glass and put it down on the counter. "Okay," she announced, holding out her arms to be lifted off. "I'm ready."

  Eva picked her up, experiencing another memory jolt, more subtle interior stabbing, as Penny's legs wrapped around her waist and her arms fastened around her neck. For a few seconds Eva considered setting the child down, getting her to walk downstairs under her own steam. Then, succumbing to the pleasure of Penny's weight and binding limbs, she gave in and carried the girl back to bed.

  Upon returning to the living room, still feeling Penny's phantom grip on her, she looked over at her aunt who, eyes closed, was listening to a soaring passage of a Mozart piano concerto emanating from the stereo speakers.

  The day after her parents had been due to return, her aunt had sat down with her in the living room and in the simplest possible terms explained that the airplane carrying her parents and a lot of other people had crashed, which meant that they wouldn't be coming home, ever, and from now on Eva would be staying for good.