In Name Only

by Roxanne Jarrett

  "Slowly, slowly," Edna Pinheiro admonished Jill, "You Americans are always in a rush. You can't seem to sit still. You live with your eyes on the time clock. You know nothing about doing things in a slow, easy way. You'll get where you're going in due time, don't worry." She spoke in a fond, good-natured way, sealing the firm friendship that was theirs already.

  They were sitting in wicker chairs in the shop. A small table between them was spread with some new fabric designs. A week had gone by since Jill had walked out of Las Flores, leaving no message for Simon. Her conversation with him on the telephone had been the last time she had heard his voice. She had told him everything then. She would not be there when he returned from Santarem.

  It was a week in which papers had been drawn up and signed, and Jill Carteret Todd had become a full-fledged, full-time partner in the Manaus Clothing Cooperative. The week had flown by, every minute crowded with new experiences. She was comfortable in her new role; it was an event in her life that had been waiting to happen. The problem that seemed the most difficult to surmount was her enthusiasm. Plans seemed to spill out willy-nilly; she felt there was nothing that couldn't be done. While Jill wanted to shout her ideas to the world, it was her partners who counseled caution. At one point, she decided that nothing would do but to build a factory in which the fabric was produced at one end and the finished garment at the other.

  "You're mad," Edna said, laughing.

  "I know," Jill responded.

  She wanted to rush off with samples to Rio and New York and Chicago. She was convinced that the entire universe would soon be dressed in hand-printed, hand-sewn garments with a "Made in Manaus" label in them.

  "Men, too," she decided one day. "We haven't even started on shirts and bathing suits for men."

  It was Edna, her eyes sparkling, yet very sensible, who knew just how much they could do.

  "First things first, Jill. We've got all the time in the world."

  "But we haven't, we really haven't. These people have to eat."

  "They're eating. They'll get there. We'll improve things for them. You Americans!"

  "That's the idea everybody has about Americans, that we rush, rush, rush, and that we don't enjoy ourselves," said Jill, not annoyed in the least. "But if you're excited about something, you want to get on with it, start things rolling and follow through." She wondered where it all came from, this feeling that she had the power to make everything work. But it would and she wanted to race along with it. "In the United States we don't have two hour siestas in the middle of the day, of course, and then come back to work still sleepy and stuffed with too much food."

  "Siesta is resting time," Edna said. "It gives us the energy to go on."

  "That's what everybody says. But look at the streets, crawling with cars. It takes an hour to get home for siesta and an hour to get back."

  "That's exaggerating," Edna protested. "Anyway, we never close for siesta, although it doesn't do us much good, anyway, for all the customers that show up."

  "They'll come," Jill said soothingly. "What was it you told me? Slowly, slowly. Slowly they'll all come."

  They both laughed and turned back to the new silk-screen print designs that lay on the table between them. These were more subdued, the colors more subtle. Jill felt they would appeal to a broader range of buyers. During the week, she had gone to look over the silk-screen operation. It was located in an old shop at the edge of the city on the way to the airport. Edna and her partner had found an artist, a printmaker who was down on his luck, but who was experienced with the silk-screen process. He was able to produce a small amount of yardage each week, working with one helper only. It was Jill's plan to rent bigger space, and to hire more workers, with the artist as production chief. Only when they had more fabric, would they be able to make more clothes.

  Edna was concerned about how Jill was spending her money. "First let's sell a few more garments," she begged. "We don't need additional fabric or clothing. You know we have a backlog."

  "Edna, it's my money. It makes me dizzy with excitement to see how we can use it," Jill told her.

  The profits of the co-op were to be turned back to the workers—when and if there was a profit. Jill's new accountant, a fussy man who didn't seem to approve at all of her plans, told her that she had to have a return on her investment. "Fine," she said. "We'll use it to finance new undertakings, then. When we have the return, and not if," she emphasized.

  "You're new at this," Edna warned. "You can make a million mistakes. I don't want to feel guilty."

  "Let me worry about that," Jill said firmly. "Look, I may sound as if I want to throw my money around, but I don't. We're going from A to B to C, aren't we? It's not enough to sell a couple of dresses and blouses each day, or even a dozen. We can make it work, Edna. Now either we can sit around doing nothing while I pay the rent for the next year, or we can attempt to make things happen."

  "You're right, of course. We started the co-op with tremendous plans, but reality hit us in the face. It seems to me if I can just keep the women working and earning some money steadily, then we're doing all right."

  "It's not all right," Jill insisted. "The world isn't going to beat a path to our door. We have to make it happen. We can knock on other doors in other cities, and we don't have to have a backlog, either. We must improve our fabric production first. I'm willing to take a chance on that, and you're going to have to let me."

  "I just want to see customers walk into this shop and spend some money," Edna groaned.

  "They will, as soon as they see those enticing ads." Jill had found a small advertising agency which had already come up with some sketches for ads. They were to run over the weekend in the local newspapers. Jill had boldly called up the editors and had been promised publicity. Her success convinced her to call the local television stations, and one of them promised to do a story about the co-op as well.

  Jill's involvement in the business was so complete, that her thoughts about Simon were relegated to quiet moments—moments when, lying in the hammock in Edna's apartment, trying to sleep, her loss came over her in sickening waves. She could recall in the greatest detail, every moment they had spent together. His face, his copper hair, his elegant figure were imprinted on her memory, and she had only but to close her ayes for a moment to see him as he stood over her in Santarem. Her love for him seemed to grow every day, as if by being pushed back in her mind, while she went about other things, it rooted and spread. Yet she remained firm in her conviction that if he had wanted her, he would have found her. Even in a bustling city of half a million, swelled by businessmen and tourists from all over the world, still, if he wanted her, he would have found her. He had to know that she was still in Manaus, that she had not fled back to Chicago. Sometimes it seemed to her that he should somehow connect with the intensity of feeling she had for him.

  Yet Jill had made attempts to cover her trail, to make it a little difficult for him to find her. She had early on, moved some funds to another bank, but it would have taken the simplest detective work to find out which bank. She had, cleverly, used the Rua Teresinha address, yet she knew she had left an easy trail to follow. It was a' trail she wanted him to follow, if he was so inclined.

  There were times when she felt her loss so painfully, she had to restrain herself from picking up the telephone to call him. And she had hated having to fool the housekeeper concerning her plans. She was genuinely fond of Senhora Cordero and missed her. Some day she would have to see her and apologize.

  When Jill was working, however, the excitement attending her new adventure was able to successfully engage her mind, if not her heart. She was the miracle tier partners had been praying for, but had given up believing could happen. Dependent upon her now were a dozen housewives and their families, women whose simply furnished homes were beginning to become familiar. There was every reason to remain keyed up, to keep her goals high, to push, even when her partners objected.

  Toward the end of the second week of th
eir partnership, Jill spoke her mind. She and Edna were sitting in the shop going over the day's receipts. The advertisements had begun to pay off. More and more customers drifted in, some out of curiosity with no intention of buying, some with the ads in hand, ready to buy.

  "We're making progress," Edna said happily.

  "Not enough," Jill told her. "Not enough to set the world on fire. To do that, I'm going to have to go to Belem and find us a good department store."

  Edna looked distressed. "Belem is a thousand miles away!"

  "So I heard," Jill answered caustically. "I don't intend to walk all the way. In fact I'm going to fly."

  "But what if something goes wrong with the clothing? I mean, it's so far away."

  Jill grinned. "We ship only first-class goods. Nothing will go wrong. I'm going to pack some samples maybe next week and fly to Belem and that's that."

  "Santarem is closer. Try there first."

  "No." Jill's answer was curt. She did not offer an explanation.

  "Santarem has a population of one hundred thousand and plenty of money because of the gold strike."

  "If I'm going to make the trip, I'll have to fly," Jill said. "If I have to fly, I might as well fly to Belem and make it worthwhile." Belem, on the Atlantic Coast, was at the mouth of the Amazon. Its population was nearing the million mark and had plenty of stores for their product.

  "Santarem," Edna said.

  Jill was anxious now to change the subject. She could never go to Santarem. It would be too great a risk. The town was small in area, in spite of its population. She was certain to run into Simon. The thought made her heart flutter. For a moment she abandoned herself to the thought of running into him. What would she say? How would she act? Would she just walk past him as if she had never even seen him?

  "You're the most stubborn person I've ever met," Edna was saying.

  Jill looked at her through clouded eyes. "I've heard that before. It was apparently my uncle's outstanding characteristic." The remark pulled her out of the dream. She could not afford to meet Simon, not yet, not until she was completely free of him, if such a thing could ever happen.

  "Has it something to do with your husband?" Edna asked, her manner polite, as if she would respect Jill's privacy if that was what she wished.

  Jill sighed. "I suppose so."

  "I don't want to interfere," Edna said, and then stopped.

  "I know what you're going to say," Jill interrupted. "Business is business and I shouldn't keep running away."

  "Just about."

  "I'll go to Belem first and then Santarem on the way back. How's that?"

  Edna gave her a broad smile. "Whatever you say, partner. But I'm agreeing because I think you should get away. I have the feeling you're afraid you'll bump into your husband around every corner. You should be free of him for a little while."

  Free of him! Jill wondered what it would be like to think of Simon without anguish and longing.

  Chapter Twelve

  "You're coming with me tonight. I can't have you hanging around every evening waiting for your husband to come to you." Edna, her hands on her ample hips, stood at the door to her tiny kitchen watching Jill prepare breakfast. Four weeks had gone by, four weeks without seeing or hearing from Simon.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Jill snapped, afraid to face the truth.

  "Of course you do." Edna began to busy herself setting the table. "You jump every time the phone rings or someone comes to the door."

  "I've been too busy to think of him," Jill said. "My nerves are just a little shot, that's all."

  "I should think so. I know hammocks aren't easy to get used to, but you do enough tossing and turning for a dozen people. If you miss him and want to see him, for heaven's sake call him."

  Jill shook her head. She had never discussed Simon with Edna, and she didn't want to start now. There was no way they could honestly discuss a marriage that had never even reached completion, a marriage of convenience, a marriage she had pledged would never appear in its true light to anyone.

  "You're coming with me tonight," Edna said, once -again. "You've been working too hard."

  "It's beginning to pay off," Jill said resentfully.

  Edna came over to her and put her arm about Jill's shoulder. "I know it is and I'm so grateful. Everything is going along miraculously well, thanks to you."

  "I'm just touchy," Jill told her. "Let's eat." She woke up every morning, aching for Simon, yet still able to see the day ahead as exciting. Her money gave the enterprise a shot in the arm, but her enthusiasm sparked fresh ideas. She worked hard, her day was full, and yet when she returned to Edna's apartment in the evening, she wanted to be quiet, to think about Simon. And to be there if he called. If he cared, surely he would find her.

  "If you need me, I'll always be there." He had spoken the words in Chicago. And Jay Wilhelm had told her Simon Todd was a trustworthy, wonderful man.

  She poured some coffee for herself and Edna, and sat down to a breakfast of orange juice, coffee and rolls.

  "I don't like to see you like this," Edna told her.

  "Like what? I'm fine. I'm doing what I want, how I want and when I want. The only thing I don't like is crowding you out of your apartment."

  Edna grinned. "You just keep crowding. Your man is going to come by for you sooner or later, and I want to be around when it happens."

  "We might both be old and gray by then."

  Edna was determined to have her way. "You're coming with me tonight. No ifs, ands or buts."

  Jill felt herself weakening, although she made a last attempt to get out of it. "Edna, it's the Teatro Amazonia. My husband has a box there. I can't possibly go. I really don't want to meet him."

  "Never mind. This is a splendid concert. I'm not going to miss it and neither are you. I bought tickets for the third tier because that's all I could afford. So you see? There's no problem at all."

  "I still don't like it. Simon wanders around during the intermission."

  "He's not going to wander up to the third tier. Would you?"

  Jill pursed her lips. She was close to giving in. Even if she were to see Simon, the chances of his noticing her in the opera house were small. "On what side of the third tier?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Center back. What side is your husband's box?"

  "Right side."

  Edna smiled reassuringly. "He won't see us. He'd have to have eyes like a hawk."

  "Who did you say was appearing?"

  "A group of madrigal singers from Rio. They're very good and very popular. You'll like them."

  "I'll come." Jill took a deep breath. Now she had something new to worry about. What if Simon were not there? Would that make her feel any better?

  "I'm wearing this." After dinner, Jill put on a brightly printed strapless dress from the shop, a splash of flowers on black cotton, slit to the knees, with an uneven hem. Her high-heeled sandals were a bright red.

  "Heads will turn," Edna warned with a look of mock disapproval.

  "You look sensational," Jill said shyly. Edna had put on a loose dress of dark cotton which had the effect of making her look slimmer. With her pretty face and charming, ready smile, she was extraordinarily attractive and sweet.

  "That's a lovely compliment," Edna told her. "But I'm interested in heads turning and admiring that dress."

  "Well, if we have to, we'll sell it right off my back." They both giggled. Jill realized that she was looking forward to the evening. She was determined to enjoy herself, and if possible to test her obsession with her husband. If he were there, she would stay cool. If he were not there, better yet.

  The trouble was, she did not know which circumstance she preferred in truth.

  "We ought to make up little cards that read, 'You, too, may have this gorgeous outfit from the Manaus Clothing Co-op'," Edna told her, laughing.

  Jill checked her hair in the mirror and brushed the loose, thick waves once more.

  "Anyone would think you were
dressing for someone special," Edna commented as Jill dabbed on a touch of perfume.

  "Just for the Manaus Co-op, I assure you."

  Later, walking across San Sebastian Square toward the Teatro Amazonia, in spite of her best efforts to remain calm, Jill felt faint with worry. She scanned the road for signs of her husband's limousine.

  Edna cautioned her to stop acting as if she were on the brink of heart failure.

  "I don't know what you mean," Jill said shakily. "I feel fine."

  "You're walking these mosaics as if you expected to slip in between them and disappear from view."

  "Ha ha," Jill murmured, the tension slightly released.

  Still, as they approached the front portico, Jill began to wish more and more that she could disappear, or turn invisible at the very least. "Don't dawdle," she told Edna, who had stopped to greet a friend. She dragged her into the opera house and up into the third tier long before the houselights dimmed. Simon's box, she saw with a mixture of disappointment and relief, was unoccupied.

  "Okay, tell me where this frightening creature of yours is supposed to be," Edna whispered.

  "Not here," Jill answered, trying to act unconcerned.

  "And if he were here, where would he be?"

  "Down there, second box from the stage, on the right, first tier. Satisfied?"

  Edna nodded. "Completely." She opened the program and began to check through it. "Just relax," she said. "You're here to enjoy yourself."

  As sweet as the madrigal singing was, Jill's eyes slid constantly, in the darkened house, to the shadowy box near the stage.

  Halfway through the beginning program, she saw a slight flurry as the door to the box opened and two figures entered. Simon, she realized in a heart stopping moment, as the light from the corridor flashed briefly, had come in, dressed in his tuxedo. With him was a blonde in a bright red gown, whom she thought to be Angela Branco. She had to grip the sides of her chair to keep herself from leaving the performance and flying out into the night. Edna reached over and placed a staying hand on hers, an acknowledgement that she understood what Jill was going through.