Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “Let me out,” she told the driver, a broad man in uniform.

  He stared at her face. “You sure you’re okay?”

  It’s a birthmark, she wanted to say. I’ve had it my whole life. You don’t get a birthmark in a bus accident.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  He pulled a lever to open the doors. She hurried down the steps and into the street. Running was impossible in her chef’s clogs; she walked as fast as she could, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalk. The low sky was moist and dark: more snow on the way.

  The restaurant, Emile’s, sat at the corner of two busy streets, its front windows glowing under a blue awning. Behind it the alley had just been plowed; a wall of dirty snow blocked the rear door of the restaurant. Stamping her feet, she went in through the front door, something she hadn’t done in years.

  The dining room was half full; customers occupied the prime tables at the windows. The hostess looked up from her podium. She was a slim, dark-haired girl with beautiful skin.

  “Jesus,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  Dinah peeled off her jacket. “What do you mean?”

  “Your mouth,” said the hostess.

  Dinah touched her lip, sticky with blood. “The bus crashed,” she said, blotting her mouth with a glove.

  At the window a customer looked up from his menu, a very thin man in a dark suit. He had a long face and brilliant blue eyes. Dinah met his gaze and he nodded, a slight inclination of his bald head. There was something familiar in his face.

  “You’d better go back. Emile is worried about you.” The hostess smiled, showing perfect teeth. “He figured if you were late something horrible must have happened.”

  Dinah went through the swinging doors, pulling off her down jacket. Underneath, her white coat was wrinkled, her neckerchief slightly askew. In the kitchen the four line cooks were already in place. The prep cook chopped an onion loudly, a precise, mechanical sound.

  “Here she is,” said the sous-chef. “We were starting to wonder.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Dinah looked Emile in the eye but didn’t explain. Nothing made him angrier than an excuse.

  “Go wash your face,” he said. He took a plate from the line and stuck a fork into the gratin; he was meticulous about tasting the food.

  In the staff washroom she rinsed her mouth, glad she hadn’t bothered with makeup. She rarely made the effort to cover her birthmark; everyone at Emile’s knew what she looked like. She thought of the customer in the dark suit, whose eyes had held hers a second too long across the room. Nothing new there: she’d always gotten noticed. In the street, in the grocery store, children gaped and pointed. “Don’t stare,” their parents whispered, not realizing they were staring too. But this man’s look was different, as if he recognized her. It seemed unlikely. She spent fourteen hours a day in Emile’s kitchen. After five years in Washington she knew almost no one.

  She dried her face and went back to the dining room, where the hostess stood chatting with the bartender.

  “There was a man sitting alone.” She pointed to the table by the window. “In the first seating. Did he have a reservation?”

  The hostess frowned, rippling her smooth forehead. “I can check.”

  Dinah followed her to the podium. The hostess reached for her reservation book, traced down the page with a perfect red finger-nail. Her skin was as pale as milk. She must live on vanilla ice cream, Dinah thought; rounds of Camembert, crème anglaise.

  “A little old for you, isn’t he?” said the hostess.

  Dinah colored. “It’s not that. He looked familiar, that’s all.”

  “Here it is,” said the hostess. “He comes in now and then for lunch. His name is Ken Kimble.”

  SHE LEFT Emile’s at one-thirty in the morning. It was snowing as she walked down the avenue toward the bus stop, large wet flakes that melted the instant they touched her skin. She boarded the bus at the corner and sank into a seat, thinking of Reverend Kimble.

  She hadn’t thought of him in years. As a teenager she’d baby-sat for him and his wife. She’d doted on their redheaded children—Charlie especially—but it was her crush on the reverend that kept her coming back. At the time, he was like no one she’d ever known: a grown man, but as different from her stern father and stodgy uncles as he could be. Her father wore half glasses and suspenders, black wing tips and starched white shirts; the world he lived in was black and white, a dour place devoid of surprises. Reverend Kimble seemed to live in glorious color. She remembered his bright ties, his crazy patterned shirts. He kept his hair longer than other men—in back it touched his shirt collar—and in the winter he wore turtlenecks and a suede jacket.

  He was the only adult she knew who cared about music. Driving her home at the end of the evening, he’d hum softly with the radio. His favorites were the same as hers: the Byrds, the Beatles, Joni Mitchell. He never bothered her with meaningless questions about school or teachers, as adults usually did. When he spoke it was about real things: the war, the upcoming election, the injustice of the draft. He expected her to have opinions and listened carefully to what she said. Sitting in the car next to him she’d felt perfectly comfortable—her pretty side exposed, her birthmark hidden by the dark.

  The mark began at her temple, a purple stain that washed over her right eye and cheekbone and ended at her jaw. Her whole life it had been the size of her hand; as her hand grew, so did the purple stain. As a girl she’d spent hours examining it in the mirror: the gradations of color, the odd topography. She’d had a jigsaw puzzle as a child, a map of the United States; her birthmark was the exact shape of Minnesota, its jagged eastern border cutting across her right cheek. Back then there was no concealing it; her mother wouldn’t let her wear makeup. “It’s not natural,” she’d once told Dinah. “We all go through life with the face God gave us.” It was the only time in Dinah’s memory that an adult had mentioned the mark. Her parents treated it as a secret; teachers and neighbors avoided looking her in the face.

  Only Reverend Kimble was willing to admit it was there. Once, driving her home from baby-sitting, he’d asked her about it. He had pulled into her parents’ driveway; as she reached for her door handle, he stopped her. “Wait,” he said, his hand on her shoulder. He had never touched her before.

  “Where did it come from?” Lightly he touched her cheek. “Have you always had it?”

  “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him; her skin burned beneath his fingers.

  “Don’t let it bother you so much,” he said. “You can get it taken care of someday.”

  She had never heard of such a thing.

  “There are doctors who specialize in cosmetic problems,” he explained. “Plastic surgeons.” He smiled; he seemed amused by her ignorance.

  “My mother would never let me,” she said.

  “You’ll be eighteen in a few years. Then you can do as you please.”

  Her voice quavered. “Is it expensive?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever the cost, it would be worth it. You’re a beautiful girl.”

  His words stayed with her for years. Each night as she lay waiting for sleep, she tried to re-create the evening in her mind—the tone of his voice, his hand on her shoulder. Soon the memory was worn as an old photograph, the edges fuzzy from frequent handling; she worried that she’d gotten the words wrong, forgotten some nuance of his face or voice. Finally she wondered if she’d made the whole thing up.

  Dinah stared out the bus window: snow melting on the slick pavement, streetlights reflected in the wet. She’d been stunned to learn he’d left his wife and children; but in a way it made sense. She had never understood what he saw in his wife, who was very much like Dinah’s mother, a woman who wore pin curls and said things like “Oh my stars.” Once, when she was baby-sitting, Dinah had rifled through the drawers in the Kimbles’ bedroom. Mrs. Kimble wore the same kind of underwear Dinah’s mother did: hideous brassieres with pointed cups and thick straps, nylon panties as big as gr
ocery sacks. With shaking hands Dinah had opened the smaller bureau, the one that held Reverend Kimble’s clothes. His underwear was neatly folded, colorful briefs in thin cotton.

  Her parents had never told her where Reverend Kimble went; she overheard them talking one night after she’d been excused from the table.

  “It isn’t your fault,” her mother had said.

  “Tell that to the Snells,” said her father. “The girl is nineteen years old. They didn’t send their daughter to a Christian college to have her run off with the chaplain.”

  “What kind of a girl is she? The Snell girl. What kind of a girl would do that?”

  “A troublemaker. Worked up about the war. A hippie kind of girl.”

  After that it had all made sense. The reverend had left his wife and children, it was true, but there was a good reason: he had fallen in love. Not only that, he’d chosen someone not much older than Dinah; a girl who stood for all the same things she privately believed. You could almost say he’d picked someone just like her.

  Dinah got off the bus and climbed the hill. She’d lived in Glover Park for three years. It had once been a genteel neighborhood, the brick row houses owned by middle-class families who’d lived there for generations. Now those families were gone, the houses divided into small apartments. The tenants were mostly young and poor, a transient mix of students and dropouts. Burglaries were common; at least once a week she was awakened by sirens.

  She gathered the mail and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She’d bought the house for virtually nothing; she paid her mortgage by renting the first floor to two Georgetown medical residents, an Indian couple named Ann and Dillip Patel. At the top of the stairs she fumbled with a second set of locks. The house had been burglarized twice in two years; after each break-in she’d added an extra lock to the door. Inside, she undressed and stepped into the shower. Though she wore it in a tight chignon, her long hair absorbed the kitchen smells; unless she washed it first she’d be unable to sleep.

  She wrapped her hair in a towel and sat at the kitchen table to sort through the mail. She found the invitation among a stack of bills and magazines. The Calvary High School five-year class reunion, to be held in the school cafeteria the first of June. The envelope had been mailed to her parents’ address in Richmond; her mother must have forwarded it. Oh, Mother, she thought. Don’t you ever learn?

  She worked her way to the bottom of the stack, putting aside the electric bill. Finally she stood and lit the gas stove. For a moment she held the invitation to the burner. Then she dropped it, flaming, into the sink.

  In the bedroom she slipped between the cold sheets. The wind howled outside, a lonely sound; she sensed movement in the rooms beneath her. Dinah rarely saw the Patels; she knew them only through their noises—dish washing, laughter, the low hum of the radio. She was grateful for their presence below her, a buffer between her and the street.

  Her aching back released into the mattress. Beneath her the noises grew louder. She heard them several times a week: a soft whimpering, like an animal’s cry; the rumble of a deeper voice. Dinah held her breath. She waited for the usual cadence, the rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall. Dillip was slender and soft-spoken; she imagined he would be very gentle.

  The sounds quickened. Dinah closed her eyes and thought of Dillip’s skin, the hard muscles of his legs—in the summer he rode his bicycle in terry-cloth shorts. He was studying to be an obstetrician; he would know her body better than she did herself.

  A small cry, a sudden silence. Dinah imagined the heat of his mouth, his hands on her face, loving and uncritical; hands that ushered newborn babies into life. She closed her eyes. Outside, snow floated down from heaven. Somewhere, not far away, Reverend Kimble was sleeping.

  Calvary High, named for the mountain where Christ was crucified. Dinah was tortured there, mocked and mortified. Only years later did she realize that the school was aptly named.

  During her final year at Calvary, the senior English class read Beowulf; afterward, a boy named Ted Nally nicknamed her Grendel. The name caught on. By springtime even freshmen, who’d never read about the hideous monster, were tormenting her with the name.

  Grendel. Grendel.

  It stalked her in the hallways, on the school bus; it passed through the cafeteria line like an evil rumor. At school assemblies she calculated the length of the stage. Forty feet, she guessed; she wondered how quickly she could walk across it to receive her diploma. At Calvary, graduating seniors endured a full week of festivities: a day-long religious retreat, an awards banquet, a traditional commencement ceremony, and a baccalaureate dance. A smorgasbord of public humiliations, it seemed to Dinah.

  The night of the banquet she rode to the school with her parents. Her mother’s heels clacked against the tile floor, echoing through the empty corridors. She had made them identical dresses, pale yellow with full skirts and voluminous sleeves. They looked, Dinah thought, like backup singers from The Lawrence Welk Show.

  The cafeteria was decorated with crepe-paper streamers; a banner across the back wall congratulated the class of ’73. The overhead lights had been extinguished, the cafeteria tables hidden under silky fabric. Handwritten place cards seated the families alphabetically, the Whitacres next to the Warrens and the Welds. Sue Warren and Carolyn Weld were best friends; for four years Dinah had sat behind them in class, listening to them laugh and whisper.

  Dinah sat closemouthed as the salads were served. Candelabra flickered at the tables; in the dim light the cafeteria looked like a different place. Only the smell was the same, a sickening blend of floor cleaner and fried fish. Dinah’s mother chatted with Mrs. Weld: What lovely decorations, and Thank goodness it stopped raining, and Don’t the girls look beautiful? Listening, Dinah hated her ease and cheerfulness, her ability to invent conversation with strangers. At the same time she was proud, glad her classmates could see that her mother, at least, was normal.

  Across the table Sue and Carolyn sat with their heads together, whispering. Dinah’s mother smiled.

  “What are you girls giggling about?”

  “Look at Dinah,” said Carolyn. “She’s the same color as the tablecloth.”

  It was true: her foolish dress and her lank hair were the same pale shade of yellow. Only her birthmark stood out, purple-red. A color that belonged on the inside of a body, not fit for public viewing.

  “Why, she is, isn’t she?” said her mother, still smiling like an idiot. “What do you know about that?”

  Dinah picked at the stringy roast beef, the overcooked green beans. Her father spoke in a low voice to Mr. Warren; a moment later they went outside to smoke.

  At the podium the vice-principal announced the chemistry prize, the awards for history and Spanish and math; then the Most and Best awards. A week before, in homeroom, they had voted for the boy and girl with the nicest smiles and the most pleasing personalities; the smartest and best-looking; the likeliest to succeed. In Dinah’s opinion, none of her classmates had pleasing personalities; she filled out her ballot in under a minute. (Her pick for cutest couple: Nixon and Brezhnev. Secretariat, most likely to succeed.)

  The winners were announced; at each name Sue and Carolyn applauded and laughed. Carolyn wore a nervous smile; she was a shoo-in for Best Looking. Dinah’s mother clapped too, though she didn’t recognize the names. She applauded warmly as Ted Nally accepted his award for Class Clown. Don’t clap for him, Dinah thought. He’s ruined my life.

  “And now the award for Most Athletic,” said the vice-principal. “In keeping with the times, we’re now presenting this award to both a boy and a girl.” He smiled. “For those of you who don’t know, the Calvary girls’ tennis team has just wound up its inaugural season. And let me tell you, those ladies can play.”

  It was a bald-faced lie. Only six girls had signed up for the team; three had never held a racquet before. To Dinah’s knowledge, the vice-principal had never attended a match.

  “The award goes to Paul Ackerman�
�” said the vice-principal.

  A large, neckless boy lumbered to the podium.

  “—and Dinah Whitacre.”

  Dinah froze. A hundred heads swiveled in her direction. No, she thought. This isn’t happening.

  “Dinah!” her mother cried. “Isn’t that wonderful!”

  She glanced helplessly around the room. Ted Nally sat two tables away, his beady eyes watching her. Her face warmed, a wash of heat radiating outward from her left eye. She knew she blushed oddly, her birthmark darkening to a deep blue.

  Her mother touched her shoulder. “Honey, go up there and get your award.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Of course you can.” Then Dinah’s mother did a horrible thing. She stood and offered Dinah her hand.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll walk up there with you.”

  “Mom,” Dinah hissed. The room seemed very loud; blood pulsed furiously in her face. “Please. Sit. Down.”

  She got to her feet, thinking Soon, whatever is going to happen will already have happened. Her legs shook as she made her way through the tables. When she reached the front of the room, the chant began. Softly at first, then with increasing urgency.

  “Grendel. Grendel.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw her father standing in the doorway, pipe in hand, a confused look on his face.

  At the podium, the vice-principal shook her hand and handed her a small trophy. She smiled mechanically.

  “Grendel. Grendel.”

  “That’s enough,” the vice-principal said sharply into the microphone.

  The chanting stopped, but the laughter only escalated. At the back of the room, Ted Nally clapped loudly, his fat face flushed and triumphant.

  Dinah returned to her seat. Across the table Sue and Carolyn were red from laughing. Dinah did not look at her mother; she sat holding her trophy, waiting. Finally the graduates were dismissed to the auditorium to don their caps and gowns; the parents were to stay behind for coffee and dessert. Dinah followed her classmates into the hallway. Then she turned down a corridor and ran.