The room was immaculately clean. Every flat surface was covered in doilies, on top of which the little woman had set a zoo of tacky porcelain figurines and odd souvenirs that she had bought at the pier. The entire house smelled of freshly baked corn bread and ammonia.
“Out!” was her sisters’ way to say hello.
And out she went, our little nameless friend, back to the tool shed in the backyard together with her poodle mutt, the porcelain figurines and the doilies. Victoria took her mother’s room downstairs and Rosa took their old one on the second floor.
“And now,” Rosa said to her sister, opening a bottle of brandy, “let’s enjoy life…”
“…before it ends,” Victoria completed.
Earning a salary as teachers had restored to them some of the liberties lost by moving into the city, but nothing could compare to being away from Magnolia’s puritanical restrictions. They could start over. Find a husband. After all these years, no one remembered them in Venice.
They were popular with the members of the opposite sex. Still and all, they never got married.
“Too short.”
“Too tall.”
“Too poor.”
“Too skinny,” were some of the arguments used against a never-ending list of relentless suitors, including a few worthy of consideration.
As the years went by, the list of admirers shortened to just a handful, composed not of the best gentlemen, but by those less reluctant to romance two foxy plum-cakes beyond their prime.
After two decades, barely any admirers remained.
It hadn’t been an easy life. It never is for beautiful women. Teaching is a stressful occupation, and although they graduated in a time when slapping children was still permitted, and thus they could relieve stress regularly and in a healthy manner, infant’s voices have such an awful drilling effect on the human brain, the smell of thirty pesky kids after recess can displease the nose so gravely, it could be so dreadful and repugnant, that only whiskey, not even beer, was the suitable cure after a long day of instructing. Ask any children’s instructor: handling a herd of other people’s kids for six hours a day, five days a week, ten months a year, is enough to tempt anybody—not only the two eldest daughters of a witch, but anybody!—to become a habitual drinker, if not a child murderer. And if you happen to be the daughter of a witch, as they were, and the guilty memories of night-long parties worshipping sin and running naked around a bonfire had been replaced by a sad, constant reiteration of the alphabet and the many virtues of faith instilled by their auntie; had you been the devil’s bride in your early youth and then forced to pray the rosary every night and go to school to be a teacher for a smelly bunch of whippersnappers with ever-clogged green nostrils, alcoholism would have become your inevitable end, surely.
And alcohol destroys beauty. And so does nicotine, and both of them smoked like the chimneys of a glue factory.
Venice changed too, for the worse. Swallowed by the growth of the city of Los Angeles, the lagoon and the northern canals were filled in with dirt and paved to make roads for automobiles. Oil was discovered in the southern peninsula, bringing some temporary riches to the residents, but also clogging the remaining waterways and polluting the beaches. With the years, the southern canals had fallen to disrepair. The water became stagnant, covered in green scum and debris.
They sure enjoyed their nights, the two sisters. Even during the war, when the pier remained closed at night because of the curfew, the boardwalk was always full of pachucos and young soldiers on weekend leave, among whom were always one or two that, after a night of gin and jazz, wouldn’t discriminate against two buxom ladies twice their age who wore too much make-up.
Most of their mornings, however, were full of doleful laments caused by the effects of the previous night.
“In my day,” Victoria said, holding with both hands the cup of coffee served to her by her youngest sister, “I was considered a beauty.”
“When I was young,” Rosa took a deep drag of her cigarette and then a sip of her coffee, “I never had to share my bed with nobody’s vomit.”
“At least we had a good life.” Victoria laughed. “We had our share of fun. These ugly feet have seen so much dancing!
“It hasn’t ended!” Rosa complained. “We’re still alive.”
Alive, but with yellowed teeth. Alive, but with sagging skin and covered in wrinkles. The little woman couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor state of her once beautiful sisters. At least she was still strong and healthy. At least she could still ride her bike to work. Then again, she had never attended a dance.
The day came when, no matter how thickly they troweled on their makeup, the two sisters could no longer tempt any men into their bedrooMs. And when gout and an unending series of ailments caused by their alcoholism made it impossible to climb the stairs, Rosa moved in to the bedroom on the first floor with her sister.
They put the room upstairs for rent: ten dollars a week, due every Friday.
Another decade began. “Mona Lisa” became the number one hit on the radio. The Soviets launched an artificial satellite into space. The youngest sister continued working. She scrubbed, she washed, she mopped, she changed babies. And after all of her work was done, after all the dishes were cleaned, after all the linens were starched, ironed, and folded, she returned home and sat on the same chair she had sat upon the day her godfather visited her, and she waited. And she waited. She waited for many years, long after the pier was dismantled, long after the pawn shops and liquor stores replaced the theaters and the souvenir shops, long after the winos, the panhandlers, and the deviants replaced the tourists, and Venice turned into a slum. She waited until she started to doubt that vampires existed.
8
In which we introduce two new characters, relevant to the story
Every story must have a prince and a princess, in opposition to vampires and werewolves and witches, and ours, for all the clichés with which we have tormented you so far, can’t be the exception. Let us begin with the prince: he was a tall, handsome man, gifted with a smile that could melt the ice from both poles and eyes that could bend the heart of a tyrant. He had an ear for music; he was an artist. As most artists, he was heedless and inconsistent, yet, passionate about his art—music. Unlike most artists, he was also a likable man of polite manners who would never forget to say hello to a neighbor, or to give a heartfelt thanks to a courteous server, especially when he couldn’t always tip. The shine in his eyes when he smiled was considered enough reward. His name was Russell Simpson.
And about the princess: she was a beautiful creature, as princesses commonly, but not always, are. Petite and graceful. Shaped like an hourglass: round breasts, round legs, and a rounded bottom, with curly black hair and soft skin the color of honey.
The prince loved the princess. What was not to be loved in her? She was perfect! And the girl loved the prince. That cat was a charmer. The problem was that love, even true love, and none other niggled our couple, does not pay the bills. Russell had not one cent to his name, and debts, Josie had plenty—that was the name of our fair princess, Miss Josie García, of the García fruit pickers in Santa Rosa. She owed money to her boss, and to her best friend (no need to give a name now, for she changed best friends often); to every grocer on Main Street; to the pharmacist, to the baker and to the hairdresser. She owed rent. Two weeks.
Lying on her bed like an odalisque waiting, her face frowned in the utmost pain, like that of a child who suddenly remembers that tomorrow is Monday, Josie rolled over on her back and asked our old friend, the diligent little woman, at that moment busy picking up the girl’s clothes from the floor so she could mop it, “Your sisters are not expecting any money from me today, are they?”
They were, the little woman thought, freezing on her toes for a second. It was Friday. She looked at the girl with a saddened face, but couldn’t make herself say it.
Josie pursed her lips. “I am so broke, it’s not even funny.”
The little woman remained silent.
“Going out with friends is expensive,” the girl continued. The last time she had gone out with Russell, she had had to pay for him and his roommate. “Shopping for clothes is expensive—”
The little woman brought to her nose the blouse she had just picked up from under the bed and sniffed it. Deciding it was clean, she carefully hung it in the closet.
“Paying rent is expensive—everything is so incredibly expensive! I can’t afford dating an artist.”
She stood up and walked towards the window. The little woman followed the girl with her eyes, then rushed to straighten the bed cover.
“Artists make the worst dates,” the girl continued. “What I need is a generous gentleman who could pay for the trouble.”
But don’t we all? The year was 1959. Josie worked part-time as a sales clerk at the Sears store in Santa Monica. The man she suffered for, Mr. Russell Simpson—what else?—he was a beatnik.
She had met Russell a couple of weeks before at a poetry reading at the Gas House Café, an old bingo parlor converted into an artists’ hangout on the Venice boardwalk. He played the drums that night. She had been invited by the friend of a friend who knew somebody. A combination of ennui, for the creative collective can sometimes be most boring, and pity for the weary look of the artist, inspired her to approach him with a bowl full of strawberries that she snatched from a table. Russell rejected the fruit. Instead, he asked for a drink, without words, bringing an invisible bottle to his mouth and pursing his lips open. And how could a woman used to saying no resist to help a stranger giving her such direct orders? Hardly, very hardly, especially when the stranger had the sweetest brown eyes and a nose like a sculpted rock. Extremely hardly, especially when the stranger had the most kissable-looking lips, a mane of reddish-brown curls that called for a hand to stroke them, and the musky smell of his sweat traveled through the salty air deeply into her nostrils. Josie returned with a glass of wine. They exchanged names, and the next thing she knew, they were walking back to his place for a ride of sex, bennies, and marijuana that lasted until the following evening.
“A girl like me deserves pretty things, don’t you think?”
The little woman stood still. What did it matter what she thought? She bobbed her head down, avoiding Josie’s gaze. Then, she opened her mouth, about to say something, but by then the girl had already turned her back to her, accustomed as she was to receive no responses from her little landlady. Now she was leaning over the window sill, her eyes fixed on the stagnant waters of the canal, empty minded, as if there was an unbeatable truth hidden beneath the filth that could only be revealed if you stared at it lengthily.
She looked beautiful, the little woman thought.
“I shouldn’t waste my time dating losers.”
Like a true princess.
Oh, yes, not a single drop of royal blood ran through Josie’s veins—her father, a farm worker, her mother, a seamstress; both of them poor Latino immigrants, with no taste for fancy—but you could tell that she was of noble stock, in spite of her humble provenance, and without the need of a pea and two tens of mattresses, purely and simply because she was pretty. And by pretty we mean prettier than most; a most excellent mélange of nations. There was some African in her, revealed in her curly hair and voluptuous figure; some American Indian, revealed in her prominent cheeks, her eyes, and her cinnamon-like color; some Spaniard, revealed in the strong line of her jaw, her nose, and her eyebrows, indubitably Sephardic. To the eyes of our tight-lipped little friend, unaccustomed to beautiful things, the rather rustic girl was a ravishing creature; graceful and bodacious; infinitely wise and generous. The closest thing to perfection.
“George is more handsome,” the girl continued her soliloquy. “Harry is successful. Vincent, I think, is a far better artist. And of course, there’s Richard. He gave me his card and said he would like to buy me a present if I accepted an invitation to have dinner with him. He said he had more dough than an army baker. But he’s a geezer… Oh, what to do?” She cried, pushing herself away from the window. “All the men I know are better than Russell, but it is he whom I want. He knows all my favorite songs and all my favorite movies. He dances like a little monkey when I blow him a kiss. Why does he have to be poor? I should forget about him and go on with my life, even if it breaks his heart in pieces!”
She walked back to her bed. The eyes of the little woman followed her every step.
“He’s not really that handsome.” Josie sat down, wrinkling her nose with contempt. It made her look like a kitten. “He’s almost a foot taller than me. And he’s old. I’m not yet nineteen, he’s twenty-seven. And he’s too nice and too well mannered—I can’t bear that; I like my men to behave badly. I shouldn’t be dating poor men. It’s unethical.”
We agree. Poor men are to be despised and then forgotten. Except, of course, if the man in question is your true love.
“But how could you tell if he is? I wish someone could tell me. Love is much more of a hunch than actual known facts, and I want facts. I am a woman of numbers.”
Yes, the little woman agreed, staring at the girl with adoration. How can you tell if you love somebody? Is it love when your legs cannot hold your weight at the sight of the object of your affection? Is it love when you feel your insides burning despite the cold weather? Is it love when your hands clench on the mop handle until it hurts, until your knuckles turn white, and a lump grows inside your throat and you start gasping for air like a fish out of water?
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” Josie asked, interrupting the little woman’s thoughts.
The little woman shook her head rapidly, as if caught doing something inappropriate.
The girl puffed with disappointment. “You must be so happy,” she brushed a tear off her face. “You’re old. You have no friends. You don’t have to worry about looking good. You don’t have to worry about being nice to anybody. I’m so jealous. People don’t need to like you. You have your job, your dog, your little doilies. Nothing else to torment you. I wish I had a life as simple as yours—oh, don’t look at me that way,” Josie laughed, mistaking the little woman’s deeper expression of sadness as her way to convey sympathy. “It’s not that bad, really. I’m not that jealous. You don’t need to feel sorry—let me show you something.” She tugged the collar of her blouse to wipe the tears off her face and opened a drawer in her side table, from which she pulled out a sheet of paper and a pack of cigarettes. She offered the sheet to the little woman. “I made a list,” she said, lighting a stick. “I got the idea from my supervisor. That’s how he calculates our monthly bonus.”
The little woman studied the paper. In the first column, Josie had enumerated all the qualities to consider in a good husband: face, body, brains, ability to make money, etcetera. The top row had the names of every man currently in her life.
“You see here?” Josie pointed at the last column, filled up with numbers. “The idea is that the one with the highest score would be the one and only. Richard came in first place, and I don’t even like him. Russell lost in every category, including the number of times he has told me he loves me, which I didn’t consider. Still, he’s the number one in my heart.”
She took back the sheet and put it inside a drawer.
“Am I wasting my time?” she asked with a snivel.
No response. A cat would have been more eloquent.
“I should call Richard. I still have his card somewhere. Actually, I know the number by heart now. But what should I do with Russell? I can’t just break up with him, can I?”
Still no response.
“Maybe I should write him a letter.”
The little woman shrugged.
“Yes. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. And then I’ll call Richard and ask him to take me out. Where di
d I leave my pen?” the girl rifled through her drawer. “I thought it was here. Do you have a pen I could borrow?’
The little woman checked her pockets. They were empty. She glanced around the room for a pen. The constant knit of depression on her face had grown to a painful grimace.
“Maybe your sisters have one?” Josie ventured.
The little woman’s face brightened. She showed her teeth in that painful scowl that only a few had learned to recognize as a smile. She put her mop away and ran downstairs with the urgency of man that had been promised a kiss in exchange for a flower.
A brown and mustard, short-legged mutt named Cautious slept on the kitchen threshold. No matter how many times the little woman pushed at him with her feet the dog resisted moving. She stepped over.
Victoria stood in the middle of the living room, clutching her metal walker, trying to remember the last time she had gone to the bathroom. Next to her, in the wheelchair in which her crippling gout had confined her, Rosa stared at her hands, speckled and wrinkled.
“What are you looking for?” Victoria asked, seeing her younger sister sprint into their room.
The little woman didn’t respond. She pulled the lower drawer of a cabinet to use as a step and searched the top for a pen.
Victoria raised a threatening fist. “Get your greasy fingers out of my drawers!”
But by the time she entered the room, our little friend had already found a pen. She scurried out of their bedroom.
“She grabbed something,” Rosa cried.
Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle Page 11