Women's Wiles

by Joyce Harrington

  “Oh,” I said.

  I watched Amanda cross the room and take the daisy wreath from the towel on which she’d placed it when she’d come in. She adjusted the wreath carefully and then she left, with her long velvet skirt trailing along the path. She did not look back.

  As soon as she was out of sight, I walked over to the towel and examined it. Her wreath had left a faint, light-colored ring that seemed to give off tiny shafts of light.

  “It looks like a halo,” I said, dumfounded.

  Gerda smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Didn’t you see her draw it?”

  “Sure,” I said sarcastically. Then I bent over and touched the wet towel, and the yellow pollen came off on my fingers.

  “Halo?” I said. “Halo?”

  The Kitchen Floor

  Dorothy A. Collins

  He wiped up the egg yolk with his toast, washed it down with the last of his coffee, and glanced sourly at the cane propped against the dinette table.

  “How much longer you gonna go stumping around on that thing?”

  Mildred stared at him, thinking of the vicious shove he’d given her the week before that had sent her sprawling, her ankle twisted beneath her.

  “Another week or so, I imagine,” she said levelly. “As soon as I can put my full weight on the foot.”

  He grunted and pushed himself back from the table. “Big deal,” he said. Without looking at her, he put on his coat and left the house.

  When she heard the door slam behind him, she relaxed her tense shoulders and sat quietly for a moment, savoring the emptiness of the house. Then she rose awkwardly, favoring her left foot, and carried the dishes to the sink, washing them in hot sudsy water, drying them, and putting them away carefully in the cabinet.

  She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down at the table again. From the drawer beneath the table she took a pencil and a 3x5 memo pad. This was ordinarily her favorite time of day, the house quiet and awaiting her ministrations, the clean white pad ready for her daily list of chores and reminders, the freshly sharpened pencil at the ready. Today, she was tense and abstracted, and the homely little routine afforded her no pleasure. She sighed and began writing in her small neat hand:

  S

  Here she frowned. Better not attempt any vacuuming yet. Changing the sheets and polishing the mirrors were simple enough tasks, but vacuuming involved too much walking, too much bending and stretching. Although the ankle was no longer painful, Dr. Vincent had told her to keep her weight off it as much as possible and she couldn’t run the risk of straining it. She erased the V and continued writing.

  Barbie

  She smiled as she wrote her daughter’s name. Barbie loved her apple cake—she’d make her take most of it home with her when she left. The smile faded as she wrote the next item.

  FC

  Pencil poised for the next entry, she hesitated. She stared thoughtfully at the shining expanse of yellow vinyl on the kitchen floor, and then wrote:

  KF

  Not much of a list, she thought as she glanced rapidly over it, but then I’ll be back in stride soon. So. Get started on the bed and mirrors, then tackle the laundry and iron Frank’s shirts. A waste of time—they were permanent press—but he refused to wear them unless they were absolutely wrinkle-free. So she’d do them as usual, disrupting the routine as little as possible.

  By one o’clock she’d finished the last of the shirts and thought about lunch. Toast and tea, she decided. Invalid’s fare, but then she was a semi-invalid, and the thought of a sandwich or soup had no appeal.

  She settled at the table with her cup and plate and drew the memo pad to her. She drew lines through the first four items and then, draining her cup, crossed out “Lch.” She smiled wryly. “Methodical Millie,” Barbie called her, teasing her about being an inveterate list-maker and timetabler. Well, so be it, she thought, I’m too set in my ways to change now.

  She set about assembling the cake ingredients. This particular chore was a labor of love. She mixed the batter and spread it in a flat Pyrex dish. She peeled and sliced the apples, splashed them with lemon juice, and distributed them thickly on top, sprinkling them liberally with white sugar, dusting them with cinnamon, and dotting the surface with butter. Lovely. She slid the dish into the warmed oven and set the timer. By the time she’d straightened up the kitchen and freshened herself up a bit, her beautiful girl would be here.

  She crossed C off the list.

  By three o’clock, when the doorbell rang, the house was redolent with the scent of apple and cinnamon. “Oh, heavenly,” said Barbie, hugging her mother. “Mom, you shouldn’t be baking—you shouldn’t be on your feet at all. How does your ankle feel?”

  “It feels fine, stop fussing.” Mildred Burton hung her daughter’s coat in the hall closet and led her into the kitchen. “Is this the sponge-rubber toweling?” She drew it out of the bag and set it on the counter top. “Primrose yellow. Nice—it matches the kitchen. Now sit down and we’ll have some cake and coffee and a good long natter, as your grandma used to say.”

  Barbie took a bite of the warm cake and sighed with pleasure. “I never can get the top crisp and candied like that.” She put down her fork. “Mom. You’re not fooling me, you know. I don’t buy that story about reaching for a can of peaches and falling off the stool. Pop did it, didn’t he?”

  “It happened the way I told you. I’m not one of those battered wives. It’s just that your father drinks too much sometimes, and doesn’t know what he’s doing—”

  “Oh, he knows, all right. He doesn’t have to be drunk to make your life miserable. He’s been doing it for as long as I can remember. If I hadn’t married Jack and moved out, I think I would have ended up killing him. As it is, I worry about you all the time.”

  “There’s no need to, darling. I can look out for myself after all these years. What bothers me is what he did to Patty. How is she?”

  “Miserable, Mom. It’s been a week now, and she’s still huddled inside herself like a little snail. How did he know she was going out on her first date, anyway? You’re always so careful talking to me on the phone—”

  “I know. It was my fault. I thought he was down in the basement watching the Saturday game, but he must have come up for some more beer, heard me talking in the bedroom, and picked up the extension here in the kitchen. Has she heard from the boy again?”

  “After that scene Pop made?” Barbie smiled bitterly. “He really did a hatchet job on that kid, jeering at him about his long hair, his clothes—and the boy’s immaculate, Mom, a wonderful kid from a lovely family. And then all those filthy remarks about kids today ‘making out’ and ‘shacking up.’ By the time Jack threw him out, the damage was done. Patty dreads going to school every day—thinks the kids are laughing behind her back about her crazy drunken grandfather. She’ll be a long time getting over it.”

  Mildred Burton’s face hardened. “Whatever else he’s done,” she said, “I’ll never forgive him for that. It won’t happen again, Barbie, I promise you.”

  “No, it won’t. Because he’ll never set foot in our house again.” She bent her head to hide the quick rush of tears.

  “It’s all right, darling. Come, have another cup of coffee and let’s talk about something else.”

  Barbie looked at her watch. “Lord, yes. Another half hour and I’ll have to leave.” She glanced at the memo pad on the table and picked it up. “Good heavens, did you do all this today—you, the walking wounded?” She scanned the list. “I’ve gotten pretty good at translating this shorthand of yours. But what’s FC?”

  “Fix cane. That’s why I asked you to pick up the toweling. The tip of the cane is making scuff marks on the vinyl here in the kitchen and I thought I’d pad it with the toweling—it’ll cushion the jarring effect when I walk too.”

  “That’s a good idea. But this floor is like a mirror. Mine’s only a year old and it doesn’t look half as good. Talking about the floor, I see it’s on your list, and I absolutely forbid it
, Mom.

  You’ve done enough today. I’ll run the polisher over it before I leave if you’re dead set on getting it done.”

  “No, dear, I wouldn’t think of it. You’re right, it doesn’t really need it. I’ll let it go for a few days.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “All right, then. But I can fix the cane for you before I go. Do you want to attach it with rubber bands?” Her mother nodded distractedly. “They’re here in the drawer, right?”

  Mildred watched as Barbie tore off a towel from the perforated roll, folded it, and fitted it to the bottom of the cane, fastening it securely with two heavy rubber bands from the drawer. “Gaudy if not neat. I think it’ll do the job for you, though. Do you want to try it?”

  Mildred took a few steps with the padded cane and smiled her approval.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “Like leaning on a marshmallow.”

  Barbie laughed as her mother drew a line through FC. “Well, I’m off,” she said. She gave her mother a swift hug and kiss. “Don’t tell his lordship I was here—the less he knows the better. I suppose he’ll come in smelling like a brewery, and you’ll have cold beer and pretzels waiting.”

  “Old habits die hard, Barbie. Goodbye, say hello to Jack and Patty for me.”

  Mildred closed the door after her daughter and leaned heavily against it for a few moments, her head pressed against the frame. Then she straightened wearily and made her way back to the kitchen, turning on the lights as she went. Frank liked to come home to a well-lit house.

  Within half an hour she had pork chops simmering in a tomato-and-pepper sauce, noodles ready to plunge into boiling water, and salad greens crisping in the refrigerator. She was sliding pretzels and potato chips into two bowls when she heard the key in the lock. Two tall cans of icy beer were standing beside the bowls when he walked into the kitchen.

  He cocked his head toward the basement doorway. “Why isn’t the television on?”

  “I still can’t manage the stairs.”

  He snorted. “Boy, are you working this thing to death. Go ahead, keep throwing it in my face. It don’t bother me at all, sister.” His red-veined eyes glared at her. “The only thing I’m sorry for, I should of done a better job while I was at it.” He scooped up the beer, jammed the bowl of chips on top of the pretzels, and headed for the stairs.

  “Don’t you want a tray?” She followed him, leaning heavily on the cane.

  He twisted around, his face ugly with resentment.

  “Don’t do me no favors,” he said and turned back to the stairs.

  As he moved his foot for the first step, she lifted the padded end of the cane and gave him a violent shove that sent him plunging down the steep flight. He landed with a crash, his head smashing against the basement wall, his neck snapping with the impact. She knew with utmost certainty that he was dead.

  She turned, her step firm and assured, and crossed to the phone to call Dr. Vincent, stopping at the table on the way to lean over the memo pad and draw a neat line through KF.

  The Girlfriend

  Morris Hershman

  “Fourteen years old!” Banner’s voice was hollow. He held up the pocket snapshot that had just been passed to him. “A face like a dream, pretty blonde hair and all.”

  Mill dropped his feet from the desk, swiveled back in his chair and nodded slowly. “An average case as far as I’m concerned. You’re going to prosecute it, Mr. Assistant District Attorney, so you might as well get the facts straight.”

  “What did she do, this girl?”

  Mill crossed one foot over the other and rubbed it with thumb and forefinger. “It’s quite a story. We had to ask a lot of questions to get the real answers. We wanted to know why she did it. Maybe you’d like to know about the why, first.” He sighed. “Being a cop is such a rough job on the nerves because a cop can’t afford to have nerves.”

  Mill liked to make little speeches about what it took to be a cop. In the years that Banner had known him, four or five, it happened at least once whenever they met. They weren’t close friends; Mill couldn’t talk about much but a cop’s job. He seemed to have no outside interests at all.

  “If you look this over,” Mill said, pointing to a number of typewritten sheets clipped together, “you’ll get some idea. What you got to know about a girl like this is that it’s not all her fault, no matter what kind of nasty thing she did.”

  Banner picked up the sheets and settled them in his lap. They were in question-and-answer form. The girl’s name was Alice King.

  Q: How old are you, honey?

  A: Fourteen. Fourteen, last December.

  Q: What school do you go to, Alice?

  A: Marley Junior High.

  Q: You get good grades?

  A: B’s and B-plusses.

  Q: Do you have a lot of boyfriends?

  A: No!

  Banner frowned at the pocket-size photograph. “Good-looking kid. Why’s she so quick to say she hasn’t got a lot of boyfriends?”

  Mill scratched his foot again, then the back of an ear. He lit a cigar and puffed until it was drawing nicely. “Nothing else she could say. Of course, at the time I didn’t know it myself. Don’t forget we had just picked her up a little while before.”

  It had grown dark, and Mill flicked on the desk lamp. In the building, on three sides of them, men scurried back and forth. Outside the window, a pink dot could be seen far away, apparently the bathroom of a private home. Close to it was a larger window with blinds down, and bright light glaring out through a wider slit at the top.

  “That kid,” Mill said suddenly. “She ought to have been having the time of her life, going to proms and things. At that age, a girl’s just finding out that she is a girl, and she sure as hell likes the idea.”

  Banner shrugged, then looked down to the sheet that was now on top.

  A: No!

  Q: Did you ever have a job, Alice?

  A: You mean a job where I worked outside my house?

  Q: That’s right.

  A: Only part-time. I worked in a department store for a while, but the job didn’t last.

  Q: Why not?

  A: They were stingy—cheap, you know—and they kept me working after hours and wouldn’t pay me extra for that. My mother said it was practically white slavery. She told them off.

  Q: And after your mother told them off, you left the job?

  A: I was fired.

  Q: What kind of a job did you get then, Alice?

  Banner looked up, frowning. “The mother sounds like a louse. Alice doesn’t want to talk about her.”

  “If you ask me,” Mill shrugged, “the mother’s a good-natured, hearty, heavy drinking, foolish woman. Maybe that’s why the kid—go on reading, Ban, you’ll see.”

  Q: What kind of a job did you get then, Alice?

  A: In a dress shop, but just about the same thing happened. So my mother said I ought to work for her. She said she’d pay me ten dollars a week if I’d keep the house nice and clean before she—uh, worked.

  Q: Sounds like a soft touch.

  A: It was okay, for a while.

  Q: What went sour?

  A: I might as well tell you. Usually, mother kept me away from the house till half-past twelve at night. I’d stay over at a girl friend’s place. But sometimes I had trouble with some of the customers. One of them, a Mr. Dail, sees mother twice a week. He happened to come in a little earlier once when I was cleaning. Mr. Dail took one look at me and said to mother: “I’d pay twenty dollars for just a half hour with her.”

  Q: What did your mother say?

  A: She said no. She said she wouldn’t let her kid do that. But Mr. Dail, he kept talking about it and after a few minutes, mother said that the rent was coming up in a few days and she was paying more than usual for protection. To the cops, I mean.

  Q: So you went into the bedroom with Mr. Dail?

  A: Mother said I wouldn’t have any trouble. When Mr. Dail and I, the two of us, we
re finished, she was making jokes about it. All the time we were in there, though, she sat outside sobbing a little.

  Banner, looking up, caught Mill’s drily amused eyes. He avoided them, stood and walked to the window. The pinkish bathroom light far away had been put out. The sounds of routine police business had increased in tempo.

  Finally, after swallowing quickly, Banner asked: “Did Alice King turn pro?”

  The cop, openly pleased by his interest, pointed to the sheets. “Read the q-and-a, you’ll see.” He added thoughtfully, “You know, I don’t think you can imagine what the kid was like. Very refined, always smoothing down her skirt. When she asked for a glass of water she tacked on, ‘please.’ Never blamed her crime on circumstances or said she was victimized. In fact, a good kid. Like your daughter would be, if you had one.”

  Q: Did you do it with other men, Alice?

  A: Sometimes. Mother always told them I was twelve and a virgin. She always charged more money for me than for herself. Up to twenty-five dollars. After it was over, she would give me five dollars for myself. Mother wouldn’t let me do it more than twice a week.

  Q: How many men would you say you’ve slept with, Alice?

  A: I don’t know.

  Q: Ten? Is it that many?

  A: I don’t know.

  Q: Twenty?

  A: I don’t know.

  Q: Thirty? Forty? Fifty? Give me a number that’s close to the truth, Alice.

  A: Fifty, maybe.

  Mill said, “You can skip the part where she gives names. The Vice Squad boys have picked up the ones she remembers, and they’re in for a bad time. Your boss, the D.A., he’ll see to that.”

  Banner said quietly: “At least I know now what you’re holding the girl for. Delinquency. An easy case to prosecute. In her set-up, it could have been something worse.”