The Terrible Girls

by Rebecca Brown

  I set the wheel lock on my coffee cart and tiptoed over to look in the room. You were standing at the podium. I could see your profile from the back, lit up by the little podium light shining on your text. I looked out at the people watching you. They were shuffling in their seats and glancing at one another out of the corners of their eyes or over the rims of their glasses. Some of them sadly shook their heads. Some of their lips moved, whispering. They all saw through you.

  There was one place where you departed from The Children’s Book of Knowledge Encyclopedia article you’d copped. Everyone looked up from their laps when they heard you stutter. They were afraid you’d collapse – what if you were so tired you had a heart attack right then and there! I almost barged in to carry you away. But you caught your breath and continued your lecture. You said the words you’d stuttered over: coffee-cart girls.

  I pressed my face to the glass and stared at you. You cleared your throat and adjusted your glasses and looked down your nose as if you were not quite used to talking about such things in company, other than clinically. You described the black skirt and white cap and sensible shoes I wore. You said the way one handled the coffee carts, the way one lifted the doughnuts from the tray, the movement of one’s wrists and neck and shoulders when one poured coffee made it quite obvious what one was.

  What should have been obvious to me was what you’d made me.

  You were recounting, once again, the age-old questions: What makes one turn into a coffee-cart girl? Heredity or Environment? Dominant-submissive or submissive-dominant? Childhood clothing and games? How long one is breast fed? Or simply something very, very wicked? Then you launched into How to Deal with Them. Are they to be pitied or reviled? Are they to be treated as criminals, disturbed or handicapped? Everyone who was listening to you was polite. They shifted in their seats, stopped taking notes of what you said and started doodling to make it look like they were still taking notes, and also so they wouldn’t have to meet your eyes if you looked out at them. You spoke as if your interest was purely academic. Though nothing you have ever done was pure.

  I wondered if you actually thought the people you were speaking to believed you. Because the fact is, the people you were lying to, the colleagues you said you didn’t respect in the first place, had figured you out ages ago. Despite what you thought of them, they weren’t dumb. And they couldn’t have cared less about what you were lying about. However, they were puzzled. Why is she lying, they whispered, Why is she saying such dumb archaic stuff? They tolerated you though, with the sweet sad sympathy of people who hoped they’d never be victim to the same self-delusion as you. They pretended they did not see through you. They felt embarrassment for you. They felt the pity felt for fools.

  You’d always wondered what they’d say about you. What they were saying was, Poor dear, who does she think she’s kidding, who’s she lying for?

  The person you were lying for was you.

  At the end of the talk, there was polite applause, but no questions. They squirmed in their seats with embarrassment, hoping someone else would come up with some polite little comment or query for the discussion period. They all knew if they opened their mouths they’d only say, You don’t really believe any of that stuff, do you? Or, Poor old dear, why can’t you just admit it? They all were thinking, sadly, that they’d humor you as long as they had to put up with you. They knew, as I did not, that they didn’t have much longer to wait.

  That night there was a party in the big room. The room was supposed to be done up like a ballroom, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the things that had not been properly covered: the fold-up dining hall tables, the lunky cash registers at the ends of the self-serve cafeteria lines, the wrestling mats hanging on the south walls, the thick, heavy fire-resistant curtain on the stage. This was not a ballroom but a thinly disguised cafeteria and sometime gym. Beneath the smell of this evening’s catered canapés, I could smell years of boiled cabbage and boiled potatoes and steamed hotdogs and sweatsocks. Everybody made a good show of not being aghast at the shoddy décor. But I couldn’t help thinking of those awful high school dances, sock hops where everyone stood around nervous and sweaty and pimply under our Clearasil hoping we would, and praying we wouldn’t, be asked to dance.

  The lights were low. There was no furniture out except at the sides, long tables for the bar and canapés, and at the back, one long table for coffee and tea. I stood by the table at the back in my black dress and white apron and doily cap and sensible shoes. I served people coffee in china cups and saucers and asked them if they’d like milk or sugar. For tonight, we had real milk and sugar, not the little packets. I pointed to the bright shiny silver pitcher of milk and the shiny silver bowl of granulated sugar. I had my standard two pots going – coffee and hot water for tea or decaf. From time to time I’d partly lift the pots to see if I was running out and would need to refill one. Only once did I have to unplug the coffee pot and go back to the kitchen and ask them to fill it again. I didn’t like to leave my table unattended, and I hated having to tell people that I was temporarily out of coffee but would have a fresh pot in a few minutes. I gave each person a napkin with their cup and saucer, a bigger napkin than they got, which they only got on request, with their drinks from the alcoholic bar.

  Someone knocked the milk pitcher over. I thought it was someone who had had an alcoholic drink too many. I was pouring coffee so I didn’t see who it was. The milk spilled on the table, wilting and wetting the crisp white pseudo-cloth table cloth. The milk spilt over the back of the table too. I wiped the biggest spill off the table, then squatted down under the table to wipe the wall and floor. When I was under the table, my dress pulled tight against me, I felt someone pawing my butt. I spun around as quick as I could, which wasn’t very quick beneath the table, to slap the person who had taken such liberty with me: you.

  I hadn’t recognized your hands.

  It was awful to have forgotten the touch of your hands.

  My hand was raised to strike you, but you didn’t notice.

  Do you know what this party is for? you whispered.

  It’s – it’s just a party, isn’t it? I stammered, lowering my hand.

  You put your finger to your lips. No, you whispered. You leaned close to me. I smelled your breath; it wasn’t coffee. This is my retirement party.

  I was too excited to ask you why you hadn’t told me before. I blurted out, Then we can leave tonight.

  You smiled, but put your finger to your lips to silence me. You pressed your hands on my legs above my knees. I had to steady myself with my hands on the floor, but it was hard scrunched beneath the table.

  Tonight – I whispered, unable to contain myself.

  Wait, you said, like a bad joke was over between us. Your eyes were bright.

  When I opened my mouth again to ask you where we’d meet and when and the arrangements, you covered my mouth with yours so I’d be quiet. You knew a kiss would always, every time, keep me from asking, you from telling.

  Wait, you said again. You squeezed my legs with your hands again then scooted out from under the table.

  I sat under the table a couple seconds watching your feet, your calves and bottom of your skirt, walk briskly away. Then I shook off my daze of happiness and went back to work. I got back on my hands and knees and finished wiping up the milk. When I returned to pouring coffee, there was a sudden rush at the coffee table, like at an intermission. I worked hard and took care of everyone. I was so busy and so eager to be finished waiting that I barely noticed the people I served or heard what they were whispering about.

  After the rush was over, the lights in the room began to dim. I heard the rattle of coffee cups against saucers. When I looked up everyone was adjusting their coffee on their laps, their bodies in their seats, more comfortably. There were rows of folding metal chairs with an aisle down the middle from front to back of the room. Someone had been very busy, perhaps as busy as I, when I’d been pouring coffee. In front of me I saw a roomful of
backs of heads. When the house lights were dimmed halfway, one of your colleagues in a dowdy grey suit with thick, black-rimmed coke bottle glasses walked on to stage. She stood behind a podium and scratched the mic to see if it worked. The whole room crackled. She cleared her throat, leaning too close, then too far away from the mic. She said, Good evening, ahem, what a marvellous convention this has been. Then how well run and efficient, etc. and then how none of this would have been possible without the tireless efforts of one amongst us.

  This time, for once, you hadn’t seated yourself on stage or front and center so everyone could see you. This time, rather, you sat at the back of the room, pretending you didn’t expect to be called up for acknowledgement. You sat in the last row in the room, the humblest and lowliest, the one in front of the coffee table, in front of me. I stood at work, my hands clasped tidily over my white apron, ready in a moment to pour a cup of coffee or tea for anyone who asked.

  From where I stood, I could see your perfectly straight back. Your back is strong and square and white. I knew exactly what every bit of you looked like. When your dowdy colleague said, All the way at the back of the room … the people you’d always said you didn’t give a damn about turned and looked at you and smiled. They couldn’t see me standing behind you waiting in the dark. You bowed your head as if you were very humble and very touched and as if you hadn’t ordered the chairs set out thus, as if you hadn’t calculated exactly where you’d sit. Everyone looking back at you started to applaud. Your colleague on stage clapped loudly, her hands above the mic. She was actually quite sweet. After a generous round of clapping, she asked, Banner lights, please, and a banner above the stage was illuminated. I saw a roomful of backs of heads turn simultaneously. The banner said THANK YOU and GOOD LUCK and then your name, Miss – That’s the part I looked at most. Your colleague started reciting into the scratchy microphone the official version of your long career of selfless, tireless dedication. She said what an inspiration and what an example you were. I stood at attention, my back to, but not touching, the edge of the coffee table. Part of me thought, If they only knew. But another part of me also felt a secret pleasure in knowing I knew the secrets of you that they did not. Despite myself, I felt a smile forming on my face, for you. But I hid it. Also for you.

  Then your colleague asked the house lights to be cut entirely. For a second the room was completely dark. Though I couldn’t see, I pretended I could, the back of your head, and that it turned around and looked at me. A spotlight was switched on above, to the right of your colleague. She cleared her throat as the light staggered over to her. She blinked into it, her coke-bottle glasses reflecting harshly. She fidgeted around in a flat grey purse she’d pulled from inside the podium. From the purse she removed a small package wrapped in festive, but sensible, shiny silver paper. About the size of a watch or a pair of pens.

  I am most honored, she said slowly, trying to sound solemn, on behalf of all of us, to make this very small presentation as a very small token of our very great esteem and gratitude and respect for a most deserving one amongst us. Your colleague said, If we could possibly persuade our generous and tired and hard-working hostess of the past marvellous conference to let go her hard work for just a moment (knowing chuckles across the room), I should like to ask her to come forward. (Dramatic pause.) Miss—

  I’d been so taken in by the theatrics of the darkness and the stage’s single light, and of the long-windedness of the speaker, and of my eagerness to leave and of the practical business of leaving – is it too late to book a train? would I have time to pack a bag? how many pairs of shoes would you need? a regular or a traveller’s size of toothpaste? – that I hadn’t noticed anyone sneak up beside me.

  But when your colleague called your name, Miss – you grabbed me.

  You grab my hand and pull me. On stage, as she expects you to make your slow, hand-shaking way up to the front of the room, your colleague departs from the official version to add something new: you’re about to embark on the dream of a lifetime. Because you’ve grabbed my hand, because you’re dragging me out of the back, I don’t hear the details.

  Your free hand pushes the horizontal push bar on the door.

  The two big metal doors close behind us. We hurry out into the night.

  It isn’t easy to run in my tights and black skirt and apron. I tear my white doily cap off and drop my apron as we run across the back courtyard. The white-grey stones look like a million tiny moons, smooth and round beneath us. You pull me across the courtyard to the clipped green grass. It’s damp and my rubber soles squeak on it. I hear us breathing as we run, and behind us I hear puzzled shouts, Where is she, Where’s she gone? Your moist hand, warmer as we run, is tight. It’s tighter as you pull me to the river.

  The land begins to slope down near the river. The ground gets slick with mud. You fling your arm around my back and we slip down the bank. Moonlight falls on the still river in a flat wide line. You push into the river, your body cutting the water into black triangular arrowheads. The black water climbs your calves and thighs. I stand at the edge of the water, wetness sucking around my ankles. The water is cold. I turn back to look at the big, light, well-kept place we’ve run away from. They’ve turned on the floodlights. The lights look harsh, accusing, against the honey-colored stones.

  In the courtyard the conventioneers, your former colleagues, rush around looking for you. They open doors and windows. One of them picks up my apron and waves it, What’s this? None of them notices I’m missing. A few of them have flashlights whose matchstick beams are weak against the sky. They look so small. Some of them run out to the grass. I wonder if someone will come to the edge of the river. They’re so concerned for you. I feel sad for them. I almost want to shout to them that you’re all right, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say something to them?

  I want to ask you why but when I turn to you I see your back in front of me. Your hair and clothes are black. I almost can’t see you against the black sky and the water. When you feel me looking at you, you turn around. Your face is white except the black slit opening of your mouth.

  Come on.

  I hesitate.

  What are you waiting for?

  I turn back to the old place again.

  Don’t wait.

  When I look at you, you’ve turned around again. You are heading deeper in the river.

  Black water is up to your back. I hear water lap you as it climbs your shoulders. The back of your neck is a white line; everything else is black. I expect you to dive in the water and swim but you don’t. Your head goes under, your hands splash up. You’re waving frantically. Your voice gargles: I can’t swim.

  I run a few paces then take a breath and dive into the water. The water feels thick and oily, my skin can’t breathe. I open my eyes underwater but I can’t see. My stomach tightens. I swim to where you went under but I can’t see you. I swim below so long my lungs feel tight. Water starts coming in my mouth and nose. I need to swim up for air, but I feel something in my hands, your hair. I try to grab but it sways away like an underwater plant. I reach for your body though I can’t see it. My hand finds your lips and eyelids. I cup my hand beneath your chin and pull you up towards the surface. When I go up my ears pop. I hadn’t realized how deeply you’d sunk. When we break through the surface we’re panting.

  You’ve got to carry me across, you tell me, I can’t swim.

  I turn on my side and turn you so your back is in front of me. Your body moves very easily through the water. I reach my arm over your neck, across your chest and hold you by the pit of your arm. The skin inside my upper arm and forearm feels you breathe. The back of your head is in front of my face, your hair stuck up like spiky grass. I smooth your hair down, pressing my palm to touch you. You don’t say anything.

  Your back is against my hips, your shoulders are against my breast. I feel the slight, regular shift of you each stroke. I do not see your face.

  But though we’re close and though I’m pulling us, and
though my skin is near you, there is some thing between us. The oily water coats us with a separating skin. What I touch isn’t you, but what’s between us.

  The river is wide. We’ve stirred the water up. By the middle of the river, where the strongest current is, I’m tired. My head sinks. I sputter. You don’t say anything. I don’t know how long I can carry us.

  When I feel the river bottom beneath my feet, I stumble.

  We’re across, I say. I hold you under my arm a moment longer than I need to before I say, We can walk the rest of the way. I start to take my hand from your neck.

  I can’t, you say. You hesitate. I can’t walk. I sprained my ankle when I fell. You look away from me. You’ll have to carry me.

  I squat back into the water and hoist you on my back. You’re much heavier than you were in the water. Your clothes drip on me.

  I can’t walk, you say again, as if I haven’t believed you.

  The bank rises up. It’s a slippery climb into the woods. Tree branches scratch my face and arms. I trip over roots, in holes, but I don’t drop you.

  You don’t say anything to me, but sometimes I hear you breathing as you sleep.

  After a long time beneath your weight, I fall.

  We’ve got to stop, I say, I’m tired, I’ve got to rest.

  I start to put you down but you clutch my neck. You can’t stop now, you say.

  I’m tired, I need to rest.

  Not here, you say.

  We are in the woods. But there’s no place near, I say.

  There’s a house ahead.

  I can’t see anything in the dark.

  You’ll see it soon, you say. You tighten your arms and legs around my body.

  I’m so tired. You’ll have to tell me where, I sigh. I readjust your thighs on my hips.

  You point your finger in front of us, through the trees. This way, you say.

  You lead us to the dark house.

  No clearing is around it. All of a sudden, right up against the back of the trees, there’s a picket fence surrounding an overgrown yard. The yard is around a huge house. The turrets and gables and roof of the house are sharp, and blacker than the sky.