She felt a tug as Cora pulled the silk through the back of her hair and it whispered in. Her scalp tingled with the memory of girlfriends in the school yard plaiting each other’s hair, all in a circle working at one another’s back, fingers weaving while the pleasure crept along their necks and over the tops of their ears. She closed her eyes to feel it better. Never mind that Cora was grooming her like a purebred dog for a show.
Cora tied a bow and smoothed the hair toward it like a mother would.
“This blue is heaven with your new red dress,” she said.
Christina opened her eyes to look. Of course she could not see the ribbon now, at the back of her head; she had to take Cora’s word for it. Even the scarlet dress was faded by the murky glass of the mirror. Christina had been surprised when her mother agreed to such rich, vivid fabric at the store. “I gave it to her on discount,” Cora confided, nudging her, “and she did give in. She couldn’t resist the price for such good lawn, of course. Don’t tell Father,” and she winked. Christina thought Cora was a good friend, making sure she had the brightest dress to give her the best chance of attracting Jackson.
Cora’s mouth fell open a little over her white teeth as she fussed around Christina, who had stood up, suddenly impatient. Cora smoothed the back of her dress and fastened a button they had missed.
“Is it too soon to go yet?”
Cora glanced at the clock. “Just a little bit. We don’t want to get there and stand around while they warm up the fiddles.”
“Tell me, Cora, who are you hoping to dance with?”
Now Cora checked her own figure in the mirror. She smiled at herself, and the points of her eye teeth came out.
“Robert Owens, I think.”
“Robert Owens! He’s old enough to be your father.”
Cora smiled. “He’s probably not quite that old.”
“Even so. What would people think?”
“Oh, who gives a damn what people think!”
Christina was shocked that Cora would curse. But with no one else in the room to hear her, the word wafted harmlessly up like a curious moth.
“Why would you want to take up with a man like that?” she asked.
“A man like what?”
“Well, that nobody knows. Someone who travels from town to town selling things, living off of luck with no steady job. He doesn’t even have an automobile. Or a horse of his own.”
“I don’t expect him to whisk me away to a castle. I just thought he might dance with me, is all.” She patted her hair and watched her reflection do the same.
“But what’s the point of it?”
“I would enjoy it. That’s the point.”
Christina looked at Cora in her pale green dress and thought how easily she would turn the men her way when she went through the room. Even if Christina’s dress was brighter, she would never turn heads like Cora. She shrugged. “Well, have fun dancing with him, then.”
Cora pointed at her. “And you will be dancing with Jackson Banks.”
Christina tilted her head. “What makes you think that? He doesn’t pay any more attention to me than he used to. And since I started ignoring him, he can just go ahead and forget I exist. I think this plan isn’t working.”
“Nonsense. I told you. Jackson hasn’t made up his mind yet who he wants. He doesn’t have the first clue what he’s about. All we have to do is spin him around and point him in the right direction.”
“We might as well be spinning him and pointing him at Pin the Tail on the Donkey. He could so easily blunder off to the side, and miss the mark.”
“Of course he won’t. I won’t let him. You just have to trust me.”
Christina sighed. She had never really gotten anything she wanted badly by trusting Cora Jenkins, but that was not for Cora’s lack of effort. She remembered when they were little girls and Christina had her heart set on playing Mary, for once, in the Christmas pageant. Every year she was an angel or a shepherd, something that could be easily herded about unnoticed within the larger assemblage. Cora knew how much, despite her shyness, Christina secretly coveted that role. Wearing the old blue velvet robe, that chosen girl would come silently down the aisle with Joseph (sometimes riding the back of a papier-mâché donkey head stuck on the end of a broom, for effect) and sit gleaming in the candlelight as she gazed solemnly down at her newborn babe, magically produced when the time came from behind some bales of hay at the altar and sailed into her lap.
Cora was not afflicted with Christina’s shyness and put up her hand when the question of Mary’s role came up at Sunday school in early December. “I know who would make a beautiful Mary, Mrs. Heebner,” she called out, and before she could say another word, Mrs. Heebner, glancing up from her clipboard, said briskly, “Cora Jenkins, that’s just fine. Why don’t you be Mary this year,” and dismissed them all. Christina knew that her friend had not acted out of malice, and she let Cora drape a sympathetic arm across her slumped shoulders as they walked homeward together. But alone in her room, she cried her hot tears and wondered why, why she did not have the same courage, why she could not speak up and take things as other girls did.
The spring night was chilly, so they pulled their shadowy coats on over their dresses, like smothering fires with blankets. All around them others were heading to the schoolhouse as well, and the sun hung low and haunted them from within the trees. Horses made their way among the crowd, and even occasional motorcars honked their way through.
Robert Owens came up alongside the girls, as always with Violet Burnley on his arm.
“I think she’s hoping he might save her from old-maidhood after all,” Cora whispered to her friend. In spite of herself, Christina tittered. She wouldn’t have hurt Miss Burnley’s feelings for the world, but she was too nervous to help it. Robert turned coolly toward them and tipped his hat. “Ladies.”
“Good evening, Mr. Owens. Miss Burnley,” called Cora.
“Hello, girls. Beautiful night for a dance, isn’t it?”
“It is. I hope you are coming to play the piano for us?”
“She might,” said Robert. “If I leave her any free time between all the dances we intend to have.”
The two of them laughed and left the girls dawdling behind them.
“It’s looking like you’ll have some competition for your favorite tonight, Cora,” Christina teased.
Cora sniffed. “I always felt a bit sorry for old Violet Burnley before, but now I feel it even more. She finally has this friend—you can see how much she likes him—and why wouldn’t she? But eventually he’ll be gone, and then she’ll be even more lonely.”
“Well, her life is like that, I suppose. She’ll get another boarder eventually.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid of that, you know, for myself. Of ending up somewhere alone.”
“That could never happen to you in a thousand years! You’ll be married and probably have heaps of children.”
“I plan to be married, of course. But what if I don’t have any children? What if I end up like Evelyn Dawson? I could grow to be an old lady and have my husband die and be all by myself.”
Christina looked at her. It was not like Cora to ponder and brood. “When your husband dies and you’re an old lady by yourself, you can come and live with me.” She slipped her arm around Cora’s waist. “Now, cheer up! Forget Violet Burnley and all the old biddies. We’re going to have a marvelous time.”
“Marvelous . . .” Cora murmured to herself as they lifted their delicate shoes on the wooden steps and entered the busy hive of the dance.
Lantern light seemed to deepen the cracks in the walls, as if they were only photographs forgotten in trays of developer. Paper streamers buckled over the window frames, swinging with every breath of the opening door. Greetings called across the room were caught in them like flies. Cora and Christina were taken into the crowd and e
ddied around the room. Violet sat at the piano, waiting while the fiddlers drew their bows across the strings, tuning, tightening their voices to each other. There was Evie Dawson behind the punch table filling cups and trying to smile. Robert Owens leaned at ease against a wall, talking to some of the men; he hadn’t noticed her there.
Christina tried to scan the room but was hemmed in by all the taller, jostling shoulders; she could see no sign of Jackson Banks or his group. Maybe they wouldn’t bother to show until later on, she guessed, didn’t want to seem too eager. And always Rolf Baer’s eyes tracked her from wherever he stood. Once in a while, he stopped to look down, shifted his feet, looked up, and found her again. Christina stared back at him now, feeling bold, taking stock of him as she had never done before. Yes, his face was strange, she thought; she had not been mistaken in that. But his eyes within the face were clear and steadfast. The freckles were interesting. Something about their pepper of darkness on the white skin made her want to go over and trace them with her finger, feeling if there was any design there or drawing one of her own. It was not attraction she felt, but a curiosity was born in her. Why did he find her so fascinating? He was the only one in town who did.
Behind her a commotion broke out as Jackson Banks and his friends arrived, making a lot of noise getting themselves some food and crowding the punch bowl. Jackson, she noticed, was not above winking at Mrs. Dawson when she handed him a glass. He turned in Christina’s direction, saw her, raised his punch to her by way of hello. She forced the corners of her mouth to go upward.
Cora was busy fielding many offers to fill up her dance card. She stood like a twisting forest vine in her green dress, with the dark trunk lines of the men closing in around her. Her first partner led her into the reel, and the edges of the room blurred to a ring of clapping hands. Men and women at the center jumped with her, with the sweat beginning to polish them. The windows were open to draw in cold air, but the heat of the bodies stamped any freshness down and killed it underfoot.
Evie watched the dancers while George wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Maybe you’ll have a dance with me?” he asked her hair.
“I might,” she said. From the cuff of his arms, she saw the crowd part briefly in a wavering line that gave her a view of Robert Owens across the room. He was smiling and clapping along with everyone else. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and she saw the round bone of his wrists and the hair curling over them. Was it her imagination, or did he nod in recognition at some of the people? She looked around, and it seemed to her so many of them must have dreamed his dreams by now. And were they different as well, happier? She watched Violet at the piano and wondered what she might have bought for herself. Did she sail away into an oozing sunset on the prow of her brother’s sunken ship? Evie watched the couples dancing, then the wallflowers, edging the room with their hope like a fine ring of salt, and tried to guess what each of them might most desire. She wondered if any of them wanted the same thing she did.
As the dance ended, Cora Jenkins appeared by the dream peddler’s side. She said a few things that Robert answered, but in between his responses he looked around until his eyes found Evie standing behind the punch. His happy smile fell back, as if Evie had somehow hurt him. He touched Cora’s arm lightly without looking at her and left her there while he nudged through the moving crowd. Couples were splitting apart and re-forming for the next song. Evie could hardly see them; she saw only Robert dividing them like so many stalks of wheat. George had gone across the room for some talk; with his arms no longer around her, she felt the cool blue dark of the open window.
When the dream peddler reached her, he fitted his smile back on and nodded. “Could I have two cups of that, please?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, filling the glasses with her ladle, dripping a little down the sides. “Let me get that.” She stopped his hand before he could take them and picked each one up in turn and wiped it with a napkin. “Mr. Owens—” she began.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said smoothly, and turned and crossed back to the other side of the room before she could say any more.
“Damn,” she said to herself.
She watched Robert busy himself with Cora, the two of them drinking their punch. She studied them so intently she did not even notice George smile at her from across the room or the way his smile faded when he could not get her attention. When he took in who she was watching.
Once Robert and Cora were done with their glasses, he set them on the nearest bench instead of returning them to Evie’s table, and that thoughtlessness annoyed her. He took Cora’s hand and entered the dance, but Evie hadn’t seen his mouth open to speak any invitation. Like it was understood between them. He couldn’t possibly be courting her, thought Evie. He was much too old for her. The townspeople wouldn’t like it. And whatever else he did, she knew, Robert Owens must please the town.
She watched the couples dancing, Cora’s beauty flashing like a lighthouse beacon as she spun. Robert held her loosely, as though cupping some feathery insect that must not be crushed. She was tossing her head back when she laughed and showing the long curve of her throat.
When the dance ended, Robert bowed slightly and moved away, while the space he had left beside Cora quickly filled with another hopeful young man. She danced with them all; she never stood still. George came back and took Evie’s hand, and he led her across the boards. With her body tucked into his, she could no longer see very well, and she couldn’t tell where the dream peddler had gone.
* * *
* * *
Christina was drinking her punch without enjoying it. It tasted too sweet; when you were this hot and thirsty, you did not want something so sweet. She had watched Jackson Banks dance with three different girls, and to each he had whispered something that made her smile. Maybe the same thing to each girl, she thought. Maybe he would do that to her? She wished he would ask her to dance, if only so she could find out what it was he said to them. From deep within her thoughts, she didn’t notice Rolf Baer sidling up beside her.
“Christina. Would you have a dance with me?”
He held his arm out to her, and she found herself taking it. There was that steadiness in his eyes. He did not know how to flirt; his gaze was too slow to move. He clutched her hand until he found a clear space for them, and then he shifted his grip slightly without letting go as he placed his other palm at her waist. She set her hand lightly on his shoulder the way she’d been taught.
“You can look away sometimes, you know,” she told him.
He smiled, something she suddenly realized was rare, and many of his freckles folded in on themselves or disappeared. “I don’t want to look anywhere else,” he said.
“Well, it can make a girl kind of nervous.”
Their feet circled a pattern around the floor. She felt the movement of his hips even through the space between them, their bodies touching only at their hands.
“How’s this?” he asked her, and he stared off into the distance, frowning.
“Are you making fun of me?” she asked.
“No. I want you to like me.”
He said this to the air over her shoulder. She had no answer for him, so she looked away, too, to the side, where Evie Dawson was holding tight to George, and Jackson was busy charming the ear whorl of another giggling girl. For some reason she felt glad to be there in Rolf’s arms. He wouldn’t tease her like Jackson. Now that she had seen his eyes up close, his staring didn’t seem so bad. His pupils were wide and black, and she could see herself reflected in them in perfect miniature, like a stereograph. She looked down at her own hand cupped in his large one, with freckles even there sprinkled across his knuckles. While he steered her in a slow ellipse, she found herself losing interest in what anyone else did around them. She stared at the middle of his chest and imagined she heard there the thump of his heart like footsteps.
* * *
* * *
Robert hid outside in the shadows. The moon raised her scythe of light over the fields behind him while he peered in through the yellow window, watching Evie. The ornery hair was escaping her pins as always, and she seemed happy, clapping her hands over her head, making a hot diamond space between her arms, and bringing them back down smartly to her hips. Taking George’s hand and whirling away into the corner. Robert turned his back to the dancing and lit a cigarette, folding his hands protectively over the match as if in prayer.
“Could I have one of those?”
A young man stepped out beside him, his back brightly furred by the schoolhouse light, snuffed out again as the door closed behind him. Robert couldn’t remember the name, but he knew the boy, the grinning one, the one the girls all criticized, whose careless compliments they craved.
“How are old are you?” Robert asked him.
“Old enough.” He winked.
Robert shrugged and handed him the pack. He was struck by how much that smile reminded him of Cora, charming to get what she wanted. It was almost flirtatious. He held out the box of matches, too, and watched as the boy dragged one into fire and held it to the brown tufted end of the cigarette he’d put between his lips. To cup one hand against the breeze, he dropped the box onto the ground and Robert stooped to pick it up. The boy’s lips trembled, and the tobacco, which was rolled as tight as the tiny center of a black-eyed Susan, jiggled up and down trying to take the flame.
Robert ignored him, tucking the matches and cigarettes back into his pockets and staring out at the drunken rectangles of light cast onto the grass from the schoolroom windows. At last the boy was successful, plucked the paper tube out of his mouth, and released a satisfied vapor into the air.
The Dream Peddler Page 12
