A Dangerous Woman

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “I wonder how come nobody ever made a fuss like this over my birthday?” he said.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “It was. Last week, as a matter of fact!” He reached past her to put his glass in the sink.

  “Really? I wish I’d known!” Seeing him wince, she quickly asked, “So, anyway, how old are you?”

  “Too old!” He pushed open the door.

  “No, you’re not! You look young.”

  He turned from the door. “You know, speaking of old, it fascinates me, Horace Beecham and all his money, and your aunt ending up with everything. What did your father think of Beecham?” he asked. “What did he say about him?”

  “Not much, really. My father was awful quiet.” Her eyes hungrily scanned his face, then held on his soft thin mouth.

  “What about Beecham marrying his sister, just a young girl—didn’t that bother him?”

  She tried to remember if her father had ever said a word about it in her presence. He hadn’t. The most she had ever heard had come from the old women at the boardinghouse, and the way they told it, Frances Horgan had been a teenage tramp who had seduced a lonely old man, knowing he would do the honorable thing and marry her. There were even rumors that her affair with Steve had begun right under the old man’s nose. Martha didn’t believe any of it.

  “I keep thinking about it,” Mack said. “A wealthy old man like that, marrying such a young girl. And such a poor girl. Do you know any of your relatives?”

  She told him that the only ones she had ever met had been the young couple who had been looking for work the same day Mack had come. He asked her if she had ever been to the Flatts. She hadn’t.

  “Would you like to? Wouldn’t you like to meet your relatives and hear all those old stories?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like meeting new people. Are you writing about this?” she asked, suddenly wondering. “Is that what your book’s about?”

  “They’re still crooked, aren’t they?” he said, adjusting her glasses as he might a crooked picture, and as soon as he removed his hand, they shifted again, one lens higher than the other.

  The bus let her off in front of Cushing’s, where she went straight to the Ladies’ Department and picked three dresses off the rack. Trapped in this stuffy little stall, she still hadn’t undressed, because the limp curtain over the doorway kept gaping open, which gave her no privacy, with the young women on both sides of her parading back and forth between stalls to show each other their outfits.

  “God, I feel like such a horse,” one woman said from outside Martha’s stall.

  “God, I feel like such a horse,” Martha repeated under her breath, holding the curtain shut.

  “What?” the woman called.

  “Just go,” she muttered. “Will you just go.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” called the other woman.

  “Someone did!” the woman said, swatting Martha’s curtain on her way to her own stall.

  “I guess some people have nothing better to do,” said the other woman, her arms rising over the top of the stall as she tugged off a black shirt.

  “I guess some people have nothing better to do,” Martha whispered. Glancing down, she noticed the glint of straight pins in the dust. She picked them up and quickly pinned the curtains together, from top to bottom.

  “Kath? I’m outta here!”

  “Me too, but wait’ll I dress!”

  She tensed on the edge of the narrow bench, waiting until she was sure they were gone, before she took off her clothes.

  She was about to try on the third dress when the salesgirl’s spiked heels clicked into the dressing area. “How ya doing, hon? Need any help?” called Leona Huessel, younger sister of an old schoolyard tormentor. “Oh,” she said, trying to part the curtain. “Somebody pinned it.” She yanked the curtain open from the side and stuck her head in.

  Embarrassed by her dingy underwear, Martha ducked against the wall, huddling close to the curtain.

  “Oh! There you are!” Leona Huessel said, looking to the side.

  Martha crumpled the dress to her chest.

  “How’re you doing?” Leona Huessel smiled. “Need any help?”

  “I’m done,” she said, not moving.

  Leona Huessel stepped right into the dressing room with her. With a disapproving frown, she scooped up the two dresses Martha had dropped on the floor. “Did you like any of them?”

  “I’m going to buy those,” she said. She still hadn’t decided, but seeing them over Leona’s arm alarmed her.

  “Great! I’ll just take this one too,” Leona said, reaching for the dress she still clutched. “And I’ll get you rung up and …”

  “No!” Martha said, pulling back on the dress.

  Leona’s hand fell from the dress. “Sure. Take your time,” she said before she hurried out onto the floor.

  With her dresses in a shopping bag, Martha climbed the stairs to the second floor. In the shoe salon she bought a pair of black canvas flats with long skinny straps that the salesman demonstrated three times how to wind and tie around her ankles. The salesman took the new shoes to the register. While Martha was putting her old ones back on, a woman came in and sat in the opposite chair. She could feel the woman staring at her.

  “Hello, Martha. How have you been?” the woman asked, and now Martha looked at her. “I’m Patsy Bell,” the woman said. “Steve’s …” There was an imperceptible blink. “Steve and Anita’s daughter.”

  “Oh!” Martha sighed with a smile, remembering the day they had spent together years ago. That euphoric fall afternoon of hot dogs and cold prickly sodas at the fairgrounds, with pale cotton candy, had sparked Martha’s near-hysterical certainty, amid the bright throngs of people and gaudy, spinning rides, that somehow everything had changed, so that the polite, freckled child who held fast to her adored father’s hand and with prodding said little more to Martha than “Hello, thank you, would you care for some of my popcorn,” would be, by virtue of all the cruelties she did not commit that day, Martha’s best friend forever. Afterward, for months and months, her yearning for Patsy Bell careened through her consciousness like a wobbly wheel even she found disconcerting.

  Though they never again went anywhere together, Patsy’s life provided the vicarious data necessary for imagining what normal life was like. In a sense Patsy became that childhood friend who had moved far away, to another state or country, but still kept in touch. As Steve would describe Patsy’s birthday or appendectomy or new kitten, Martha would memorize every word. And then, in those painful conversations with new people, or with other children, she could mention that Samantha was the name of Patsy’s favorite doll. No, thank you, she didn’t eat peanuts; her friend Patsy hated peanuts. Patsy’s favorite color was green. Patsy won a ribbon for archery her first summer at camp. That was a blue ribbon. Now she had a bow and arrow on her charm bracelet. Patsy’s charm bracelet was silver. Patsy-cake, Patsy-cake, Martha’s friend. Bakes her a cake as fast as she can. Until, finally, Frances had forbidden any mention of Patsy’s name.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father,” Patsy said. Her tanned arms were covered with freckles. Short and kittenish, with feathery red hair and green eyes, she smelled of lavender. Did she still remember that day at the fair, Martha wondered. Probably not. She had been married and divorced; she was a high-school French teacher; she had been to Paris six times; Steve said she even dreamed in French.

  She nodded, realizing Patsy was waiting for her reply. “Yes. He died.”

  “I remember what a strong, quiet man he was. Such bearing about him.”

  Again she nodded. “And your father’s a very nice man too!” Oh, that was stupid. That was so stupid. “It’s almost his birthday, isn’t it? His sixtieth! Are you coming to the party?”

  “Apparently not.” Patsy looked at her.

  “It’s a surprise party. Over a hundred people.” She took a deep breath and thumped her chest. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said anythin
g. I’m sorry. I’m awful sorry,” she said, getting up. “I shouldn’t have said anything!”

  Patsy smiled wearily. “Don’t worry about it,” she sighed.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking of. I guess that’s what happened, I just wasn’t thinking.” She laughed nervously. “I haven’t seen you in so long I got nervous. Actually, I was thinking of that day, and you probably don’t even remember—I mean, you’ve been to Paris six times—but I thought that was a wonderful day. I always remembered that day.”

  Patsy looked at her. “What day is that?”

  “The day we went to the fair with Steve and … my aunt.”

  “Oh yes,” Patsy said, nodding with a weak smile. “We were just little pills, weren’t we?”

  “Do you remember all the rides we went on?” she asked, grinning. “And the elephants Steve won for us? Mine was pink and yours was blue! They had little black hats, do you remember?”

  “No, not really. I don’t remember the details.”

  “I do. I remember EVERYTHING about that day.”

  “Well, that’s nice it’s been such a pleasant memory for you,” Patsy said. She glanced toward the salesman who waited at the register for Martha.

  “I could call you sometime and we could talk about that day,” Martha offered, and she did not need such a stricken look to know, as the words hung in the air, that the last thing in the world Patsy Bell wanted was a call from Martha Horgan. She picked up her bag. “I better go. I have an awful lot to do and so I better go.” She started toward the register.

  “Martha!” Patsy said, following her. “It’s just very awkward,” she whispered. “I mean, under the circumstances.” She looked right at Martha. “It’s always been very hard. I hope you know what I mean.”

  She never took elevators. She paused on the stairs for breath. One more flight and she would be on the fifth floor. She kept thinking about what Patsy had said, what she had meant. If things had been different, they might have been friends; the only barrier all these years had been Steve’s and Frances’s affair.

  On the fifth floor, she pretended to look at cosmetic bags while she tried to work up the courage to go into the beauty salon. She kept glancing at the pink doors. She didn’t know what to do once she got inside, go sit in a chair or wait for someone to help her. She didn’t even know what to tell them about her hair. Her father had always cut it. In the last few months, she had tried to trim it herself, but it always came out uneven.

  Behind the glass case a young woman with blonde hair and bright-red lipstick and long red fingernails stared at her.

  Martha’s face reddened and she dropped the cosmetic bag. “I’m just looking!” she insisted, folding her arms to show she wasn’t a shoplifter. “That’s all I’m doing, just looking,” she muttered, chin at her chest.

  “I’m tryna get your flair,” the woman said, looking her up and down. “I’d say you’re …” She bit her lip. “Intro!” she announced, pointing, pleased with her choice. Picking up a long white tab, she read, “The Intro woman is serious and quiet-minded, but her heart’s all razzamatazz.” The young woman held out the tab. “See. It tells your colors and your scents.”

  The Intro woman is introspective and creative, Martha read. At home in cool greens and vibrant blues. Her scents are woodsy and clean, like rain in a pine forest.…

  “These are the ones that, like, go with your flair, with Intro,” the young woman said, setting a round gold box on the counter. Its lid said INTRO in raised black letters. “It’s like a whole beauty supply for your life-flair. See. It’s got all your colors, your Cool Greens, your Electric Blues,” she said, reading the various tubes and bottles and pencils and cylinders, her slick red lips catching the glint of the cut-glass chandeliers. She glanced at her watch. “I’ll tell you what. If you got time, I could do like a make-over for you. That way, you get the kit at regular price and the Intro cologne by Dorene for like half.” Each sentence ended like a question. “Sit here,” she said, patting the tall stool. “It’s a one-week promo. Today’s the last day.” She shook out a black-and-gold plastic bib and tied it around Martha’s neck. “I love doing Intros,” the young woman said. Pencil in hand, she leaned close to Martha. Her breath smelled of coffee and the peppermint gum she nibbled. “You’re all so sexy,” she murmured, tracing a line of deep blue around Martha’s unblinking eye.

  She tried to keep a straight face while the young woman brushed and stroked her face, but her smile kept breaking through. Her eyes closed now with the gentle whisk of the brush and the young woman’s breath on her cheeks.

  “Wow!” the young woman said, and she held up a mirror. “You look beautiful!”

  Without her glasses, all she could make out was the red shimmer of her mouth. When she put on her glasses, the mirror was gone and the young woman was wrapping the makeup and cologne in gold tissue paper. “You look great,” she said with a bright smile as she handed Martha her change and her glossy black-and-gold bag. “But you really oughta have your hair done. Some new way. Layered and off your face.”

  Martha asked if that was what she should tell them in the beauty parlor. Shrugging, the young woman said it was up to her; that was just her suggestion. “What do you usually have done?” the young woman asked.

  “Well, this is my first time,” Martha said.

  “Oh, so you must be new here, like me,” the young woman said. “I thought you acted a little strange, like you didn’t, you know, know the routine.” She locked her register and told Martha to follow her. She’d take care of everything. “And I’ll get you Carmela. She’s like excellent.”

  The waiting room was crowded. While Martha looked at a magazine, the young woman talked to the receptionist. “You’re all set with Carmela,” the young woman came back to tell her. Martha stood up and took her hand. “Thank you,” she said, with a hearty shake. “I just want to tell you you’re a good worker. And that’s very important. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Yah, well.” Blinking, the young woman pulled back her hand. “Have a good haircut, now.”

  Carmela’s stony breasts jabbed Martha whenever she leaned close. Her unfiltered cigarette burned to a long acrid ash in the tin ashtray on the counter while she told Martha all about her ex-husband, who raced cars in Burlington, and the doughnut maker he had impregnated while they were married, and her sister, who had a tumor in a place Martha did not care to know about; and her three Siamese cats, and her son’s wrestling team—she thought his coach was getting ready to ask her out. “’Course, I happen to know he’s still married. But I figure I’ll deal with that river when we cross it. God, your hair’s thick.” She lifted a strand of hair and looked in the mirror at her. “There’s like a whole section missing. What’d you do, get gum in it or something?”

  “It got caught,” Martha said. “I was late. It was a PlastiqueWare party and my friend invited me. Her name’s Birdy. The thing got stuck.” She gestured at the curling iron on the counter.

  “Oh yah,” Carmela said, lighting another cigarette. She took a long drag, then blew the smoke over her shoulder. “You used to be at the Cleaners, right? Yah. Sure, I know Birdy. God, we go way back, me and Birdy.”

  The scissors snipped so near her temple she squeezed her eyes shut.

  “So, all right. Martha Horgan. Sure. Now I know who you are.” Carmela kept cutting near the top of her ear. “How ’bout her and Getso? Now, there’s a twosome I never would’ve even dreamed of. Really. I mean Getso! Ugh.” She shuddered. “He’s like such a loser; can’t keep a wife or a job. At least my …”

  Her eyes shot open. “He got fired!”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. I hope you know we’re getting shorter and shorter here,” Carmela murmured, tilting her head.

  She couldn’t believe it, Getso fired. That meant her job back and her room in the boardinghouse back and then Mack could come and see her there.

  “It’s awful short,” Carmela said, puffing hairs off the back of her neck. “But I
think you’re gonna be real happy with it.”

  She put on her glasses and looked in the mirror. With her head a cap of fuzz and her thick glasses banding her face like goggles, what she saw was the startled, gasping expression of a swimmer who had just popped up out of the water.

  On her way out of Cushing’s, she bought a scarf and tied it under her chin. As she hurried down the street, she shielded her face from her own reflection in the passing storefronts.

  At the door to the bookstore, she paused to catch her breath. If she were going to get to the Cleaners before they closed, she had to find a book right away. She paced through the cluttered little shop, but only a few titles were familiar to her. The salesclerk perched on a stool, his large hands folded on his knees.

  “Anything special you’re looking for?” he asked as she turned the corner again.

  She told him no and took a deep breath. She was so intimidated by all these books she could barely look at them, much less take one off the shelf and open it. She hadn’t thought picking out a book for Mack’s birthday would be this hard. What if she chose a stupid book, one he considered a terrible book, a book only a fool would buy? She turned to go.

  “Is it for you?” the clerk asked.

  “For my friend,” she said, wincing.

  “What kinds of books does your friend read?”

  “I don’t know.” She had to get out of here. “He writes them. He’s writing a book.”

  “Oh! Well, now,” the clerk said, slipping one off the shelf and handing it to her, “then I’d say this is a must, Miss Horgan.”

  He rang up the sale. Miss Horgan. She had never seen him before in her life. It was depressing. Miss Horgan, her own name, a lamentation tolling on the tongues of strangers.

  By the time she got to the Cleaners, the red-and-white “Closed” sign had already been pulled over the glass door. She peered inside past the curled edge of the shade. She thought she heard voices, so she banged on the door, then listened, but no one came. They must be going out the back way. She hurried down the side alley and gave a little whoop at the sight of Birdy’s old pea-green Buick at the entrance to the lot. Laughing to herself, she opened the front door and slid inside. She swung her bags into the back seat, but kept the book in her lap to show Birdy.