About Face

by Carole Howard

  Vivian looked at her desk, piled with mountains of paper. She sighed and said, “As you can see, there’s stuff I gotta get done. It’ll take maybe an hour or so. Want to walk around and see what you see? Then come back and I’ll give you an official tour and introduce you around?”

  “Okay.”

  “Here’s an ID badge. If anyone wonders about you, tell them you’re my friend. Or tell them you’re a potential corporate sponsor who needs to see the work we do. Or both.”

  Vivian’s mind seemed already to be focused on her work as she turned to the paperwork on her desk. Ruth set off down the hallway, trying to keep her mind empty of preconceptions about what she’d find and her heart free of guilt about the disproportionate share of luck in her life.

  The walls were a quiet nondescript speckled green, not the dull military or institutional green she would have expected, more like the living color of an algae-covered pond. The orange trim was also unexpected and curiously cheerful. At odd intervals along the way were hand-painted murals, about three-feet square, the bottom of the square being the floor. Frame and picture and wall in one, thought Ruth. Neat. Some had clearly been painted by children, others by adults, some by artists of unguessable age. She particularly liked the aquarium and the playground. A few were disturbing in their depictions of violence. Each panel was labeled with the artist’s name and the date.

  Everything was clean and very, very orderly, like the stacks of magazines with labels as to categories, sub-categories, and sub-sub-categories. Perhaps it was a way of having control over one’s environment, a way of reining in emotional chaos through physical order. That made a lot of sense.

  She idly looked through the glass panel in the closed door on the right and saw a group of nine women seated in a circle, as if they were a therapy group. But it might be a class, too, because the leader or teacher, also seated in the circle, was pointing to a flip chart. Everyone was taking notes. The windows in the room had whimsical yellow and orange curtains and lush potted plants. A few women looked up at her, their impassive faces registering her presence but shielding their own reactions. One had a large bandage on her cheek and almost no hair on her head. Another’s arm was in a sling. Ruth walked on.

  She was drawn to a huge bulletin board—The Bee Ess Double-You—dominating the end of the corridor, listing all the goings-on. By this time, she was not surprised that it was well-organized, nor that it was attractive, with cheerful hand-made decorations. What struck her, though, was the bubbling activity going on inside this building, yeast-like. It had looked so immobile and lethargic from the outside, yet was so energetic within.

  There were counseling and therapy sessions, for individuals and groups, for adults and children. But there were also courses on personal and interpersonal matters, on parenting and workplace issues. She saw that the course she’d just looked in on was “Workplace Communication and Writing a Resume.” There was AA, NA, and AlAnon. There was an elaborate schedule of home-schooling classes, as well as lawyers’ visiting days. There were schedules of communal chores, including cleaning, cooking and repairing. Announcements and congratulations were scattered throughout: one woman got a job, another stayed sober for ten days, one passed the GED, a child won a local spelling bee. And there were lectures, concerts, and movies. The current population was thirty-five women and their twenty-eight children, along with fifteen staff and twelve volunteers, all listed on the left with photos. It struck Ruth that, like Djembering in Africa, BSW was a thriving community that was hidden under the radar to most people.

  “Do you belong here?” asked a loud, stern, monotonal voice that lingered on the second syllable of ‘belong.’ Ruth hadn’t heard the approach of the small woman in jeans and a dark blue tee shirt with BSW in large white letters.

  “Oh hi, yes I do. I’m here with Vivian. She’s my friend.” She pointed to her ID badge. “And I’m also a potential corporate sponsor. I’m from Mimosa. The makeup company.”

  She was glad she remembered the sponsorship cover story, but also immediately envisioned, listed on the bulletin board, the classes Mimosa could sponsor: Makeup for the Workplace, Makeup as Concealer, Talking to Your Daughter About Makeup, Makeup and Self-Image, Makeovers. Then she remembered “No More Benefits.” But this wasn’t a benefit event, it was different. Would Jeremy think so? Probably not.

  The woman shifted her weight to her left foot as she studied Ruth for a moment with large, unblinking and unforgiving hazel eyes. “Okay.” Her voice was still stern.

  “My name’s Ruth,” she said as she extended her hand.

  They shook. “I’m Elaine. I work here. Actually, I used to be a client, but the BSW helped me straighten myself out.”

  A skinny girl of about eight emerged from a room with a hand-lettered “Infirmary” sign. She looked up and down the corridor, then came over to stand close to Elaine, far from Ruth. Her complexion indicated ethnicity of some kind, though whether African-American, Semitic or Hispanic, Ruth couldn’t tell. It was a perfect complexion, the color all people would be if everyone reproduced with everyone else. The ultimate answer to racism. Her hair was curly, about chin length. Several colorful barrettes did their best to control it. Like a puppy’s paws, her adult teeth were too large for the child’s face that contained them, giving her the illusion of wisdom and innocence at the same time. Her mouth was magically expressive, now smiling, now frowning, now wide open in surprise.

  This child reminded Ruth of pictures she’d seen of herself. And of the children used in fund-raising photos for international aid organizations. Of the daughter she’d regretted not having after Josh. Of EveryChild. She adored her instantly.

  “What’s the matter, Joy?” Elaine asked. “Are you sick?”

  “No, I had to get a needle cause I stepped on a nail. A turtles shot? But mom said she’d wait for me out here. Did you see her?” Joy’s eyes were on Elaine as she spoke, but they made frequent quick jumps over to Ruth and back.

  “I haven’t seen her. And, by the way, it’s a tetanus shot. This is my friend Ruth. She’s Vivian’s friend too. She’s visiting today because maybe the company she works for will give us some money.”

  Ruth kneeled and said “Hi, Joy. Does your arm hurt from the shot?”

  “No, it’s okay. But if your company gives us money, tell them we need a new computer. And I could use some new shoes, cause I’m getting so big so fast.”

  “I’ll remember that. And how about some books? Do you need some books, too? Do you have a library here?”

  “Yeah, we do. And the books are really rusty-dusty old, and I’ve read ‘em all. I like to read a lot. So yeah tell the company people we could use new ones.”

  Ruth unconsciously reached out to remove a strand of hair that was like a corkscrew in front of Joy’s eye, but the child backed out of her reach.

  Softly, Ruth asked, “What’s your most favorite book in the whole wide world?” She wanted to keep this girl engaged as long as possible, so she could stare at her some more.

  Joy folded her arms and rolled her round brown eyes up to the ceiling. “Let’s see, I really loved it when mommy used to read ‘The Runaway Bunny’ to me. And ‘Good-night Moon.’ But those are baby books. Those are from when we lived at home. Long ago.” She looked at Ruth solemnly. “Now I like books about magic places, like Wizard of Oz and stuff.”

  “Do you want me to help you find which classroom your mom’s in, sweetie?” Elaine asked.

  “Yeah,” she said as she held onto Elaine’s leg.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Joy,” Ruth said. “I’ll remember what you said.”

  “Goody.” Her eyes danced, her mouth grinned. “Red ones would be good. Shoes, red shoes. With a little strap, like my friend Amy has.”

  “Bye.” She waved, using all her restraint to keep from leaning over to try to kiss Joy good-bye.

  Elaine and Joy walked off hand-in-hand, the child skipping and the small adult walking quickly to keep pace with her.

  Ru
th continued to wander the halls and went upstairs to see the dormitory-style sleeping rooms, the cafeteria, the gym. No one else asked her for identification. She returned to Vivian’s office about an hour and fifteen minutes after she’d left and entered without knocking.

  “Perfect timing,” Vivian said. “Ready for the official tour?”

  BY THE TIME Ruth and Vivian got in the car, she knew in her heart the non-profit life was not for her. She’d always felt that way, though she thought she “should” feel otherwise, wished she did, and hoped that maybe she’d have changed by now. She certainly loved the work done by the BSW, thought the environment was stimulating and passionate, and knew there were many other non-profits about whose missions she felt equally enthusiastic. She was glad they were there and would do anything to help them. In fact, she already had plans for a computer and books for the library, although Vivian would not permit her to buy Joy a pair of shoes.

  “That would be begging. Kids here are taught not to beg. You want to buy shoes for all the kids, fine. But not shoes for Joy alone. Great impulse, but rules are rules.”

  Ruth, in turn, understood the rule, even thought it was reasonable. If she were in Vivian’s place, she might make the same rule. That’s why she didn’t want to be in Vivian’s place. She wanted to buy Joy a pair of red shoes. Guess she was going to have to spring for 28 pairs.

  “So, how was the visit?” Carlos climbed into the back seat of Ruth’s car.

  “Great. I loved it.”

  “Vivvy does a great job. In a great place. Turn left here, the light on the next block takes too long.”

  She put on her turn signal and advanced into the intersection.

  “You can go, just scoot in after this car; the truck’s going slow so you can make it before him.”

  She waited and turned after the truck.

  “The place was great, the kids were great. Did you ever meet the little girl named Joy? She’s just irresistible. I—”

  “Did Viv show you the list of ‘graduates’ and what they’re doing now? Pretty impressive, don’t you think? What a difference that place makes. And her, too. Watch out for the cop who watches that stop sign like it’s a pot of gold.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “And did she … wait a second, you missed a turn back there. Quick, quick, make a left up there. But watch out for the yellow car coming this way.”

  “Enough! I know how to drive and I know how to get to my own house.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Children, children, play nice,” Vivian said. “In fact, it would be a little better if you’d turn here, Ruthie. It’s a little faster this way. But either way is basically fine.”

  She turned. “Now I know why you married Carlos,” Ruth said. “You come off like sugar and spice next to him.”

  Ruth looked into the back seat, where Carlos was staring out the window. “Only kidding, Carlos.”

  “No problemo.” He fingered his bracelet.

  “WELCOME TO CHEZ TALBOT,” David said as he opened the door even before they knocked. He was wearing his “Toughest Job I Ever Loved” Peace Corps T-shirt. His blue-jean shorts were nearly covered by a JFK Middle School apron from a long-ago PTA fundraiser. It displayed reminders of all the dishes he’d prepared while wearing it. He took coats and offered drinks.

  “Man, I would loooove a beer. But wait, don’t we get a tour?” Vivian asked.

  David was the tour-director, so Ruth excused herself to make a few phone calls, but when she got back to the living room, Carlos was there. Oh no. Didn’t he take the tour?

  “I never was big on house tours,” he said. “Don’t take it personally.”

  He accepted a club soda and they listened to music, talking about their favorite artists, for awhile.

  “You know, Ruthie, I’m this way with everyone. Not just you.”

  “What way?” She wanted him to say it out loud, to own up to being a pain.

  “I think it’s being direct, but other people call it different things. You called it ‘tactless’ I think.”

  “I used to think it was okay because you were so, you know, so … so passionate about everything.”

  He turned to face her. “I’m trying to say this in a way that won’t piss you off. Which I don’t usually bother to do. You’re not the only one who gets pissed off at me, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe I should say it in Spanish. People tell me I’m nicer in Spanish.”

  “Just say it.”

  His eye contact was laser-like. “I want to make an exception for you—to my world view.”

  “An exception to your world view? Excuse me?”

  “The things we said last time. Helping to make the world better. Being political, not corporate. But I’m not good with compromise. I—”

  Vivian’s voice preceded her into the room. “Not good with compromise is putting it mildly. This is a man who uses organic peanut butter in the mousetraps. If he can’t bring himself to poison the mice with chemicals, what hope is there for things of slightly more import?”

  “You think that’s not important, babe?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  They settled down in the living room, Vivian and David sprawled, shoeless, on the green leather couch, each with a long-necked beer bottle. Ruth sat on the bentwood rocker she’d inherited from her mother, salt-rimmed margarita glass in hand. Carlos was cross-legged on a fringed green-and-blue pillow he’d appropriated from the couch and placed in the middle of the floor. Joan Baez was singing “Diamonds and Rust.”

  Vivian told Ruth how much she liked the house. Especially the wall of photos, her favorite part. “And I’m dying to meet Josh. He looks yummy, like a combination of you guys. I always knew he would, back in Djembering when I could see the future and you couldn’t.”

  David asked about the tour of the Shelter.

  “You can’t believe all the stuff that goes on there,” Ruth said. “Classes and meetings and job counseling and lots of really interesting and valuable stuff. Vivian’s done such a great job. And everyone loves her. It’s inspiring, really.”

  “That’s great,” David said. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Viv. You should be.”

  “Yeah, well, proud. Okay, I guess I do feel good about what I do.”

  “Sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming?” David raised his eyebrows to accentuate his question.

  “No, not a ‘but,’ well not exactly. It’s just that I know that what I do is important, really I do, I see it every day, and I like doing it, sometimes I even love doing it, it’s just that I sometimes have times when all the things that are frustrating get bigger and hide my view of the value so it becomes just a job and today was one of those days. You’re a teacher, so you must go through that, too, don’t you?”

  “Babe, how can you say that? You do something that’s so noble and valuable, something that helps people every single day, how can you—”

  “Face it, Carlos, I’m not a saint like you and sometimes I can’t manage to keep my attention fixed only on the good stuff and ignore the bullshit and the politics and the pettiness which gets me down. Call me imperfect, Ishmael. Or call me human. Trust me, this is not the day to lecture me about my contribution to humanity.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Linda Ronstadt was just starting to remind them that “Love is a Rose.” Ruth changed the CD player from “random” to one-at-a-time so she wouldn’t have to yank her loyalties back and forth.

  David said the worst for him was talking to people who get that woo-woo look on their face when they hear he’s a teacher and talk about what a noble profession teaching is. As if appreciation makes up for pitiful salaries, huge classes, crumbling buildings.

  “Do you get mad?” Vivian asked.

  “Not really. I don’t have to be a teacher, after all. I chose it.”

  “We are so very different, David.”

  “What made you mad today?” David as
ked.

  Though she said she’d have preferred to forget about work and let the beer do its job, she also couldn’t resist venting. Today’s target was funding problems. Getting money from people to do the things that need to be done. Being in competition with other agencies that also need it, so you feel bad for yourself if you don’t get the money but bad for the others if you do. Today’s issue was a set of ethical-political-financial niceties surrounding a grant proposal.

  “It just feels so grown up, so ‘life is complicated.’ I hate when life is complicated. Simple is better. Let’s drink.”

  Carlos’s voice softened a bit, though the Spanish accent got more prominent, as he talked about how great it would be if he were the one giving the money away for a change. Sitting somewhere with a pot of money. People coming to him to describe the things they do. Then his voice returned to its usual earthly self as he entered the next stage of his fantasy. He’d be the one deciding how much everyone deserved. Or he’d tell them how to do it better so they’d get more.

  “A power trip?” mused Ruth.

  “No. Not the power.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t get him started,” Vivian said. “He’s weird about power imbalances, even between teacher and student, shrink and patient. I even had to talk him into buying a dog.”

  “Really? A dog?” David asked.

  “As if one living being could actually own another,” Carlos said. “We adopted him, we didn’t buy him. But no, it’s not about power, just about giving money to good causes. A nice fantasy.”

  Linda’s CD finished, and Ben Webster started playing a smoky saxophone number whose combination of pain and longing seemed perfect for the subject.

  Carlos asked Ruth if she had a fantasy job. Realistic, not realistic, it didn’t matter. “Come on, I dare you. Think big. Or small.”