by Lenny Davis
Chapter 2
The next day Genie didn't dawdle. She worked diligently during the day, sewing together a pair of pants in the morning and mending a stack of black socks in the afternoon. As usual, frowning Mrs. Rasputov left her to herself most of the time.
Then came the evening.
As soon as Genie had swept the narrow store and put bin and broom back in their place, she readied herself for her nightly sales walk. She put her old wool coat on, tied her headscarf into place and headed for the door. The bell above it chimed when she pulled it open and shouted, "Goodbye, Mrs. Rasputov! I'm on my way." Then she was gone.
Mrs. Rasputov looked out of the storage room, where she had been counting buttons, and stared into the shop. The floor was clean, all right. She grunted. What was the matter with that girl all of a sudden? She'd been downright happy today.
She shrugged and went back to counting.
Not that she liked it; Mrs. Rasputov was not a happy person herself. She believed happy people were phonies and she was not a phony.
Her husband was happy most of the time, and he was a phony for sure. He had only married her because she'd been heir to her parents shop here in Manhattan and was able to provide meals. He'd be nothing more than a starving traveling salesman when they first met twenty years ago.
That fool Henry.
He was always excited, always on the verge of a great deal, of making it big, which in the end never quite materialized. That, however, did not keep him from trying again and again. And why should it as long as she and her store kept paying the bills? On one of his futile trips he had collected Genie, who was nice to look at, which was why he brought her along. That was why for sure.
Oh, the foolishness of it!
Warszawa Rasputov shook her head.
The girl was a mouth she now had to feed. It was only right that she put her to work like she did.
Genie stood in front of the brownstone's tall door with a thumping heart and stared at its brass knocker, a heavy circle adorned with a lion's head.
She swallowed. Behind that door lay her future? She was about to become a mail order bride. Was it really wise to marry a man you'd never seen? Well, she decided not to get rushed into anything. She was going to listen to what the widow Bartleby had to say. Then she'd make up her mind. The decision would be hers and hers alone.
Genie's smoothed the wrinkles out of her coat, inhaled briskly and slammed the knocker against its base. The sound reverberated inside the house.
She knew she didn't look very presentable, but she couldn't help that. She also briefly wondered what kind of women came by here. Were they elegant ladies getting up in age? Destitute runaways? Orphans? Serfs like her?
Suddenly the door opened and liveried servant looked at her along his nose.
She hadn't expected a servant.
Genie curtsied and stated why she'd come.
The servant, a dignified older gentleman with gray temples, nodded and motioned her to follow him. He closed the door and together they went into a sitting room, where he pulled out a chair for her by the table. Genie thanked him and sat down. She folded her hands and put them into her lap as he left the room.
Genie looked around. The room was elegantly decorated in a blue and white maritime theme. Paintings of ships on the high seas hung on the walls.
Genie turned her chair towards the fireplace, were big logs were burning away, filling the place with a pleasant warmth.
Genie heard the rustle of fabric out in the hall, then an elegant lady in skirts that were a little bit too wide to be practical, came through an arched doorway. Genie immediately stood.
Mina Bartleby took Genie's hand in both of hers and gave it a gentle squeeze as she introduced herself.
Genie swallowed. She had imagined the matchmaking widow to be an old woman, but she was wrong about that. Mina Bartleby was a woman in her prime, barely more than thirty years old and radiating life. Genie figured that this lady wasn't going to stay a widow for long. Maybe she was running this matchmaking service because she was really looking for a husband herself.
Why not? Genie thought.
"Sebastian told me why you have come," Mrs. Bartleby said. "Why don't we sit over here on the couch and chat for a bit while he gets us some tea and a piece of cake. Would you care for piece of cake?"
Genie nodded enthusiastically. She hadn't had cake since she'd left Georgia, ages ago.
"Very well." Mrs. Bartleby turned toward the servant, who acknowledged her with a nod and left.
They went and sat on the couch by the fireplace. Genie soon found Mrs. Bartleby to be the easiest person in the world to talk to. She told her how she met her brother on the street last night and how he'd given her directions. She spoke of her love for wide open spaces, for riding on horseback and for the big sky of the West, even though she'd never really even seen it.
Mrs. Bartleby smiled at that remark. The girl was at least honest.
She meant to be honest, too. "As a mail order bride, you agree to marry a stranger. Really, you have to be desperate in one way or another to do that," she said. "In what way might you be desperate?"
A shadow flew across Genie's face. She cast her eyes down. Then she told her about Mrs. Warszawa Rasputov in the narrow haberdashery store, her cold attic room and the million little ways that woman had humiliated her in the last few years.
Miss Bartleby listened to her patiently, taking in what information Genie gave her, pondering it.
"You know, Genie," Mrs. Bartleby said, "you will not be marrying the big sky over the prairie and you probably will not be able to ride the range for your amusement very much. I don't mean to put a damper on you, but apart from emotional support, what men in the West need are women who don't mind to work hard with their hands."
"I know," Genie said. She stared at the tips of her boots. She figured that much.
"And you don't mind?"
"Working?" Genie looked Mrs. Bartleby in the eyes. "No, ma'am. I know how to do that. And I'dI know much rather work hard for my husband and me and our farm or our ranch than for somebody who never pays me a penny for the work I'm putting in."
"Then I think we can help you," Mrs. Bartleby said.
After they had their tea and cake, the two women sat down by a desk, where Mrs. Bartleby produced a slim folder that contained letters from potential suitors, western men interested in an eastern mail order bride. After perusing the file, the two settled on a young man from Kansas. He was only nineteen years old, but already owned his own farm. Genie was eighteen and so they were a perfect match in age. He described himself as tall and handsome, which didn't strike Genie as particularly modest. But perhaps it was true.
Wouldn't that be something?
Genie cast the stucco ceiling an excited glance. She liked the idea that a tall, handsome nineteen-year-old farmer was out there on the Kansas plain, waiting for her. She liked the idea very much. Maybe he was even pining for her right this moment. Wouldn't that be something?
Somebody her age was pining for her.
Suddenly desperate to meet that mysterious stranger, Genie couldn't wait to get out of Manhattan.
"When can I go?" she said.
Mrs. Bartleby arched her thin brows. "You want to go in winter?"
"Why not?"
The lively matchmaker threw her head back and laughed. All right. She'd take it from here.
