The Terrible Girls

by Rebecca Brown

  LADY BOUNTIFUL AND THE UNDERGROUND RESISTANCE

  THERE WAS A KNOCKING at the door.

  No one who belonged here knocked. And no one who did not belong came out here anymore. And no one could be lost. The lines were drawn, the gate was clear and marked. Everybody knew where they belonged.

  There was only one person who would have knocked.

  Who is it? I asked, my voice quivering like a grandma in her nightie.

  I heard a throat clearing, an uncomfortable shifting of feet, a clicking away of shoes. But no answer.

  You didn’t know who to say you were.

  There was a knocking at the door.

  Who is it?

  You cleared your throat, It’s me.

  Who? I asked, as if poor old grandma me was hard of hearing.

  It’s – it’s Lady Bountiful.

  I paused like any hard-of-hearing, harmless old maid would. Lady Who? as if I’d never heard the name before.

  Lady Bountiful, you enunciated haughtily.

  I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name, I lied.

  Everybody knew that name, that name was in the paper and on the porticoes of the renovated buildings and at the new convention center. Everybody knew how you had swept Lord Bountiful off his big, black-booted feet.

  I heard you hesitate. Then leave.

  This was a mere formality, a petite pas de deux, your knocking, my not opening. Everybody knew each crummy dump and cubby hole and puny shack and rotten hut and dinky garret around was owned by Lord Bountiful. He kept his working girls in them. You could have, by asking him, had the horseguards trample down my door.

  Yet you continued knocking. You couldn’t let Lord Bountiful know you came. You were forbidden here, and yet you came. In a way it amused and somewhat comforted me to realize we had not been unique in being the object of your deceptions.

  You came at night. You couldn’t be seen at this dirty, low-life underside of a place. But you knew where it was. You used to live here.

  There was a knocking at the door.

  I was waiting.

  Who is it?

  It’s me, you whispered.

  Who?

  It’s – You whispered the old name I used to know you by.

  She isn’t here anymore, I said, my voice quivering like a poor old maid.

  No, you interrupted me, I’m not here for her, I am her.

  No you’re not.

  But you were desperate to persuade me.

  There was a knocking at the door. Very lightly this time, like a coconspirator. You used your stage whisper, Psssst! It’s me! Lemme in you guys!

  You didn’t know what had happened to our old gang. At first I was angry at your ignorance: how could you be so unaware of what had been so earth-shattering to us? But then I was glad: if you thought you were dealing with the gang, rather than just me, you might act a little better.

  Lemme in you guys! It’s me!

  I was leaning against the inside of the door. I felt the hard, ungiving firmness of your body on the other side. I wondered if you felt me too. You couldn’t see me but I saw you through the tiny crack that appeared in the door when you left.

  I’d shut the lights off in the hut, it was completely dark inside. Outside the night was dark, but behind you, way back up the alley, waiting for you, was a skinny, barefoot urchin girl. She was holding an official-issue flashlight and a bag. The beam of light was greenish white. Her skin shone orange and the muscles in her arms were tight from where she held the bag. Very close to me, not six inches away, I saw the side of your face pressed against the door. Your hands were flat against the door as if you thought your touch, like some old charm, could open it.

  You were wearing the ragged overalls you wore the night you left. Though you couldn’t see me watching you, you knew I did. You tugged at the bib of your overalls as if I’d think, because you wore the uniform, you were still one of us. Also, as a special trick for me, you’d smudged your hands with something blue. Your lips and tongue were also blue. When you had planned this scene, you’d planned to get inside and have me see you thus, thereby distracting me so I wouldn’t see your urchin drop the bag inside the hut, beside the mat, from whence it came.

  You wore these things to remind me of something you used to do when you were working. You’d forget there was ink on your hands and when we heard the horses we’d all be terrified and turn the equipment off and pile things up by the door and throw ourselves behind the printer and the stacks and pray. We were all afraid. You bit your nails. This made your lips and tongue turn blue. And sometimes later, from comforting you, I got this blueness on me too. So that was why, this night when you came back to me, you’d made yourself look like that, to trick me. But I wasn’t going to fall for it. Through the crack in the door I also saw your fingernails – long and round and soft-looking and smooth. The manicure you took for granted now gave you away.

  Pssst! Lemme in you guys! It’s me!

  When you didn’t hear anything inside you gestured to the girl who held your flashlight and the bag. The girl approached. I saw her light bob down the alley. She shone the light directly on the door. You looked at the door to see if there were any signs of life. When you became convinced the place was empty and were about to turn away, I surprised you.

  Are you alone? My voice was hoarse.

  You gasped. This wasn’t the first time I’d surprised you when you were not alone. You put your finger to your lips to silence the girl. I smiled at how alike yourself you still were. You’d never been good at this question. From the way you bit your lower lip, I saw you realized how obvious was your tired old lie.

  Come back alone, I whispered.

  You hesitated. You put your finger to your lips again to keep the flashlight urchin quiet. Your feet shuffled. When I heard the clicking of your shoes, I clicked the camera. When the girl was a few yards from the door, she turned and looked back at the door, right at the crack, and winked.

  One of your duties as First Lady was to allow your wonderful name to be associated, as gracious patroness or generous benefactress, with a social issue – i.e. some unimportant pseudo-cause suitable to the limited scope of the fairer sex. The ideas suggested to you included such deserving projects as the Adopt a Girl at the Zoo project, and the Plant a Tree project and the Tiles in the Market Place project, all schemes which certainly required the feminine touch. You chose the Plight of the Poor Unfortunates Project. You were to do things like have your photo taken standing next to the Harvest Festival turkey which Lord Bountiful was generously donating to the poor unfortunates (that is—us) out of the goodness of his heart. Though the bald fat bird you posed beside was barely big enough to make soup for a hundredth of us, the shot went over well on the front page of the recently launched Bountiful Times. You were wearing a particularly festive pillbox hat.

  You threw lavish receptions in which you pretended to coax (prearranged) agreements from fat cat grain and vegetable dealers to put aside for us poor unfortunate working girls the stuff so rotten they would otherwise have thrown it out. You performed these staged and scripted acts of kindness well.

  But then a rumor started. Word got around that you were taking what was meant to be merely a symbolic, superficial interest in a public relations ploy, seriously. Instead of merely cutting ribbons and popping bottles of champagne and smiling your perfect, recently capped, smile for the cameras, it was suggested that you were actually having contact – personal contact – with the poor unfortunates.

  You were. You were coming to me.

  In exchange for a little light typing, the flashlight girl saw to it that the rumors reached the press. There was even a rumor of a photograph.

  So one morning when Lord Bountiful was dragging home a cartful of game from a Big Boys Club safari, an off-beat boy reporter from Bountiful Times flapped a photo in front of him and asked, Is there any truth to the rumor that Lady Bountiful is stepping out?

  Lord Bountiful answered with his riding crop. N
one whatsoever, boy, and it would behoove you not to spread such trash.

  The boy had little chance thereafter to; by the time he returned to the office he had been demoted to the mailroom.

  That night, back in your chamber, Lord Bountiful flung you down on your big white canopied princess bed.

  Just what the hell is this about?

  You didn’t know how to deny it. Suddenly you remembered what you had tried to ignore last time you left me – the sound of the camera’s click. You’d hoped your ragged overalls would mask your true identity and let you pass for any nameless working girl, but your pretty, manicured white hands raised up to shush the flashlight girl gave you away.

  And that’s what Lord B pointed at, the photo of your soft, white, well-acquainted hands. How white they looked beside your blue-black mouth! You couldn’t deny the shot was you. Lord B couldn’t see the setting, but seeing you dressed like us was enough to make him wonder not only about the motives of your project, but also about the secret of your past.

  He grabbed you by your shoulders. His fingertips were very close to the purple, petal-sized marks on your neck. He moved his hand along your throat.

  What on god’s green ass have you been up to?

  A charity project, you choked.

  Like hell.

  Lord Bountiful wasn’t dumb. He kept his fingers on your neck for several seconds while you shook.

  But, to tell the truth, he didn’t rough you up. Not the way, if I were him, if I were as big as him and if I knew what I know about you now, I would. I’d slap your lying mouth and knock you down and kick your tits and your fucking ass and then, but only then, I’d say, as Lord Bountiful said then, You go there again I’ll break your neck.

  In a way I admire Lord Bountiful. Not only his power. Not only that he has made me what I am to some degree (regard my lungs, the shape of me). I not only respect, I positively appreciate him. I like how clear he is. Unlike yourself, Lady Bountiful, he doesn’t hem and haw. He isn’t coy, does not say one thing when he means another. He states demands and tells how he will get. He doesn’t backtrack or prevaricate. He marches in and he announces, “Mine.” He doesn’t offer false condolences. He never pretends to be sincere when he is not. He never uses lines like, “This hurts me more than it hurts you,” “I’m sorry it has to be like this,” “Someday you’ll understand,” “Someday.” On the contrary, he speaks directly: “You.” “Out.” And if he feels like explaining, though he very rarely does, the reason he gives is: “This is the way I want it.” And it is.

  You swear to yourself you won’t get caught. You swear this time will be your last. You swear you’ll do it this time then you’ll never ever ever come back again. But you come back. You keep coming back. There’s something you need to get rid of. You want me to take it. You tell me it’s mine, you tell me it’s a gift. But I know each gift you give is not a gift. Your acts of love are only acts. You play pretend. What you made with your body was not love, it was a lie. Each gift of yours is a demand, a poor attempt to bribe your way away from what you’ve done. Each gift you want to give is an excuse, a toy, a bauble in lieu of something irreplaceable. You’re trying to pay an unpayable debt. You’re trying to buy forgiveness.

  There was a knocking at the door.

  Who is it? My voice was like a shy old maid.

  Hello-o-o! you sang. You were trying to sound chipper, as if this was the first time you had come here, as if this old charade was fresh and new and I would let you in. Then, like a rich, smart auntie from the city to your secret country bastard, you said, I’ve brought you something!

  I was leaning against the inside of the door. I looked through the crack. It was raining, but the girl who was holding the umbrella over your head was doing such a good job you weren’t even damp. It was actually more of a parasol, pink, with fringe around the edges. This told me more about what you’d become than I wanted to know. I cringed. The pastel dress you wore was fresh and crisp. You looked like a hairspray ad.

  You were smiling your sweet full-of-pity-for-the-poor-unfortunates smile as if you really were here on an official First Lady charity visit. But of course it was the middle of the night.

  I have something for you, you said.

  Though you couldn’t see me, you knew I was watching. You acted out this scene for me. You lowered your eyelids and bowed your head and then, because the umbrella girl missed these cues, you snapped your fingers at her. She hoisted the bag up to the door, loosened her hand and let the bag fall open.

  What is it? I rasped through the door.

  Open the door. Your voice was carefully modulated. Look, look you silly girl, Look in the bag.

  But I wouldn’t look. I wanted you to say it.

  And then, as if you thought you hadn’t played your part with enough gusto, you lowered your head and fluttered your eyelashes and spread your arms in a benevolent benediction and said, a little louder, For you.

  No! I shouted to mask the sound of the camera’s click as I shot you and the bag.

  Pardon me? You sputtered with surprise. They hadn’t taught you how to deal with the ungrateful poor unfortunates.

  No. I don’t want it.

  But it’s for you. You whispered as if you were being sensitive about a difficult, embarrassing topic, Aren’t you hungry?

  I didn’t answer.

  There was only the sound of the rain. Then in a couple of seconds there was creaking. You still weren’t used to those pinchy, pointy little shoes they made you wear. But then you had a bright idea.

  I’ll leave it outside your door! you chirped, Just here, all right? You can come out and get it after we’re gone if you’re shy!

  You were so pleased with yourself for coming up with this clever solution. Bye-bye! You sounded perky.

  You slapped your hands together as if to say, That’s taken care of.

  But it wasn’t.

  After the girl and you were gone, I turned on all the lights in the hut. I ripped the polaroid out of the camera, flapped it in the air and lay it on the table to dry. I plugged the xerox in and hit the button. The machine coughed a bit, but when I kicked it, it started to hum. I tore open a fresh packet of 8½ x 11, flipped the paper through my fingers to make sure none of the pages were bent, and loaded the paper tray. On the old Sears manual we’d appropriated from Shipping and Receiving, I typed. The tips of my four fingers were grimy when I finished typing the words. By the time I tore the paper out of the typewriter, the copier Ready button was green. I lifted the lid and lay the message face down against the glass. I punched the magnify button, then Print. I was so eager to see the words I hadn’t heard for so long I had to force myself to not grab the paper when it started to squeeze out the other side. I watched the edge of the white-grey paper widen, then the letters came from the machine. They were lovely.

  I lifted the warm, limp copy from the tray. It bent in the air like a languid, used-up girl. I opened the lid again and lay it face down. I pressed my palm to its backside to move it where I wanted it. Then I shut the cover over it. I did this several times – oh I could have done it forever! – each time more heady, each time more full of the excitement of the getting-bigger words. When the words were as big as I wanted them, I drew next to them a cartoon stick figure of a skinny, bony, starving, mutilated, yet grotesquely smiling, perhaps retarded, working girl. Next to this drawing I taped the polaroid of you. I lay the page with drawing, words and polaroid in collage, down on the glass. The glass was still warm. When I lay the flexible, soft, thick rubber sheet of the lid down on the page, I felt like I was tucking someone into bed. I patted the cover down and held my hand on it a moment to prolong the sweetness of the moment before I whacked the button. I whacked the button. I squatted at the end of the machine. Heat came out of the open slit. Inside I saw that snap of green-white light that meant it was getting it. I heard the clicking and groaning as the paper started to move. The hot white printed edge of the page started poking out. The paper made a sssshhh sound as it pus
hed through, like it was saying Yesss. The blank edge of the border came out first, then the exclamation points, then-the far right of the polaroid – your hands held out in benediction – then, above and below the photo, the letters. First U, then 0, then Y. My heart was beating fast. I was so happy! So happy! I was shot through with happiness! Oh would it would never end! It was so beautiful! I hit the counter for 99 and let her rip.

  The flyers that appeared the next day were of you and that scrawny cartoon girl. The words on the poster were short and sweet. They said. THANK YOU! ! ! I LOVE YOU! ! !

  Even the horseguards, who were not among the most clever of God’s creatures, understood. And of course, Lord B, who did in fact have quite a brain to match his mighty brawn, knew what it meant.

  There was a desperate pounding at the door.

  Before I could say, Who is it? you were hissing, What the hell have you done? Why did you do what you did?

  To thank you, I said, as quiet and as righteous as a priest on this side of the door of your confession.

  You’ve got to take it back. You’ve got to undo it.

  Nothing can be undone, I counselled wisely.

  Everybody in the city has seen what you’ve done!

  What I’ve done? No, Lady B, what you’ve done. All I’ve done is make it known.

  I didn’t want anyone to know.

  You didn’t want anyone to know you’d come tonight; you hadn’t even brought your flashlight girl.

  Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Lady B, I exhorted. And surely you remember, after all, that what we’re here for in this hut, is to tell the tale.

  What I brought was a special gift, a private gift for you.