In Her Day (2 page)

“Notice the sensuous curve of the breast.”

The whirr of the slide projector didn’t cover up the snicker of an immature male. Carole shot him a pitying look and continued with her lecture, “Ingres catches our eye with the sensation of movement and then holds us with a perfection of structure. As it’s three we’ll pick up where we left off next Tuesday. Let there be light, someone.”

The room brightened and the robust women fondling each other in a Turkish harem faded from view. Carole gathered her notes then headed for the door. Three students quickly surrounded her for pearls of wisdom.

She nodded, “Have a good weekend,” and raced for the elevator. Today wasn’t the day for pearls. Crawling slowly down New York University’s upper reaches, the elevator reminded Carole of mother possums, swaying under the weight of clutching children while backing down a tree. Possum and the Virginia summers of childhood receded from thought. A dangerous lurch on the fifth floor snapped Grandma’s peeling house from memory and securely in the present Carole thought one of these days this damn thing will break and I’ll plunge to my death with forty rich kids from Long Island.

The door opened onto the main floor spilling the human contents across the hall. Carole crossed Waverly Place to enter an even more decrepit elevator whose operator was in similar condition. Riley, his face a roadmap with all the lines drawn in fine purple, greeted her with an unfailing, “Top of the day to you, Professor Hanratty. Up to the art department, is it?”

“As always.”

“Always watch the ball games in summer, you know.” Since he was hard of hearing Riley answered with whatever he thought he heard. “You ever watch ’em?”

“Football not baseball.”

“Baseball’s an art. A real art. Nowadays everybody wants things fast. Me, I’m slow like this elevator. Love baseball, especially the Red Sox. Baseball and pinocle. Here we are.”

“Thank you, Riley.”

Directly across from the elevator loomed a spacious office, with wall-to-wall carpeting, and the large walnut desk curiously facing the elevator doors. Those doors opened and shut like the slide projectors which make up an art department’s arsenal to attack uninterested
post-adolescent minds. Resembling a student hypnotized by the changing images, Fred Fowler, head of the art department, blinked each time the doors revealed another passenger. It would have made sense to close the door or turn his desk around but Freddie Fowler didn’t want to miss a thing, especially if the thing was female. The slight draft coming up the elevator shaft used to lift up their dresses but since the advent of pants barely a calf was to be seen. Still as the doors rattled, Freddie lifted his eyes and the gleam of hope burned there. Recognizing Carole’s five foot eleven inch frame, slender and straight, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Carole, hello. How’s the introductory course on such a hot day? The Great Neck heathens must be restless.”

“Drugged is closer to the truth. Either the heat or downs depress them to a level of fuzzed attention although a few exhibit signs of active intelligence. In fact, Fred, I’m almost enjoying the summer session. Thought I’d hate it at first.”

“Glad to hear that. Glad to hear that. I know how you feel. We gear ourselves to a semester cycle and want to race off for the summer.”

“I’m racing off to check my mail. Have a good weekend, Chief.”

“You too.”

God, how Fred adores being called chief but then what can you expect of a man who hangs his coat-of-arms in his office? I swear he got his Ph. D. on the social significance of paint-by-numbers. And will he ever raise his eyes above breast level? He says hello to my left tit. That guy will never give up. Carole reached into her mailbox and picked out the phone messages, backside up, spread them like a hand of bridge, closed her eyes and plucked one.

* * *

“Hi, Adele, just got back from class and got your message.”

“Hey, darlin’, what are you doing tonight?”

“Well, I was thinking of going to Rio de Janiero. On the other hand I might go to bed early.”

“Uh-huh. LaVerne and I heard about a new restaurant in the Village, a kind of feminist eatery. Thought we’d try it. Want to join us?”

“Love to. What’s the name of this place?”

“Mother Courage.”

“My dear, do I have to wear an Equal Rights Amendment button to get in?”

“I doubt it. Just bring money. Sisterhood may be powerful but it’s still poor.”

“Okay. What time should I come over?”

“Seven-thirty? It’ll take us a little while to get there.”

“Seven-thirty’s fine. See you then.”

Adele hung up the black 1940’s phone and stared into her garden.

I never thought I’d live to see thirty and here I am, forty-three. Carole’s forty-four. I’ve known that woman for over twenty years. Close to a quarter of a century. Funny after all these years our friends are still trying to figure Carole out. She’s easy enough for me to read. Must be her beauty. Americans make icons out of beautiful women. Doesn’t matter what a beauty does, she’s misunderstood. Perhaps we’re all misunderstood, they just get all the attention. Adele caught herself on that deflated thought and pushed her inner conversation with more vigor. Junior philosophers have been selling the essential loneliness of life since B.C. Nobody’s understood and we’re all alone in the cold, cruel world. I don’t think people are lonely because they’re misunderstood. They’re lonely because
they think they’re misunderstood. Hell, they want to be misunderstood. That way they can be irresponsible. Besides, makes ’em think they’re gifted or intelligent. Suffering in public is a genuine ambition. Ties in nicely with being misunderstood. Ha. Well, I understand Carole and she understands me. Maybe I know Carole better than I know LaVerne. Hell, I even know myself. I’m gonna put those limp philosophy departments out of business.

A piercing squack from Lester, a preening white cockatoo, shattered Adele’s triumph.

“Shut up, Lester, you got no understanding. Furthermore, you got no couth, bird.”

Lester unfurled his crown, let out another supersonic blast and relieved himself simultaneously.

“You are a filthy thing. You know that?”

If Lester knew he didn’t let on. By now the two mackaws were gossiping loudly and the toucan, mynah, and plain green parrot became interested and were contributing to the conversation.

Adele, who could never be accused of being conventional, built an enormous bird cage all along one wall of her East 71st Street garden apartment. She told everyone it was little Africa although the style was Amazon rain forest. Carole dubbed it her jungle bunny wall. Adele spent far too much money on it with LaVerne bitching at every penny and calling her a spearchuker. The rock fountain, lush foliage, and brilliant, gabby birds were more than Verne could bear. Adele gloried in her creation. A woman has to have something of her own, lovers be damned. Carole sensed this and gave her Lester Maddox, a perfectly white cockatoo. Adele, in turn, taught Lester to say, “Bwana, White Devil!” everytime a non-Black entered her apartment. The first time Carole walked in and Lester laid his big line on her she
nearly had a heart attack. Lester gave Adele more satisfaction than her Ph. D. in pre-Columbian art.

“Adele, where in hell is this place, in the river?” LaVerne sputtered.

“I forgot that the river doesn’t run by Seventh Avenue,” Adele apologized. “To tell you the truth I’m a bit lost. I never go below 57th Street. Speaking of going down, Carole, is Fred Fowler still after your ass?”

“He’s incorrigible but about all he can do is leer.”

“Honey, after all these years the poor man may be driven to such desperation he’ll try rape,” Adele hopefully noted.

“We’d have to charge him with assault with a dead weapon,” Carole grinned.

Giggling they arrived in front of the little restaurant; the painted wooden sign creaked in the wind.

“Looks full. Imagine all these people trekking over here to the wild, wild West. Must be a good place,” Verne commented.

They pushed the door open. People glanced up at them and then returned to their conversations and food.

A tall woman with a mobile face and a pleasant smile seated them at the lone unoccupied table.

LaVerne asked her, “How did they ever get this place together?”

“Are you all from out of town? Women in the movement from other cities usually ask that.”

“No, we’re from right here, the Hanging Gardens of Neon,” Adele smiled.

“Oh. Well, I’m one of the people who started Mother Courage. It suddenly occurred to me one day over the frying pan that there were no restaurants for women. No place where we could gather and relax
without being pushed or hunted by men. My friend knew a lot about business and I knew a lot about cooking and here we are.”

The woman had such an engaging manner that by the time she finished her story all three women were focused on her, remarking how delightful everything was.

“I’m sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Dolores Alexander.”

Adele did the honors for the three of them.

“The kiev is very good and the broccoli moutard, if you’re a vegetarian, has a delicious flavor. I hope you enjoy your evening with us.”

A waitress walked by and Carole stopped her. “Excuse me, do you have Coca Cola?”

“No, but we have Pepsi.”

“No, thank you. We’ll be ready to order in a minute if you’ll come back to us.”

“Think you’ll last without a transfusion?” Adele ribbed her.

Carole threw her hand to her forehead, “Pepsi is vile, 7-Up insipid, and root beer quite out of the question. There. Wouldn’t I have been wonderful on the Edwardian stage?”

“Or under it,” LaVerne cooed.

“M-m-m. I recall a liquor store on Hudson. I’m going to run out and get two bottles of ‘Southern champagne.’ Adele, order me a spinach salad and the kiev.”

She stood up and whirled around without looking. At that same moment a waitress who’d been in the kitchen all that time and who didn’t know the table was filled charged around the corner with a tray full of salads. Carole glanced up just in time to see what was going to happen but not in time to get out of the way. The loaded tray hit her in the stomach, wobbled
and clattered to the floor. Three salad bowls zipped toward the door and Carole’s way was strewn with lettuce instead of palm branches. The dressing smelled wonderful. The waitress was mortified.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I didn’t watch where I was going. Did I get any on you?” All in one embarrassed breath.

“We’ve got to stop meeting this way.” Carole laughed to ease the waitress’s discomfort.

The young woman blinked then laughed herself, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. How about you?”

“I’m okay. I think the floor caught most of it. Excuse me, I’d better clean this up before someone slips across the room.

Except for her apron the waitress looked as though she stepped out of an issue of
Mademoiselle
magazine. She was twenty-three at the most with sharp WASP features, blonde straight hair below her shoulders. She was white America’s dream of femininity, a dream even Carole Hanratty couldn’t quite purge from her loins.

In the late 1940’s Carole was that dream when her own skin was so rich the oil shone on the surface, glowing as only the young can glow. Now she had evolved into a stately woman with a fine carriage and a noble, almost heroic head. Without ever being aware of it she eclipsed the simple radiance of youth.

The young waitress, thoroughly intimidated by the tall, self-possessed woman, fumbled the dust pan. There she was on her hands and knees dying a thousand deaths while this stunning, poised woman asked her again if she needed help. No, I need a quick and painless death she thought to herself. When Carole finally swept out the door in search of her Coca Cola the woman breathed a sigh of relief.

Adele, never one to miss a thing, chuckled.

* * *

When Carol returned with her two Cokes in a little brown bag the spinach salad was on the table.

“Dell, are you sure you didn’t scoop this up off the floor to torment me?”

“I want you to eat out of my hand not off the floor.”

LaVerne popped her fingers and swayed. She loved watching Adele and Carole together. A rare lover not to be jealous of such a close friendship, LaVerne appreciated their relationship. She was wise enough to know that no one person fills another’s needs. Carole gave Adele something she couldn’t—a fast wit, refined literary tastes, and constant devilment. And LaVerne knew she gave exuberant, expansive Adele something Carole couldn’t and that was a steadying hand lest all that energy fly off in a thousand directions at once.

“You know,” Verne said, “the lights hanging over the tables look like the street lights we used to have when I was a kid in Trenton.”

“Come to think of it they look like the street lights we had in Richmond,” Carole replied.

“Ditto for St. Louis,” Adele added. “Hell, maybe they really are street lights.”

The collision waitress went by them and Adele called to her, “Ilse, are these old street lights?”

“Yeah, Jill Ward’s got a hidden supply.”

“Ilse James, allow me to re-introduce you to Carole Hanratty.”

Carole leaned over and shook Ilse’s hand. “I liked our original introduction, myself. Unforgettable.”

“Really.” Ilse used the word without realizing it belonged to a generation, hers. She hurried back to her duties.

“Well, Dolly Levi, how did you find out her name?” Carole’s eyebrow arched over her right eye.

“Asked her. The three of us had a nice chat while she cleaned up the floor. That’s the price of addiction to Coca Cola, my dear; you miss those intimate conversational moments.”

“She is beautiful,” LaVerne exclaimed.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Carole countered.

“Then you got big eyes,” Adele teased.

“You two cupids attend to yourselves. When I was twenty-five I came to the depressing conclusion I’d never die from love although I did fling myself off a curbstone once when it became clear Katharine Hepburn would never marry me.”

“Oh, stop.” LaVerne’s voice rose on stop.