The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (19 page)

“Oh, Idella!” The fluty summons stopped her in her tracks.

“Yes, Miss Lawrence?”

“I need to ask you about something, dear.” Miss Lawrence, her chair pushed up close to Mrs. Brumley’s, was pouring two cups of tea.

Idella stood waiting.

Miss Lawrence, Mrs. Brumley’s paid “live-in companion,” reminded Idella of a seagull—the way she would peer at you so steady. Her red-rimmed eyes never seemed to blink. The whole front of her looked like the stuffed chest of a bird, straining the seams of her white blouses for all they were worth. Mrs. Brumley seemed a dear little titmouse sitting there next to her. Her mind wasn’t too good in the mornings, and she needed to eat as soon as the food landed on the table.

Even emptied, the silver tray was heavy. Idella gradually lowered it down her front, like a sinking ship, while Miss Lawrence spread blackberry jam for Mrs. Brumley. The toast smelled so good. Idella longed to be out in the kitchen buttering her own. She loved toast.

“Now, Idella.” Miss Lawrence finally looked up at her. “Do you know what day this is?”

“It’s Tuesday, Miss Lawrence.” It was the day before her day off, and she was ready for it. She and Avis were going to the movies.

“Yes, and it’s a full year tomorrow, my dear, since you came into our employ!” Miss Lawrence’s smile broadened.

“Oh, my.” Good God. A whole year.

Mrs. Brumley, nibbling busily, suddenly looked up. “Tell her, tell her!” She plucked at Miss Lawrence’s cuff with two buttery fingers.

“Don’t excite yourself, Abigail.” Miss Lawrence gently shook her wrist free and turned back to Idella. “Mrs. Brumley thinks, dear, that you should accompany us to the opera next week, to celebrate your first year with us. She is quite set on it.”

Idella clutched the empty tray. The opera!

“Mrs. Brumley maintains her late husband’s two seats in a box, as you know, and I have arranged for two additional tickets.”

“Two tickets?” Idella asked.

“We don’t want you to sit alone.”

“I could ask Avis. She’d probably come.”

“Actually, my dear . . .” Miss Lawrence paused. “I thought . . . that is, Mrs. Brumley and I thought . . . that you might use the opportunity to invite some nice new acquaintance.” Miss Lawrence shifted in her seat. “Perhaps there is some other young lady you might enjoy as a special guest?” Idella looked at her blankly. “Of course we understand that Avis is your
sister,
dear.” Miss Lawrence paused again. “Not that your sister isn’t
nice,
dear.” She patted Mrs. Brumley on the wrist. “We just thought that since you visit with Avis every day off . . . a change would be nice. You do have friends here in Boston, don’t you? Someone from your cooking class, perhaps?”

Idella shook her head.

“Or another domestic, maybe, from the neighborhood?”

“Not really, no.”

Mrs. Brumley suddenly stopped crunching and looked up from her toast. “I think Avis will enjoy the opera!” She spoke clearly. “I like that Avis! She’s a pip!”

“Drink your tea, Abigail.”

“I did.”

Miss Lawrence sighed. “You may go, Idella.”

Idella went off into the kitchen to make her own toast and to think about, of all things, the opera.

 

“So what’s this about the opera?” Avis was perched on Idella’s narrow bed, jiggling her ankles. She could never sit still. Idella could tell that she was itching to smoke. They were in Idella’s attic room, on the top floor of the old brownstone, getting ready to go to the movies.

“They go every season. They have what they call a box that they sit in high up on the wall somewheres. That’s where they’ll be sitting. We’ll be down below.” Idella was squinting into the small, round mirror over her dresser, trying to apply lipstick. “Mrs. Brumley would never give up their box after Mr. Brumley’s tragic death. She goes in his memory.”

“What the hell happened to him?”

“It’s over twenty years ago, because that’s how long Miss Lawrence has been living here. . . .” Idella turned. Her lips were all smeared.

“Are you planning to kiss somebody while I’m watching the movie?”

“Maybe.” Idella puckered her mouth and smacked the air.

“Jesus, Idella. How long have you been blind?”

“The light isn’t too good up here.”

“Sit down. Let’s aim this time.” Avis took a handkerchief and started rubbing off Idella’s lipstick. “Where does the tragic part come in?”

“Well he
died,
for God’s sake.”

“Close your mouth.” Idella did. “Now open it.”

“It was summer, see, and Mrs. Brumley went out walking in the field to find him. He was supposed to be doing some sort of work out there with a shovel.”

Avis pulled a lip pencil from her purse. “Go on.”

“Well, she found him, all right—laid out straight in the grass and dead of natural causes.”

“He was probably digging his own grave and planning to jump in. Hold still.” Avis expertly applied a sharp, thin line of Ruby Red around Idella’s mouth.

“Mr. and Mrs. Brumley were in love, Avis. His death just about killed her. It affected her mind. That’s why—”

“Stop talking. Smile. Hold it.” Avis daubed Idella’s Creamy Rose inside the sharp red outline. “Pucker.” Idella puckered. “‘That’s why’ what?”

“That’s why—”

“Unpucker, you fool.” Avis laughed.

“—she needs Miss Lawrence as a companion.”

“Now blot.” Avis gave Idella the handkerchief. “That Lawrence dame knows which side her bread is buttered on. It behooves her to have that old lady dim-witted.”

“Is that hooves like on the end of horses?” Idella didn’t know where Avis came up with words like “behooves.” She tried to be so superior sometimes. Working at that beauty shop was giving her airs.

“Why, you should know about the ends of horses.” Avis laughed again. “And I’m not referring to their feet.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, I’m sure.” Idella stood and waggled her behind.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead waiting on those old biddies and letting them boss me around, wanting every little thing to be just so. They’ve got nothing better to do than keep an eye on you.”

“It’s not like you don’t have to take orders and get bossed around at the shop. You say ‘yes, ma’am’ plenty of times in one day.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Avis opened her purse and reached for her cigarette pack.

“You’re not supposed to smoke up here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Avis clipped her bag closed. “But when I’m done work, I’m done with it. I don’t answer to anyone once I leave the shop.”

“Well, they asked me yesterday if I’d like to go to the opera, as a treat for my working for them one year, and to bring a special friend.”

“A special friend, eh?”

“They just want to be friendly and encouraging, is all.” Idella was trying to make a straight part in her hair. She did suspect that Miss Lawrence didn’t like Avis. “She’s your full sister? Not a relative that grew up with you?” Miss Lawrence asked after Avis’s first visit. “I know that happens sometimes up in Canada. People take in children—country cousins sort of thing. It’s hard to believe you two had the same mother.” Idella hadn’t gone into the details about their mother.

“They just want to keep you cooped up in this musty old biddy trap for the rest of your life, is all,” Avis said. “Idella, let me do that. It looks like a map to the shithouse and back.” She took the comb.

“Jesus, Avis, don’t kill me. Leave some hair on my head.”

Avis was a professional with a comb. Idella loved the way she planted herself so firmly in front of a head of hair. “They know they’ve got a good thing here with you. You cook, you clean, you do their bidding, and you’re as green as the grass in June. I’m the only obstacle, and they’re trying to get rid of me. ‘Special friend.’ Who in hell do they think you’ve got tucked away somewhere for tea and opera, the Queen of England? Let me have some hairpins.”

Idella pointed to the dish on top of her dresser. “It will be fun to look at the people, you know, to see what they’re wearing. And to see the two of them all gussied up. Miss Lawrence has one of them foxes she drapes around her neck, with the head and everything.”

“She probably killed it herself. I’m surprised she left the head.”

“They wear long white gloves, like we found in Mother’s trunk that time, only fancier, with little beads sewn all over them. It’s quite a sight.”

“Do you think our mother ever went to the opera? Put your chin down.”

“I doubt it. They don’t have opera up in Canada. She wore them to church.”

“Would we have to wear capes and hats and gloves and things?” Avis had stuck some hairpins into the corner of her mouth and was talking through them.

“We wear regular dresses, I guess.”

“Look in the mirror. What do you think?”

Idella stood and looked in the mirror from side to side. Then she stared straight ahead and frowned. “Isn’t this a little severe? You’ve pinned it all off my face so.”

“It’s more sophisticated. More sleek.”

“It looks sort of hard.”

“Leave it, Idella. It looks good.” Avis sat back on the bed, took a cigarette from her purse, and lit it. There was no stopping her. “Get your shoes on and let’s get the hell out of here before they pull up the drawbridge.”

“You’ll have to put that out. Couldn’t you wait till we’re outside?” Avis waved the cigarette wildly. “Stop that, Avis!”

“I thought it’d get your ass moving. What is the opera about anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. People sing and dance. Mrs. Brumley said that this one was going to have bullfights. Not real ones, of course. I couldn’t take that.” Idella looked up from buckling her shoes. “There’s one thing that I heard about it, though, that’s a little off-putting.”

“What’s that?”

“They don’t speak English.”

“What the hell
do
they speak?”

“Some foreign language.” Idella stood up. “There. I’m ready. Put that thing out.”

“Jesus Christ, what’s the point of that?”

“I don’t know, Avis. I just heard them talking about it. Mrs. Brumley is very educated, you know. She knows other languages.”

“How the hell are we supposed to know what’s going on?”

“It’s not important. You listen to the music.”

“Oh, brother. If I wanted to hear a foreign language I’d have hung out with the Frenchies up in Canada.”

“They won’t be speaking French, I don’t think. German or Italian, is my understanding. It depends on who wrote it. They might even have some in Greek or Japanese. I really don’t know. We’ll just have to see. Now, let’s go.”

“Idella! Idella, dear, do I smell smoke?” Miss Lawrence’s voice came snaking up the stairwell. “You’re not smoking up there, are you?”

Avis laughed and blew a puff into Idella’s face.

“No, Miss Lawrence,” Idella called down sweetly, kicking at Avis. “It must be coming in the window.”

 

On the day of the opera, Miss Lawrence gave Idella two hours off in the afternoon to rest and get ready. The old ladies took an extra-long nap, so it wasn’t too much of a sacrifice to let Idella spend some time alone in her room, preparing.

She stood frowning before the mirror, trying to get the wave just right across her forehead. She wished Avis were here to do it. Avis was coming with her overnight bag, but only just before it was time to leave. She wanted to get ready in her own room, she said, where the light was strong enough to make out your front from your behind in the mirror.

Idella looked with despair at her dim reflection. She’d have to wet her hair and start all over again. She took out the wave clamps and dipped her comb into the glass of water. She wouldn’t get to pluck her eyebrows. That was for the best, probably. They stayed red for the longest time afterward.

Idella worried that Avis would arrive late and make them all wait. And who knew what she’d be wearing? To hear Avis tell it, she’d had great fun announcing to the other hairdressers that she was going to the opera. She’d strutted around the shop and had everyone laughing so that one customer got shampoo in her eye, and heads were coming out from under the dryers to hear what was so funny.

Avis said she was going to wear some kind of hat with bull horns on top. Idella didn’t know where on earth she got some of her ideas. Avis said that it was well known that in opera some fat woman came out and sang wearing a helmet with horns sticking out the sides. Maybe that had something to do with the bullfight. Idella couldn’t imagine such a thing. Even if it was all in a foreign language, it was supposed to be about people, not animals.

There. That was all she could do. It’d just have to dry in place. Idella walked carefully over to her bed, trying not to move her head, and lowered herself down flat so she could rest. She thought about what she was going to wear. Her best dress was fine for going to a movie, but she didn’t know about the opera. She wondered if Avis would be upset if she wore the long white gloves that had belonged to their mother. They would make her look more dressy. She wasn’t even sure Avis knew she had them. She’d taken them out of the trunk up in Canada and brought them with her to the States when she’d left home. Idella had a memory of her mother putting them on for church, of watching her slide her fingers in and smooth them all the way down to her fingertips. She remembered the soft, powdery grip of the gloved fingers when she held her mother’s hand. Avis would have no memory of it. She’d been too little.

You never knew what would get to Avis. She still resented their sister Emma—for taking away their mother, she said—when poor Emma had only been a baby, for God’s sake. And Avis had such a temper on her. Dad called her his loaded pistol. Avis was quick to point out that
he
was the one who was loaded. They thought that was such a great joke.

Idella shook her head. She didn’t want to think about the farm, or Dad and his drinking, or even about Avis. She didn’t want to have to worry, or be embarrassed or ashamed. It all made her nervous. She should have told the old ladies she wasn’t interested in going.