Day Ten - 1174

Edmond Blair Leighton, Song and Sorrow, Undated

Sunday Afternoon

Sunday, just after church, Laura approached me and said, “John has offered us to go for a ride in his little rowboat. Would you like to join us? You could bring your guitar.”

Laura knew well that I was taken by John, though I did not, in the social sense, belong to him in any way. I agreed, though I knew this was only her scheming to win him over, using me as a sort of background or comparison to her. True, she was prettier. Her flaxen hair was fine and smooth, while my dark hair was coarse and curly. John, too, had dark hair, though not as dark as mine. Meanwhile, Laura’s twinkling blue eyes were playful and attractive without being too childish. Mine were equally as sparkling, especially in the presence of music, though were a boring brown color, matching the hue of my hair almost exactly. I knew this because I spent long hours in front of the mirror, waiting to become truly pretty.

In any case, Laura and I agreed to meet John by the pier near Mr. Lockhart’s barn after we had fetched my guitar (and a fan for Laura so as to keep her complexion fair and give her something to do with her hands). We met him soon after noon. He was ready to set sail, so to speak, when we arrived.

“Hello, ladies,” he said charmingly.

Laura giggled and I had to keep myself from rolling my eyes at her. John took her hand and lead her into the boat, where she continued to giggle and squeal at the tilting plane. I helped myself in, which was no easy task with my hand gripping the neck of the guitar towards the head. I almost fell once, but clutched my guitar and steadied myself before sitting down opposite John’s seat. He sat himself down and took the oars to being rowing.

“So, John,” Laura said while I began picking at the strings.

I was glad I could play well enough to not watch every fret move or pick; this made it easier to watch John’s arms strain some through his shirt. I felt somehow safer in this context, despite Laura.

“Yes, Laura?” he said pleasantly.

“Still working on becoming a doctor?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am. About two-thirds the way through. Not much longer now.”

“Do you expect to stay in town?”

“Haven’t thought much about it,” he admitted. “Suppose I’ve considered city life some, but it doesn’t interest me a whole lot to be perfectly honest.” He steered the boat a bit to the left and I remained silent. I knew this was a blow to Laura; she adored the city and very much wished to live there for a good amount of her life. I did not know if she had actually ever been to the city, but there it was.

John did not seem so much interested in talking about himself, though. When Laura began to explain her love for the city, he cut her off and instead asked me a question.

“Did you finish studying to become a teacher?” he asked, turning towards me. I did not answer at first and he had to say my name before I realized it entirely. “Missy?”

“Oh!” I said, mis-fingering the frets. “Yes. I have. I have yet to find a position, however. Lawrence is not quite ready for a new teacher and I imagine Miss Pottle will be here for some time. I am fond of her, too.”

“Perhaps she would let you work as a kind of assistant until you are hired elsewhere. It would give you some more experience if nothing else.”

“I suppose I could inquire,” I said. I turned back to the guitar, dipping my head low to keep the attention away. I thought I heard John sigh or tsk or make some other sound but I could not be sure it was not just the oar disturbing the water.

“I plan to become a concert pianist,” Laura boasted. I was embarrassed for her immediately.

“Were you not looking at operatic performances last year?” John said. His tone seemed disinterested. I did not look up to gauge his expression.

“Oh, yes, but I found I much prefer the art of piano. Of course, I did not begin its study until I was seventeen – why I’m only nineteen now – but I feel I’ve quite the ability for it.”

“Yes, I suppose you—“

“Would you like to hear me sometime?” she interrupted with a burst. Then she giggled. “Of course you would! Perhaps Tuesday evening? I shall have to check with Mother, she gets so fussy about guests. However, I will send word when I am able. It will be such fun. We could have tea, as well, and finger sandwiches…oh, and biscuits!”

“Sounds…lovely,” John said. “Missy, will you be attending Laura’s concert, then?”

“Oh, no, Missy will be busy that day,” Laura answered for me.

Truth be told, I could not think of a single thing I would be doing that day. I nodded anyway, unwilling to face Laura’s anger.

John turned the boat around again and we began heading back to shore while I picked on, selecting a melody from my memory. John swayed slightly with the music and Laura let her hand drift in the water. It was almost sensual, the way she did it, and again, I found myself blushing at her expense. She lie back, her bosoms protruding into the air as white hills, and I looked away, gazing for fish in the pond.

When we arrived at the shore, John exited the boat first. Laura followed him, giggling again as he took her hand.

Again, I struggled with my guitar as I tried to get off.

“Here, let me,” John said, holding his hand out for the guitar. He moved it to his left hand and held out his right again to help me off. Laura had already made it half-way across the field to Mr. Lockhart’s barn before I was fully on land again.

“Your playing was lovely,” John said, handing me back the guitar.

“Thank you.”

“Might I call, Tuesday evening?”

I started, then hesitated. “I—well, what about Laura?”

“I shall tell her I’d a previous engagement.”

“That would be deception,” I cautioned.

“What of it? I think it would be quite worth it to spend an evening with young Missy Lewis.”

“Well, Laura did say I was already to have things to do.”

“And have you?”

“No, but—I really think you ought to visit Laura. I am certainly free the following Thursday, however. I will not make a lying man of you, John. You’re too good for it.”

“Ah, good,” he said. “Alright then. Only to satisfy you, I suppose. I shall go to Laura Tuesday but I am yours on Thursday. Exclusively. And I hope it shall be mutual exclusiveness.”

“My mother may be in the house but I do not expect any other callers.”

“Thursday, then,” he agreed.

“Yes. Thursday.”

Day Nine -1,017

Kalpana Chatterjee, Holi Festival, India, 2010

Caste

Here, it did not matter what color your skin was. It was impossible to tell, anyway, with the chalky pigments dying everyone’s skin until we blurred into a rainbow of people. This festival occurred once a year, celebrating the advent of spring. The bulk of the festival took place in Barsana.

Above, the sun beat down on the bodies, intensifying the colors. Children ran, stuffing the dye into each other’s hair. Adults kissed scandalously in public, their dyes mixing on their lips. I turned in circles, embracing any pigments which came my way, smearing it on my body and in my hair.

“Shyamala?” Somebody had said my name.

I turned, the dye spraying from my hair. I wondered if it was possible I had misheard. Or perhaps my name had been said, but was directed at some other girl with my name. Then I saw her.

“Shweta!” For a moment, I rushed towards her for a hug. Then I remembered we had not spoken for two years. Checking myself, I sobered my expression and looked her over. My stained hands fell to my side and I let a small smile settle on my lips. “I did not expect to see you here. It has been so long.”

“Nor I, you,” she said. “How is your family?”

“They. . .they are well, thank you. Makur has started at university. He is enjoying it very much and sends me letters to tell me what he has learned. He is studying to be a doctor and wants to go to America. It is very impressive and he has many opportunities. I almost did not make it here. Mother had me doing chores all morning and last week so I could come here. How are you parents? Is your father still ill?”

“He passed away, actually. A few months after he was diagnosed. The doctors were unable to do anything at the advanced stage he had reached. My mother is doing well, though. It was not easy for her but she is managing fine. Plus we received a fair amount of money for our loss.”

“Oh, Shweta I am so sorry to hear this.”

She placed her hand on my arm, the red dye on her palm staining the blue there.

“Sweet Shyamala. It is funny, you know. As children we did not realize how our names contradicted each other.”

“Shyamala,” I said my name, sounding out each part. “Dark-skinned.”

“Shweta,” she said, “light-skinned.”

I looked at Shweta seriously for a moment. Then I stared down at the ground. Some water had been spilt at my feet, darkening the dirt. It leaked into a small stream, infecting the surrounding lighter sand.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Funny.”

“Have you had anything to eat yet?”

“I am not very hungry but I was considering buying a thandaai. It’s so warm today. I got thirsty than I thought I would.”

“Would you mind if I joined you? I have not had a thandaai in so long!”

I shook my head. “Of course not.” I squeezed my little bag of money, trying to feel if I could even afford a thandaai. I thought how bright red my skin would turn naturally, bursting through my dark complexion, if we arrived at the vendor and I could not pay for my drink.

I found I had just enough to have a few coins change after. We found a rock to sit on, our knees knocking against each other’s while we sipped our drinks.

For a while we just sat quietly, watching the children throw colored dust at each other, laughing and coughing. One boy pushed a girl to the ground. For a moment, she looked as if she were about to cry. Then she stuck her leg out and swung it around, tripping the boy and letting him fall to the ground. He screamed, apparently in anger, and struck the ground with his fists. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth.

“We used to play like that,” Shweta said, rubbing her hands on her clothes. “Your brother, too. Running around and smashing each other up. So violent,” she said. Then she paused for a moment, staring into her drink. “Gosh, I’m such a mess.” She laughed. “You, too,” she said, running her finger down my cheek, exposing my true skin. She took it away and there was green powder on her fingertip. She stared at it quietly then wiped it on her clothes again, smearing the dust on the fine cloth.

I finished my drink, still staring at the children as if I were sleeping with my eyes open. It was comfortable in some way. To my left, dye flew through the air, creating hazy rainbow clouds overhead. The mess of bodies seemed to squirm together like a box of candy worms, flinging themselves about. I licked my lips, tasting remnants of the dust.

Over to our right was a small spout spitting out spurts of water.

“I’m going to go rinse my hands. I’ll be back,” I said.

“I’ll come with you,” Shweta said. She stood up with me and walked over to the fountain. We rinsed our hands together, bumping them. My hands ached with the icy water. Still, this did not distract me from the incredibly noticeable difference in our skin colors. It struck me that I had been foolish not to have noticed it as a child, even. I should have known that our relationship would not last.

“I think I’ll go back to the festival,” I said. “It was nice seeing you.”

“Yes,” Shweta said. “Come and visit soon!”

We both knew I would not. I would not be welcome in her neighborhood and she might be attacked in mine for her wealth.

“Please send my respects to your mother,” I said.

“And mine to your parents and brother.”

Then I nodded and left Shweta sitting on the rock where we shared our last drink. When I turned around to look one last time, the clouds of dye had already fogged the space between us and I could not see her anymore.

Day Eight - 1,013

Edward Hopper, Summer Evening, 1947

Sarah

“Hey, Sarah, wait. Wait up a second, will ya’?” Oliver jogged after Sarah from his truck to the front of her house. He kicked up the dry dirt behind him, creating a cloud of tan dust. Despite his athletic build, he ran jerkily and ungracefully, his arms flailing a bit.

“I’m sorry, Ol,” she said. “I suppose I’m not very good at all of this.” For a moment she stared down at her feet and then back up at Oliver. Her blue shoes seemed to blend in with the cement, as if she had melted and become a part of it.

“What? Good at what? No, you’re fine. Really.” He looked at her encouragingly. “Really,” he repeatd.

“I don’t know, Oliver. Maybe we ought not to see each other again.” Sarah leaned back onto the wall of her porch, placing her palms flat on the surface. “You know? I just feel like. . . .”

“Naw, Sarah. You’re just a little shy is all. It’s no problem. Look, I had a lot of fun tonight, alright? And I want to do it again. Besides, I was shy once. I suppose most people are at some point. You just grow out of it is all. But the only way to do that is keep trying, putting yourself out there. Make sense?” He leaned toward her while he spoke, attempting to engage her in some sort of response.

“Do what exactly?”

“Sorry, what?”

“You said you wanted to do ‘it’ again. What is it?” She slid her eyes to his, waiting for an answer.

“Oh, I don’t know. Carnival’s supposed to be coming to Portland next week,” he said. “Thought we could go there for a day. Show you off a little. Or we could do a movie. The beach. Whatever you’d like.”

Then she wrapped her arms around her stomach. “This isn’t me,” she said. Sarah let her neck bend, gazing down at the cement floor of the porch.

Oliver knew she was referring to the outfit. “Oh, I don’t mean like that. I just mean. . .you know, on my arm or whatever. My girl. Make sure everyone knows, I guess. I’d like to go steady, you know?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Well, I’ll call you in a few days or tomorrow or something and you can let me know what you’ve decided. No pressure, alright?”

Sarah nodded, hanging her head some and sighing.

“What’s wrong, Sarah? What’s the matter? I want to help, you know. I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you really don’t want to, but I just want to help. Really.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Just. . .feel like a mess, I think.”

“You think?” he asked.

“I don’t know, it’s hard to tell. I guess it’s just one of those things you have to experience yourself to really understand. Does that make sense?”

Oliver stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well, no, but I guess I can accept it.”

Sarah sighed. “No, see. . .you don’t understand. I don’t suppose you really could. I think I ought to go inside now. My parents. . . . And my sister has school tomorrow so I can’t wake her up.” She glanced inside, apparently trying to find a clock. “It’s only ten, now. Hopefully she won’t be asleep yet.”

“You sure, Sar? I’ll listen, if you want me to. Long as you need, too.”

“Yeah,” she said, smoothing her skirt down. “I’m sure.” Then she turned to him, but kept her head down for a moment. She grasped his hands in hers. “Thanks, Ol,” she said. Sarah placed her hand on his shoulder for a moment and looked him in the eye. Then she sighed and dropped her hand to her side.

“Well, sure, but what for?”

The sound of the crickets in the yard filled the silence. Still, Oliver found himself shifting his weight slightly while he watched Sarah.

Sarah looked up at him and gave him a slight smile. “Just thanks.”

“Oh. Alright, then. I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure, sure. I’ll be here.”

“Sarah? Oh, hello, Oliver.” A round woman appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on a rag and sniffling some. She looked Oliver up and down once.

“Hello Mrs. Larkin. I hope you don’t mind me keeping Sarah out so late. Lost track of time, I guess. She’s a sweet girl.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Larkin agreed. “She’s very special, my Sarah. Not too late at all. You should have stayed out later – ‘til two, even! Why, when I was Sarah’s age, I’d be out until dawn half the week. Never did get much sleep in my younger years. You see I’m paying for it now, but,” she leaned closer, as if giving away a big life secret, “I think it was quite worth it.”

Oliver nodded.

“I’m glad she has found some company in you, though,” she said. “Always moping about the house this one.” Mrs. Larkin gestured to Sarah with her thumb.

“Dear, dear Sarah? She couldn’t!” A tone of subtle defense entered his voice.

“Oh, this girl could cry to match Noah’s flood! Anyway, I best be off. Bit more cleaning up to do in the kitchen. G’night, Oliver.”

“’Night, Mrs. Larkin.”

Mrs. Larkin waddled into the house again, still wringing her hands in her rag. She made a turn to the left and then was out of sight.

Sarah hid her face in her hands for a moment, breathing deeply. “God, I hate her.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver offered. He held out a hand apologetically. “If I thought my Mom’d be okay with it, I’d offer you a bed at my place.”

“I’m alright,” she said. Again, Sarah smiled strangely.

“So I’ll call you tomorrow then?” he asked, grasping her hand now.

“Yes.”

“Great.” Oliver leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Sarah’s eyes were squeezed shut tight when he pulled away. She nodded, as if she had just understood something completely, something she had been trying to figure out for a long time.

Day Seven - 1,010

Edward Hopper, The Automat, 1927

Sophia and the Automat

Sophia stepped off the bus, nearly tripping on the last step and approached the automat. She knew there was at least fifty cents in her left pocket, plus the ten or so dollars in her purse. Pressing her hand to her hat to keep it from blowing off of her head, she cursed herself for being such a good girl. Of course, she reasoned, running away was not exactly good, but she should have been brave enough to take more money. Her parents were more than well-off; they certainly could have spared any amount of cash and probably not have even noticed its absence.

She walked back and forth in front of the boxes containing various meals and beverages. Then she settled on the coffee. It was more expensive than a sip from the water fountain, but she had nearly frozen outside during her transition from the bus to the automat. She needed something hot if she was going to keep going.

Sophia nearly burnt her fingers on the cup. She hurried to place it on the nearest table and then sat carefully, crossing her legs and digging in her purse for the map she had folded up messily before leaving.

Boston was another fifty miles. She could be there in less than an hour, she supposed. But maybe she did not want to go to Boston anymore. New York sounded so much more exciting.

Or maybe something tamer, like Rhode Island, would be better.

The entire world was at her fingertips, figuratively and on paper. She could go to Hong Kong or Brazil or England. She could visit Versailles or the Grand Canyon or Taj Mahal. All of these places she had read of in books, but never did she expect she would have the opportunity to actually visit them. Now she did and she did not know where to start – or even if she wanted to.

It occurred to Sophia that maybe she should just go back. She knew it would only be a few days and she would run out of money, even if she was conservative with it.

An elderly man approached the cubbies and paid for a chocolate cupcake. Sophia expected him to sit down, perhaps at the table next to her, and maybe even give her a heart-to-heart, but he did not. Instead, he left, letting cold air into the room in a severe gust.

Sophia stirred her coffee absent-mindedly while still gazing at the map. Maybe Boston was the place to go. She could always start there and if she wanted to leave, she could. There were probably jobs available there – even if it was low-paying, she did not need much.

When she looked up to rest her eyes, she spotted a payphone by the door. She had not seen it when she had first come in and she was glad she had not. She had been miserable then: cold and with wet shoes and hungry. Now she was at least warm and her shoes were drying. Had she not been, she would have called her parents and apologized, sobbing into the phone with a curved, shaking back, and begging them to come and get her.

Sophia recrossed her legs and took a sip of her coffee. By now it had cooled to a more tolerable heat. It warmed her throat and then her stomach, spreading throughout her body in a pleasant wave.

“God,” she said. “What the hell am I going to do? Whose dumb idea was it to run away anyway? What twenty-one year old woman runs away from her parents’ house?” She shook her head, disgusted with herself, then stirred her coffee some more, desperate to have something to do with her hands. Then she traced the path from her house to her present location on the map with her index finger. “God dammit,” she swore, biting her lip.

“Now that’s my kind of girl,” a woman across the eating area said. She had a voice with a sort of twang to it, but it also had a clear New York accent.

Sophia eyed her. Most of the woman’s body was in shadow, but from what Sophia could see, she wondered if the woman was a prostitute.

“Excuse me?”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain and all that,” she said, getting up. When she reached Sophia, she stuck her hand out. “Loretta,” she said. “That’s my name. You need a place to stay, kid? I got a hotel room about a mile down the road. ‘Fraid I don’t have a car to get there, but the walk ain’t bad. Got two beds in it, and I only use the one. Don’t have a man friend at the moment.”

“Are you a – excuse me, but are you a prostitute?” Sophia realized after it was probably not appropriate to ask. She sighed, embarrassed for herself.

“Gosh! You really thought so? Not on your life. I’m an actress. Travel loads. A girl has to know how to protect herself out here. Figure if I look a little roughed up, won’t get approached, see?”

“I guess so.”

“So,” Loretta said, pulling up a chair. “What’s your story, kid? Look pretty young to be out here on your own. Run away from your husband? Get a little heavy on the drink, maybe? I’m a drinker myself. Hope you don’t mind. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to take the edge off. Cigarette?” Loretta held out a cheap cigarette case, pressing it close to Sophia’s face.

“No, thank you. I’m actually from Connecticut. I was thinking of heading to Boston—“

“Well, golly, girl! That’s where I’m headed. You see, there are lots of actin’ jobs there. I bet we could get you one! You’re pretty enough. Got a nice figure and all that.” Loretta held her hands up, framing Sophia with her fingers. “Yeah! You’d make a fab actress. What do you say, kid?”

“How’s the pay?”

“Oh, it’s here and there, you know. Not steady, but if you catch a break…”

“I accept.”