“No more than the average woman.”
“What would you do if the situation was reversed, and some tall dreamy guy with sideburns came along and decided I was pretty cute.”
“Lots of them have, though I can’t remember any with sideburns.”
“I asked you a serious question.”
“Very well. I’d probably ask him to park elsewhere. And if he didn’t — and if he wasn’t too big — I’d take a poke at him.”
“The subtle approach, eh? God, men have simple minds.”
“Can you think of something better?”
“I’ll try.”
He looked faintly irritated. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, will you? Don’t — humiliate yourself.”
“If I don’t do it myself, other people might do it for me.”
“Listen, Evelyn. Lay off, will you? She’s leaving tomorrow anyway. There’s not a chance in the world that we’ll ever see her again.”
But, even as he spoke, the words were incredible to him. It seemed utterly impossible that she would not walk into his life again somewhere.
Evelyn was talking, but the words he heard came from his memory and had been spoken by Mrs. Wakefield: to walk on a city street and always be expecting to meet you; to look up at a plane and wonder if you’re in it; to watch every window on a passing train...
Evelyn found Luisa in the lathhouse beyond the shed. Luisa was sitting on the dusty potting table, singing to herself. Her voice was full and sweet, like a choir boy’s, and when she sang she smiled, pleased at the sound of herself floating out the slatted walls and roof. She sang very loud, to cover the crowing of the rooster in the chicken pen and the ceaseless gossip of the old hens.
In former years the lathhouse had been one of Luisa’s favorite places to sit and dream. Then, the air had been heavy with the smell of damp earth, and filled with the expectancy of growth. Seedlings sprouted everywhere, in flats and coldframes and flower pots; the hose dripped, and the earthen floor was cool and moist.
The hose hung now on a nail, unused, in a blur of spider webs. Under the folds of Mrs. Wakefield’s old gardening gloves, a black widow slept, in dark innocence. The ground was hard and dry as stone, and the only thing that grew was a stunted pelargonium in a flower pot. Its single bloom matched the color of Luisa’s dark-red lips.
In the sterile dryness of the lathhouse Luisa sang. She did not stop when she saw Evelyn. She looked away and finished her sad cheap little song.
“That was pretty,” Evelyn said.
Luisa tossed her head, flushing. She didn’t want her voice to be called pretty. Terrific, or super, or divine — these were the words that would find an echo in her mind. Pretty was an insult.
She said, “I’m supposed to be practicing.”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“If I don’t keep practicing so Mama can hear me I’ll have to go in and do the dishes or something.”
It was an invitation to leave, but Evelyn ignored it. Pushing aside a box of withered bulbs, she sat down on the bench along the wall. Dust rose from the bulbs like a sigh.
“Mayn’t I listen?” Evelyn said.
“I can’t sing if anyone listens. Last year at school I was supposed to be on the Christmas program. I had a costume and everything — an angel costume — only at the last minute I lost my voice. I was scared people would laugh at me.”
“Why?”
“I looked so funny. The costume was pure white, and I looked... I looked just like a nigger in it. Angels are supposed to be blonde.”
“It was silly to feel like that. You have a beautiful complexion. Why, my goodness, other girls your age spend weeks and weeks trying to get a tan like yours.”
“It isn’t a tan,” Luisa said woodenly. “I’m this color all over. I was born with it. In the winter the other girls get white again, and I stay like this.” She added, with a sudden frown, “You don’t understand. You sort of talk to me like you talk to Jessie. I’m not a child. I’m old enough to get married and have a baby. And if I can’t think of any other way, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Any other way to do what?”
“Leave here and go to a city.”
“I live in a city. It has its faults.”
“At night everything is bright, though,” Luisa said. “That’s the part I’d like best. And the people. Just think, every time you go outdoors meeting different people and seeing what they wear and everything. Out here, it’s gotten so I even appreciate Jessie sometimes.”
The roof of the lathhouse was hexagonal, and the sun, squeezing between the slats, divided Luisa into stripes.
“You’ll soon be leaving,” Evelyn said. “The house is up for sale.”
“No one will buy it when they find out about the water shortage. And even if it is sold I don’t believe my father will ever start a restaurant in town. He doesn’t know anything about restaurants. All he ever was before was a caretaker.” She kicked the leg of the table with her shoe, in quick rhythm, keeping time to the quick rhythm of resentment beating within her. “Maybe we’ll end up going away with her.”
Evelyn hesitated. She was sorry in advance for what she was going to do, but nothing could have stopped her. She said, “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I’d hate it.”
“Why, I thought you and Mrs. Wakefield were old friends. She gave you that gorgeous necklace, didn’t she?”
“Only so I wouldn’t — only for business reasons.”
“Luisa — only so you wouldn’t do what?”
“She don’t want anyone to know about Billy and Mr. Wakefield.”
“What about them?”
“I’m not supposed to tell,” Luisa said. “I’m scared to.”
“Are you afraid she’ll take the necklace away from you? Or worse than that?”
“I don’t know. I’m just scared, is all. She gives me the creeps. Billy did, too. I used to have to play with him until Miss Lewis said it wasn’t good for me. Miss Lewis was the only one Mrs. Wakefield would listen to. She knew she had to, she’d be sunk without her.” She broke off with a sharp sound almost like a laugh. “She didn’t fool Miss Lewis or me when she went into that sweet, sympathetic act, the way you were trying to do a minute ago.”
“I’m glad I didn’t fool you,” Evelyn said, rising, and brushing off the back of her skirt. “It was worth trying, though. Maybe some day you’ll understand.”
“I understand already.”
Luisa slid down from the table. She was as tall as Evelyn and as fully developed. The seventeen years that stood between them were like the pleats of a fan that could be folded and unfolded but were always joined at the base.
At the base, they were two women with a common enemy.
“He was funny in the head,” Luisa said, fingering the necklace. “Billy, I mean. He was born that way. He couldn’t hardly talk, not so anyone could understand much except Mrs. Wakefield and Miss Lewis. He couldn’t even stand up alone until he was over three, and sometimes he just sat for hours with his tongue kind of sticking out. He was awful. I hated to be near him. Miss Lewis didn’t mind, though. She used to pet him and call him nicknames like Billy-boy and Old Timer.”
Evelyn remembered the first night that Mrs. Wakefield had spoken of Billy: My son was very fond of music... Billy and I were traveling... All the references had seemed to indicate that Billy had been a little different from ordinary sons, a little superior.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield used to fight about him,” Luisa said. “Not at first, when he was little; but later, when I got old enough to hang around and listen, I often heard them arguing. Mr. Wakefield always talked quiet, but she used to cry and carry on until he agreed with her.”
“What did they argue about?” Evelyn said, feeling, as yet, no pity for Mrs. Wakefield. The boy Billy was still too shadowy; he wasn’t a real child who had to be fed and clothed and supervised and given affection.