Eileen, page 9
Rebecca Saint John’s face that day had no makeup on it that I could detect, and yet she looked impeccable, fresh faced, a natural beauty. Her hair was long and thick, the color of brass, coarse and, I noted gratefully, in need of a hardy brushing. Her skin was sort of golden colored, and her face was round and full with strong cheekbones, a small rosebud mouth, thin eyebrows and unusually blond eyelashes. Her eyes were an odd shade of blue. There was something manufactured about that color. It was a shade of blue like a swimming pool in an ad for a tropical getaway. It was the color of mouthwash, toothpaste, toilet cleaner. My own eyes, I thought, were like shallow lake water, green, murky, full of slime and sand. Needless to say, I felt completely insulted and horrible about myself in the presence of this beautiful woman. Perhaps I should have honored my resentment and kept my distance, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to be close to her, to get an intimate view of her features, how she breathed, what her face did when her mind was busy thinking. I hoped to be able to spot her superficial imperfections, or at least find flaws in her character which could cancel out the good marks she got in the looks category. You see how silly I was? I wrote out the combination to her locker on a slip of paper and took a whiff of her when I handed it over. She smelled like baby powder. She wore no ring. I wondered if she had a boyfriend.
“Now let me have you stand here and watch me and let’s see if I can figure out this lock,” she said. She had a haughty, precisely articulated accent, the kind of accent you hear in old movies set in the south of France or fancy Manhattan hotels. Continental? I’d never heard anyone in real life talk like that. It seemed absurd in such a place as Moorehead. Imagine the well-mannered tone of a British noblewoman politely bossing around her maid. I stood with my back against a column of lockers as she spun the dial of the combination lock.
“Thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty-four,” she said. “Well, look at that, practically my measurements.” She laughed and pulled the locker door open with a clang. My own measurements were even smaller. We both paused, and as though we were each other’s synchronized reflections, looked down at our own breasts, then at each other’s. Then Rebecca said, “I prefer being sort of flat chested, don’t you? Women with big bosoms are always so bashful. That, or else they think their figures are all that matters. Pathetic.” I thought of Joanie, her body so conspicuous in its fleshiness, a main attraction. I must have made a face or blushed because then Rebecca asked, “Oh, have I embarrassed you?” Her sincerity seemed genuine to me. We exchanged smiles. “Busts,” she said, shrugging and looking down at her small breasts again. “Who cares?” She laughed, winked at me, then turned back to her locker and fiddled with the dial again.
Perhaps only young women of my same conniving and tragic nature will understand that there could be something in such an exchange as mine with Rebecca that day which could unite two people in conspiracy. After years of secrecy and shame, in this one moment with her, all my frustrations were condoned and my body, my very being, was justified. Such solidarity and awe I felt, you’d think I’d never had a friend before. And really, I hadn’t. All I’d had were Suzie or Alice or Maribel, figments, of course, imaginary girls I’d used in lies to my father—my own dark ghosts.
“Of course I’m not embarrassed,” I told her. To declare this took more courage than I’d needed in years, for it required the brief removal of my mask of ice. “I completely agree with you.”
What is that old saying? A friend is someone who helps you hide the body—that was the gist of this new rapport. I sensed it immediately. My life was going to change. In this strange creature, I’d met my match, my kindred spirit, my ally. Already I wanted to extend my hand, slashed and ready to be shaken in a pact of blood, that was how impressionable and lonely I was. I kept my hands in my pockets, however. This marked the beginning of the dark bond which now paves the way for the rest of my story.
“Well good,” said Rebecca. “We have better things to do than worry about our figures. Though that’s not the popular opinion, wouldn’t you say?” She raised her eyebrows at me. She was really remarkably beautiful, so beautiful I had to avert my eyes. I wanted desperately to impress her, to elicit some clear indication from her that she felt as I did—we were two peas in a pod.
“I don’t care much about what’s popular,” I lied. I hadn’t ever been so brash before. Oh, I was a rebel.
“Well, look at you,” said Rebecca. She crossed her arms. “Rare to meet a young woman with so much gumption. You’re a regular Katharine Hepburn.” The comparison would have sounded like mockery if made by anyone else. But I wasn’t offended. I laughed, blushed. Rebecca laughed too, then shook her head. “I’m kidding,” she said. “I’m like that, too. I don’t give a rat’s ass what people think. But it is good if they think well of you. That has its advantages.”
We looked at each other and smiled, nodded sarcastically with widened eyes. Were we serious? It didn’t seem to matter. It was like all my secret misery had just then been converted into a powerful currency. I’m sure Rebecca saw right through my bravado, but I didn’t know that. I thought I was so smooth.
“See you around,” I said. I figured it was best not to come on too strong. We waved to each other and Rebecca flew off back through the office and up the hall like some exotic bird or flower, utterly misplaced in the dim fluorescent light. I walked mechanically, heel-toe, back to my desk, hands clasped behind my back, whistling nothing in particular, my world now transformed.
• • •
That afternoon I prepared certain phrases and responses to use on Rebecca. I was terribly concerned that she think well of me, that she understand I was not the provincial dolt I feared I appeared to be. Of course she knew I was a provincial dolt—I was that—but I thought at the time that I’d fooled her with some kind of radical point of view, what with our mutual distaste for large breasts, the cold wisdom of my gaze, my general attitude. I wasn’t radical at all. I was simply unhappy. So I sat at my desk and practiced my death mask—face in perfect indifference, no muscles twitching, eyes blank, still, brow furrowed ever so slightly. I had this childish idea that it is best when dealing with a new friend to withhold all opinions until the other puts forth her opinions first. Nowadays perhaps we’d call the attitude blasé. It is a peculiar posture of insecure people. They feel most comfortable denying any perspective whatsoever rather than proclaiming any allegiance or philosophy and risk rejection and judgment. I thought I had to bite my tongue and seem as aloof as possible until Rebecca set the rules of the game, so to speak. So if she were to ask me how I liked my job, I’d have shrugged and said, “It’s a paycheck.” If she asked me about my past I’d say, “Nothing really worth mentioning.” But I would allude to my mother’s death as though it were an event cloaked in mystery, as though she’d been slaughtered by the mob in some moonlit scene under a pier. Or maybe I’d killed her—snuffed the life out of her with a pillow and never told a soul until now. I had all kinds of made-up hooks I’d have used to snag her. If Rebecca wanted to know what my interests were, my hobbies, I’d say I read books, and if she wanted to know which, I’d say it was personal. I’d say that to me, reading was like making love, and I didn’t kiss and tell. I thought I was very cute. I figured, Rebecca being a teacher or whatever she was, she’d appreciate me as highly literary. Of course I couldn’t really discuss literature. It was easier for me to discuss the things that mattered in my own life. “Do you drink gin?” for example. If she wanted to know why I was curious, I’d shrug and say, “There’s something about people who like gin, and people who don’t.” And depending on her answer, I’d categorize gin drinkers either as idiots, or harbingers of great grief, or heroes. I pondered all this, but I knew I’d never have the guts to be so obnoxious. Rebecca was very intimidating to me.
“Yoo-hoo, Eileen. Time to sort the mail,” said Mrs. Murray, twiddling her fingers and snapping her gum. My stomach fluttered as I got to work. The clock snored on.
On my way down to the Christmas pageant in the afternoon, which I now seem to recall was in the chapel, I stopped in the ladies’ room to check my face in the mirror and apply more lipstick. I had a habit of wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweater to smear off the grease which got absorbed in the powder I used. I always had a fine row of pimples along my hairline, even after the more violent attacks of acne had subsided in my teenage years. My skin has always been problematic. Even now my rosacea flares up, and I’ve had gin blossoms since my late twenties, although I hardly ever drank gin, as I told you. Perhaps gin blossoms are my cross to bear, some kind of marker, penance. I like how I look now. But back then, I hated my face, oh, I was truly tortured by it. I smoothed my hair back and put on a heavy coat of Irreparable Red, blotted my lips with a paper towel, checked my teeth. They are small, childlike teeth, still, and they looked yellow in contrast to the lipstick I wore. I rarely smiled genuinely enough to forget to hold my lip down over my teeth. I think I’ve mentioned how my upper lip had a tendency to pull up my gums. Nothing came easily to me. Nothing.
When I used the toilet, I discovered that my monthly visitor had arrived, much to my disgust. In hindsight it’s a miracle that I menstruated at all, considering my wrought nerves and terrible nutrition. Not that I ever put my rugged fertility to good use. There was something once, but it went away before it turned into anything to write home about. And then another time, but I got rid of it. I can’t say I’m not sorry I never had any children, but there’s no use in regrets. That day at Moorehead, instead of going back to my locker for the proper supplies, I unspooled a length of paper towel to the floor, folded it up and stuck it in my underwear. It was dry and rough paper the color of shopping bags from the grocery store. This I remember since it contributed heavily to my self-consciousness as I walked down the halls, remembering suddenly—how had I forgotten?—that the boys, Randy, James even, might see me and stare directly at my rear end as I passed by. I might add that I didn’t wash my hands after using the toilet.
Despite the brutal misery of Moorehead, the way I picture the prison that day is less like a prison and more like a children’s nursery. The halls were decked thanks to the volunteers from the church who had come in over the weekend to stick up frightening hand-drawn portraits of Jesus and Santa Claus. Christmas has always been a charade and I refuse to acknowledge it now. It’s too painful. I remember a man I met in my thirties who bent my ear one night babbling about his happy childhood—presents under the tree, cocoa, puppies, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. There’s nothing I detest more than men with happy childhoods. Perhaps Dr. Frye thought Christmas was good for the psyche. He had always encouraged the boys to take part in holiday activities, like singing carols and making one another Christmas cards. That backfired every time, as the boys in the prison were humiliated by singing and would get into fights, calling each other names and laughing and pointing at whoever dared open his mouth. And whatever cards they received from one another were always loaded with threats and insults and pornographic drawings. I knew because the corrections officers would confiscate them, then show them around to the guards and other staff, then tell me—simply to humiliate me, I’m sure—to file them. “Marry fucking XXX-mas.” The rest of the year the boys were generally docile and dull. They were all on pills under Dr. Frye. Perhaps he’d let up on their prescriptions for the holidays. Otherwise they were heavily sedated and on strict diets.
That afternoon I watched as the boys filed into the chapel and sat in the first few rows of seats, slumped and irritable. Randy stood at the foot of the stage, facing them. To fulfill my duties, I sat on the high stool in back and plugged in the old spotlight that swiveled around in a cast-iron frame attached to the rear wall. I steered it so it illuminated the stage, shining a bright circle onto the wrinkled orange curtains. It reminds me now of the opening credits of Bugs Bunny cartoons. That tune plays in my head from time to time as a way of making light of deranged situations. I remember the scenes of that Christmas performance in vivid Technicolor. It was just absurd.
A moment before the lights went down, Rebecca appeared in the doorway carrying a small notebook with a pen stuck through the wire spiral spine. The guards’ eyes and mine followed her small, childlike bottom down the aisle. She took a seat off to the side near the front, next to Dr. Morris, where Randy was standing guard. This made me edgy. I would have preferred that the two of them, Rebecca and Randy, never cross paths. Rebecca was too pretty for Randy not to notice her, and despite our new bond, I was still full of envy. It didn’t matter at all that I’d been fantasizing my great escape, never again to return to X-ville and certainly not to Moorehead, Randy soon to become what he is now, an expired dream, a ghost, a shadow. “Good-bye, Randy, good-bye,” I imagined sobbing on my train to New York.
I remember that a row of boys, each wearing a blue or gray knit vest, erupted in a flurry of curse words and tossed fists as the lights went down. Randy broke from his statuelike posture to dissolve the fight. It was wonderful to watch him at work. He moved so efficiently, so coolly, without judgment, but with swift force. I could barely breathe watching how his muscles strained against the stiff give of his uniform. I suppose I really was in love with him in the worst sense: I cared only for his looks, his body—I barely knew him at all.
When the boys were all back in their seats, the warden walked out onstage. I steered the spotlight up to his face, but let it rest first—accidentally or not—for a moment at his crotch. A few boys laughed. The warden took the microphone and said something like this:
“Merry Christmas, prisoners, staff, and visitors. Every year we hold a special assembly to commemorate this most important of holidays, and every year we remark on just how much of the story of Christmas can be gleaned to uphold our principles, which is a great deal, and we pray to see if and where we are failing and just how the story of a child, not so unlike many of you boys born also to young parents without much money, little hope, could show us the errors of our ways and inspire us to change, be good, and live a life clear of outbursts, dereliction and destruction. So I hope you will all sit back and watch with open minds, questioning in your hearts where you can be improved, and what the teachings of our holy scripture say for us to be. Our dear friends at Mount Olive have helped to direct this year’s performance of the Nativity and I want every single boy to now sit on his hands and zip his lips. If I hear one laugh or moan or any wayward comment, it’s straight to the cave. And don’t test me on that. We also welcome two additions to our prison staff, Dr. Morris, our new sanity professional, as I like to think of you—welcome, welcome. And Miss Saint John, our education expert. She may be easy on the eyes, fellows, but I assure you, she’s very clever and will have more to make of your sick minds than I could ever hope to. You will all meet with her in due time. If that is not incentive enough to keep you quiet this afternoon, I don’t know what is. And now, without further ado.”
It disgusts me now to think how I had an odd sort of crush on the warden. Perhaps I envied his self-possession, I don’t know. He did always seem very pleased with himself. Although it barely masked his stupidity, there was a sureness about him I guess I found attractive. I was so easily swayed by the vestiges of power. I remember the warden untangling himself from the microphone cord, then extending his hand to an elderly priest in a wheelchair. In hindsight, the warden was probably a homosexual. He made a point of spanking the younger boys alone in his office, I heard. But that is a whole other story and not mine to tell.
When the orange curtains parted, a spartan set was revealed, made up to look like the interior of a prison cell. A bunk bed, a Bible on a small table. One of the boys, bloated and pale and dressed in the standard inmate uniform, a blue cotton jumpsuit, walked out onto the stage, hands in his pockets. He mumbled under his breath, but I can guess what he was meant to say since it was the same every year: “Oh, what am I to do? Sentenced for three years to sit indoors among boys of my same creed—plain bad. So much time to plot what evildoings I’ll undertake as soon as I get out. But in the meantime I suppose I could read a book.”
“You can’t read!” a voice cracked from the first row as the blushing actor picked up the Bible. The boys all laughed and throttled each other in their seats. Randy approached, gestured casually with one hand raised in a fist and the other holding a finger to his lips. The play went on.
The boy onstage sat on the bottom bunk bed and opened the Bible. Two more children crossed the stage toward him, both dressed in robes, one wearing a wig and, it seemed, a pillow over his abdomen under the robe. From where I was sitting, I could see Rebecca shifting in her seat. Of course it bothered me to watch what was happening on stage, that kind of humiliation. But I put up with it. I did not have the courage to care enough to get upset. Nobody did. The boy dressed as Mary spoke in a high voice: “Well, I’m pretty tired, can we rest in that barn over there?” and pointed offstage, fey as a rabbit. The audience laughed. The boy dressed as Joseph set down a sack and wiped his forehead. “Better than paying for a hotel.” Rebecca looked around, craning her neck as though searching for a particular face in the crowd. I hoped the face she was looking for was mine. I could just barely make out her expression in the darkened chapel. I nearly swung the spotlight at her to illuminate her delicately furrowed brow, her mouth pinched adorably with displeasure. She was so pretty, a miraculous sight in such an ugly place, it surprised me that others weren’t pointing and staring. How was it that Dr. Morris, Randy, all those boys carried blithely on, as though she were invisible to them? Was my assessment of her beauty wrong? Had I lost all perspective? Was I seeing things? Was she not the most radiant, most elegant, most charming woman in the world? I wondered. She continued to scan the audience row by row.
