The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (20 page)

She got a washcloth and dipped it into the basin of cool water she kept in her room. She wrung it out and laid it carefully over her closed eyes, not touching the drying wave. It felt so nice and soothing and dark. She’d just lie down here for a bit and not think about anything.

 

“Goosey, goosey, gander,” Avis whispered, her head swinging from one side to the other as they were led down the aisle to their seats.

Idella had never seen anything like it. Just walking into the theater was a show by itself. The buzz of all the voices chatting at once was terrific. Perfumes floated at her from every direction. She had never seen so many women in long dresses and jewelry and gloves up to the elbow. Idella had taken her own gloves off before she’d left her room. She had thought them too daring and stuck them into her brown purse, which was her only purse, and which she now placed across her lap. It felt like a steamer trunk compared to all the dear little evening bags that the women in the audience, including Avis, had dangling lightly from wrists or tucked into palms.

Avis cupped her own gloved hand and whispered into her ear, “Can’t you put that thing under the seat? It looks like you brought a goddamned turkey to eat.”

“It’s too big. There’s no room for my feet.” Idella could feel her cheeks flush. Who did Avis think she was anyway, Queen of the Piss Pot? She sat there in that beaded dress, with a real bracelet on and earrings and a little evening bag—her eyebrows all plucked nice as you please and a fancy wave in her hair that must have taken all afternoon to get just right—like she owned the place. She looked beautiful, and Idella felt bad—so gawky and glommy and brown.

Avis had shown up at the door dressed to the nines. She had taken the breath out of them all. One of her regular customers had decided that Avis would be the belle of the ball, lending her everything to wear, and of course she went right along with it, lapping it all up, and now she was lording it over Idella.

It was like sitting next to a whirlpool. Avis sat forward and looked over the audience. “There’s more minks in this crowd than in all of Canada.” She stood up to peer at the musicians. You could just see the tops of some of their instruments—those sticks the violin players used were scraping up and down, making weird noises. “They’re tuning up,” Avis said knowingly when Idella pulled her back down into her seat. Avis looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “Get a load of the naked babies painted up there. Their little whosie-whatsits are tinkling on us.”

“Avis!” Idella held her purse closer.

Avis sat straight up and read the program. They had each gotten one, telling who was who and whatnot. Idella couldn’t concentrate. Avis bounced up and down in her seat, testing the pillows. “Cushy.” She ran her fingers over the velvet chair back. “Plush.” Suddenly she was twisting in her seat and looking up at the fancy boxes that lined the outer edges of the balcony. “Let’s find the old ladies.”

“Avis, turn around and sit still.”

“There they are. Like a couple of roosting pullets. I think there’ll be some fresh eggs before the show’s over.”

“Would you sit still?” Idella hissed.

“Shhh!” Avis turned back around. “Quiet, Idella! It’s about to begin.” The lights had flickered and dimmed. The musicians started playing for real.

The nerve. Telling her to be still. Idella scrunched back into her seat and watched the bright light spread across the big red curtain. It looked like velvet. The music struck her as loud already. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

 

Idella was growing restless. There was too much to look at. The songs went on and on. People were running on- and offstage and singing away alone and in large groups, and the next thing she knew, they were shouting and she had no idea why.

Gypsy women came rushing onstage. One of them was Carmen. She danced around, pulling her skirts way up and swiveling her hips like there was no tomorrow. Kind of tarty. Then they started singing about cigarettes, of all things. “Cigarette” was the one English word Idella could make out. That whole scene was right up Avis’s alley. She was bobbing and squirming in her seat like a buoy in a gale. Someone was going to ask her to sit still.

The Gypsies reminded Idella of the French girls up in Canada at the lobster factory. Maddie had told her how they had to clean out claws and tails, a terrible job. Idella and Avis would hide in the bushes and watch them walk up and down during their lunch break. Dad didn’t allow them to go near those French girls or talk to them. He said they were from way down country, they were too rough. They were very mysterious to Idella and Avis, always speaking French. Maddie was the only one she’d ever really known.

Idella glanced at the people seated near them and wondered what their lives were like. The woman on her left wore a ring with a stone the size of a grape. It flashed and sparkled like a streetlamp. The man in front of Avis had a bald spot like a sand dollar right on top of his head. Idella was surprised Avis hadn’t pointed it out with a rude remark. Idella sighed and shifted in her seat. Her fanny was starting to bore holes through the cushion. It couldn’t be too much longer.

Suddenly everyone was clapping away. The lights were turned on bright all around them. “Is it over?” she whispered to Avis, who was clapping like a seal.

“No, ninny, it’s intermission.”

“I’m staying put.” She had to pee but did not feel comfortable with these people. She’d hold it. And she’d have to carry her purse. She wished she’d left it home. There was nothing in it, really, but the gloves and a handkerchief.

“Come on, let’s go mingle with the hoi polloi.” Avis was on her feet, adjusting the tight-fitting dress over her rear end.

“I want to stay here, Avis. I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“Well, I need a smoke. That scene in the cigarette factory had me sucking air. Get your Pony Express bag there and let’s go.”

People were standing in the row waiting to slide past Idella. She stood, clutching her bag, and sidled out after Avis, who hadn’t even bothered to wait but plunged ahead into the crowd heading up the aisle.

“This opera is all right,” Avis whispered when Idella finally wormed her way up to stand beside her. “That Carmen’s a pistol.”

“She seems sort of crude.”

Avis smiled. “She knows how to have fun, that’s for sure. Course, I wouldn’t mind meeting that bullfighter some dark night myself.”

Avis wasn’t even looking at her. She was watching the swirl of people who filled the lobby with their smoke, their glitter, their rippling little laughs. Idella felt hemmed in.

“They drag the words out so in the songs. I don’t think I’d understand them even if it was in English.”

“Probably not.” Avis was stylishly tapping out a cigarette, holding it between two fingertips.

“What was all that business on Carmen’s leg, when the soldier came to the cigarette factory?”

“She was rolling a tobacco leaf.”

“Go on. Who would smoke that?”

“Plenty of people.”

“May I light that for you, miss?” A very dapper man—fortyish, maybe—in a beautiful gray suit had caught Avis’s eye and offered a light. He was tall, and Avis looked right up into his face and smiled.

“Yes. Yes indeed. You may. Thanks.” Avis offered him the unlit end of her cigarette like she was in a movie. “That’s very kind of you.” She was batting her eyes so, it was a miracle she didn’t blow out the cigarette.

“My pleasure.” The man said no more than that but nodded and turned to join his party. Idella watched him glide across the carpet. He was with two other men and two women, so he could be solo or not. They formed a loose circle, chatting and laughing.

Avis waggled her cigarette. “Hoo-hoo!”

Idella sighed and looked away. She felt like a broom handle standing there next to Avis, who was smoking so stylishly—blowing her smoke out in long, slow puffs that whooshed.

“Come on,” Avis said, suddenly putting the cigarette out in a potted plant. “Let’s get in line for the can. I need to
oui-oui,
if you understand my French.” The line inside the ladies’ lounge was solid, snaking out past the mirrors of the outer room where women were applying more lipstick.

“Too many cows, not enough stalls,” Avis whispered. “Let’s go to the upper level. Maybe the line’s shorter.” Before Idella could protest, Avis was walking right up the fancy curved stairway, as smooth as you please, nodding and smiling like she owned the place. Idella could barely catch up, her purse whapping against her knees as she climbed.

“Avis, we’re not supposed to go up here.”

“Pooh. A can’s a can. Look, it’s a shorter line.”

It
was
shorter, and Idella suddenly was so glad to be able to pee that she didn’t care if they were supposed to be using the upstairs bathroom or not. When she finished, she stepped up to the line of sinks and washed her hands. A young girl handed her a towel. “Why, thank you.” The girl nodded. Idella heard the clink of coins. She noticed the little glass trays on each sink. Lord, she didn’t have any change. She stood there, frozen, wanting to give the towel back, but she’d already used it.

“Here you go. That’s for the both of us.” Avis had come out of her stall and put a whole dollar in the girl’s dish.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Not at all.” Avis smiled and took a towel from her. She turned to Idella. “I’ll just powder my nose on the way out.”

“Avis,” Idella pleaded under her breath, “let’s go back to our seats.”

They walked past the remaining line, mostly old ladies, who were slow to get there. At the end, staring at them with those blinkless eyes, was Miss Lawrence. Mrs. Brumley was next to her. Idella forced herself to stop and smile.

“Why, my dears, what a treat to find you up here!” Mrs. Brumley suddenly recognized them. “Are you enjoying the show? Isn’t it exciting? How sweet you look, Idella.” She spoke too loudly. “And, Avis, my dear, how stunning you are. Positively. Are you enjoying it?”

“Very much, Mrs. Brumley, thank you.” Avis certainly was enjoying every minute of this.

“I had a feeling the opera would find a friend in you.” Mrs. Brumley nodded and smiled. “It touches your inner passions, my dear. Just wait till the climax! It’s heartbreaking.”

There was a sound of chimes, and the lights flickered.

“I think you two had better return to your seats.” Miss Lawrence placed a protective hand on Mrs. Brumley’s shoulder. “It’s quite a ways back down.”

All the way down the stairs and back to their seats, Avis mimicked Miss Lawrence. “‘You’d better get back
down
to your
places.
’ The old witch.”

“Shhh!”

“I hope she pees her panties before she gets a stall.”

“Avis!”

The curtain rose as their fannies hit the seats.

Idella sighed, sat back, and waited patiently for the curtain to fall.

It startled Idella clear out of her seat when the soldier pulled a knife and killed, actually
killed,
Carmen. She got her whole song in, though, before she let go. Then the soldier kept on singing, right over her dead body. Finally there was a roar of shouting and clapping.

Now roses were being thrown onto the stage for the singers. Idella enjoyed seeing them all lined up taking great bows and smiling, gathering up the bouquets. Carmen was back on her feet, smiling and nodding. People all around Idella were shouting “Bravo!” and standing up.

“Come on, Della!” Avis yanked on her arm till she was standing. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Idella tried to clap, but her bag was too big. She stood clutching it amid the uproar. That whole last part since intermission, Avis had been awfully still, hands folded on her lap. Now she was practically on the ceiling with her wild clapping and yelling.

They stood till the last rose was thrown and the last singer had left the stage.

“Get your things, Avis. They’ll be waiting for us.” Idella had put on her coat ten minutes ago.

Avis draped her coat, borrowed and stylish like everything else she was wearing, over her shoulders and walked up the aisle ahead of Idella.

“Jesus,” Idella muttered when she found Avis waiting on the sidewalk. “Keep me waiting and then charge ahead, why don’t you?”

“Oh, that was lovely, just wonderful.” Mrs. Brumley came rushing up to them. She was lit up like one of those chandeliers, and there were tears in her eyes. She grasped Avis’s hands and looked right at her. “You know now, my dear, don’t you? You understand why I come here every season. You must come with us again.”

Miss Lawrence loomed out of the crowd and took hold of Mrs. Brumley’s elbow. “Let me give you girls money for the bus. Mrs. Brumley gets overstimulated at these operas. She needs a quiet ride home.” Miss Lawrence handed Idella exact change for two bus fares. She’d had it ready. “Do be careful coming in and going up to the bedroom.” She steered Mrs. Brumley toward a waiting cab.