Trying to Save Piggy Sneed (33 page)

“Why, the other day,” she says, “some of the girls tried to get me to wear my hair in a braid, a long braid.”

“I'll bet you looked nice,” Angelo tells her. “Oh, you know, Angelo, I just didn't see the good in changing my hair from what it's been so long.”

“You should do what you think best, Miss Minna,” Angelo says, and Minna is helpless to break the penetrating and dangerous kindness which Angelo bears to everyone, bringing them the burden of his exposed heart, to do with as they may. Well, Minna thinks, it's time they were both back to work.

Minna has no complaints about her work. She has asked for another woman to help her, another matron for the dining hall — so that when Minna has her day off, on Mondays, the girls and the kitchen crew won't be alone. No one, apparently, regards this request as very important. Mrs. Elwood thought it would be a fine idea; she said she'd speak to the Director of Housing. Then later, when Minna asked her about it, Mrs. Elwood said that she thought it might be better if Minna spoke to the Director, or to someone, herself. Minna wrote to the Director, weeks ago; she has heard nothing. It's not really important, she thinks, and so there's nothing to complain about. It would just be nice to have another woman, an older woman, of course, and someone who's had some experience with young girls. There's even an extra room in the dormitory for her, if the college could find a woman like that, who'd like a room of her own — a free room, after all, and all the protection a woman living alone could ask for. It would be nice to have someone like that, but Minna doesn't push it. She is content to wait.

The first, bored ducks were roaming about as Minna, on her day off, walked through Boston Common. She shawled and unshawled as she walked, warm and then shivering, regarding the optimists in their short-sleeved shirts, their chilly seersucker. Several worldly mallards strutted with the awkward and stunned dignity of someone who'd been conspicuously insulted at a large, unfamiliar party. Shopping, summery mothers with winter-bundled children, staggering in the short blasts of cold wind, paused to find something to feed the ducks. The children leaned out too far, got wet feet, were scolded, hurried and dragged along, looking over their shoulders at the floating pieces of bread and the indifferent ducks. The ducks would get better about this as the spring wore on, but now, in the early stages of their hopeless revolution for privacy, they refused to eat if they were watched. Old men in year-round overcoats, clutching papers and knobby loaves of bread, hurled heavy chunks to the ducks — the men looked cautiously about, to see if anyone noticed that the pieces were too big (intended to hit and sink the ducks).

Minna was coolly aware of their feeble arms and their bad aim. She didn't stay long, but turned out of the Common to Boylston Street. She window-shopped at Shreve's, warming herself in the elegance of crystal and silver, thinking what would be the loveliest piece for her brother's table. Schraft's was around the corner and she ate a small lunch there. Outside of Schraft's she pondered what to do next; it was two o'clock and the weather was typically, indecisively March. Then Minna saw a girl come out of Shreve's; the girl smiled in Minna's direction — a denim skirt came above her knees, sandals, a green crew-neck sweater, obviously some boy's. The sweater hung low on her hips, the cuffs were rolled, and the stretched knobs on the sleeves, which would have been the boy's elbows, swung like goiters under the girl's slender wrists. She called, “Hi,

Minna!” and Minna recognized her as one of the girls who came to watch the news in her room. Not remembering her name, names always bothered her, Minna called the girl “Dear.” Dear was going to Cambridge, taking the MTA, wanted to know if Minna would like to come and browse the shops. They went together, Minna greatly pleased at this; she noticed how differently people watched her on the subway — did they think she was this girl's grandmother, or, even, her mother? The smiles were for having such a pretty companion, and Minna felt as if she was being congratulated. In Cambridge they stopped at an extraordinary little delicatessen, where Minna bought several cans of exotic food, the labels in some foreign language, sealed with precious-looking stamps. It was like receiving some gift package from an imaginary uncle, a world traveler, adventurer sort. In a dusty little shop of orange crates and awnings, a shop with a lot of dulled and dented pewter, Minna bought a silver hors d'oeuvre fork, with which, the girl called “Dear” told her, she could comfortably eat the exotic foods. The girl was very kind to Minna, so kind that Minna felt she must not be well liked by the other girls. At four o'clock the day turned ragged and cold once more, and the two of them went to a foreign movie in Brattle Square. They had to sit quite close to the front because Minna had difficulty reading the subtitles. Minna was embarrassed that the girl should see this film, but later the girl spoke so knowingly and seriously about it that Minna was somewhat eased. They had a nice meal after the movie — dark beer, sauerkraut and stuffed peppers, in a German restaurant that the girl knew well. The girl told Minna that they wouldn't have served her the beer if Minna hadn't been with her. It was well after dark when they returned to the dormitory, and Minna told the girl what a lovely time she'd had. With her little bag of funny foods and the hors d'oeuvre fork, and feeling pleasantly tired, Minna went to her room. Although it was only nine o'clock she felt she could go to bed right away, but on her desk where she gently set her bag, she saw a curious beige folder with a note attached. The note was from Mrs. El wood.

So, Minna thought, they really got someone. She couldn't imagine what might be in the folder, and opening it, delicately, she saw it was a duplicate of the woman's job application. She felt a little uncertain about looking at this, it appeared to be such a private thing, but her eye caught the little bag of worldly foods and this, somehow, gave her confidence to read the application. Celeste was her name and she was 41. She'd done a “lot of waiting-on table,” had been a counselor at a summer camp for girls, and she was from Heron's Neck, Maine — where her brother-in-law now operated an inn for summer tourists. She had also worked there. The inn had been owned by her parents. It sounds very nice, Minna thought, and she forgot how tired she had been. She suddenly became organized — arranging, proudly, the little cans of the curious food on the overhanging shelf of her desk. Then she checked the TV bulletin to see if there was an Alec Guinness movie on the Late Show. Mrs. Elwood would like to know, and the new woman might be lonely. Indeed, on this most surprising day, there was an Alec Guinness movie. Minna opened the door to the dormitory corridor and walked humming to Celeste's room. She thought, what a wonderful day it's been. She only wished she knew that Dear Girl's name, but she could ask Mrs. Elwood about that.

Minna rapped lightly on Celeste's door and heard, or thought she heard, a murmured “Come in.” She opened the door, hesitating on the threshold because the room was dark — all dark, except for the wobbly-necked desk lamp, which pointed its feeble light to the cushion of the desk chair. The room, like most end rooms in dormitories, was neither square nor rectangular. Any symmetry appeared as an accident; there were
five
corners where the ceiling sloped almost to the floor, and several alcoves in juxtaposition to the corners. In one of those low-ceilinged alcoves was the bed, a cot really, and Minna saw that some attempt had been made to conceal the bed from the rest of the room. A heavy crimson blanket was draped from the molding and hung in such a way as to wall off the bed in the alcove. Minna saw the blanket flap and she guessed there was a window open over the bed. The whole room was somewhat windy in the early-evening cool, yet the room smelled of a heavy, animal musk, rich as coffee, and reminded Minna — oddly, she thought — of one late evening last summer when her brother had been in Boston and had taken her to a show. They were riding back on the subway, alone in the car, when a massive woman in a gaudy, flowered dress came in and sat just a few seats away. The big woman had stepped in from the steamy rain, the damp underground, and suddenly the car was filled with her rich scents — she smelled of a hot summer day in a dirt-floor cellar, closed all winter with its jams and pickled beans. Minna whispered, “Celeste?” — heard another murmur from behind the crimson blanket, was aware of the odor again, somehow arousing and malign. Minna gently pulled back a corner of the blanket; the faint light from the desk lamp dully illuminated the long, large body of Celeste in a weird sleep. The pillow rested under her shoulder blades, tipping her head back and stretching a long, graceful neck — graceful, despite a sinewy muscled look, visible in the swollen cords which even in the poor light Minna could trace to the high, arched collarbones and chest. Her breasts were rigid, full and not sagging, not fallen to her armpits. Minna saw, only with this observation of the breasts, that Celeste was naked. Her hips were hugely broad; flat dents lay inside her pelvis, neatly symmetrical; and despite a certain heaviness to every part of her body — a forceful, peasant weight to her ankles, a rounded smoothness in her thighs — the length of Celeste's waist, the incredible length of her legs, made her appear almost slender. Minna spoke to her again, louder this time, and then, as soon as she heard her own voice, wished she hadn't said anything — thinking, how awful it would be if the poor woman woke up and saw
me
here. Yet Minna didn't leave. This terrible body — terrible, in its intimate potential for strength and motion — fixed Minna to the bedside. Now Celeste began to move slightly, first her hands. The broad, flat fingers curled, her hands cupped, as if to hold some tiny, wounded animal. Then her hands turned palms down on the bed and her fingers picked at the folds and wrinkles in the sheet. Minna wanted to reach out and calm the hands, fearing they would wake Celeste, but her own hands, her whole body, felt frozen. Celeste turned on one elbow, arched her back, and the hands fell with a soft plop on her wide, flat stomach. Slowly and lightly at first, then with more weight and force, pressing with the heels of her hands, Celeste rubbed her stomach. The hands moved into the flat hollows of her pelvis, rolled the loose, puppylike skin; the hands pulled down on the hips, pulled away from the waist, turned under the thighs — up, beneath the buttocks, up, to the small of the back. Celeste lifted herself, arched her back again, higher; her great neck cords thickened, empurpled by this exertion, and her mouth — slack, only a moment ago — curled up at the corners to a senseless grin. Celeste opened her eyes, blinked, saw nothing (Minna saw nothing but whites), and then Celeste's eyes closed. Her whole body now softly relaxed, appeared to sink deeply into the bed, and into a truer sleep; the long, still hands rested lightly inside her thighs. Minna backed out of the alcove, noticed the desk lamp, turned it off. Then she left, careful not to let the door bang behind her.

Back in her room, the bright cans of happy food smiled at Minna from her desk. Minna sat and looked at them. She felt strangely exhausted, and it would have been so nice for Mrs. Elwood and Celeste to join her for the movie — dining, exquisitely, out of the exotic cans. But then, there wouldn't have been enough hors d'oeuvre forks to go around. Even if Mrs. Elwood came alone there wouldn't be a fork for her — and, Minna thought, I don't have a can opener. She had to tell Mrs. Elwood about the movie, too, but she felt again the strange exhaustion, just sitting where she was. Celeste, Minna thought, certainly
looked
a lot younger than 41. Of course the light had been poor, and in sleep the crow's-feet always are softened and smoothed. Had she
really
been asleep? It hadn't looked, to Minna,
quite
like a dream. And how black her hair was! Perhaps it was dyed. Poor thing, she must have been very tired, or upset. Still, Minna couldn't escape the embarrassment of it! It was a little like reading one of the autobiographies. (Embarrassment, for Minna, was a general feeling she experienced often for others, almost never for herself; there didn't seem to be different
kinds
of embarrassment, and the degree to which Minna felt embarrassed could be measured only by how long the feeling lasted.)

Well, there were all these things to be done and she'd better get at them. First, Mrs. Elwood and the movie. Another fork and a can opener. She would ask Mrs. Elwood about that Dear Girl, and find out her name. But Mrs. Elwood would surely ask Minna about Celeste, had Minna gone to meet her? — and
what
would she say? Why, yes, she'd gone to meet her, but the poor woman was asleep. Then Celeste would know she'd been there; and the desk lamp — Minna shouldn't have turned it off. She should have left everything as it was. Minna thought, for one wild moment, that she could go back to Celeste's room and turn on the lamp. Then she thought, What nonsense! Celeste had been asleep — not aware, in her sleep, of anything Minna might have seen. Except, of course, that she was naked, and she would certainly know she'd been naked. Well, what of it? Celeste wouldn't care about that. And Minna suddenly realized that she was thinking she already
knew
Celeste; she couldn't get that idea out of her mind. It seemed that she
did
know her, and how silly that was. Knowing someone, for Minna, was a matter of long, slow familiarity. Why that girl, for instance, with whom she'd spent such a delightful afternoon — Minna didn't
know
her at all.