A Room of My Own Read online

  "Goodness, Charlotte," I said, "I can't understand why you like these guys." Just a month before, number one had been Clark Gable and number two, Gary Cooper. Paper number three had been, and still was, Mitchell Quakenbush. He was the most recent object of Charlotte's affections at school.

  Charlotte sighed moonily. "For one thing," she said, "some of them are richer than the Rockefellers."

  "Ill-gotten gains," I reminded her, borrowing my mother's phrase.

  "But think of the adventures!" she continued, undaunted. "Just imagine how exciting life must be for Bonnie, gallivanting all over the place with Clyde. Why, he must be the bravest man in all the world. He and Al Capone."

  "And Bugs Moran and John Dillinger," I added.

  "Yeah, them too."

  "But, Charlotte, if you marry someone like that, you'll have to go around robbing banks and killing people. Not only that, but you just might get killed yourself!"

  My friend fingered the globe absently while considering this. "I don't know if it has to be that way, Virginia," she said.

  "'Course it does. That's how they make their living."

  Charlotte spun the globe and stuck out her lower lip. "Well," she declared, "there must be some way to be an outlaw without robbing and killing."

  Sometimes Charlotte didn't make much sense to me. But then, even though we were best friends, there were few things we saw eye to eye on, not the least of which was men. Just as I couldn't share her enthusiasm for gangsters, she couldn't understand my infatuation with Charlie Chaplin. To her, he was just a silly little man with a too-small derby, an overactive cane, and oversized shoes that were always pointed out in the ballerina's second position. Worst of all, he was a tramp, disgustingly similar to the hobos that lived in the jungle down by the river. She didn't think much of any of the comedians of the day, saying there must be something wrong with the whole lot of them--Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd--because not one of them could walk more than a short distance without falling down.

  But I liked them, especially Charlie. Granted, he wasn't dashing in his tramp getup, but I'd seen pictures of what he looked like out of costume, and I thought him exceedingly handsome. Even as the tramp, he was appealing in his own sweet way. I think it was the way he regarded his leading ladies with tender devotion that struck a chord with me. I had seen City Lights five times the previous year, and I found myself envious of the blind girl, the object of Charlie's affections, as she enjoyed Chaplin's lingering kiss upon her hand. How I longed for such a kiss of wholehearted devotion and admiration to be planted on my own hand someday.

  Had I picked either of the other two papers in the jewelry box, I would have been honeymooning with Charles Lindbergh or Danny Dysinger, my own current interest at school. He had left to spend the summer on his grandparents' farm, but that didn't keep me from dreaming about him. Not that I had much reason to think he might be sweet on me in return. The one event that gave me any hope at all was that he had bid on and won my box lunch at the end of the school year. Our class had held the box luncheon as a fund-raiser for the Lower Street Mission. Most of the lunches went for a dime or less, but whatever the boy bid, the girl was expected to match. The proceeds--I think it was all of six dollars--went to the mission to help with the ever increasing crowds gathering in the breadline. On the last day of school, we received a letter from the mission thanking us for our contribution.

  Anyway, Charlotte and I were not to be deterred by the fact that Mitchell and Danny paid us little attention, that Charles Lindbergh and Charlie Chaplin were married, or that Al Capone was in prison. For us, romance knew no barriers.

  "All right, then," Charlotte said, lifting the globe to the floor and pulling the box of makeup forward again, "let's get down to business."

  Now that we knew where we were going and who we were going with, we had to get ourselves all fixed up to go. What a pair, Charlotte and I. We were a couple of adolescents straddling the line of maturity with one foot in childhood and the other in adulthood. We were much younger than we imagined, trying to act much older than we should have. Just weeks before we had taken an oath together that we would no longer play childish games like jacks and marbles, jump rope and hopscotch. We put away our dolls, and we buried our Little Orphan Annie secret decoder pins in the backyard in a ceremony as solemn as high mass. We wanted to put the fairy tales and fantasies of childhood behind us. We were ready for adult responsibilities and adult joys--like being in love. We were ready to face life as it really was.

  Or so we thought.

  "What do you think I should wear on my wedding night?" Charlotte asked.

  "I have no idea," I replied.

  Charlotte shrugged. "Well, by then I'm sure the styles will have changed. I'll worry about that later."

  We scrutinized our faces in the mirror while considering the cosmetics we would experiment with that afternoon. There was no doubt Charlotte was prettier than I, though she was good enough never to say so. I knew it and she knew it and we both knew that the other knew it, but it was an unspoken fact that we silently accepted. She could have passed for older than thirteen, as her face no longer carried the fullness of childhood. Her features were well formed, almost sharp. She had high cheekbones divided by a narrow nose, and she could already bat her large brown eyes coquettishly. Her teeth were perfect, her jawline firm, and her creamy white neck long and slender. Her dark hair hung in waves to just below her ears, much like her mother's, except that Mrs. Besac's waves were the result of a permanent and Charlotte's were natural.

  My face, on the other hand, seemed more reluctant to lose its childish appearance. It was as round as a dinner plate, and while I knew I had cheekbones somewhere, they hadn't bothered to begin showing themselves yet. Freckles dotted my slightly pug nose, and my braided hair was what I called fickle--it couldn't decide whether it was blond or brown and so lay in a rather shadeless area in between. I wanted to bob my hair as Charlotte had done to hers, but Mother insisted that proper young ladies wore their hair long and pulled back. My eyes, though a nice shade of blue, were set a bit too close together, and my lips were flat and narrow so that my mouth appeared little more than a colorless line. Being the eternal optimist, however, I had great hope that I might someday, somehow, grow into beauty.

  "What do you think of these earrings?" Charlotte asked. She had clipped a pair of rather gaudy dangling things to her earlobes and was turning her head from side to side for inspection.

  "Where did your mother get those?" I asked.

  "Oh, I don't know. Some uncle or other. They're always giving her jewelry and stuff."

  "Well, those might work for Africa."

  "I think Al would like them, and that's all that matters."

  "Anyway, you're supposed to be doing the makeup first. We'll pick out the earrings later."

  We were a couple of perfectionists when it came to primping. We applied compact powder and rouge with the care of an artist. We painted our lips slowly so as to stay within the lines. We darkened our eyebrows with the blunt end of an eyebrow pencil and sometimes used the same utensil to plant a Hollywood glamour-star mole on our cheeks.

  We further ornamented ourselves with the contents of a second box on Charlotte's vanity table--jewelry. Again from Mrs. Besac we had inherited a variety of rings, necklaces, and bracelets, as well as several pairs of matched and mismatched earrings. We examined each piece of jewelry discriminately--as though we hadn't seen it a hundred times before--and discarded some as too plain or gaudy while slipping others over our wrists, onto our fingers, around our necks, and onto our earlobes. The result resembled a parody of the magazine advertisements for a national jewelry store.

  Once painted and bejeweled, we then sniffed Charlotte's collection of half-empty perfume bottles like a couple of connoisseurs sniffing wine. Just the right one had to be chosen to please the acute senses of husband number one, two, or three. Once decided upon, the perfume was sprayed or dabbed generously behind each ear and upon the wrists.
r />   Finally, to complete the preening process, we settled upon our heads one of the half-dozen or so hats that had also come down to us from Charlotte's mother. They were all outdated and rather worn, but Charlotte and I pretended not to notice. That afternoon she chose one of those close-fitting cloches that were so popular in the twenties. They made a woman look like she had a rather large bell pulled down over her ears. On Charlotte it looked very stylish. The brim bordered her face like the frame around a piece of artwork, and the curly ends of her bobbed hair lay pressed against her cheeks like an extra bit of frilly adornment. For myself I chose a large floppy affair that boasted a tuft of peacock feathers sprouting from the hatband.

  An expectant hush followed as we stared long and hard at ourselves in the mirror. Did our faces reflect the essence of beauty we so greatly desired? Had nature kindly endowed us with the features that assured a woman of a life of romance? These were important questions that required no small amount of consideration.

  Suddenly, surprising even myself, I wailed, "Oh, it's just no use, Lottie!"

  "It's Charlotte," my friend retorted. "And what's no use?" She was obviously pleased with what stared back at her from the mirror.

  I grabbed the braid that hung down my back and held it up to Charlotte. "I'll never look good as long as I have to wear my hair like this!"

  Charlotte pulled one side of her mouth back and peered through narrowed eyes at the plait that lay across my palm. She nodded her understanding.

  In probably the first comment I ever made that revealed my envy of her, I said, "I want my hair bobbed like yours."

  Turning to look at herself in the mirror, she said simply, "Then cut it."

  "You know Mama will never give me permission."

  "Then we'll have to do it without her permission."

  We each looked at the other in the mirror for a long moment. Finally I said, "You mean ... cut it ourselves?"

  She rose resolutely from her seat. "I'll go get Mama's scissors."

  Her absence gave me a minute to reflect on what I was doing. Months ago, when Charlotte had had her own braid shorn, I had begged Mother to let me cut my hair, too. But Mother was adamant. Bobbed hair was not proper for young ladies. I hated the braid that hung girlishly down my back, but if I cut it off I'd surely be in trouble for at least a year.

  Charlotte walked back into the room with a large pair of shears. Snapping the blades twice in the air, she commanded, "Take the hat off. Let's get to work."

  "I don't know, Charlotte," I faltered. "Mama will kill me."

  She sat down in the chair beside me and looked me straight in the eye. "Virginia Eide," she said somberly, "you don't want to be an old maid all your life, do you?"

  I sighed. Faced with such a prospect, the worst of all possible fates, I felt I had no choice. I couldn't let my mother's disproportionate sense of propriety interfere with my future happiness. If I didn't stand up to her, if I didn't become the navigator of my own destiny, I'd end up like old Miss Cole--alone and lonely, going about from house to house trying to make a living by teaching tone-deaf children how to play the piano.

  I removed the hat.

  "Go ahead," I whispered. "You'd better do it."

  Without a word, Charlotte unraveled the braid and brushed out my hair until it hung limply down my back. Then she walked from one side of me to the other and studied me with a frown. I half expected her to hold up one thumb like a painter, but she didn't. Satisfied, she picked up the scissors and laid them against my neck. In spite of the summer heat, the metal felt cold against my skin. I almost pulled away but managed to fortify myself with images of all the tight-lipped spinsters I knew who sat like a blight upon my picture of the perfect world. Far be it from me to join their ranks, even if it meant taking drastic action.

  In a moment it was all over. Long strands of my hair lay in tangled piles on the floor. That which remained on my head came to an abrupt halt just below my ears. The sudden change was jarring, and I wasn't sure I liked it. Stifling the terror that was rising up in my chest, I raised pleading eyes to Charlotte and asked, "What do you think?"

  Charlotte nodded confidently. "It's going to be good," she assured me. "It looks a little blunt right now, but so did mine when it first got chopped off. All you need are a few curls. Now, let's see." She pursed her lips in thought. "I know! Mama used to roll her hair in rag curlers before she got the wave. Bet she still has those somewhere in her dresser. Meet me in the bathroom. We'll fix you up right!"

  For the next half hour, Charlotte wet strands of my hair with warm water and carefully rolled it in long strips of cloth. Neither of us said much. For my part, I was too busy alternately praying my hair would look good when we took the curlers out and wondering whether the nuns at the orphanage would take me in if it didn't.

  Finally, just as Charlotte got the last of my chopped tresses all tied up into knots, we heard the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway strike five. My stifled terror quickly erupted into panic. "Oh, gosh!" I cried. "I've got to be home in half an hour!"

  "Don't worry," Charlotte said. "I'll have you ready by then." She ran out of the bathroom.

  "Where are you going?" I hollered after her.

  "I'll be right back!"

  I was a sorry sight with those rags sticking out all over my head, and I was afraid my friend recognized her mistake and was running off to heaven-knew-where with no intention of ever coming back. If I had to walk home through the streets of our neighborhood looking like this, my life would be ruined for good.

  I was just about to burst into tears when my faithful companion returned with a magazine in each hand. "Fan!" she cried, handing me one. And fan we did, Charlotte waving a "True Story" magazine to dry one side of my head, I using a "Saturday Evening Post" to dry the other.

  Finally, when our arms were too tired to flap any longer, Charlotte felt my hair and announced, "I think it's done." She untied all the rags and, with the skill of a trained beautician, brushed the tight curls into flattering waves.

  When she finished, I couldn't believe what I saw. "Oh, Charlotte!" I said. "I look ... I look good!"

  "'Course you do," she replied, as though there had never been any question.

  I couldn't turn away from the mirror. For the first time in my life, I really did feel pretty. "I had no idea--" I started, but before I could finish my thought, the clock struck the half hour.

  "You'd better run home, Virginia!" Charlotte warned.

  "Oh! Oh, gosh!"

  "Want me to save your hair for you?" she asked, nodding toward her bedroom.

  I shook my head. "No, no. Throw it away. I don't want it."

  Then Charlotte said what I longed to hear. "Gee, Danny Dysinger's just gonna go wild ape when he sees you!"

  "Yeah!" I agreed happily. But then I added, "And Mama's gonna be mad as a wet hen, I'm afraid!"

  When I left Charlotte's house that afternoon, Mrs. Besac was still on the porch swing, still gazing out after that shapeless someone who seemed not to want to appear. A newly lit Lucky Strike burned between her long fingers; a thread of smoke lifted into the warm air and disappeared. The lemonade glass, long empty, lay on its side beneath the swing amid a scattering of lipstick-stained cigarette butts.

  Though I was already late, I purposely stopped on the porch and offered myself up to Charlotte's mother for her inspection. If she liked my hair, there was a small chance that Mother might, too--once she got over the initial shock. After a moment passed without Mrs. Besac realizing I was there, I knew I'd have to say something to draw attention to myself.

  "Good night, Mrs. Besac," I said shyly, wondering what she would say, what comment she might offer in praise of my new appearance.

  But she had no compliments to give. She barely glanced at me as she offered a dour, "Oh, good-bye, Ginny. See you tomorrow, I suppose."

  Disappointed, I trotted off the porch, wondering why she thought she'd see me tomorrow when she had not seen me today.

  Quickening my pac
e, I hurried along the sidewalks of our neighborhood. Most people were inside for the dinner hour, but a few sat on their porches, radios propped up in a front window, waiting for "Amos 'n Andy" to come on (a show we weren't allowed to listen to in our house because Papa said it was demeaning to Negroes). No one greeted me by name. I suppose they simply didn't recognize me, but I preferred to think they'd been stunned into silence. I could almost hear their thoughts: My, my, that can't be little Virginia Eide. Why, she's all grown up and lovely as a fresh blossom! I smiled to myself, but when I reached the walk in front of my own house, my fanciful thoughts were swallowed up by the more practical emotion of terror. I lifted my eyes to the house that had always been my home, the beautiful white clapboard house with the mansard roof and the gingerbread trim on the porch. I loved that house. It had always been a sort of refuge, calling to me with open arms, inviting me into its warmth with the words, This is where you belong. But now it only appeared chilling and foreboding, and if it was saying anything at all, it was crying out, Run! Run as fast as you can!

  I moved toward it with a sense of dread, a murky cistern of nausea settling into the pit of my stomach. Literally weak-kneed at the thought of facing Mother, I had to stop a moment on the porch to catch my breath. All the makeup and jewelry had been taken off at Charlotte's to lessen the impact of my appearance. Nevertheless, I knew the bobbed hair alone would be shock enough. I tried to tell myself that this great stride toward beauty was worth any amount of Mother's wrath, but by the time I pulled open the squeaking screen door, I realized I wasn't convinced.

  Mother's voice reached me from the kitchen. "Ginny, is that you? You're late! I'm waiting on you to set the--" Her sentence was abruptly cut short when she came out into the hallway and laid eyes on me. For a moment I was certain she would faint. Her face blanched to the same pale whiteness that Grandpa Eide's had been when he was laid out in his coffin, and she seemed almost to totter on her feet as though she might end up in a crumpled heap upon the floor. But just as quickly she gathered her wits about her, drew herself up into one huge giant of maternal indignation, and bellowed, "Virginia Jane Eide!"