and Crystal’s childhood, Venice was a sleepy resort town, and my grandparents had their summer cottage there and their “big house” in Berkeley. Crystal and Daddy were co-owners of both houses until she sold the Berkeley place to get Daddy into the Manor.
I emerge from my room with the postcard in my hand; I’m on my way to the brass-enclosed mailbox in the main sitting room when I run head-on into Mona from the hospital. She’s draped against the wall outside my door, and I get the impression she’s been waiting there for a while. Lurking would be the word I’d use, I guess. She looks at me with big, mascara-ringed, watery blue eyes. Her face is thin, and her hair scraggly bleached-blonde. She looks, in spite of being quite young, like a seasoned barfly. Like the woman in the movie who sits down at the end of the bar and hopefully greets every guy that comes in.
“Hi,” she says to me now, not sounding very hopeful.
I say, “Hello.” I add, “It’s Mona, right?” to let her know I hardly remember her, which isn’t really true. I noticed her especially in the hospital because she was so effusively jittery.
“Can I come in?”
If Mona comes in, we’ll have to sit side by side on the bed, since there isn’t any chair. I suggest the downstairs living room, and she says, “No. Ohmigaw, no,” as if doing that would be life-threatening, so I give in and throw wide the door of my broom closet, motioning at the bed. I sit on the floor, cross-legged.
There’s a silence while she pulls at her skirt, a flowered something, quite short. Then finally she bursts out, “Oh, gaw, I’ve done so many things wrong.”
I resist saying, “We all have.” I wait. “I mean,” she goes on, “I wanted to talk to you because you’re younger, you know? I mean, nobody around here is younger.”
Again, I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say—“Mona, you sure got that right”?
“And then, you look like you know so much. And you understood about what to do when Mrs. Dexter had that thing in the dining room. That was so great! How’d you learn to do that stuff?”
There are a lot of women that got told when they were little that they are absolutely adorable when they’re enthusiastic. “Oh, she’s Daddy’s little darling. I just love little Tootsie when she gets all thrilled.” I’m willing to bet Mona heard that from some Daddy-type back in prehistory.
“And,” she’s continuing, not waiting to see if I’ll answer, “you’re so smart. I could tell from the way you were talking to Mrs. Dexter how smart you were.”
“Mona,” I intrude, “what exactly are we talking about?”
This pulls her up short. “Talking? About? Ohmigaw, well, I guess you know. I mean, I made so many mistakes. Around here. Got in trouble all down the line. Did it all wrong. Everybody hates me.”
I stare up at her. She might have been a pretty little girl once, when that relative was telling her how darling she was. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re saying.”
“You haven’t?”
It dawns on me that Mona, too, thinks I’m the Observer. Somebody from the outside world sent to take notes. To figure it all out. Learn about secrets, love affairs, stealing from the clients, pilfering from the Manor, whatever they’ve been up to. And about the accidents. And any other dirt.
“The dumbest things I ever did,” Mona is saying, “the real bottom-line dumbest—but you know about that, I guess, don’t you? And now I can’t do anything about it. It’s just there and—oh, gaw, I get so worried. Tell them, will you, I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t at all mean it. And I was just trying to help. People get in a lot of trouble, don’t you think, over trying to help? I figure helping is one of the things you can do. But this time, ohmigaw, was it dumb.”
I probably look pretty blank about this, so she stumbles on. “But that’s not the only dumb thing. I did another dumb thing, and I don’t guess
I emerge from my room with the postcard in my hand; I’m on my way to the brass-enclosed mailbox in the main sitting room when I run head-on into Mona from the hospital. She’s draped against the wall outside my door, and I get the impression she’s been waiting there for a while. Lurking would be the word I’d use, I guess. She looks at me with big, mascara-ringed, watery blue eyes. Her face is thin, and her hair scraggly bleached-blonde. She looks, in spite of being quite young, like a seasoned barfly. Like the woman in the movie who sits down at the end of the bar and hopefully greets every guy that comes in.
“Hi,” she says to me now, not sounding very hopeful.
I say, “Hello.” I add, “It’s Mona, right?” to let her know I hardly remember her, which isn’t really true. I noticed her especially in the hospital because she was so effusively jittery.
“Can I come in?”
If Mona comes in, we’ll have to sit side by side on the bed, since there isn’t any chair. I suggest the downstairs living room, and she says, “No. Ohmigaw, no,” as if doing that would be life-threatening, so I give in and throw wide the door of my broom closet, motioning at the bed. I sit on the floor, cross-legged.
There’s a silence while she pulls at her skirt, a flowered something, quite short. Then finally she bursts out, “Oh, gaw, I’ve done so many things wrong.”
I resist saying, “We all have.” I wait. “I mean,” she goes on, “I wanted to talk to you because you’re younger, you know? I mean, nobody around here is younger.”
Again, I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say—“Mona, you sure got that right”?
“And then, you look like you know so much. And you understood about what to do when Mrs. Dexter had that thing in the dining room. That was so great! How’d you learn to do that stuff?”
There are a lot of women that got told when they were little that they are absolutely adorable when they’re enthusiastic. “Oh, she’s Daddy’s little darling. I just love little Tootsie when she gets all thrilled.” I’m willing to bet Mona heard that from some Daddy-type back in prehistory.
“And,” she’s continuing, not waiting to see if I’ll answer, “you’re so smart. I could tell from the way you were talking to Mrs. Dexter how smart you were.”
“Mona,” I intrude, “what exactly are we talking about?”
This pulls her up short. “Talking? About? Ohmigaw, well, I guess you know. I mean, I made so many mistakes. Around here. Got in trouble all down the line. Did it all wrong. Everybody hates me.”
I stare up at her. She might have been a pretty little girl once, when that relative was telling her how darling she was. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re saying.”
“You haven’t?”
It dawns on me that Mona, too, thinks I’m the Observer. Somebody from the outside world sent to take notes. To figure it all out. Learn about secrets, love affairs, stealing from the clients, pilfering from the Manor, whatever they’ve been up to. And about the accidents. And any other dirt.
“The dumbest things I ever did,” Mona is saying, “the real bottom-line dumbest—but you know about that, I guess, don’t you? And now I can’t do anything about it. It’s just there and—oh, gaw, I get so worried. Tell them, will you, I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t at all mean it. And I was just trying to help. People get in a lot of trouble, don’t you think, over trying to help? I figure helping is one of the things you can do. But this time, ohmigaw, was it dumb.”
I probably look pretty blank about this, so she stumbles on. “But that’s not the only dumb thing. I did another dumb thing, and I don’t guess
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