covers.
“Canna, Ma?”
“Can ye what , son?”
“Go out and play!”
“All right,” she said. She pointed to the ottoman at the foot of the bed where her clothing lay. “Hand me them things, there’s a good boy. We have to get breakfast somewhere. You can’t go farther than the garden, d’you hear? If you open that gate and go out on the road, there’ll be no Action Man.”
“Aye, Ma.”
“And don’t go near that well. D’ye hear?”
“Naw, Ma.”
Herkie ran downstairs and Bessie got out of bed. She pulled on her blouse and skirt, then went immediately to the dressing table and sat down.
Whereas other women might start their morning with a cup of tea, Bessie started hers with her makeup routine. Appearances mattered most. Yes, the inner life might be a mess, but the outer packaging must be kept pretty. That’s what people judged you on first. She believed this without question. So every morning without fail she set about the ritual of painting and powdering, yielding, like so many ladies with flimsy self-esteem, to the tyranny of the looking glass.
Her beauty might have coarsened in recent times, the stress and the smokes having done their baleful work. But she managed, through the application of cosmetics and the wearing of figure-hugging garments, to retain a certain kind of gaudy attraction, an attraction that frequently drew caustic looks from women and the glad eye of men—most usually those men of questionable reputation.
It was a bit unsettling to look into Aunt Dora’s misty mirror, but Bessie reckoned her own reflection more pleasing. Oh, yes: more pleasing by far. Down in the living room there was a framed photo of a woman whom she took to be the aunt: a grim-lipped old lady with a frozen perm, sagging jowls, and wire spectacles. “Probably never laughed in her life,” she said to the mirror, and immediately set to work on her face. Zsa Zsa Gabor was her role model. Every morning she’d plumb the depths of her battered makeup bag in an attempt to achieve Ms. Gabor’s sultry look.
She could hear Herkie outside, swinging on the garden gate and imitating a birdcall. Would he ever be able to sit still? Maybe being in the country would settle him. Less distraction, for a start.
A sudden loud thwacking noise from outside made her put down her powder puff. She crossed to the window and looked out.To her consternation, she saw Herkie methodically deadheading a line of pink and purple tulips with a stick.
“What the blazes d’ye think yer playin’ at?” she roared.
Herkie did not look up. He dropped the stick and ran out of sight. She sighed and returned to her makeup. Some chance of him settling anytime soon, she thought. No surprise, given what the boy had been through following his father’s death.
She blinked her mascaraed lashes, her makeup complete. Teased her bouffant hairdo into shape with a brush.
All the same, perhaps Packie’s dying had done them both a favor. Now she could do what she wanted. Be what she wanted.
Why, she could even stay here.
The thought struck her as she rose from the dressing table. Yes, in this lovely little cottage, miles away from her old life. The Dentist would never find her in these backwoods. In fact she’d probably be safer hiding out here for a bit. But money was the problem. She had funds to last a month at most. And if she was being brutally realistic, her sister Joan would probably part with only enough to keep her in smokes for a week.
She continued to ponder her dire financial situation as she entered the kitchen. The modest space, with its varnished beauty board, was sparsely appointed: A rusty gas stove. A refrigerator. A Formica table with spindly legs. And on the table, an Oriental tea caddy and a pewter teapot. She lifted the tea caddy. An alarmed spider scurried across the table and vanished. It was bad luck to kill them, she knew. Given her present circumstances, it was better to let the creature be.
She pulled open
“Canna, Ma?”
“Can ye what , son?”
“Go out and play!”
“All right,” she said. She pointed to the ottoman at the foot of the bed where her clothing lay. “Hand me them things, there’s a good boy. We have to get breakfast somewhere. You can’t go farther than the garden, d’you hear? If you open that gate and go out on the road, there’ll be no Action Man.”
“Aye, Ma.”
“And don’t go near that well. D’ye hear?”
“Naw, Ma.”
Herkie ran downstairs and Bessie got out of bed. She pulled on her blouse and skirt, then went immediately to the dressing table and sat down.
Whereas other women might start their morning with a cup of tea, Bessie started hers with her makeup routine. Appearances mattered most. Yes, the inner life might be a mess, but the outer packaging must be kept pretty. That’s what people judged you on first. She believed this without question. So every morning without fail she set about the ritual of painting and powdering, yielding, like so many ladies with flimsy self-esteem, to the tyranny of the looking glass.
Her beauty might have coarsened in recent times, the stress and the smokes having done their baleful work. But she managed, through the application of cosmetics and the wearing of figure-hugging garments, to retain a certain kind of gaudy attraction, an attraction that frequently drew caustic looks from women and the glad eye of men—most usually those men of questionable reputation.
It was a bit unsettling to look into Aunt Dora’s misty mirror, but Bessie reckoned her own reflection more pleasing. Oh, yes: more pleasing by far. Down in the living room there was a framed photo of a woman whom she took to be the aunt: a grim-lipped old lady with a frozen perm, sagging jowls, and wire spectacles. “Probably never laughed in her life,” she said to the mirror, and immediately set to work on her face. Zsa Zsa Gabor was her role model. Every morning she’d plumb the depths of her battered makeup bag in an attempt to achieve Ms. Gabor’s sultry look.
She could hear Herkie outside, swinging on the garden gate and imitating a birdcall. Would he ever be able to sit still? Maybe being in the country would settle him. Less distraction, for a start.
A sudden loud thwacking noise from outside made her put down her powder puff. She crossed to the window and looked out.To her consternation, she saw Herkie methodically deadheading a line of pink and purple tulips with a stick.
“What the blazes d’ye think yer playin’ at?” she roared.
Herkie did not look up. He dropped the stick and ran out of sight. She sighed and returned to her makeup. Some chance of him settling anytime soon, she thought. No surprise, given what the boy had been through following his father’s death.
She blinked her mascaraed lashes, her makeup complete. Teased her bouffant hairdo into shape with a brush.
All the same, perhaps Packie’s dying had done them both a favor. Now she could do what she wanted. Be what she wanted.
Why, she could even stay here.
The thought struck her as she rose from the dressing table. Yes, in this lovely little cottage, miles away from her old life. The Dentist would never find her in these backwoods. In fact she’d probably be safer hiding out here for a bit. But money was the problem. She had funds to last a month at most. And if she was being brutally realistic, her sister Joan would probably part with only enough to keep her in smokes for a week.
She continued to ponder her dire financial situation as she entered the kitchen. The modest space, with its varnished beauty board, was sparsely appointed: A rusty gas stove. A refrigerator. A Formica table with spindly legs. And on the table, an Oriental tea caddy and a pewter teapot. She lifted the tea caddy. An alarmed spider scurried across the table and vanished. It was bad luck to kill them, she knew. Given her present circumstances, it was better to let the creature be.
She pulled open
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