The Ladies' Room by Carolyn Brown Page B

windowsills had
cacti growing out of the holes in their backs. I imagined them
jumping off the sills and throwing cactus needles at me like
porcupines.
    The cold breeze from the air conditioner caused the wooden
thread spool attached to the end of the light cord to sway.
Would the menagerie of glass-eyed critters blink and begin to
breathe if I yanked on the cord? Why was I suddenly afraid to
turn off the light?
    A little introspection said it wasn't all that junk that bothered me but the fact that Drew was coming home in two days.
We'd never fought. Not one time. I'd figured out early how to
keep him happy and made a full-time job of it. The wind-up
clock beside the bed sounded a tick-tock warning in singsong
fashion: Drew is coming home. You are dead. You will never
out-argue a lawyer. He'll talk you into going back with
him ... yes, he will!
    I vowed that the next morning the animals and the clock
were all going to the Dumpster or Goodwill. It was their last
night to look at me with black-enameled eyes and evil little
smirks on their faces or for the clock to tick out a message. I was in charge of my future, and Drew wasn't going to win,
lawyer or not.

    I pulled the cord, but all the dark did was bring on acute
insomnia. I tossed and turned and finally groped around for
the cord and turned the lights back on. All the animals were
exactly where they'd been, and Drew was still coming home.
I went to the kitchen and had a cookie. That led to another
cookie and a glass of milk. While I was pouring the milk, I
dropped the jug and drenched the front of my nightgown. I
cleaned up the mess, then went back upstairs to find another
nightgown in Aunt Gert's dresser. I pushed aside the flannel
gowns searching for a cotton summer one, and found a manila
envelope addressed to Gert.
    The jewelry box had taught me not to throw anything away
unexamined, so I carried the envelope to my bedroom. I removed my wet gown, put on the fresh one, and crawled into
the middle of the bed. The envelope was dated the previous
March, and the postmark said it had come from Hollis, Oklahoma. The return address label had Harriet Stemmons on it,
but the handwriting was big and masculine.
    I turned the envelope upside down, and letters tumbled out in
front of me. Aunt Gert's precise, small writing on the outside of
the letters addressed them to either Harriet O'Brien or Harriet
Stemmons. A single sheet of paper among them explained that
Harriet had prized their friendship and had kept a few of the
letters she had received through the years. But Harriet had
passed on the month before, and the sender was now returning
those letters to Gertrude. He hoped she'd enjoy remembering all
the good times they'd had when they were the two new teachers
in the Milburn school system and the letters they'd shared since
then. The letter was signed Thomas O'Brien, Harriet's son.
    I shuffled them into order by date and opened the one dated
December 10, 1944. In it, Aunt Gert wrote about riding a horse
nine miles each day so she wouldn't have to use her gas ration
stamps. She mentioned her sister, who would have been my
grandmother, and then told Harriet how much she missed her
beau, Miles, who was fighting in the war.

    It was hard to think that Aunt Gert had ever been that young
or happy, but there it was on the page. One letter turned into
two, three, and four until I'd read all of them.
    Gert didn't go into much detail, but there was a splotch that
looked like a teardrop on the letter she wrote saying that Miles
had died in the war and that she'd never marry.
    Letter number twelve was dated May of 1957, and she was
almost giddy. She was in love, and she was going to be married. He worked at the local Chevrolet dealership and was ten
years younger than she. She hoped that in the near future she
and Lonnie Martin would make a road trip to western Oklahoma to visit Harriet and Rick.
    Number thirteen, written in December of