“I know it’s wrong to wear fur,” she said, seeing me stare. “But I can’t help myself. Chinchilla.” She petted the collar of her coat inside the locker as though it were a cat.
“No, no,” I said. “I was just admiring your cigarette case.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said. “It was a gift. See, it has my initials.” She pulled it out from her pocket and showed me. It was a striated silver cigarette case, the size of a pack of cards. I wanted to ask, “A gift from whom?” but held my tongue. She opened it and offered me a cigarette. They were Pall Malls, thick and filterless and the harshest cigarettes I’ve ever smoked. I was on them for several years later in life, always rather moved by the unexpected beauty of the motto written across their logo — a shield between two lions—Per aspera ad astra. Through the thorns to the stars. That described my plight to a tee, I thought back then, though of course it didn’t. Rebecca lit my cigarette with a flourish of the wrist. That thrilled me. When she lit her own, she tilted her head like a thoughtful bird, sucking in her cheeks just slightly. I remember all this with precise acuity. I was infatuated with her, clearly. And I felt in a way that just by knowing her, I was graduating out of my misery. I was making some progress.
“I don’t usually smoke,” I said, choking a bit, though I had a pack of Salems in my purse.
“Nasty habit,” Rebecca said, “but that’s why I like it. Not very becoming of a lady, though. It turns your teeth yellow. See?” And she leaned in toward me, a finger hooked on her bottom lip, stretching her gums apart to show me the inside of her mouth. “See the discoloration? That’s coffee and cigarettes. And red wine.” But her teeth were perfect — small, and white as paper. Her gums were pink and glossy, and the skin on her face was miraculously smooth, like a baby’s, flawless and radiant and light. You see women like this from time to time — beautiful as children, unscathed, wide-eyed. Her cheeks were full but firm, buoyant. Her lips were pale pink and bow-shaped, but chapped. By that slight imperfection I felt subtly disappointed, and yet redeemed.
“I don’t drink coffee,” I said, “so I guess I should have perfect teeth. But they’re all rotted due to my propensity for sweets.” This word, propensity, was not in my day-to-day vocabulary back then, and it was awkward to say it, and I worried Rebecca would see through my attempt to sound smart and laugh at me. But what she said next made my heart nearly burst in ecstasy.
“Well, I wouldn’t think to look at you!” She smiled wide, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re positively tiny! I admire that so much, how petite you are.” That was heaven. And then she went on. “I’m thin, too, of course, but tall and thin. Being tall has its advantages, but most men are just too short for me. Have you noticed, or am I imagining, men these days are getting shorter and shorter?” I nodded, rolling my eyes in solidarity although I couldn’t possibly answer her question. She put her purse in the locker and shut it. “They’re like little boys. Hard to find a real man, or at least a man that looks like one. To tell you the truth,” she began — I held my breath—“I’ve forgotten my locker combination. But I won’t trouble you again. You have better things to do, I’m sure. I have it written down in my desk. Now to find my way back to that office they gave me yesterday. I won’t ask for help with that either. I should be able to follow my nose. The smell of ancient leather.” She paused. “There’s that old couch in Bradley’s office next door to mine, you know, the fainting couch. How Freudian,” she said, widening her eyes sarcastically. “How outdated, I mean.”
“Bradley?” I’d forgotten Dr. Frye’s replacement, Dr. Bradley Morris, with the bald head. Was he scrawny? Was he a real man by Rebecca’s standards? I had no idea. Was she involved with him somehow?
“The new headshrinker,” said Rebecca. “To tell you the truth”—there was that phrase again—“I don’t think his head’s been shrunk down quite enough, if you know what I mean.” It took me a moment to compute. Was this a comment on his proportions? I was like a pubescent boy, fumbling for words. Seeing my blank look, Rebecca said, almost apologetically, “Big headed, I mean. But I’m kidding. He seems like a perfectly nice person.”
I cursed myself for being so slow, so dense. I wanted to explain that I was intelligent, well-read, that I’d been to college, that I knew who Freud was, that I didn’t belong in that prison, that I was exceptional, I was cool, but it seemed petty to defend myself.
“I’ve never been inside that office,” I said instead. “Dr. Frye always kept it locked, and only the boys ever went in there.” I didn’t have a quick wit like she did. I was graceless, pedestrian and dull. Apart from my size, I couldn’t impress Rebecca at all. I should have asked her about herself, her plans at Moorehead, how she got interested in prison work, what her goals were, her dreams and ambitions, but my mind didn’t work that way back then. I had no manners. I didn’t know how to make friends.
“Come visit any time,” she said, nevertheless. “Unless, of course, the door is closed. Which means I’m with one of the boys.”
“Thank you,” I said. I meant to sound professional. “I’ll stop in next time I’m passing by.”
“Eileen,” she said, pointing her finger at my gut. “Right?”
I blushed deeply, and nodded.
“Call me Rebecca,” she said, winking, and ticktocked away.
I could have swooned with embarrassment and exhilaration. She’d remembered my name. That meant a great deal to me. I’d forgotten all about Leonard Polk’s file. Earlier that morning I’d hoped Rebecca would give it back in case Mrs. Stephens found it missing and questioned me about it. But what did I care now? I had a real friend — someone who knew me, wanted my company, someone I felt connected to. I would replay that conversation with Rebecca, and every other one I had with her, again and again for years afterward as I came to terms with what would happen in the days ahead. At that moment, I felt happy. Meeting Rebecca was like learning to dance, discovering jazz. It was like falling in love for the first time. I had always been waiting for my future to erupt around me in an avalanche of glory, and now I felt it was really happening. Rebecca was all it took. Per aspera ad astra.
I had to set aside my reflections on the brief exchange with Rebecca that morning since it was a day for visitors and I had to work. There was already a gaggle of tearful mothers and small children sitting impatiently on the chairs in the waiting room by the time I got back to my desk. I remember one of the mothers had come to see her twelve-year-old son who had burned down the family house. He was a short, full-cheeked, brown-haired boy with duck feet and the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. I paid close attention to those strange hairs growing there. His reminded me of my own upper lip. I used to pluck those hairs routinely with tweezers. All the time I wasted plucking my face at the bathroom mirror, I could have written a book. I could have learned to speak French. My eyebrows were always thin and weak, so I never had to pluck them. I’ve heard having weak brows is a sign of indecisiveness. I prefer to think it is the mark of an open heart, an appreciation of possibility. In that fashion magazine with the cat-fur hat, I’d read how some women draw their eyebrows with a pencil to be thick and dark. Ridiculous, I’d thought. Standing outside the visitation room, I tapped the bony points of my hips with the butt of my fist, a habit which assured me, somehow, of my superiority, my great strength.