“Thanks,” I said to my peculiar little driver. “I wonder if anybody’s home.” The house looked very quiet, even for a small town. A motel room was what I should have rented. More my type.
“Oh, Nettie’s home all right. She don’t go out much. Bad legs. Varicose veins, I guess. My brother Fred’s got veins, too. Big ones. Like that,” my friend told me, with gestures, of course. I paid my fare and started up the steps.
“Thanks. You want a cab sometime, you call me. My name’s Oscar,” Oscar yelled after me. I nodded and rang the doorbell.
Then, “Yes?” I couldn’t talk. Never in my life had I ever seen such a character as this one. Purple eyeshadow, black mascara, pencilled-on eyebrows. That wasn’t so bad. But add red rouge, pink lipstick, lavender hair and long ropes of beads and bands of bracelets and you have quite a picture. “I... I’m Marta Hale,” I stuttered, really overcome and I’m no innocent abroad, if you know what I mean.
“Come in, my dear. I’m Nettie Barnard. I’ve been expecting you, but I wasn’t expecting anyone as — anyone quite so young and pretty as you.” She flubbed it. But she had a very nice voice. It didn’t match her get-up at all. Actually, she looked a lot like a white slaver I used to know. The whole house smelled of disinfectant, too. A good clean smell, but inappropriate, somehow. It was awfully strong, if you know what I mean.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you exactly when I’d be here, but you see I—” I stopped. I couldn’t very well spill out my life history to this perfect stranger, but it would have been easy. White slaver or not, she had a very sympathetic way about her, and I was lonely. In fact I cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, though, I felt a lot better. The day was bright and I’d slept like a baby, in spite of my broken heart and jittery nerves. I went to the drugstore for breakfast. Nettie had said the night before that she positively wasn’t interested in giving me any meals, which was all right. I’m not fond of cooking myself. There was just one other person at the counter, an old gent with a cataract in one eye. To tell the truth, I was hoping I might meet someone interesting. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t husband-hunting. Far from it. I just wanted- a man. Any man. To bolster my morale, so to speak. But I didn’t find him in the drugstore.
When I got to school, teachers were grouped in twos and threes outside their rooms, gossiping, I suppose. They were all female, unfortunately. A young girl, very pale and thin with long wispy brown hair, looked up as I walked into the outer office. “Hi,” I said to her. “I’m Marta Hale.”
“Oh, hi,” she said. “I was wondering — that is, you’re nothing like Miss Drury — I mean, well, I’m Betty Lou Sheldon. I help out here sometimes.”
“Fine. I’m happy to meet you,” I told her, really making it warm and cheerful. Sixteen or seventeen, I figured, seven or eight years younger than I was, but she looked like something left behind in Greenwich Village.
“Mr. Van Buren’s expecting you. His office is straight through that door over there, the one that’s open.”
“Come in,” a deep voice called from the inner sanctum.
I moistened my lips and smiled, the way I’d been taught by my mother who, when she was younger, had been a Vegas showgirl. And there he was. The man I’d been looking for. Tall and dark, the way Brad was, but more mature. Quite mature, as a matter of fact. Middle forties maybe, but he’d do. I decided that right away.
“I... I wasn’t expecting anyone like you,” he said, stuttering somewhat. “From Mr. Field’s letter, I’d assumed you would be older.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone like you either,” I told him, smiling, giving him the whole treatment. But gently.
“You’ve met Betty Lou, of course. She’ll help you whenever you need her,” he went on, very formal-like. “I’ll introduce you to the teachers this afternoon. The children, of course, won’t arrive for another week. That will be all, Miss Hale, unless you — unless you have a question.”
I stood up. I have a pretty good figure, better than Mother’s ever was she tells me, and I stood straight, with my shoulders back. “Thank you. I think I’m going to like it here,” I said, politely, but with a meaning he could take or leave. A tiny movement of his head showed that he’d taken it all right. I was satisfied and left, swaying ever so slightly.
Betty Lou showed me the ropes that morning and when she left at noon, I decided to work right through the lunch hour. But about twelve-fifteen this tall, sleek woman with silvery blonde hair done in a big pouf, stalked into the office. And I mean stalked, just like a big cat. “I’m Christine Anderson,” she said. “I teach second grade. Let’s go to lunch and get acquainted.”
Puzzled, I introduced myself and told her I’d love to go to lunch. I tried not to show it, but I was surprised that a teacher would bother with a mere secretary. She wasn’t young. I saw that right away. She had a creamy complexion and no wrinkles, but there was a faint crepiness around her throat and a thickness around her waist. Late thirties, maybe. I noticed that she was looking me over as carefully as I was her. Then it hit me. This was my competition. I grinned to myself. I like competition, so long as it doesn’t sneak up from behind me like that dirty blonde of Brad’s. I didn’t even know she existed until that morning during coffee break, can you imagine?
“The school doesn’t have a hot lunch program, so everyone has to go out at noon,” Christine said, her eyes on my left hand. She looked rather wistful.
“Oh,” I replied, wishing as much as she did that I was wearing a diamond. We both took a breath, ready to tee off.
“A kitchen would dirty up the place. Roger hates mess and disorder. Most men do,” Christine said, carelessly dropping Mr. Van Buren’s first name, thus letting me know her experience both here and afar.
“Is Mr. Van Buren married?” I asked, laying my cards on the table. I think if he had been, I would have left him to Christine. Back street affairs never interested me very much.
There was a pause. “No, he isn’t.” Short and to the point. I liked that in Christine. “Nor ever apt to be,” she added bitterly. “All he thinks about is this school. He doesn’t go anywhere or do anything. You should see where he lives. Way out in the country all by himself.” She cocked her head at me. “By the way, where do you live?”
“With Nettie Barnard. Do you know her?” I asked, wondering if anybody else had the same impression of Nettie that I did.
Christine snorted. “That crazy old witch! I know her all right.”
“She’s been nice to me,” I said, somehow anxious to defend the old lady. Witch or bitch, it didn’t matter to me. I liked her.
Christine looked at me. “You’re very young, aren’t you, Marta?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. I’m twenty-three, is that young?”
“Yes, that’s young. What are you doing here anyway?”
I shrugged. Christine wasn’t the type of person I felt like confiding in. You don’t show your opponent your cards, do you?
When I didn’t elaborate, Christine straightened her face and we went on to the hotel. At lunch she chatted about the town, the school, the people. All that. It was really quite boring.
“Did you know a Miss Drury?” I asked, more to cut her off than anything.
Christine spoke quickly. “Yes, of course I knew her.”
“Why did she leave? Was she fired?” I didn’t mention what Oscar had told me. I learned to keep my mouth shut a long time ago.