“Would you, Bertha?” Her voice was a queer whisper. “That’s nice, very nice. I should have recognized you, too, although you’ve gotten rather fat, haven’t you?” Then she accepted Mrs. Munson’s extended hand and came in.
Mrs. Munson was embarrassed and she didn’t know quite what to say. Arm-in-arm they went into the livingroom and sat down.
“How about some sherry?”
Vini shook her dark little head, “No, thank you.”
“Well, how about a scotch or something?” Mrs. Munson asked desperately. The figurine clock on the sham mantelpiece chimed softly. Mrs. Munson had never noticed how loud it could sound.
“No,” said Vini firmly, “nothing, thank you.”
Resignedly Mrs. Munson settled back on the couch. “Now, darling, tell me all about it. When did you get back in the States?” She liked the sound of that. “The States.”
Vini placed the big pink box down between her legs and folded her hands. “I’ve been here for almost a year,” she paused, then hurried on, realizing the startled expression of her hostess, “but I haven’t been in New York. Naturally I would have gotten in touch with you sooner, but I was out in California.”
“Oh, California, I love California!” Mrs. Munson exclaimed, though in point of fact, she had never been further west than Chicago.
Vini smiled and Mrs. Munson noticed how irregular her teeth were and decided they could do with a good brushing.
“So,” Vini continued, “when I got back in New York last week I thought of you at once. I had an awful time trying to find you because I couldn’t remember your husband’s first name.…”
“Albert,” Mrs. Munson put in unnecessarily.
“… but I finally did and here I am. You know, Bertha, I really started thinking about you when I decided to get rid of my mink coat.”
Mrs. Munson saw a sudden blush on Vini’s face.
“Your mink coat?”
“Yes,” Vini said, lifting up the pink box. “You remember my mink coat. You always admired it so. You always said it was the loveliest coat you’d ever seen.” She started to undo the frayed silk ribbon that held the box together.
“Of course, yes of course,” Mrs. Munson said, letting the “course” trill down softly.
“I said to myself, ‘Vini Rondo, what on earth do you need that coat for? Why not let Bertha have it?’ You see, Bertha, I bought the most gorgeous sable in Paris and you can understand that I really don’t need two fur coats. Besides I have my silver-fox jacket.”
Mrs. Munson watched her parting the tissue paper in the box, saw the chipped enamel on her nails, saw that her fingers were jewel-less, and suddenly realized a great many other things.
“So I thought of you and unless you want it I’ll just keep it because I couldn’t bear to think of anyone else having it.” She held the coat and stood turning it this way and that. It was a beautiful coat; the fur shone rich and very smooth. Mrs. Munson reached out and ran her fingers across it, ruffling the tiny hairs the wrong way. Without thinking she said: “How much?”
Mrs. Munson brought back her hand quickly, as though she had touched fire, and then she heard Vini’s voice, small and tired.
“I paid almost a thousand for it. Is a thousand too much?”
Down in the street Mrs. Munson could hear the deafening roar of the playground and for once she was grateful. It gave her something else to concentrate on, something to lessen the intensity of her own feelings.
“I’m afraid that’s too much. I really can’t afford it,” Mrs. Munson said distractedly, still staring at the coat, afraid to lift her eyes and see the other woman’s face.
Vini tossed the coat on the couch. “Well, I want you to have it. It’s not so much the money, but I feel I should get something back on my investment.… How much could you afford?”
Mrs. Munson closed her eyes. Oh, God, this was awful! Just plain damned awful!
“Maybe four hundred,” she answered weakly.
Vini picked up the coat again and said brightly, “Let’s see how it fits then.”
They went into the bedroom and Mrs. Munson tried on the coat in front of her full-length closet mirror. Just a few alterations, the sleeves shortened, and maybe she would have it re-glazed. Yes, it certainly did things for her.
“Oh, I think it’s beautiful, Vini. It was so sweet of you to think of me.”
Vini leaned against the wall, her pale face looking hard in the magnified sunlight of the big bedroom windows.
“You can make out the check to me,” she said disinterestedly.
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Munson said, suddenly coming back to earth. Imagine Bertha Munson with a mink of her own!
They went back into the livingroom and she wrote the check for Vini. Carefully folding it, Vini deposited it in her small beaded purse.
Mrs. Munson tried hard to make conversation but she came up against a cold wall at each new channel. Once she asked, “Where is your husband, Vini? You must bring him around for Albert to talk to.” And Vini answered, “Oh, him! I haven’t seen him for aeons. He’s still in Lisbon for all I know.” And so that was that.
Finally, after promising to phone the next day, Vini left. When she had gone Mrs. Munson thought, “Why, poor Vini, she’s nothing but a refugee!” Then she took her new coat and went into the bedroom. She couldn’t tell Albert how she got it, that was definite. My, but he would be mad about the money! She decided to hide it in the furthest reaches of her closet and then one day she’d bring it out and say, “Albert, look at the divine mink I bought at an auction. I got it for next to nothing.”
Groping in the darkness of her closet she caught the coat on a hook. She gave a little yank and was terrified to hear the sound of ripping. Quickly she snapped on the light and saw that the sleeve was torn. She held the tear apart and pulled slightly. It ripped more and then some more. With a sick emptiness she knew the whole thing was rotten. “Oh, my God,” she said, clutching at the linen rose in her hair. “Oh, my God, I’ve been taken and taken good, and there’s nothing in the world I can do about it, nothing in the world!” For suddenly Mrs. Munson realized Vini wouldn’t phone tomorrow or ever again.
THE SHAPE OF THINGS
(1944)
A wispish-sized, white pompadoured woman swayed down the dining-car aisle and inched into a seat next to a window. She finished penciling her order and squinted near-sightedly across the table at a ruddy-cheeked Marine and a heart-faced girl. In one sweep she noted a gold band on the girl’s finger, a string of red cloth twisted in her hair and decided she was cheap; mentally labeled her war bride. She smiled faintly, inviting conversation.
The girl beamed back, “You was lucky you come so early on account of it’s so crowded. We didn’t get no lunch ’cause there was Russian soldiers eatin’ … or somethin’. Gosh you should’ve seen them, looked just like Boris Karloff, honest!”
It was a voice like a chirping teakettle and caused the woman to clear her throat. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Before this trip I never dreamt there were so many in the world, soldiers, I mean. You just never realize until you get on a train. I keep asking myself, where do they all come from?”
“Draft boards,” the girl said, and then giggled foolishly.
Her husband blushed apologetically. “You goin’ all the way, ma’am?”
“Presumably, but this train’s as slow as … as …”
“Molasses!” the girl exclaimed and followed breathlessly with, “Gee, I’m so excited, you can’t imagine. All day I’ve been just glued to the scenery. Where I come from in Arkansas it’s all kinda flat, so I get an extra thrill right from my toes when I see these mountains.” And turning to her husband, “Honey, d’ya suppose we’re in Carolina?”
He looked out the window where the dusk was thickening on the pane. Gathering swiftly the blue light and the hill humps blending and echoing one another. He blinked back into the diner’s brightness. “Must be Virginia,” he guessed and shrugged his shoulders.