“And you need to shave those legs.”
Shave her legs? Maryte had never done such a thing.
“Time to look at yourself,” Mrs. Moynahan said, placing her in front of the bathroom mirror.
Maryte looked at the red and white polka dot dress, the red peep-toed shoes, the red lipstick and the teased hair. This was a woman who would go out dancing in a swirl of skirts, a pampered idle woman who had nothing better to do than to think of such things. It was not the woman she was. It was not a woman she wanted to be. She knew better than to think of this as a possibility for herself.
“Now that’s going to get a man’s attention,” Mrs. Moynahan said. “We just have to get you out there. Show you around a bit. Maybe go to a dance. The men will lap you up.”
“No!” Maryte cried. “I no go with men.”
Maryte saw the pleasure ebbing from her landlady’s face. She had not meant to imply that Mrs. Moynahan went with men, only that she herself didn’t. No, that wasn’t right either. She didn’t know how to explain it. Mrs. Moynahan withdrew, becoming cool and aloof.
“It’s hard to find a man and god knows you sure could use one but far be it from me to tell you how to live your life,” she said with a shrug.
Now Maryte knew that she had truly offended. Mrs. Moynahan would no longer have them in the house. She would throw them out. They would have to start all over again. Eyes filling with tears, she stood mute and miserable.
“There there,” Mrs. Moynahan said, patting her arm. “Life’s not so bad, is it?”
Life was not so bad but how could she explain the aches layered upon her soul. The loss of her parents, an ache brought from home. The bargain struck with the commandant, an ache collected along the way. The ache of new life here with its constant need for carefulness, its lack of comfort and ease. There was too much to tell. Nor could she explain, not even to the kindly Mrs. Moynahan.
“Never mind dear,” Mrs. Moynahan said. “No harm done.”
Maryte looked at herself in the mirror once again after Mrs. Moynahan was gone. Such a dress, such hair, such shoes were not for her. She was used to humbler circumstances both in attire and in life. She could not become what the helpful Mrs. Moynahan wanted. It was not the kind of help that was needed.
Maryte took her new appearance on an outing, more for Mrs. Moynahan’s sake than for her own. Walking through the soft spring air, she practised her request. Please I borrow book? She entered the library in her crisp new dress and beehive hairdo. Her high heels clicked on the tile floor. And approaching the front desk, she felt that at least she looked right.
Men and women sat at long oak tables, reading by lamps with green glass shades. Quietly turning pages, they read in private concentration. Soon she would join them. She would ask for a grammar book to improve her English and for a novel to learn how to live here. But first she would need a library card.
The librarian was a stylish pretty blonde in an elegant summer suit of light grey check. A white silk scarf ran the length of her neck, tucked along the rim of the shawl collar. She carried herself in the manner of one accustomed to being considered. She looked up. Her dark eyes contained a lack of friendliness.
“Yes?”
“Please, library cart?” Maryte said.
“Cart? What do you mean cart?” A furl of distaste formed along her perfectly lipsticked mouth. “Oh, you mean card. Well, I can’t imagine why you would want one. You can’t even speak proper English. What ever would you do with a book?” And lowering her head, she returned to ticking off returned books.
Maryte looked at the readers, wishing that one would rise from their table and come over. Putting a comforting arm around her shoulders, they might tell her that it didn’t matter. She would soon learn. She would not be judged for what she couldn’t know. And turning quietly, leaving the land of the polished, educated and well-dressed, she returned to the world that she knew.
Chapter 4
There were no secrets in a small house. Maryte would encounter Steponas returning to his room as she went to the bathroom in the early morning. Mrs. Moynahan would chat over the fence to her neighbour Mrs. Carlilse. Steponas would hint to his compatriots that he was getting more than just room and board. Now that he had bedded his landlady, everyone knew.
With a gallant sweeping bow, he would offer Maryte first use of the bathroom. Passing close by him in the intimacy of the narrow hallway, she wanted to place a hand on his arm. Be careful, she wanted to say. You will only end up in trouble. And raising his eyebrows as if reading her thoughts, he would smile in mischievous collusion.
Maryte would lie in bed at night, knowing such pleasure could not be hers. Listening to the moans of lovemaking rising up from the room below, she would imagine Mrs. Moynahan’s white body lying beached and limp, Steponas stretched out beside her in satisfaction. She could sense their private love talk. She could hear Steponas returning to his room. And she would hear the creak of springs as he climbed into his own bed and the silence of his peaceful sleep.
She lay in bed, listening and imagining.
In his bed, Dobilas listened and imagined, too.
Dobilas sat on the front porch in the sweet summer heat, looking at the park across the street. Gazing into the dense dark green, he breathed in the beauty of the world. The happy summer songs of birds surrounded him. A white sun hung in the hazy sky. Settling himself doglike, chin upon paws, he waited for Maryte’s return.
Mrs. Moynahan dozed in the chair beside him, head tipped back in the heat, magazine fallen to her lap. Her squarenecked sleeveless coral blouse exposed the summer freckles which she so disliked. He would lick his thumb and rub them away. She would laugh and smile at him then. Moving her lips in a gentle muttering, she woke up with a soft little snort.
“What are you looking at?’ she said, picking up her magazine. “Is your sister doing anything about getting you a job? You can’t just hang around here all day long. I’m not a babysitter. I can help you people out now and again but you have to work.”
He looked at her, eyes wide with surprise. This was not the friendly Mrs. Moynahan whose breasts lay like balloons beneath the coral fabric. He wanted to lay his head against them. He wanted to have his hair stroked. He walked his fingers along the railing in her direction.
“Stop playing silly buggers,” she said, eyeing his moving hand.
He inched his fingers forwards.
“Stop that,” she said, smacking his hand with the magazine. “You’re not that dumb.”
He reached out. He placed a hand on her breast and shut his eyes. Soft as pillows.
“You pig! You dirty filthy pig!”
She leapt up. She slapped his face hard. She stormed into the house. The screen door banged shut behind her.
He placed one hand to his stinging cheek, tears springing to his eyes. The birdsong sounded harsh and shrill, the feathery little creatures leaning forward, their sinewy talons gripping the branches, their sharp beaks open, their yellow and black throats pulsing. Idiot, they jeered. Stupid, stupid idiot. His heart, cresting at the world’s beauty, fell.
He went inside to the small back bedroom upstairs, the vacant room with the single bed, dresser and window. Stepping into the plainness of the unoccupied room, he discovered a grey curtain and behind it a cupboard, large, empty and deep. Shelves lined three walls. A clothes rod ran along the rim. A person would have to scrabble in on his knees to reach what he wanted.