"If you had asked me when we were children, I think I should have said 'yes, the very best.'"
"But I didn't ask you then, did I?" Her eyes narrowed from chestnuts to almonds.
"Not that I recall, no." I narrowed my own almonds on the wash in my tub.
"Well I'm asking you now. Now that we're grown women, I would like to know if you remember us as friends?"
Were we grown? Neither of us were married, or had children. At nineteen years old all of our collective experienced was wrapped up in this nothing town. A living thing needs nourishment to grow.
Were we grown? Neither of us were married, or had children. At nineteen years old all of our collective experienced was wrapped up in this nothing town. A living thing needs nourishment to grow.
She sat at the edge of the cistern that held the water for the horses. Wells were running dry in countless counties. People were packing their entire homes, as many of their dusty belongings as they could carry. Whole families were leaving, heading off into the unknown to avoid starving, but the Binghams had drinking water for their horses. She trailed long, delicate fingers across the surface of the water, mindlessly. I tried to avoid her stare. A storm was building behind those pale blue peepers. She was impatiently waiting for my answer.
She had never been a friend to any person or animal. She was bred to think only of herself. It was hardly any fault of her own. I would like to have pitied her for it, but she was cold and beautiful. Her character was thin, superficial, and any hint of depth was a scheme of her invention, used for manipulation and advance. She left little room for pity, or friendship.
She had never been a friend to any person or animal. She was bred to think only of herself. It was hardly any fault of her own. I would like to have pitied her for it, but she was cold and beautiful. Her character was thin, superficial, and any hint of depth was a scheme of her invention, used for manipulation and advance. She left little room for pity, or friendship.
As I was in the employ of her father, I could make precious few of my sentiments known, but my compulsion to honesty drew me to walk a high wire with my response.
"As a grown woman, as you say, I suppose that children are of no mind to truly know friend or foe. They are free to whittle away their youth in the throes of idle pleasure. I venture that in adulthood, one chooses one's friends from common interests." I emphasized the last word to imply that interests must certainly include class and ability. "Mere proximity doesn't seem to weigh into the matter for adults. So to answer your question, yes. We did once while away our time when we were within a proximity, and yes, I believe we enjoyed one another's company." I paused a moment in consideration before adding, "but that was a long time ago, ma'am." I half expected her to correct my use of "ma'am," but she was perfectly pleased to let it float on the air between us.
I fixed my eyes on my hands and my work. My hands seemed only ever to change their shades of red. My fingers cracked, swollen. I imagined the shadowy water swirling around Aida's ivory fingers. Her beauty annoyed me. It was too effortless, unappreciated, and over leveraged. I wished she would take her silk, cream complexion inside, and leave my to my work and a little peace.
"And you have found those in your life, those with whom you share a common interests? You seem to have a great many friends." She said. She spoke as though she knew all about me and my life. I disagreed with her tone, but kept my silence. When I didn't answer she began a new tactic. "You must think this whole life of mine is great fun, that I know nothing but leisure and luxury."
"I have no opinion, ma'am," I lied. She ignored me and continued.
"It is luxurious. I'll admit that to you. I have never wanted any physical thing for more than a moment or two before I was appeased. You wouldn't understand it, Lucene. You're probably too jealous to see how dissatisfying it all is." I bit down hard on my lip. "There are a great many things that money cannot buy, things I can never have."
"What could you possibly want that you can't have?" I snapped, exasperated with her noxious mix of self importance and self pity. "The trouble is you don't appreciate what you do have." I was crossing a threshold now, throwing my job at the mercy of my temper. I jumped in with two feet. "You're easily the most beautiful and richest girl in the town. You never have to worry about food, or time or sleep, or whether you can be or do anything. You simply have to dream up some concoction, no matter how far fetched, and say the word. You get to dictate your own terms. In fact, your whole life is one great big dictation waiting to be made!" I was running out of breath. "Any cloud cast over your existence is nothing but vanity and pure bad attitude and ungratefulness on your part."
"That's exactly what you think of me, vain, selfish," she was confirming her own suspicions. "Well it's what everyone else thinks of me too. It has never occurred to you that no number of artifacts can mean anything to person who has no friends, or talent by which to win them."
"Have you lost all of your senses?" I asked, frustrated but softening. "You're lousy with people. The minute you set foot off this property, you're inundated with friendly smiles and compliments. You have the entire town's attention."
"Having attention is not the same as having companionship. Not one of those people would speak to me if not for my father's standing, and not one cares for a minute what I may have to say. I don't expect you to understand. You've always been so smart and so charming that people are simply drawn to you. People actually like you. Don't forget that I used to be one of those people. When you would play with me, it was as if the sun was shining just for us." She was looking out at the horses now, her thoughts drifting off on ether. I said nothing to interrupt her, my pity growing.
The silence stretched between us, a yawning chasm. She was right, and so was I. We would never understand one another. I thought again of Paris. If I had even just a bit of Aida's wealth, I would have run away to Paris years ago, before Mama died. Now, no amount of money could get me out of Kansas. Who would raise Frank and Samson? Who would feed Pa? Sweep the dust? Even when the rain came, who would help Pa plow, sew, harvest, thresh? Maybe in a few years the boys could begin to help in the fields, but any great number of things could change by then. Of the great many of my friends Aida mentioned, there was only one I couldn't imagine leaving behind.
Aida turned sharply to face me again. All woeful sorrow condensed into a fierce energy that startled me. "Do you remember when you were too poor to continue school? Your family pulled you because they couldn't afford it. You had to go work the fields with your father and mother, until your mother died of course." Her words were frozen razors, and she was spitting them at me with forced intent. "I cried then, for you. I was horribly despondent when you told me that morning that it would be your last day. Do you remember?" I remembered every detail of that day every time I looked at her. "You were so smart. What a shame for you to have to quit." Another dagger. "I couldn't stop crying, couldn't even look at you. Out on the playground, a boy in our class came to comfort me. He was a simple, silly boy, really but a kindhearted little pip-squeak. It was sweet anyway."
The fire in my gut burned into my face. "Philip." I whispered.
"Why my dear laundress, yes! You do remember." She was pure ice now. "Philip sat with me, but even that couldn't stop my crying. So he took my hands and held them, and then he hugged me. It was quite a comfort to me in that state. But you," she was coming toward me now, "you went berserk. Little Lucene lost her temper. You pushed me down and pulled at my hair. 'I'll get you!' you screamed at me over and over. They finally had to carry you off, and you didn't even get to finish your last day. That was the last time I saw you for the better part of a year. And we never spoke of it. I didn't want to embarrass you and I never told anyone about it. But we both knew then that we were no longer friends." She was uncomfortably close as she spoke, leaning her mouth toward my ear. "Then your dear Mama died, and you had to come here and plead for work, like an ordinary beggar. How awful this must all be for you, Lucene. You must constantly wonder if I hold a grudge, if it'll cost you your job." She pressed her forehead to my ear. It was colder than I expected, and I shivered. "I forgive you." She whispered like a lunatic. "You never have to 'get' me, because I forgive you. No matter how wicked you were to me. I forgive you now." Some of my rage subsided transformed into confusion and fear regarding Aida's stability, but not all of it.
"And Philip?" I asked.
"What of Philip?" she shouted taking a step back.
"You admit he was kind to you. What do you know of him now?"
"I told you he was a silly boy." She hissed. "He went away for some time, and then he returned. Who would return here from Europe? Only a fool. That's all I need to know of him."
"He owns the apothecary." I defended, "That's no fool's work."
"Well it means nothing to me, anyhow," she answered. The ice was melting and extinguishing the fire in her. She suddenly looked dried up, and spent. "I'm going in now. Please try to keep the wash from becoming too starchy." She turned from me without ceremony.
"Yes, ma'am." I said as she walked away.
I fixed my eyes on my hands and my work. My hands seemed only ever to change their shades of red. My fingers cracked, swollen. I imagined the shadowy water swirling around Aida's ivory fingers. Her beauty annoyed me. It was too effortless, unappreciated, and over leveraged. I wished she would take her silk, cream complexion inside, and leave my to my work and a little peace.
"And you have found those in your life, those with whom you share a common interests? You seem to have a great many friends." She said. She spoke as though she knew all about me and my life. I disagreed with her tone, but kept my silence. When I didn't answer she began a new tactic. "You must think this whole life of mine is great fun, that I know nothing but leisure and luxury."
"I have no opinion, ma'am," I lied. She ignored me and continued.
"It is luxurious. I'll admit that to you. I have never wanted any physical thing for more than a moment or two before I was appeased. You wouldn't understand it, Lucene. You're probably too jealous to see how dissatisfying it all is." I bit down hard on my lip. "There are a great many things that money cannot buy, things I can never have."
"What could you possibly want that you can't have?" I snapped, exasperated with her noxious mix of self importance and self pity. "The trouble is you don't appreciate what you do have." I was crossing a threshold now, throwing my job at the mercy of my temper. I jumped in with two feet. "You're easily the most beautiful and richest girl in the town. You never have to worry about food, or time or sleep, or whether you can be or do anything. You simply have to dream up some concoction, no matter how far fetched, and say the word. You get to dictate your own terms. In fact, your whole life is one great big dictation waiting to be made!" I was running out of breath. "Any cloud cast over your existence is nothing but vanity and pure bad attitude and ungratefulness on your part."
"That's exactly what you think of me, vain, selfish," she was confirming her own suspicions. "Well it's what everyone else thinks of me too. It has never occurred to you that no number of artifacts can mean anything to person who has no friends, or talent by which to win them."
"Have you lost all of your senses?" I asked, frustrated but softening. "You're lousy with people. The minute you set foot off this property, you're inundated with friendly smiles and compliments. You have the entire town's attention."
"Having attention is not the same as having companionship. Not one of those people would speak to me if not for my father's standing, and not one cares for a minute what I may have to say. I don't expect you to understand. You've always been so smart and so charming that people are simply drawn to you. People actually like you. Don't forget that I used to be one of those people. When you would play with me, it was as if the sun was shining just for us." She was looking out at the horses now, her thoughts drifting off on ether. I said nothing to interrupt her, my pity growing.
The silence stretched between us, a yawning chasm. She was right, and so was I. We would never understand one another. I thought again of Paris. If I had even just a bit of Aida's wealth, I would have run away to Paris years ago, before Mama died. Now, no amount of money could get me out of Kansas. Who would raise Frank and Samson? Who would feed Pa? Sweep the dust? Even when the rain came, who would help Pa plow, sew, harvest, thresh? Maybe in a few years the boys could begin to help in the fields, but any great number of things could change by then. Of the great many of my friends Aida mentioned, there was only one I couldn't imagine leaving behind.
Aida turned sharply to face me again. All woeful sorrow condensed into a fierce energy that startled me. "Do you remember when you were too poor to continue school? Your family pulled you because they couldn't afford it. You had to go work the fields with your father and mother, until your mother died of course." Her words were frozen razors, and she was spitting them at me with forced intent. "I cried then, for you. I was horribly despondent when you told me that morning that it would be your last day. Do you remember?" I remembered every detail of that day every time I looked at her. "You were so smart. What a shame for you to have to quit." Another dagger. "I couldn't stop crying, couldn't even look at you. Out on the playground, a boy in our class came to comfort me. He was a simple, silly boy, really but a kindhearted little pip-squeak. It was sweet anyway."
The fire in my gut burned into my face. "Philip." I whispered.
"Why my dear laundress, yes! You do remember." She was pure ice now. "Philip sat with me, but even that couldn't stop my crying. So he took my hands and held them, and then he hugged me. It was quite a comfort to me in that state. But you," she was coming toward me now, "you went berserk. Little Lucene lost her temper. You pushed me down and pulled at my hair. 'I'll get you!' you screamed at me over and over. They finally had to carry you off, and you didn't even get to finish your last day. That was the last time I saw you for the better part of a year. And we never spoke of it. I didn't want to embarrass you and I never told anyone about it. But we both knew then that we were no longer friends." She was uncomfortably close as she spoke, leaning her mouth toward my ear. "Then your dear Mama died, and you had to come here and plead for work, like an ordinary beggar. How awful this must all be for you, Lucene. You must constantly wonder if I hold a grudge, if it'll cost you your job." She pressed her forehead to my ear. It was colder than I expected, and I shivered. "I forgive you." She whispered like a lunatic. "You never have to 'get' me, because I forgive you. No matter how wicked you were to me. I forgive you now." Some of my rage subsided transformed into confusion and fear regarding Aida's stability, but not all of it.
"And Philip?" I asked.
"What of Philip?" she shouted taking a step back.
"You admit he was kind to you. What do you know of him now?"
"I told you he was a silly boy." She hissed. "He went away for some time, and then he returned. Who would return here from Europe? Only a fool. That's all I need to know of him."
"He owns the apothecary." I defended, "That's no fool's work."
"Well it means nothing to me, anyhow," she answered. The ice was melting and extinguishing the fire in her. She suddenly looked dried up, and spent. "I'm going in now. Please try to keep the wash from becoming too starchy." She turned from me without ceremony.
"Yes, ma'am." I said as she walked away.
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