Mrs. Murphy,
often called the Widow, propped up in her walker. Her arms like
wires. Leaned against the counter in the cosmetic section of the drug
store looking into the mirror that was looking back. She played with
her hair. Remembering those cool April evenings, when in front of her
vanity she drew a brush through her thick long brown hair. And the
mice scurried across the floor. And looked up her night dress.
Without turning
her head away, she spoke. Like she was Alanis Morissette.
“I used to be
a great beauty.”
Deborah Hall,
the cosmetician stood on the other side of the counter. Like a
secretary waiting on the corner. For her boss, a married man, to pick
her up. Cleaning the glass counter top with a dry cloth and no sense
of humour.
Deborah hadn’t
heard Mrs. Murphy. She’d been thinking of last weekend. It was
already Tuesday and she was still thinking about Frank. About how
funny he’d reacted when she told him that he should make use of a
good deodorant. Right after his eyes had rolled up in his head beads
of sweat rolling down his forehead onto Deborah’s chest and that
terrible lonely sigh slipping out of his lungs when he had reached
his orgasm. Or what passed. He hadn’t phoned back. And it was
Tuesday.
Deborah Hall
looked at the Widow. Patiently. She’d heard the old lady’s story
so many times. It was tiresome. How all the young men of her village
had fought each other for the privilege of her... company. How she
had met them in the parlor. Did anyone have a parlor anymore? She met
them with the doors open. So that her mother could hear everything
happening. As if anything happened. How the last one standing had
proposed to her. Not standing. But kneeling. A sentimental cliché.
But still romantic. And tragic in a kind of pathetic way.
Mrs. Murphy had
fallen for someone else. Was that possible? A fellow she’d met
while she’d been with Harry looking for his new car. Did she
actually fall? Harry was another suitor. More interested in big
automobiles. He never called them cars. Mrs. Murphy’s mother did
not approve of Harry. He had grease under his fingernails. Why
wouldn’t he? He was a mechanic. Owned his own service station. Wore
his uniform as proudly as any sailor. Maybe her mother was right. He
smoked. Held his cigarette in his teeth. Too tight. Like the Germans.
There was a bad lot in the big city. Where temptation lay in small
hotel rooms with the windows open on hot sticky August evenings. Mrs.
Murphy told Deborah how someone across the way had watched them
making love. Her and Harry. From another building. Where they made
fans. On his lunch break. And Harry wasn’t the one she’d fallen
for. That was Earl. He was an accountant. In his father’s business.
And the fellow was standing in the window boldly holding his male
thing in his hand while Harry did what he was proud of. And Earl was
bound to inherit the business. And a comfortable living. And with the
right woman, an ambitious woman, maybe expand into real estate. Mrs.
Murphy believed in property. It’s the only thing that they’re not
making any more of. Unless we travel the stars. And then all bets
were off. And Mrs. Murphy stopped. To take a breath.
For a brief
moment Deborah considered confiding in Mrs. Murphy. Should she phone
Frank back? Or just chalk it up as one more guy? Who couldn’t
appreciate a good thing. But then dismissed the idea. Talking to Mrs.
Murphy. How could you trust anyone who had so much stuff dangling
from her? And we’re not talking about jewelry. From the chin, the
neck, under the arms. And we don’t want to imagine anything else.
Being old is so hideous.
“Dear,” the
Widow said. Attempting to get Deborah’s attention. From her own
selfish thoughts. Maybe laying with her lover. Under a tree. Where’s
it’s shady. Deborah smiled. Mrs. Murphy had succeeded.
Then all the
young men were gone. Mrs. Murphy continued. This time as she had on
previous occasions. Gone. Young men sucked up in the war. Lost in
foreign mud. With her image in their hearts. Like a thorn in our
Saviors flesh.
That’s what
it is. She’s Pathetic. Deborah believed when she stood in her smart
little outfit in the drugstore. But in those moments late in the
evening when Deborah was alone. She wondered. As she cleansed her
face with care. Whether she would feel that way when she was Mrs.
Murphy’s age. And how fast that time might come. And would she have
any memories of her own. To soothe a lonely soul.
Mrs. Murphy
leaned over the counter and whispered to the cosmetician.
“There are
only two things that smell like fish,” she said. “And one of them
is fish.”
“Mrs.
Murphy!” Deborah cried and stepped away. The widow often talked
like this in Deborah’s ear. When there was no one about. If only
the old lady would speak loud enough for others to hear, she would
have a witness. And proof enough to have her removed from the store.
Deborah turned
on the old woman and spoke lowly as if in confidence.
“How can you
talk to me like this? Such intimacies should not be shared amongst
strangers. And we are certainly not friends.”
The old woman
giggled and returned to her previous conversation.
“Oh, yes,”
the Widow said standing more erect to get a look at her bosom in the
mirror. “I had all the young men eating out of my…” She smiled
at Deborah and added. “Lap.”
“Mrs. Murphy,
you mustn’t…”
The widow
stepped back over to the counter and took Deborah’s hands in hers.
Took them swiftly. Like a thief. Ready to run off.
“All my life
I’ve been holding back but not now. It’s so liberating being my
age. You can say anything and be forgiven.”
“But I…”
“Don’t you
have gentlemen friends,” the widow asked, “who, in the heights of
passion, whisper lovely obscenities in your ear?”
At that moment
a mouse ran down the middle of the aisle. Deborah Hall unable to
scream, pointed at the small furry animal. Mrs. Murphy turned and
seeing the animal, brought her foot down heavily on the floor. The
tiny creature disappeared under the Widow’s shoe. A moment later a
pool of blood crawled out. Deborah Hall, about to scream, fainted
instead.
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