fractured.
* * *
I vividly remember the day that Phyllis blew into our lives, like a lonely, disintegrating tumbleweed.
One afternoon in the late 1950s, I skipped home from primary school to find a forlorn-looking woman in a gray suit sitting in our living room. Though she was only in her thirties, her crumpled posture gave her the appearance of an old lady.
It was obvious that she was depressed, and even more obvious that she was blind. Helen Keller could have seen that she was blind. Some sightless people wear dark glasses to shield those around them from the drama of their handicap. Not Phyllis. She did not conceal her blindness with chic little sunglasses like Jane Wyman in Magnificent Obsession. Everyone could see that Phyllis Robinson’s eyes were missing. She had no eyeballs, and she did not care who knew it. In their place were two rather startling sunken pits.
Her accessories? A small rhinestone daisy lapel brooch, a sturdy handbag, a battered leather suitcase, and a large female Labrador wearing a well-worn white leather harness.
My sister and I fell upon this beautiful golden beast, hugging her and playing with her massive silky ears.
“Phyllis and Lassie are going to be staying with us for a couple of weeks,” declaimed Betty by way of explanation. She lit up a Woodbine cigarette and shot my sister and me a look that discouraged the asking of moronic questions, adding, “Just until she gets back on her feet, of course.”
As we played with Lassie’s ears, twisting them into Austrian braided hairdos on the top of her head and making her look like a canine Hofbrau waitress, we had no idea that Phyllis was destined to stay for ten years, outlasting Uncle Ken, my crazy grandmother Narg, and many of the other lodgers.
Though Betty was a tough-talking broad who professed to loathe do-gooders, she regularly found herself unable to resist the impulse to reach out and give a fellow human being a helping hand. Phyllis was in need of help.
“We have to take good care of her—she’s addicted to purple hearts,” explained Betty in a hushed but matter-of-fact tone while Phyllis unpacked her meager possessions. These notorious pills were the preferred downers of the 1950s. Phyllis’s addiction was causing her to lose her hair and parts of her mind. Betty had decided to rescue her.
Phyllis and Betty had only recently become friends. They had bonded while working for the same employers, a highly eccentric former White Russian prince and princess. This regal couple had been teenagers at the time of the revolution.Back in Russia they had lived in a luxurious, magical world of tinkly sleigh rides, Fabergé eggs, gilded samovars, and fur-trimmed Dostoyevsky couture. And now, in an unbelievably perverse, excruciatingly cruel plot twist—probably one of the cruelest in the history of mankind—fate had plonked the royals down in Reading, our hometown, the least glamorous, dreariest place in the whole of Europe.
I have no idea how or why they ended up in the county of Berkshire, but I can tell you that the prince and princess faced the harsh economic realities of their new and appallingly lackluster life with verve and creativity. The one thing they knew about was dogs. They had grown up surrounded by snow-white borzois and perfumed Afghans. They utilized their canine familiarities in the worthy task of training guide dogs for the blind, gaining a considerable notoriety in this field.
The guide dog business boomed. Paperwork proliferated. They hired stenographers like Phyllis and Betty from the local temp agency, Phyllis first and then Betty.
Once the women were in their clutches, the White Russians commanded Betty and Phyllis to perform all kinds of nonsecretarial tasks, like hedge clipping, food serving, bath running, and toilet unblocking.
Adding to this eccentric working environment was the princess’s pet monkey, who swung from the light fixtures, pooping on Betty and Phyllis, and taunting the lovely
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