what she called a
handsome trust
set up for her by the mother of her first ex-husband.
Gladdy Toffit told Sally just what a woman needed to know: First of all, said Gladdy, she needed to be prepared to be abandoned.
Men liked two kinds of romance — the romance of first love, and the romance of new love, which meant that most every woman
would have a chance to be discardable old love at some point in her life. Second, a woman needed to know how to hold her liquor.
She couldn’t turn silly from a few swallows of whiskey. Third, a woman needed to know how to shoot a rifle. Fourth, a woman
needed to know how to choose a perfume that suited her.
Sally pondered all of these notions, especially the last. “How do I know what’s the right perfume?” she wondered aloud.
Gladdy had no sure formula for finding an appropriate fragrance. But she could say with some certainty that women who smoked
shouldn’t wear lavender. Why not?
There was no single reason. It was just a fact. Also, a woman should never splash herself with rose water if she knew she’d
be frying eggs later in the day.
Erna called her sister Gladdy a Fount of Knowledge. Gladdy would sit under the hair dryer, lifting up the helmet every few
seconds when she thought of other important information to pass along. She was fond of Sally, she said, because she reminded
her of her daughter. Sally could fill in as her daughter until the real daughter came home.
Sally learned something of the world during her visits to Erna’s salon. More precisely, she was getting a sense of proportion,
understanding the scope of her provincial ignorance. And as she became more aware of how narrow her life was, she felt increasingly
dissatisfied with the confinements of Uncle Mason’s house, the stark quiet of the rooms, and the repetition of the routine.
Sweeping, cooking, dusting, washing, and singing for no one on Sundays. La, la, la. Mason Jackson was as nice a man as you’d
ever meet — that’s what she told Gladdy and Erna. But she didn’t tell them how each day was like a song she’d grown tired
of singing but sang anyway, returning to the same chorus over and over and always ending on the same note.
“ ’Night, g-g-g-girlie. See you in the morning.”
She wanted something unexpected to happen. But all the potential for surprise was closed up in that box on the high shelf
in the kitchen, bundles held with rubber bands and hidden from view.
After she’d opened that box for the first time, Sally was determined never to open it again. Yet her determination weakened
as the details of the memory were made more vivid by her imagination, the green of the bills greener, the stacks thicker.
One day while she was sweeping around Uncle Mason, sweeping up those wood curls, she even pictured the box with its lid wide
open. She wasn’t sure whether she was imagining it just then or remembering an image from the previous night’s bad dream.
She wasn’t sure about much of anything. She’d watch Uncle Mason when he was whittling, hoping that with some gesture he’d
give her a clue about himself. She’d forget that she was staring at him and would keep on staring, until he shook his head,
shaking away her gaze like he’d shake away a fly. Then she’d stop staring and wait for another time, when she thought he was
too deeply involved in his work to notice her. She’d wait tensely, half expecting him to leap from his chair and demand,
What is it you want from me?
I want to know about the money in that box up there.
Months went by. Uncle Mason whittled, Sally cleaned and cooked, and on Sundays, when the whole Jackson family got together,
she sang,
Nothing left of rainy-day love
…
She waited for Uncle Mason to tell her something remarkable. But he stayed away from subjects that would interest her. He
liked to talk about the weather and the measurements in the rain gauge in the garden. When his brother stopped by, they sat
in
handsome trust
set up for her by the mother of her first ex-husband.
Gladdy Toffit told Sally just what a woman needed to know: First of all, said Gladdy, she needed to be prepared to be abandoned.
Men liked two kinds of romance — the romance of first love, and the romance of new love, which meant that most every woman
would have a chance to be discardable old love at some point in her life. Second, a woman needed to know how to hold her liquor.
She couldn’t turn silly from a few swallows of whiskey. Third, a woman needed to know how to shoot a rifle. Fourth, a woman
needed to know how to choose a perfume that suited her.
Sally pondered all of these notions, especially the last. “How do I know what’s the right perfume?” she wondered aloud.
Gladdy had no sure formula for finding an appropriate fragrance. But she could say with some certainty that women who smoked
shouldn’t wear lavender. Why not?
There was no single reason. It was just a fact. Also, a woman should never splash herself with rose water if she knew she’d
be frying eggs later in the day.
Erna called her sister Gladdy a Fount of Knowledge. Gladdy would sit under the hair dryer, lifting up the helmet every few
seconds when she thought of other important information to pass along. She was fond of Sally, she said, because she reminded
her of her daughter. Sally could fill in as her daughter until the real daughter came home.
Sally learned something of the world during her visits to Erna’s salon. More precisely, she was getting a sense of proportion,
understanding the scope of her provincial ignorance. And as she became more aware of how narrow her life was, she felt increasingly
dissatisfied with the confinements of Uncle Mason’s house, the stark quiet of the rooms, and the repetition of the routine.
Sweeping, cooking, dusting, washing, and singing for no one on Sundays. La, la, la. Mason Jackson was as nice a man as you’d
ever meet — that’s what she told Gladdy and Erna. But she didn’t tell them how each day was like a song she’d grown tired
of singing but sang anyway, returning to the same chorus over and over and always ending on the same note.
“ ’Night, g-g-g-girlie. See you in the morning.”
She wanted something unexpected to happen. But all the potential for surprise was closed up in that box on the high shelf
in the kitchen, bundles held with rubber bands and hidden from view.
After she’d opened that box for the first time, Sally was determined never to open it again. Yet her determination weakened
as the details of the memory were made more vivid by her imagination, the green of the bills greener, the stacks thicker.
One day while she was sweeping around Uncle Mason, sweeping up those wood curls, she even pictured the box with its lid wide
open. She wasn’t sure whether she was imagining it just then or remembering an image from the previous night’s bad dream.
She wasn’t sure about much of anything. She’d watch Uncle Mason when he was whittling, hoping that with some gesture he’d
give her a clue about himself. She’d forget that she was staring at him and would keep on staring, until he shook his head,
shaking away her gaze like he’d shake away a fly. Then she’d stop staring and wait for another time, when she thought he was
too deeply involved in his work to notice her. She’d wait tensely, half expecting him to leap from his chair and demand,
What is it you want from me?
I want to know about the money in that box up there.
Months went by. Uncle Mason whittled, Sally cleaned and cooked, and on Sundays, when the whole Jackson family got together,
she sang,
Nothing left of rainy-day love
…
She waited for Uncle Mason to tell her something remarkable. But he stayed away from subjects that would interest her. He
liked to talk about the weather and the measurements in the rain gauge in the garden. When his brother stopped by, they sat
in
Similar Books
