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Authors: Randi Davenport
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hat back on his head and grinned. He was a little out of breath and his eyes shone and his cheeks were covered with stubble.
“Fräulein,” he repeated. “What’s your name?”
“Marie,” I said, but I spoke so softly that I thought he would not hear me. He nodded.
“I am August Bethke,” he said. He pronounced his last name the old German way, so it sounded like Bait-ka . “Pleased to meet you.” He picked up my hand, limp as a dead fish at my side, and pumped my arm up and down. My hand went with his in a way that made me feel that it no longer belonged to me. He laughed and squeezed my fingers.
What love feels like is no secret, but it is hard to put into words. You will know this to be true if you have ever fallen in love, and who among us has not? Girls are trained to fall in love. This is the one thing at which they must not fail. Failure means they are doomed to become mannish, with brusque phrases and sharp tongues and weary clothes that have been passed down to them by their married sisters. I was reared to distrust a mannish woman. In fact, I was reared to distrust all women, with no woman more untrustworthy than the woman who has failed at love.
August dropped my hand.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“Nowhere,” I muttered. My face felt hot. My tongue felt thick. I blushed again. I thought of Martha, turning beet red whenever George thrust some stupid bouquet of daisies at her. We were surely cut from the same cloth.
“Nowhere? Out here by yourself? You are very brave.” Once again he touched his fingers to my hand. The nape of my neck tingled and a wave of sparkles rose behind my eyes.
The sound of hammering came from the house.
When I was seventeen, the things I knew about boys came from the boys I knew in school where they stayed among themselves and only ventured close to girls when they had something disgusting to drop down our dresses. I had that experience myself, visited on me by a heavyset boy named Charles Miller, whose family came from Bavaria and ran a butcher shop in the center of town. Charles divested himself of a frog and was disappointed when I was happy to find the thing in my chemise. I did not mind frogs and thought to make a pet of this one.
At lunchtime the boys ran out onto the playground and sat in a circle in the dirt and traded their food, bargaining and jeering, until the best among them felt that he had improved his lot as much as he could and the others crept away to eat their poor crusts in defeat. The girls stayed inside and dutifully stuck with the items our mothers had packed for us.
When you got right down to it, my father was the only boy I had seen up close in a regular way. He was the one who teased me. He was the one who chased me around the house with a spider. He was the one who took my hand as if he intended to shake it and then rolled the bones together until I dropped wailing to my knees. He was the one who laughed at me when I cried.
August looked at me with interest. I realized he was waiting for me to say something.
“I am going back to work,” I said. “I was on an errand.”
He looked me up and down, taking in my skirt, my blouse, my ratty old coat. I felt my face burn again. It was as if he could see through everything I wore, down to my bare skin.
He gestured up at the skeleton of the house. “My father has a company. I work with him.”
He was much taller than me and I felt the way he stood over me. Just behind that, I felt William Oliver’s laundry drawing me, or maybe it was William Oliver himself, exerting his great magnetic pull. On this day, I did not want to return late. I did not want to be fired. I did not want to find myself in front of my father with no explanation for how this had come to pass.
“I need to get back,” I said.
August smiled. He had very white teeth, each a perfect shape. “You should see yourself,” he said. “What a mess.” The gentle way he said mess made me realize that he meant just the
“Fräulein,” he repeated. “What’s your name?”
“Marie,” I said, but I spoke so softly that I thought he would not hear me. He nodded.
“I am August Bethke,” he said. He pronounced his last name the old German way, so it sounded like Bait-ka . “Pleased to meet you.” He picked up my hand, limp as a dead fish at my side, and pumped my arm up and down. My hand went with his in a way that made me feel that it no longer belonged to me. He laughed and squeezed my fingers.
What love feels like is no secret, but it is hard to put into words. You will know this to be true if you have ever fallen in love, and who among us has not? Girls are trained to fall in love. This is the one thing at which they must not fail. Failure means they are doomed to become mannish, with brusque phrases and sharp tongues and weary clothes that have been passed down to them by their married sisters. I was reared to distrust a mannish woman. In fact, I was reared to distrust all women, with no woman more untrustworthy than the woman who has failed at love.
August dropped my hand.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“Nowhere,” I muttered. My face felt hot. My tongue felt thick. I blushed again. I thought of Martha, turning beet red whenever George thrust some stupid bouquet of daisies at her. We were surely cut from the same cloth.
“Nowhere? Out here by yourself? You are very brave.” Once again he touched his fingers to my hand. The nape of my neck tingled and a wave of sparkles rose behind my eyes.
The sound of hammering came from the house.
When I was seventeen, the things I knew about boys came from the boys I knew in school where they stayed among themselves and only ventured close to girls when they had something disgusting to drop down our dresses. I had that experience myself, visited on me by a heavyset boy named Charles Miller, whose family came from Bavaria and ran a butcher shop in the center of town. Charles divested himself of a frog and was disappointed when I was happy to find the thing in my chemise. I did not mind frogs and thought to make a pet of this one.
At lunchtime the boys ran out onto the playground and sat in a circle in the dirt and traded their food, bargaining and jeering, until the best among them felt that he had improved his lot as much as he could and the others crept away to eat their poor crusts in defeat. The girls stayed inside and dutifully stuck with the items our mothers had packed for us.
When you got right down to it, my father was the only boy I had seen up close in a regular way. He was the one who teased me. He was the one who chased me around the house with a spider. He was the one who took my hand as if he intended to shake it and then rolled the bones together until I dropped wailing to my knees. He was the one who laughed at me when I cried.
August looked at me with interest. I realized he was waiting for me to say something.
“I am going back to work,” I said. “I was on an errand.”
He looked me up and down, taking in my skirt, my blouse, my ratty old coat. I felt my face burn again. It was as if he could see through everything I wore, down to my bare skin.
He gestured up at the skeleton of the house. “My father has a company. I work with him.”
He was much taller than me and I felt the way he stood over me. Just behind that, I felt William Oliver’s laundry drawing me, or maybe it was William Oliver himself, exerting his great magnetic pull. On this day, I did not want to return late. I did not want to be fired. I did not want to find myself in front of my father with no explanation for how this had come to pass.
“I need to get back,” I said.
August smiled. He had very white teeth, each a perfect shape. “You should see yourself,” he said. “What a mess.” The gentle way he said mess made me realize that he meant just the
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