Read Online Two Shades of Morning by Janice Daugharty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janice Daugharty
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friends. She was crying and all. I told her I was sorry; I thought she might say the same thing. You know what she said?”
Aunt Birdie wagged her head and folded a white handkerchief in a neat square. “She said ‘I forgive you.’ Just like that.” At that point, I got caught up in how my telling was like the cloud that would have to rain itself out. “And then she had to get home because a man, as she put it, was coming over to put down floors.” I skipped the part about Sibyl praying for Aunt Birdie so I wouldn’t be a peace-breaker. “When she started out the door, she went, ‘Oh, I thought this trailer-thing was gone tip over.’“ I really beared down with Sibyl’s mocking tone on the last part and waited for Aunt Birdie to speak.
She just sat there, puzzled-looking, while the rain wafted east to west, west to east, misting us and pattering on the tin. Then her face cleared, her lips curled, and she spat out into a clean dimpling puddle. “It’s hard to believe somebody’d wear a old frock on Easter just to get attention. Harder to believe that somebody couldn’t see theirself getting back good as they give.” Her eyes locked with mine till I broke the spell and got up to leave.
“Wait a minute,” she said, rising with her knurly hands on her knees. “I got you some eggs and a piece of pound cake.” She passed through the screen door decorated with a tuft of cotton to ward off houseflies. In a few minutes, she was back, handing me a brown paper sack of eggs and warm cake.
“Thank you,” I said, going down the doorsteps in the slackened rain. The sun was already shining around the shrinking cloud.
“Look out for snakes,” she called, “they’re crawling.”
Barely clear of her yard, I called back, “Aunt Birdie, I know you and it won’t work, not this time. You’re always turning things around.”
#
By Friday morning I was so worked up by imagined debates with Aunt Birdie, I’d almost forgotten about Sibyl. I mean, I drove right past her house, with Mama and Aunt Birdie in Daddy’s big Buick, and hardly thought about her!
In Tallahassee, I shook the two of them loose at the string of what Mama called Jew Stores on the south end of town and sneaked off, two blocks north and a street over, to Miss Crawford’s Dress Shop. I don’t know how I ended up there instead of one of the cheaper shops across the street, like Smart & Thrifty or Mangles. I couldn’t afford to buy from Crawford’s. The cheapest thing there was fifty dollars. And that’s what I paid for the pale green batiste dress with the ecru lace insert from bust to waist and the too-scooped neck. The kind of dress you can wear once and look good in, then have to hang in your closet because it’s so recognizable.
The dress was soft. I charged it. Ten dollars down and ten a month, for four months, out of my grocery money. We couldn’t afford it. I couldn’t tell P.W. and I thought we might starve. All for Sibyl. I was glad Mrs. Crawford didn’t sell houses. That sweet old lady, all gussied up and with a proper southern accent. She knew of Daddy and Mama, asked about them and everybody else in Little Town, and practically made me take the dress. “On approval,” she said. Same thing as charge. I was beautiful in it, so rich, rich for a day.
#
Sunday morning, I had no trouble—knew I wouldn’t—convincing P.W. that I’d had that old thing a long time. I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror behind our bedroom door: I looked good and knew I could never afford to look that good again. Going into church, my face felt hot and the nerves in my kneecaps were jumping. Competing in a beauty contest and going up to get crowned was nothing compared to parading into church on After-Easter Sunday in a brand new dress.
I sat in my usual place and turned to stare Aunt Birdie down across the aisle, and there in her place sat Sibyl in pink silk and pearls. Pale pink silk is lovely, especially with pearls. My dress was
Aunt Birdie wagged her head and folded a white handkerchief in a neat square. “She said ‘I forgive you.’ Just like that.” At that point, I got caught up in how my telling was like the cloud that would have to rain itself out. “And then she had to get home because a man, as she put it, was coming over to put down floors.” I skipped the part about Sibyl praying for Aunt Birdie so I wouldn’t be a peace-breaker. “When she started out the door, she went, ‘Oh, I thought this trailer-thing was gone tip over.’“ I really beared down with Sibyl’s mocking tone on the last part and waited for Aunt Birdie to speak.
She just sat there, puzzled-looking, while the rain wafted east to west, west to east, misting us and pattering on the tin. Then her face cleared, her lips curled, and she spat out into a clean dimpling puddle. “It’s hard to believe somebody’d wear a old frock on Easter just to get attention. Harder to believe that somebody couldn’t see theirself getting back good as they give.” Her eyes locked with mine till I broke the spell and got up to leave.
“Wait a minute,” she said, rising with her knurly hands on her knees. “I got you some eggs and a piece of pound cake.” She passed through the screen door decorated with a tuft of cotton to ward off houseflies. In a few minutes, she was back, handing me a brown paper sack of eggs and warm cake.
“Thank you,” I said, going down the doorsteps in the slackened rain. The sun was already shining around the shrinking cloud.
“Look out for snakes,” she called, “they’re crawling.”
Barely clear of her yard, I called back, “Aunt Birdie, I know you and it won’t work, not this time. You’re always turning things around.”
#
By Friday morning I was so worked up by imagined debates with Aunt Birdie, I’d almost forgotten about Sibyl. I mean, I drove right past her house, with Mama and Aunt Birdie in Daddy’s big Buick, and hardly thought about her!
In Tallahassee, I shook the two of them loose at the string of what Mama called Jew Stores on the south end of town and sneaked off, two blocks north and a street over, to Miss Crawford’s Dress Shop. I don’t know how I ended up there instead of one of the cheaper shops across the street, like Smart & Thrifty or Mangles. I couldn’t afford to buy from Crawford’s. The cheapest thing there was fifty dollars. And that’s what I paid for the pale green batiste dress with the ecru lace insert from bust to waist and the too-scooped neck. The kind of dress you can wear once and look good in, then have to hang in your closet because it’s so recognizable.
The dress was soft. I charged it. Ten dollars down and ten a month, for four months, out of my grocery money. We couldn’t afford it. I couldn’t tell P.W. and I thought we might starve. All for Sibyl. I was glad Mrs. Crawford didn’t sell houses. That sweet old lady, all gussied up and with a proper southern accent. She knew of Daddy and Mama, asked about them and everybody else in Little Town, and practically made me take the dress. “On approval,” she said. Same thing as charge. I was beautiful in it, so rich, rich for a day.
#
Sunday morning, I had no trouble—knew I wouldn’t—convincing P.W. that I’d had that old thing a long time. I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror behind our bedroom door: I looked good and knew I could never afford to look that good again. Going into church, my face felt hot and the nerves in my kneecaps were jumping. Competing in a beauty contest and going up to get crowned was nothing compared to parading into church on After-Easter Sunday in a brand new dress.
I sat in my usual place and turned to stare Aunt Birdie down across the aisle, and there in her place sat Sibyl in pink silk and pearls. Pale pink silk is lovely, especially with pearls. My dress was
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