Jenny couldn’t make them stop staring, but she didn’t have to watch them do it. Lowering her head enough for the bill of her cap to shield her face, she put her hands in her pockets and walked on. She hadn’t expected hellos, and she didn’t get any. When she reached Miss Jane’s, she slid her dress an anticipatory look and slipped into the store.
Miss Jane was a small woman with a large voice. Whatever difficulty she was having pushing and pulling at large sheets of tissue paper in her attempt to wrap what looked like a sizable purchase by Blanche Dunlap, she made up for in booming chatter.
“… so she drove down to Concord and bought those dishes
full price
. Now I can understand a dress”— this said with love—“but
dishes
? Dishes are covered with stew, bloody steaks,
liver,
for heaven’s sake, and, after that, with
leavings,
of which there will be plenty, since the girl can’t cook worth a dime. I’m worried, I tell you—” At which point she caught sight of Jenny. Everything about her stilled. Then she nodded. “MaryBeth.”
“Hello,” Jenny said with what she hoped was a pleasant look. She stayed by the door, alternating glances at each face and the floor, until both women turned back to the goods being wrapped. In the ensuing rustle of tissue, she tried to think of something to say, but the only thought she had was that it was just as well that few of the townsfolk ever called her Jenny. There was less to change now. It was safer.
And then she didn’t have anything to say, because the dressing room curtain parted and Blanche’s daughter, Maura, came out. “I need help, Ma.” She was twisting around, fiddling with the strap that went over her shoulder. It was connected to a baby carrier that hung lopsided on her front.
Jenny had gone to school with Maura. Though they had never been the best of friends, Jenny shot her a smile. “Hi, Maura.”
Maura looked up in surprise. From Jenny, she glanced at her mother, then at Miss Jane. Moving closer to her mother, she jiggled the strap. “Hi, MaryBeth. Gee, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’ve you been?”
“Fine. Is that your new baby?”
“Uh-huh.”
The baby was a couple of lumps in the carrier. Jenny took a step forward— all she dared— and craned her neck. She couldn’t see much. “What is it?”
“A boy. What’s the trouble here, Ma? Something’s crooked. Is my dress almost wrapped? I’m late.”
Miss Jane was working more quickly now, bagging the tissue-wrapped bundles. Blanche was concentrating on the carrier straps. Maura was covering the baby’s little bald head with a hat.
Jenny felt an achy hollow inside. After a lifetime of being eyed warily, nervously sidestepped, and deliberately avoided, she should have been used to it. But the hope that things would change never left her. She still dreamed of the day when the townsfolk would greet her with the same warmth they showed toward each other.
The dream was fast becoming a prayer. Darden Clyde was coming back. She needed help.
Blanche made a show of finishing with the strap. The carrier seemed as crooked as before, but Maura was hurriedly divvying up the bundles while she and her mother thanked Miss Jane with quick smiles and knowing looks. The smiles were stiff by the time they reached Jenny. She moved aside to let them pass.
“I’m
really
late,” Maura said. “Take care, MaryBeth.”
Jenny had barely raised a hand to wave, when the door closed behind them. She caught her fingers together and gave herself a minute to let the aching hollowness pass.
“May I help you, MaryBeth?” Miss Jane asked politely.
Jenny turned to the dress in the window. “I’d like to buy that.”
“What?”
Jenny hitched her chin toward the dress. “I’ve been looking at it all summer. I’d like to wear it to the dance tonight.”
“Tonight? That dress? Oh dear, I’m afraid you can’t. That dress is sold.”
Jenny’s heart fell. “Why is it still in the window if it’s sold?”
“Well,
that
one isn’t, but I doubt it’s your size. The one that would be your size is already sold.”
Looking at the dress from the back, Jenny could see where it had been pinned to fit the mannequin. But the mannequin was skinny. Jenny was only slim. It might fit. “Could I try it on?”
“You could for color and style, but it would be a waste of your time. I couldn’t possibly get the right size here in time for the dance. Actually, I doubt I could get the right size at all. This dress was part of the summer line. Everything coming in now is for fall and winter.”
Jenny had been thinking about the dance for weeks. For just as long, she had been picturing herself in this dress. She went to the window and touched the fabric. It was as soft as she had imagined. “You do alterations, don’t you?”
“Alterations, yes. Recuttings, no. This dress will be ridiculously big on you, MaryBeth.”
“It’s Jenny,” Jenny said softly, defiantly, because something told her that Miss Jane would call her MaryBeth to her dying day and be no threat at all when it came to Jenny’s father. “May I try it on, please?”
One look at the three-paneled mirror at the far end of the dressing room and Jenny nearly lost her nerve. But she wanted that dress. So, turning away, she put a toe to each heel and removed her sneakers. She slipped off her hat and, still with her back to the mirror, refastened the elastic band around her hair. She was trying to work loose strands into the mass when, looking pinched, Miss Jane joined her with the dress.
Jenny reached for it. But rather than handing it over or hanging it on a hook, Miss Jane slid her arms inside, from hem to neckline, and waited.
Jenny hadn’t expected an audience. No one had seen her without clothes in more than six years, two months, and fourteen days. Having Miss Jane see her was nearly as bad as the mirror seeing her. But it couldn’t be helped. She had a feeling Miss Jane wouldn’t let the dress go without a fight, and Jenny had a point to make.
So she hurried out of her jeans and tee shirt and took refuge inside the dress before either of them could see much. While she busied herself smoothing the front, Miss Jane did up the buttons in back, tugged at the shoulders, and brushed at the sleeves.
“Well,” the woman conceded with a sigh, “it isn’t as big as I thought it would be, but I still don’t think it’s quite right. The waist is too high.”
Jenny looked down. “Isn’t this where it’s supposed to be?”
“Well, it is. Maybe the problem is with the sleeves. They don’t look comfortable.”
Jenny moved her arms. “They feel fine.”
Miss Jane put a worried hand to her chin. She shook her head. “The neckline’s wrong. Someone with freckles like yours needs a higher neckline. And then there’s the color. Quite frankly, it clashes with your hair.”
“Quite frankly,” Jenny said, “everything clashes with my hair, but I still need a dress for the dance.”
“Perhaps one of the others would do.”
Jenny touched the folds that fell so gently from the waist that Miss Jane claimed was too high. “But I like this one.”
“You know, dear, people come to me because they respect my opinion. They trust that if they try on a dress and it doesn’t look right, I’ll tell them. Everyone in town has seen this dress in my window. They’ll know where you bought it. They’ll think that I didn’t do right by you. I wouldn’t want that.”
Jenny ran the tips of her fingers along the neckline that lay so peacefully against her freckles. “I’ll tell them. I’ll say I bought it against your recommendation. I’ll say I insisted.”
“Look in the mirror, MaryBeth,” Miss Jane said with exasperation. “It just isn’t
you
.”
Jenny imagined that she was wearing dark tights and pumps. She imagined that she was newly bathed and sweet smelling, with her hair brushed, her cheeks blushed, and her eyelashes darkened. Holding all that in mind, ready to superimpose it on her image, she turned to the mirror and slowly raised her eyes.
She caught her breath in delight. The dress was beautiful. It was just long enough, just sweet enough, just colorful enough. It was the most stylish thing she had ever worn, and it fit just fine.
Miss Jane might be right: the dress might not be Jenny. But it was what she wanted to be, which, given the hopes she had for the night, was enough.
Jenny was in high spirits as she walked the two miles from her house to the VFW hall where the dance was being held. It didn’t matter that her toes pinched in the too-small suede pumps her boss had lent her, or that none of the cars that passed her stopped to give her a ride. They didn’t recognize her, that was why, looking as nice as she did.
And she
did
look nice. She had checked. She had to untape only three things from the mirror— a matchbook cover from Lisa Pearsall’s engagement party, an autographed PUT MOONY IN THE STATE HOUSE bumper sticker, and the printed menu from Helen and Avery Phippen’s golden anniversary bash— to have room enough to see her face. The rest of her had been reflected in the frosty glass panel on her front door. The image there had been dark and a little vague, but nice— far nicer than she had looked in a while.
The VFW hall came into sight. The glow from inside pierced the dusk, scattering yellow shards of light across the parking lot, where laughter and shouted greetings rang out above the slam of the car doors.
Jenny slowed to watch the stream of townsfolk climbing the steps and crossing the porch. Those who knew how to bake carried foil-covered goodies. Jenny herself had made a batch of the lemon crescents for which Miriam’s catering service, Neat Eats, was known. Their weight in her hand was a commitment. It meant she couldn’t turn back. There would be no watching the dance from behind the chestnut tree this time. This time she was going inside.
Carefully balancing her foil pack on one hand, she knelt to brush dust from Miriam’s shoes with the other. When she straightened, she was horrified to see dust on the hem of her dress. Quickly, she brushed at that, too. When her hand came away filthy, she batted it clean against the back of the dress, where no one would see it. She took a deep breath.
Then she thought of her hair. Letting out the breath, she whisked a hand around her head to check for strands that might have escaped both mousse and French braid, but there were none. She patted down the sides for good measure. She took another breath for courage, but paused again, this time to press the pads of her fingers to the bridge of her nose, and a good thing she did. She found small beads of sweat there. She didn’t know if they were a result of walking or nerves, but she was careful to blot them without smudging her makeup. What little of that she had used was crucial, especially there on her nose. Blotchy red freckles scared men off.
She searched the faces before her, looking for one that was new, but all were familiar.
Her stomach was jumping with nerves. She put a hand there, took another breath, and forced herself forward. Within seconds, she had joined the people climbing the steps. To her relief, no one seemed to notice her. She might have been one of them, so seamless was their chatter.
Once inside, she glanced around quickly. Miriam had told her to go straight to the refreshment table, so she hurried over, took the foil off her crescents, and set them down at the dessert end. That done, she turned to face the dance floor. Not much was happening there, and she felt awkward just standing, so she turned back to the table and surveyed the food. There were three plates each of brownies and oatmeal cookies, two plates each of chocolate chip and fork-scored peanut butter cookies, and a random assortment of carrot cakes, mini cheesecakes, and gingerbread squares. In the middle of the table, past the desserts, were chips, dips, and popcorn. Drinks were at the far end.
“This is an effective arrangement,” she said, aiming her words at the women behind the table, but when she dared glance their way, none seemed to have heard. Eyeing the food again, she said more loudly, “Whoever set this up did an excellent job. Miriam and I arrange our buffet tables exactly like this.”
When she looked up this time, two of the women were looking right back at her. She smiled. “It’s very good.”
They seemed uneasy. No, not uneasy, she decided. Confused.
So she helped them out. “I’m MaryBeth Clyde. I know I look different. It’s the dress.” That said, she further eased their discomfort by turning away.
The band was playing something light, but people weren’t yet dancing. They were milling around, more pairs of legs than Jenny could count. She saw denim ones and khaki ones. She saw bare ones. The ones that pleased her most were those covered by dark stockings like hers. They were being worn by stylish women, by
popular
women. That boded well.
“Good crowd,” she said, turning back to the dessert ladies. Then, “Do you need any help?”
“No, thank you.”
“We’re fine.”
Jenny nodded and moved off to stand by the wall in a break between chairs. It was a spot with a view, which she put to good use. People continued to stream through the door. She skimmed their faces, then looked again at those already inside. The whole town appeared to have turned out to celebrate summer’s end.
She remembered it being that way all those years ago, too. She had been twelve then, and had come with her parents, but they hadn’t been a happy threesome, what with her father furious at her mother for not having bought Jenny a new dress, and her mother furious at her for needing one.
She had a new dress now, and it was a beauty. Smiling, she raised her eyes to the stage. The song had ended. The bandleader— Christ Community’s own Reverend George Putty— waved his arms in the air, then held them high with only his forefingers counting time. Jenny jumped when cymbals and drums burst into a fanfare. Her heart had barely recovered when Reverend Putty began bouncing on the balls of his feet. Seconds later, the band broke into something fast and loud and totally different, Jenny wagered, from anything ever heard within the cold stone walls of Reverend Putty’s church.
The crowd cheered and moved with the beat.
Jenny tapped her toe. She clapped in time to the music for a minute. She folded her arms over her chest, then, recalling an article on body language in
Cosmo,
uncrossed them and let them fall.