Amy Lauer Goldin relocated from Miami to St. Augustine Florida in 2014 and immediately found a niche in the local arts community. She is a board member of A Classic Theatre and her original plays include Shrink Rap, Resistance, Welcome to BLANK, Gated Communities, and her upcoming production of The Sisters O’Toole.
She is also an active member of Ancient City Poets and has been published in their annual anthology, AC PAPA.
The small girl with the carefully arranged blond curls twirls in her red coat, white gloves and black patent leather shoes. Her mother sits on the bench and lights a cigarette as they wait for the bus.
Everything is shiny, new, and ready for display.
She is mildly confused about all the fuss. It is not her birthday. Not yet Christmas, despite the nip in the air.
Her mother’s voice is telling her not to touch her hair. Don’t scuff your shoes. Be still and stand up straight. The crosstown bus wheezes to a stop at their corner and the girl and her mother get on. She feels shy on the bus. She catches people looking at her. An elderly woman smiles in a kindly manner, momentarily brightening the tired brown face. The girl feels too dressed up to be riding on this bus. Everyone else is in regular everyday clothing. Men in caps and overalls. Women in cheap car coats, some with aprons peeking out from below, wearing sensible worn down shoes.
The smoke from her mother’s cigarette wafts down to her, mixing with scented drugstore soap and hairspray. Sometimes when she lies in bed at night waiting for her mother to come home from work she can close her eyes and conjure that smell. When she hears the high heels clicking up the stairs, she knows the scent will be making its entrance momentarily, with a fragrant good night kiss to follow. Soap, smoke and hairspray. It is a comforting blend.
She doesn’t know where they are going. She hasn’t been told. Just instructed to be a good girl, best behavior, no monkeyshines. She looks out the window at the traffic, the stores, the lights. There are still Kennedy posters in a few of the darkened shop windows. They look like the round metal button her mother wore on her coat for months. She thinks back to the night she and her mother and aunt Bonnie huddled around their small television, watching as the handsome young man and his beautiful wife were showered with confetti. The two women had cried with happiness, as if a family member had been elected President.
Thanksgiving has just passed and the Christmas displays are popping up here and there. She recognizes Rudolph in a store window pointing a hoof toward washing machines. This strikes her as funny and she starts to giggle, then catches herself. Best behavior.
The bus stops at the next corner and she is being led off in the firm grip of her mother’s hand. The night air is fresh and bracing after the warm crowded bus. Once on the sidewalk they stop. Her mother looks around carefully to get her bearings, and off they go, her high heels creating an echo on the darkening streets. They walk along for two blocks, past a hardware store and a barber shop, both closed for the evening. She takes note of the colorful barber pole. It is the same kind as the one in the shop next to their apartment building. She wonders if this is some sacred talisman that all barbers share, like the statues of the Blessed Mother on the many lawns in the neighborhood near her school.
Soon they are standing in front of a diner. Her mother taps a nervous toe against the cement and smooths a gloved hand over her lacquered French twist. The girl can tell they are waiting but she doesn’t know what they are waiting for. She wants to go into the diner but knows instinctively to keep this request to herself. The hamburger smell is so inviting, and the booths are bright red and white shiny fake leather. It looks like a party to which she has not been invited. She imagines herself drinking coke from one of those big coca-cola fountain glasses and eating hot crispy french fries with ketchup.
She feels sudden tension in her mother’s hand through her own gloved hand. Her mother’s grip tightens abruptly, and she is snapped out of her french fry reverie. Her mother’s voice is reminding her again to be on her best behavior, stand up straight, and smile.
There is a man walking toward them. She can feel the electric charge of adrenaline flow through the gloves from her mother’s firm hand to her small one. Her mother is smiling. Her smile looks rehearsed, like one of that Hollywood movie star smiles in the magazines. This is confusing. She is constantly being warned about strange men, yet this man is walking right up to them. She has never seen her mother speak to a man on the street before; only the neighborhood shopkeepers, the mailman, and the priests at church. Her mother laughs nervously and exchanges some quiet conversation with the man. He is tall, and her mother must tilt her face up to speak to him. The girl has never noticed her mother’s face from this angle before. It looks oddly distorted and is disconcerting. She is used to the way that face looks when it is tilted down towards her. Her mother’s voice sounds different too. There is no firmness in it. No fatigue. It is slightly breathy, with a forced casual tone. They discuss the bus trip. No, no trouble finding the place. There is no mention of the hours of preparation, hairdressing, or outfit selection. After this confusing and awkward small talk, her mother says, “Well then, shall we go in?” Finally, they are going to go into the diner to eat! She is already picturing herself sliding into the long, cushiony booth and swinging her shiny shoes under the table. But no. Now there is some hurried discussion in hushed tones. Not as light and friendly as before. She catches bits and pieces. Can’t be seen together, I work near here. Her mother’s face hardens. It looks like fine china that could crack and break into pieces at any minute. She looks like she is trying hard not to cry. This is a look the girl is familiar with, and it makes her anxious.
Now she has a pain in her stomach. She wants to pull her mother’s hand and run away from this man. Why are they even talking to him? The mother knows men are dangerous. She says so all the time.
The girl has to pee now and feels fidgety. She is having a hard time standing up straight, but her mother is in enough distress already. She mustn’t add to it. Best behavior.
At last, their strained conversation seems to be over. There is a long silence. The man taps a cigarette out of a pack and lights it with a practiced flip of his Zippo lighter. The two adults look away from each other as if gazing toward separate distant horizons. Finally, the man fumbles in his finely tailored overcoat and extends his arm. In his hand is an envelope. Her mother squares her shoulders and reaches her hand toward it, accepting it with two gloved fingers as if it were something foul and dead. She drops it into her pocketbook without looking at it.
Finally, the tall man looks down at the girl, as if noticing her for the first time. There is a bright street light behind him and she is standing in his shadow. She doesn’t want to look up into his face. She doesn’t want to know or remember what he looks like. The careful composure she has maintained all afternoon, evidently for this moment, is gone. Her face is a mask of anxiety. She is afraid she will wet her pants in front of this frightening stranger, in this unfamiliar part of town, in her new outfit, in front of her mother. She clutches her mother’s hand tighter. The electricity is gone, but the firmness is there. She clings to it.
The man leans down a bit and says her name. She wants to run, scream at him, not say her name, and leave them alone. Instead, she manages a shaky Hello.
He tells her what a pretty girl she is. Says she looks like her mother. She knows she should say thank you but says nothing. He notes that she is tall for her age. Her mother turns her face away again, looking toward that elusive urban horizon.
He tells her to be a good girl. She wants to tell him she IS a good girl, everyone says so, but again she remains silent, only nodding her head slightly in the affirmative. Her heart is pounding, like when she runs up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. She is frantic for this whole evening to be over. She wants fervently for this to have never happened. She feels as if something has been broken and can’t be fixed, and that somehow it is her fault.
He reaches for her other hand. Before she can pull it away his large hand with the gold ring presses something into it. She looks and sees it is a five-dollar bill. He tells her to buy something pretty with it. Her mother abruptly says it is time to go. He says her name again, then goodbye. He looks at her mother again and seems to want to speak but says nothing. Her mother’s eyes look hard and glittery, and especially blue under the cold streetlight.
The girl is relieved when the man finally turns and walks down the street. He casually flicks his glowing cigarette butt into the gutter, slides his hands into his pockets, and disappears around a corner.
Her mother looks down and asks if she is cold. In a quivering voice, she replies that she is OK, but needs to use the ladies’ room. Her mother tenderly runs a gloved hand down the small smooth cheek and they walk toward the bright lights of the diner.