Char Glimmer

Char Glimmer sits on her porch in a ladder-backed chair, waiting for a familiar face to drive her to the doctor. She is wearing a navy -blue shirtwaist and around her shoulders is a white cardigan, the empty sleeves hanging on either side. She closed the living room drapes before she stepped out because she’s mindful of the upholstery.  Mother taught her to be so. 

Her hands are folded where her breasts would be if she had any, and she is shaking from St. Vitus dance, which she developed as a child and has plagued her all her life. It gets worse when she’s upset. She’s upset now, because she has to go to the doctor. She’s been to Dr. Veach plenty of times, but Brenda retired last year and the new nurse is young. Char can’t place her. She doesn’t know which family she’s from.

She’d like to go back inside and lock the door.

She’s lived at home all her life. First as a child, then as a young girl who cared for her mother, then as a maiden lady, and now a maiden aunt. She has a nephew in California who calls once a month and tells her stories about drug traffic, murders, and things so unspeakable that she knows he wouldn’t mention them if he were home, sitting across the table. 

She lives for these calls. 

She also lives for his affirmation at the end of each conversation.  Paul tells her that she’s right to stay in West Virginia, where it’s safe. She shouldn’t sell the house. Yes, it’s too large and the heating bills are awful, but it’s the house she was raised in. It’s her home.         

Sometimes she thinks Paul is working against her best interests. She’s deeded the house to him, and if she sold, she’d use the money to place herself in one of the care facilities that have sprung up like mushrooms, cozy places with lots of company and buttons to push if you have a need. Sometimes the thought is tempting. If she moved to Harmony Manor, for instance, she wouldn’t have to work hard at filling her pill tray or mark when she took a laxative. The last time she took two laxatives and had to wash her underwear out in the cellar sink. The washer and dryer are also in the cellar and now it’s a battle between her and the stairs.

Yes, Harmony Manor would be to her best interest but if she moved, Char believes, her nephew would stop calling. Everyone has family, but he’s all she’s got. Brother Homer died years ago and his wife, Lucia, died more recently, although Char can’t remember the year.

Char was educated. She was sent to the Normal School to become an English teacher and she taught at the local high school until her mother required her full-time presence. Char viewed her mother’s demand for care as a means of salvation. It was a bad time in her life. She’d always hated teaching, and when she didn’t recognize the students as the children or grandchildren of the people she’d known from her youth, she didn’t bother to try. She’d trembled so violently in front of the last batch that, after the students got over their astonishment, they’d thrown spitballs. 

The town had changed so fast in tone and manners that Char no longer recognized Harshbarger Mills as the place she’d grown up in. 

She nearly fell down on the cellar stairs yesterday, but she caught herself on the railing that someone had had the sense to attach when Mother was still alive and clutching it saved her life. She’s got a huge bruise on the underside of her upper arm because her forearm had gotten lodged between the wall and bannister. She used her free hand to pull her arm out, and now her back is so sore she thinks she pulled a muscle. She was so shaken that called her nephew late last night, something she never does. She told him about the bruise, her pinched back and the swelling. Should she go to the doctor? Mostly assuredly, he told her, but as soon as Paul insisted, Char decided not to go.  However, this morning, Dr. Veach’s office phoned, saying they had a spot for her this morning. 

During the call, Char had gotten confused. Did she phone them? She wasn’t aware that she said this out loud, but she must have because the nurse enunciated slowly. “No, Ms. Glimmer, your nephew phoned. All the way from Sun Valley, California.”  

How thoughtful, Char thinks, and what a comfort to have a loving family. But how will she get there? Frank’s taxi hasn’t run in years.

She must have said this aloud, too, for the nurse cleared her throat. “Naomi Waters from the Methodist Church is picking you up. The appointment is at ten. Will you be dressed and ready?”

“Of course, I will!” Char screeched into the phone. Did this woman know who she was talking to? She’s up and dressed by seven every morning.  She’s not some floozy who fetches the morning paper in her nightgown!

Had she said this as well? Char isn’t sure. She’s aware of a long pause at the other end and she doesn’t know if the nurse has hung up, or maybe she’s not having this conversation at all. Suddenly, the nurse repeats that she needs to see the doctor. And Char repeats, yes, she can be ready at ten o’clock though she isn’t quite sure who Naomi Waters is. She hopes that she will recognize a nose or a set of eyes, or maybe strawberry colored hair from someone she knew long ago.

She returns from Dr. Veach’s office, relieved and exhausted. The bruise is large but there’s no internal bleeding. More times than she thought necessary he’d warned her about the stairs. Stay out of the cellar. On a bright note, she did know Naomi Waters, a woman near fifty who was Vivian’s first granddaughter. Viv has been gone for, oh, a good while, but she remembered when the girl was born and how happy Viv had been to have a granddaughter. The others had been boys.

She’d give anything to see Vivian again. Or Maxine, whom they’d called Maxie, then shortened to Max. Viv, Max and Char. Somehow, she’d been included with those two cut-ups. The somber note in their frivolity. But they were good girls. Even though they were cut-ups, they were good.

Char decides to take a box down from the hall closet. It’s not high; Father had had it made for himself. For all his importance, he wasn’t a tall man and didn’t want to stretch while reaching for his hat. Reaching doesn’t hurt her arm. 

The box is full of photographs. Many of them are of Char. There she is in her christening gown. Mother looks beautiful with her hair upswept in a bun, wearing a lace gown that matches her own. Father, standing behind her with his hand on the Queen Anne chair, looks proud. Char studies her long narrow face encased in the bonnet and feels embarrassment even now.  She looks unhappy at being born.

She sorts through the pictures, finding more of herself. Birthday parties where the children are unnaturally subdued, one in the porch swing with Mother. Another is of three girls with sleds.  Whitehall Hill! That’s where Harmony Manor now stands. Char remembers that day. It’s the three of them – Max, Char and Viv—although she can’t tell who’s who because the photo is faded and all three are wearing padded snowsuits with toboggans pulled down. She might be the one on the left, the thinnest, but maybe not. Mother always made her wear two sets of clothes.

She remembers the cold on her cheeks, the freedom of speed, and the laughter that came from deep within. Afterwards, there’d been a huge bonfire with kettle corn and marshmallows on a stick. Frank McGee had sidled up to her, whiskey on his breath even then, and kept up a conversation.  He was a rough boy from a rough family and most of his words ended up in his muffler, but she’d been thrilled.  It was her first flirtation. 

That night, safe in bed, she’d had her worst bout of St. Vitus yet. 

Char thumbs through a booklet of poses with Viv posing in her majorette uniform.  Woody Garrett is taking the pictures. He’s using the Kodak Retina II that he’d ordered from Nick’s Camera Shop, and when he got the notice of its arrival, he caught the early bus to Burlington.  In those days, the camera was seldom out of his hand. He’d go up and down the streets, taking pictures of everyone and everything, making a nuisance out of himself. The photographs are now displayed in the new town hall under a wood-burned slab of pine that says, “Yesteryear in Harshbarger Mills.”  Char is in one of the pictures; a graduating class of some year or another, the photo so old that thankfully everyone’s face is blurred. Yes, she remembers standing on the steps of the school with her class, a total of 48. The photographer yelled for everyone to smile because some of the girls had started crying. 

 Afterwards, Woody had taken pictures of the class himself and Viv in her majorette uniform. Because she was head majorette, she’s wearing a tall furry hat with a royal blue plume and matching epaulettes. Her boots are visibly polished. Woody had probably snapped a dozen pictures of Viv before the other majorettes gathered around. Woody had always been a ladies’ man; Viv had been stringing him along. She liked to have her picture taken.

 As she flips through, she remembers other times with Viv and Max. The time they took the pledge together at a revival meeting, sledding at Whitehall Hill, and the elocution lessons they’d taken from Mrs. Jones. Fat lot of good those did her; she’d been too scared to perform.             

The next picture is face down, and when she turns it over, her heart begins to pound. She’s remembered this day every day of her life.            

 There’s the three of them, Viv, Max, and herself in the middle, standing in front of Bessie Jo’s Beauty Shop. It’s the morning of the Sweetheart Ball. While other girls all over town are getting Toni Home Permanents, known to blister scalps and frizz hair, Max has scheduled all three of them with Bessie Jo. Bessie Jo had grumbled about three perms in one day and the earliness of the hour, but Maxie had laid the tip on the kitchen table. A crisp twenty slipped from her father’s wallet. Maxie’s father falls asleep every evening with a drink in his hand. Bessie Jo’s eye had bugged out.            

 They are posing beside the huge flamingo that Bessie kept in her yard, and Woody is snapping like mad. He’d nearly run his legs off after Viv in those days. There’s a shadow to the left, a man with the sun behind him, and she recognizes Frank. The trembling in her hands goes straight to her heart, and she feels the onset of tears. Then, they stop. It’s not from lack of sorrow, for the water is always there; it’s her decision when to turn the tap.             

They’re all smiling, full of themselves. Maxie has her head thrown back in laughter. She can hear that laugh now. Horsey, her mother had called it, but Max had Dempsy in her and there was no help for that. Dempsy or not, when she laughed everyone laughed with her. She wanted to say that to her mother. She says it now.             

Char remembers getting the cold wave, the cutting of her hair, the spirals, the cool lotions dripping down. Bessie Jo had parted her hair on the side and cut a fringe, which made her long face look less so. Viv and Max both had their hair parted in the middle, crimped on either side. Viv had tiny curls above her forehead.             

All three had worn dresses cut from the same pattern, though in different colors. Char’s was lavender silk with an overlay of white gauze. Viv’s was white on white, and Maxie’s blue. Viv’s mom had sewn gauze wraps for each that could be looped at the shoulders.            

 The dance had been magical, for everyone had a sweetheart. Frank McGhee stepped up for Char and claimed every dance. He asked to walk her home and she accepted; she was as loathe to part from him as he was from her.            

Because Char talked less, Frank talked more, stumbling over heavy-booted feelings. He’d always admired her. Hell, he . . .  She remembered he stopped then, and began to cough. He’d said “Excuse me,” and began again, telling her he knew he came from a bad family and wasn’t much himself, but if there was a chance . . .            

 He’d been proposing when Father came roaring out, threatening to horsewhip him for walking alone with his daughter. He’d ordered Char inside, but she’d stayed by Frank. Her presence hadn’t mattered; it was between the men. Shy, red-faced even without the alcohol, and nearly crying himself, Frank said he’d meant no disrespect and he promised Mr. Glimmer that he’d never bother his daughter again. Then he vanished, half running, half walking down Smith Street. 

Char had stopped shaking, for at that moment, she’d been certain of something.   She’d never belong to anyone or anything; she’d only have this moment; a split second of time which would define all her years.