Marjorie Wallace had been walking down the busy sidewalks of downtown Brooklyn, a wonderful February sun falling onto her face, reflecting off of her as if she were the white moon itself. Everything made her happy and nobody, it seemed, let her be that way. A winter sun that promised the spring, the sound of her black, sheer nylons that encased her wide legs rubbing against themselves, whisk, whisk, her clean brown hair falling straight down to her shoulders and smelling of a sweet shampoo she used that very morning in her deliciously warm and good shower—this, all of this, and more brought her joy. She didn’t understand what had just happened. Why do people do the things they do?
She was walking to the post office near Cadman Plaza. She was dressed for work this Monday morning in her favorite outfit—a wool, burgundy skirt, a fitted cream-colored blouse, her Burberry coat-- but she was taking the morning off to run errands. Her boss let her do this from time to time—not often, no, Marjorie wasn’t the type to often need personal time—because she was a good, honest employee. She worked for an employment firm that specialized in publishing and her boss, a woman ten years her senior, with two children in the Long Island suburb from where she commuted, understood and appreciated Marjorie. Work was a place Marjorie felt good about—she did her job, she was treated respectfully for doing so. It was a place that made sense to Marjorie. But the rest of the world, the rest of her life, often made little sense to her.
Six weeks ago exactly, Marjorie had run into an old college friend, Samantha, on the street. Samantha and Marjorie were friends in college—go to the movies once a month friends and they’d been in some statistics classes together and so they’d study for tests together—and after college they both moved to New York where they, at first, saw each other socially. But they hadn’t seen each other, at this point, for quite some time. For years. Marjorie didn’t know why that was—people grow apart, people get busy—and it wasn’t that they hadn’t seen each other for a few years that bothered Marjorie, but rather, that now seeing each other, again, now bumping into each other, had to be such a cruel thing. Especially because six weeks ago, they chatted amicably and Marjorie had given Samantha her card and Samantha had said she’d call and they’d go out to a movie. Yes! Marjorie had been pleased. Samantha had just moved to Brooklyn from Manhattan and she’d seemed so genuine. She had moved out here with a fiancée and Marjorie had congratulated her. And now, just now on the streets of Cobble Hill, as Marjorie set off for her special morning of errands, she bumped into her again.
The post office was getting close and now Marjorie—who’d so looked forward to this chance to mail the small box she carried in her hands to her sister, to buy stamps, to pick up a package that hadn’t been delivered to her office and so Marjorie hadn’t been able to retrieve it—(what could that be? It was so exciting!)—now Marjorie was cross at the idea of having to stand in line in the cavernous, cold building. But here, near the Marriott Hotel, were some cement benches and the sun was like a gift. No, the sun was a gift, light in a dark winter, warmth in a cold time. It was special, it was a sign, and the whole of Brooklyn radiated in it. Marjorie sat and squinting her eyes closed, pushed her luminescent face upward toward the sun. Aaahh. Life was so good. All she wanted was to be grateful for all this goodness. And yet… and yet she was tense and thinking unhappy thoughts. Putting her package down on the bench next to her, she let her legs relax against the cement and the dark wool of her skirt soaked up the sun and her thighs warmed up like separate but friendly toaster ovens. People walked by, their coats open, their heads held high. They walked quickly, joyfully. It seemed as if all the world were out here, participating in this great day. And yet, and yet.
Samantha had not called her in the past six weeks but Marjorie wasn’t upset about that. No. People get busy. Especially people with fiancées, assumed Marjorie, not that she would know from experience. But Marjorie had an ability to empathize, really, she did, and she knew that Samantha wasn’t going to call her right away. But just now, having seen her on the sidewalk walking directly toward her, Samantha had looked down into the collar of her coat and began a fake, little coughing. It wasn’t a real cough, that was clear, and she covered her face with her hand as she coughed. And Marjorie had said, “Samantha! Hey, Samantha!” And Samantha had looked up and acted as though she were surprised to see her! And yet, she’d seen her, Marjorie knew, prior to this looking up at Marjorie with the fake expression of surprise. She’d seen Marjorie and started this whole routine of hiding her face and coughing and hiding her face some more after seeing Marjorie.
“Samantha! Are you OK? You seem to be irritated or something,” said Marjorie.
“I’m fine! Just have a cough,” said Samantha. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called but I’ve been really busy.”
“Please, don’t apologize! I assumed you’ve been busy. Don’t worry, I understand, being engaged and just moving to Brooklyn. You must be very busy so I didn’t expect you to call me right away. I still think it would be fun to go see a movie sometime. When you’re less busy. More settled.”
“Yeah, that sounds great.” Samantha started to move around a bit, as if to start walking away.
“Listen, Samantha, “Marjorie said, because she just didn’t understand this whole interaction here. “You tried to pretend to not see me just now. I mean, if you don’t want to go see a movie, then OK. Why make up a lie about wanting to see a movie with me?” Marjorie’s ears began to ring then. She was saying too much. But so much had been said without saying anything! And that didn’t seem right. It seemed as if it should just be said. Marjorie was not a good guesser. She was a good worker, and a good friend, and kept a good clean, apartment. She was a good person, she was. But she didn’t like to read in between the lines. She liked clear messages. Straightforward communication. Was this so wrong?
“You know, Marjorie. This is so you. If you really thought I was trying to avoid you, then why stop me? If you understood I was trying to avoid you, then you should’ve let me pass.”
“But why are you trying to avoid me when you were so nice to me when I ran into you six weeks ago? I don’t understand why you’d do that.” Blood poured into Marjorie’s head. She wasn’t mad. No! She wanted, really, to understand.
“Because I don’t like you Marjorie. Now do you understand? I was being polite the last time I saw you.”
“Clearly now you feel no need to be polite,” said Marjorie.
“No, I don’t feel the need to be polite anymore. You’ve managed to rid me of that need.”
“Why don’t you like me?” Marjorie had a booming voice, but here, it came out small. As small as her mouth itself, which was a thin-lipped, tiny circle of a thing on her big face. It was always a source of pleasure for Marjorie that her voice itself was big, even if her mouth wasn’t.
Samantha sighed deeply and her face became focused with exasperation. “Because you’re boring. You bore me to no end. And you’re thick.”
“OK. OK. Well then. Thanks for your honesty.” And as Marjorie said this, she bowed her head some, nodded it some, and Samantha, petite, sharply dressed Samantha, walked away without saying anything else and without looking back at Marjorie who stood, alone, nodding slightly still.
Marjorie straightened up on the cement bench. The top of her head was warm and electric feeling. Oh, the sun, the sun! Marjorie picked up the box she was sending her sister and put it on her lap. The brown cardboard felt warm. Even this box, this gift to her sister on her birthday—a set of new, lovely playing cards, a thin, blue necklace with a dainty, yellow, beaded flower on the center of it—was soaking up the warmth. She didn’t want to cry. She wasn’t so angry that she wanted to yell. But she was still confused and tired out from the whole thing. And she didn’t regret the honesty of it all. But she still didn’t understand the lies beforehand. Why? Why did people say they wanted to go see a movie with you if they didn’t want to? Couldn’t they just not say anything?
And then. And of course there was more. Why didn’t she say more? Do more? So polite in her nastiness. Why didn’t she say it all? Why didn’t she say I don’t like you because you’re ugly, because you’re not rich, because you’re average and fat and needy? Why couldn’t she have swung her handbag at Marjorie and whacked her across the face with it? Why were people so composed, even in their hatred and disgust?
She was shaking now, imagining it all. The insults. The violence. What really goes on inside all these people, walking by her now, as if everything were normal. Life was a mystery and a blessing undoubtedly, but it was a strange, horrible, marvelous one. It wasn’t normal. No one was just walking down the street, off to their jobs or families. Everyone, yes, everyone, was wrestling with it all, with rage and love, with want and fear, with the lies, with how to appear one way when feeling another. What to let show, what to hide. Marjorie had never been good at hiding anything. But maybe she’d try harder now. Maybe she could get better at it. Being alone with all that she knew, because she often was alone anyway as she was right then, on this bench, alone, with hundreds of people walking all around her, with her own mouth closed, and no one saying a word to her.
She hoisted herself up to continue her walk to the post office, the box for her sister in her hands. As she closed in on the building on Adams Street, she turned her head up to the sky one more time. Normally, of course, she kept her eyes closed when facing the sun, because she didn’t want to hurt her eyes. She wasn’t stupid. No, she really wasn’t stupid, but sometimes, like anyone, she did stupid things. And so, she opened her eyes to the profound rays in the heavens above and it hurt her, burned her, and yet she stood there, looking directly at this star that made possible every life on the planet. She was blessed! She knew that. They all were, this day, every day. And to acknowledge that, in the face of all the petty ugly, smaller things that life offered, was a strong comfort, a thick, solid truth. And truth was, after all, what Marjorie wanted. Who didn’t? Marjorie turned from the sun and faced the post office and her head swelled and her vision blurred. She willfully, and stupidly, had just temporarily blinded herself. The post office swayed in front of her. And to think that inside this dark building she would give her gift and receive another.