Twenty-six years later. Hearts painted on the side walk leading up to the storefront peak through the shifting piles of leaves. The bamboo chimes hanging just outside the door glink loudly, excited at the prospect of a new work day. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes arrive early for their appointments, dressed in their Sunday best, cheeks rosy and wind whipped. The small bell above the door is working overtime today, ringing nearly every half hour signaling Alice’s success. The city is small, sitting on the edge of Dallas County, but it would seem every girl within fifty miles saw the editorial article posted in the circular. Some walked, some rode horses in, and others even had their fathers drive them to town. It was safe to assume the prospect of marriage was always on a young girl’s mind, and no one saw fault in having a little help in that department. When Alice’s husband joined the war effort, her brain child, a matchmaking service pairing single, local women with “honorable” G.I.s fighting over in Germany, took off. Laugher, smiles, pink puffed lips. Ding. The wild flowers she picked from the side of the road this morning filling the front room with flowery scents of daisies and tiger lilies, making Clifford’s nose itch. Ding. Ding. Three women sit patiently on the old davenport. Waiting for love, waiting for someone to listen to their woes. Too bad mail service takes so darn long to deliver, going to be waiting for a long time, Clifford huffs. Sitting in the doorway to his office, or the pantry he is convinced his sister uses to hide him, he watches the dark-haired girl with the bright orange dress. It makes her look like she’s on fire, he notes. A letter in hand, she can barely contain her excitement. Alice gives her a congratulations with a big toothy grin, signaling the ending to her very first appointment. You could swear she was about to make a run for it, too. He imagines smoke forming at the back of her heels and smiles. Feeling congested, “Hoouugheekhehhmm tchew,” he spits phlegm into an old cup, and positions it back in between his thighs. He looks up, forgetting himself, and sees the girl is staring at him. They are all staring. No, not at him, at his chair he realizes and scowls. The girl’s eyes meet his immediately, making a silent apology. “I don’t need your sympathy!” He shouts at her, at them, jerking at the wheels roughly, backing his way into the office. Crack! He runs into the doorway, and it only makes him angrier as they jump as if frightened. Alice panics, asking for the young women’s forgiveness, giving them the same sob story, she always gives. A mining accident, the damn mining Page 46
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