Shelley Woodruff, Pizzeria Paradiso’s only female employee, leaned over the counter, flashing some skin along with her winning smile. At twenty, she was also the youngest employee. She wore a “Kiss Me” cotton-spandex halter top and a short, frayed jean skirt that hung snugly over a pair of red fishnet stockings. Naturally a brunette, her hair was red this week.
“I’m pierced in twelve places,” Shelley said. She counted off the hoops and studs that adorned her ears, then arched her eyebrows, one of which was pierced. She opened her mouth and flicked her tongue in and out like a lizard. “That makes nine.” Shelley batted her eyelashes playfully. “I bet you can’t guess where the other three are!”
All the men at the bar laughed and let out sounds that betrayed their excitement.
“OK, boys, I’m out,” Shelley informed them, grabbing her coat and purse, tucking one under her arm, slinging the other over her shoulder.
“Hasta mañana, señorita,” Luis hollered from the kitchen.
Shelley walked the streets of Boston, humming to herself. Nearly two years had passed since her move to the city from a small town close to the Massachusetts-Connecticut border.
By day she worked at the pizzeria, by night she dreamed of being a writer. Shelley had postponed college so she could move to the city. Growing up, her big plan for the future had simply been to do the last thing that was expected of her. She was living her dream.
Shelley’s parents called once or twice a week. They never stopped hoping she would change her mind, admit she couldn’t live like this forever. She wanted to prove them wrong. Shelley wondered if her parents would ever respect–or even accept–her desire to do something different with her life.
The walk home was Shelley’s time to unwind. It always went by faster than she’d like. She spent the time absorbed in possible stories that had occurred to her throughout the day. Which would she write about tonight?
As she made her way down the dimly lit hallway toward the front door of her small, two-room apartment, Shelley rummaged for her keys. Frustration slowly mounted as the keys sank deeper and deeper into her purse despite her efforts.
“Gotcha!” She clutched the keys, her hand still buried in her purse.
At that very moment, a hand clamped down on Shelley’s right shoulder, atop her small dragonfly tattoo. Startled, her grip loosened, and the keys fell back into the abyss. She knew who stood behind her; it was Ben Abbott. She smelled his cologne, recognized his touch. Heart pounding, she spun around.
“You never called,” he said. His lips formed a mock frown.
“I know. I didn’t call because I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never done anything like that before,” she lied. She began rummaging through her purse once more, waiting for him to say something.
“Me either,” Ben said. He smiled shyly, running his right hand through his thick, sand-colored hair. He wore a dark blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. He was a college boy through and through. Pre-med. He was everything Shelley wasn’t. She liked him.
“Come in,” Shelley said, turning the key in the lock.
“I like your hair.” Ben gently tugged on a strand of red silk as he followed her into the cramped kitchen/dining /living room combination. “It suits you.”
“Well, then I’ll have to try something else. The whole point is to find something that doesn’t suit me. I want to embrace the abject–” she stopped mid-sentence. She could tell he didn’t understand. No one did, really.
Shelley threw her coat and purse onto the tweed couch to the right of the door, and then flopped down next to the small pile, sinking into the tattered, stained cushions. She kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs across the white wicker coffee table. She watched Ben, amused, as he paced the room.
“You have a message.” He pointed to her answering machine, which was flashing emphatically.
“First my hair and now this. You’re an observant one. I like that in a boy.” Shelley smiled.
“Boy,” he repeated. “You make me feel like I’m ten or something.”
Shelley laughed.
“Should I push ‘play’–or no?”
Shelley thought he might be testing her. “Sure, go ahead,” she said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
The machine beeped.
“Shelley, it’s Mom. I’ve got some bad news, sweetie. Auntie Annie died early yesterday morning. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you sooner, but I’ve been busy making arrangements. The funeral is Saturday morning. Reception’s at our place. I’ll be expecting you tomorrow night. Drive safe.”
The machine beeped again, quickly fading into silence.
“I’m really sorry,” Ben said. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch. He put his hand on Shelley’s knee. “That’s rough.”
She shrugged. “Don’t feel too bad. She was my great aunt. She lived with me in my parents’ house for a few years. I was pretty young then. I hardly knew her.”
“I’m sure she meant something to you. She must have, or you wouldn’t be going to the funeral.”
“Who said I’m going?” Shelley snapped.
Ben looked shocked.
Shelley smiled. “Ben, I’m okay,” she assured him. “Really.”
Shelley got to her feet and stood in front of Ben, towering over him. She leaned forward to kiss him. Before he could say anything, she was leading him down the dark, narrow hallway to her bedroom.
***
The ceremony dragged. Sitting in the back row, her gaze slowly drifting across the crowd, Shelley realized she recognized every single person in attendance. It sickened her to think Annie had impacted so few lives. Shelley wasn’t surprised. She thought of her own life and wondered how she would be remembered. Her plan was to leave a large family behind–people who would miss her because she had been loved dearly, not because they felt obliged. Shelley looked around. I definitely don’t want this, she thought, repulsed by what she saw.
Shelley saw her mother and father. She saw aunts, uncles, cousins. A few familiar faces from around town. Annie had no children. No husband. Shelley felt sick to her stomach–a familiar breed of discomfort–hatred rising. She had felt this way before. She had felt this way ever since she was eight, her age when Annie came to stay.
Shelley remembered the wrinkles, the bald spot, the way Annie walked, hunched forward, like a question mark. She remembered refusing to share her home with such a monster.
Over time fear of Annie’s appearance was replaced by contempt for her lifestyle. Shelley had known Annie to be a miserable old woman with no stories to share. She had money but never spent it. She didn’t like to play games. She never smiled. She often complained to Shelley’s parents about their daughter’s noisy, disruptive behavior. Annie preferred the company of the family cats. It was with them, lounging on the couch or out in the sun, that she spent most of her time.
Shelley felt a light tap on her shoulder. “Party’s over.”
She looked up. It was Cara, her oldest cousin.
“Are you okay?”
Shelley nodded. “Sorry, I was just zoning there, I guess.”
“Need a ride back to your place?” Cara asked.
“Sure,” Shelley said. “That sounds great.” She followed her cousin out of the cemetery, fallen leaves crunching beneath her black pumps.
***
Shelley sat on her front porch, the whitewashed porch of her youth, holding a cigarette in one hand, petting Mr. Tompkins, the family cat, with the other. The front door was open. There was something comforting about the sounds and smells that drifted out onto the porch from the kitchen. Shelley thought of the living room carpet, and smiled knowing her mother would be on her hands and knees scrubbing it the next morning. Shelley sat silently, swinging back and forth, reveling in the familiarity.
Suddenly, Shelley heard a voice she did not recognize. “Got a light?”
The illusion of her childhood was shattered, and Shelley was twenty again. The carpet was gone, replaced by hardwood flooring. Mr. Tompkins had run away years ago. Annie was dead.
“Uh, sure,” Shelley managed, shaken. She reached into her purse and pulled out a Bic lighter. She looked up as she extended her hand. An old woman stood at the end of the swinging bench.
“Thanks, dear,” the woman said. She took the lighter from Shelley. “Mind if I sit here for just a bit?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks, dear,” the woman said again.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
The woman spoke first. “I’m Rose,” she said. “Rose Donnelly.”
“Shelley,” was all Shelley offered.
“Bev and Roger’s daughter?”
Shelley nodded. “That’s me.”
“You were close to Annie then?”
“No.” Shelley remembered the time Annie stood at the edge of the porch, laughing at their obese neighbor as she struggled to make it down the street in time to meet her three small children at the bus stop.
She cringed, disgusted by the memory. “We weren’t close.”
“But you shared a house for six years.”
“We did.” Shelley looked over at Rose. Small and white. Wrinkled but soft. She wore a patterned shirt over black pants. She smelled like moth balls. “You weren’t at the funeral.”
“No.” Rose sighed. “Almost skipped out on the reception, too.”
This intrigued Shelley. “How did you know Annie?” she asked.
“We worked together for many years.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” Rose said. “We were both in our early twenties when we met.”
“I didn’t know Annie had friends.”
“She had her share.” The old woman coughed.
Shelley looked at the cigarette in her hand, threw it onto the ground, and smothered it with her right foot.
“Thanks, dear.” Rose paused, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening. “Why does that surprise you?”
“She just never struck me as someone who cared about people too much, I guess.” Shelley knew her words must have sounded cold and callous to someone who didn’t understand.
Rose was silent.
Shelley was embarrassed by her own honesty. She had never spoken of her hatred for Annie before. Just as she had never explained her sudden decision to bypass college to live in the city. No one understood Shelley. No one understood why she still, after all this time, craved adventure and excitement. No one knew the truth.
Shelley lived the way she did to escape ending up old and alone, miserable and boring, unloved and unlovable. Becoming Annie was her greatest fear. And no one knew.
“When Annie moved in with you, she wasn’t the same woman I knew and loved,” Rose said finally. “Maybe she wasn’t kind to you. If she wasn’t, I doubt she was conscious of her behavior. Time plays tricks on the mind, dear. It changes people. I hate to think anyone would judge an old woman based on how she spent her final years. Especially a woman who had her last coherent thought years before you met her.”
Shelley was stunned. It had never occurred to her that maybe Annie had no control over how she lived.
“Your parents were so kind to take her in and care for her.”
“Annie never married. Why? I assumed she chose not to. I assumed she didn’t want a family.” Shelley hoped she hadn’t assumed wrong. It would change everything.
“Annie never married because she couldn’t. Well, she could have married, I suppose, but it wouldn’t have been for love.” Rose faltered. She started to cry. “No one would let her be with me. No one understood.”
Shelley remembered the time she made out with María Fontana in a dark corner at the back of her favorite club. She always thought an extreme lifestyle was the answer. Now she wasn’t so sure. Her compass in life had always pointed to Annie, and she had simply walked in the opposite direction. Shelley had always known exactly who she didn’t want to be. But she had no idea who she was.
Rose dried her eyes and slowly got to her feet. “Give your parents my condolences, dear,” the old woman said. She carefully made her way down the front steps, and then inched toward the quiet street.
She disappeared, swallowed by dusk. Maybe she lived down the street. Maybe she lived on the other side of town. Shelley imagined Rose lived nearby, occupying a small room in some relative’s house, lonely and misunderstood.
***
Shelley heard a knock on the door. She rushed down the hallway, draped in a blue and white bathrobe. She looked through the peephole to see who it was. All she could see was Ben’s back. She quickly yanked the towel off her head.
He turned when he heard the door creak open. “Brown. I like it.”
“Thanks.”
“I can’t help but think I did something to upset you,” Ben said. “I know you’ve been back for over a week. I really thought you’d call this time.”
“You could have called me, you know,” she said, smiling. “Actually, I’d really like it if you’d call sometime. Maybe we could go see a movie or something.”
Ben looked confused. “We could do that now.”
“We could. But I’m kind of busy.”
“Okay.” He peeked over her shoulder. “I get it.”
Shelley laughed. “I don’t think you do,” she said. “I just want to start over. With you.” Shelley kissed his cheek. “I want to take it slow. I want to do this right.”
Shelley watched Ben walk away. Confident that he would call the next day, she closed the door and sank onto the couch. She opened her laptop and started to type. She was by herself, but she wasn’t lonely. Shelley still didn’t know who she was, but with each word typed, she came closer to finding out.
Apparently, there is a “love languages” concept floating around out there. According to this concept, a major reason marriages fail is that couples do not express love in the same ways. To help a floundering marriage, one should try to speak a “language” their partner can understand.
loveofbeauty 