Almost Juvenalia

I wrote this story 9 years ago, published 8 years ago or so. Olden.
Unrelated entirely is that I went to my great Aunt Sally's 90th birthday party on Saturday. She wore blue shell earrings, and matching bracelets and necklace. She had blue sequins in her hair and wore a tiara. I told her, Sally, you look like the Little Mermaid. She said that's me! I'm Little Sally.






The Secret Life of Sally


I work across from Peter. My job is to pick all of the grapes from the grapevine after they

have been rinsed, and to toss them into an enormous bin. When the bin is full, I wheel it

away and collect an empty bin and new grapes. My hands have been purple for years.



Peter looks like he may be a bit older than me, but it is hard to tell with men. You

can’t determine if a man has had a baby by looking at him, you can’t gauge how much

sunbathing he had done in his youth like you can with a woman. Peter’s shoulder’s slope

a bit and he stands in such a way that makes him look shorter than he really is. His eyes

turn down at the outward corners, and his eyelashes go straight out and a bit down, rather

than up.



Because of my glass heart, I live alone. It would be far too complicated to explain to a

roommate. Even if I could get through all of the dreadful details of my incorrect anatomy,

it is certain that the listener would be frightened or disgusted. I do not pretend it would be

otherwise; though even if it were otherwise, and my living partner did not mind, I could

not bear the worry that he or she would constantly have about my heart shattering. They

would never want to excite me. I would rather live with a person who did not know at all,

so at least we could enjoy one another and live in happiness and friendship.



Still, I could not have a lie like that. I am an honest person.





Peter walks me home when the bell has rung and we have cleaned the counters and our

hands. He does this out of the kindness of his own heart. Because Peter is so good to me,

I imagine that his heart must be made of glass just as mine is! We are so much alike in

our concern for other people. I could never ask him if it is true, though. That would

be inappropriate and rude.



I detest rude people.



At my work, there is sometimes music. The boy who runs the deliveries plays a fiddle

while he waits for us to finish. Sophie is a very old woman who dances to the music with

her wrinkly eyes closed. She sings “da-da-dee, da-da-dum, da-da-da-da-dee, da-dee, da-

dee” to the fiddler’s tune. Her job is to paint lettering on the labels and to glue the labels

onto the bottles.



Today when the fiddler began playing and Sophie took up her usual dancing and

dreaming, someone across the great room dropped a bottle. These are my most dreaded

moments. Instantly, my hands flew to my chest and I ran to the washroom at the far end



of the room. I felt for a broken piece, waiting for the pain of the pieces of my heart to cut

through me. The pain did not come. I felt the regular movement of the hinged chambers

and heard the almost-silent “ching, ching” of the trap-doors opening and closing. I

returned to my grapes before any pay was lost.



“Sally, are you all right?” Peter asked me after I had plucked my way through three

bunches of grapes. I nodded, without looking up at him.



“I think I should walk you home today,” he told me, sounding very resolute. He is so kind

to me.





When it was time to leave, and I had wrapped myself in my coat and my handbag was

found (I am forever losing it), Peter and I headed for the street. It had snowed while we

were inside, and the night looked brighter and somewhat yellow. I felt like apologizing

to someone for stepping on the perfect snow, but I did not know who to direct the

apology to. I decided to apologize to myself, since I was the one who felt the sadness

for the snow. I wondered for a moment if the snow felt it, if it felt the compressions and

crunch of my steps. It was made from so many tiny shards of ice, glimmering here and

there.



“What for?” Peter asked me suddenly.



“Pardon?” I asked.



“You said sorry.”



I felt embarrassed. Surely he must know all about me from my fumble. He was a clever

man, in addition to being so sweet.



“It was for the snow.” I told him this and waited nervously for his response. I knew that

the moment had come! Beside me, Peter had stopped walking.



“Sally, would you like to come to my home tonight?” He looked directly at me as he

said this and I was nodding immediately. My mind raced for an excuse, but none came

quickly enough. Peter looked pleased.



“Wonderful,” he said seriously, and we changed direction at the next street. The snow

here had already been walked on, too. I was careful to step into the footprints

that had already been pressed. Sometimes it caused me to walk ahead of Peter, and sometimes it caused me

to walk behind him.





Peter unlocked the door to his apartment and let me in first. I removed my coat and

hung it and my handbag up on one of the hooks that were available close by. I removed

my winter boots and was horrified to see my ungainly first and second toes protruding

through a tear in my brown stockings. I pulled the material over my toes and curled my

toes under to keep it in place.



“This way,” Peter said in his gentle voice. I walked behind him with my toes still curled.

In Peter’s kitchen there were two chairs and a small round table. He lives alone as well. A

rush of glee filled me to the top of my hair. He was like me somehow! I knew he would

understand.



Meanwhile, my lower abdomen had become more than irritating and my body was

making an urgent demand despite the delicate circumstances.



“Peter, may I use your washroom?” I asked, mortified that he knew I would be relieving

myself in his very own toilet, only paces from where he waited. I would run the faucet so

he would not hear the sounds of me.



“This way,” he said, pointing to one of two doors that led from the kitchen. I walked

towards it with my curled toes. In my rush to use the toilet, I forgot to run the water. Oh,

I wanted to cry. I looked at the window; maybe I could climb out IT and leave. I could

send a note to Peter and he would understand. The sight of my largest toe announcing

itself from my stocking once more reminded me that my boots were by the door, and that

outside the snow waited. I sighed, fixing my stocking again. I exited the washroom and

sat once more. Peter had made tea for us both.



“Is there something wrong with your foot?” Peter asked me. “You were hobbling.”

Again! I had foiled myself twice in as many moments. I had never known Peter to be so

intrusive. Perhaps he assumed we were on intimate terms already. I forgave him instantly.



“My foot is fine, just a habit,” I said. I sipped the tea. We sat in silence for a little while. I

studied the pattern of the table top, a fake stone finish. There were a few stains, but it was

kept very clean.



“I would like to tell you something, Sally. I would like to share a secret with you.” I

forgot the tea and looked up, nodding. Peter was looking jittery and his cheeks were

pinker than usual.



“I think it would be good to share this secret with you. It would help me very much. I

appreciate your listening.” I was rapt. Was he even aware? He must have known how

exhilarating this moment would be for me. I was certain he had planned it all out, to

surprise me in this very way by giving me just what I wanted so badly. Peter was too

good! This secret was so shameful for Peter that he daren’t tell anyone other than me,

me who was forever understanding and humane. Peter drew a breath, and I did as well

with my excitement.



“I am not who you think I am. There is much more to me than these rooms and my job,

and my walk with you home every night.” I waited, nodding, though he looked away

from me. “I have a wife and I have a child, far from here. I have not seen nor spoken to

them for many years. I left them both without a word. I send money to them regularly, so

they know I am alive. I suppose you could say there are two of me; there is the ghost, and

there is the man. I think they only share a name between them.



“I don’t know why I left; I just found myself gathering my things very early one morning

while my wife was sleeping. I went to the train station and bought a ticket and started

again. My life was new again, or it could have been new again. While I waited for my

train that morning, I remember very well standing behind a window and not seeing my

reflection. I saw it only in the moments when another person passed the glass outside,

and the picture of me appeared against their figure.” Peter let out a long breath and sat

back against his chair. I folded my purple hands together and lowered them to my lap as

he looked up.



“That’s fine, I think that’s fine Peter,” I said hurriedly. I kept nodding.



“I don’t think it is fine. But it is done, and here we are.” Peter looked very tired at this

moment. I sipped my tea. Tremendous! I could scarcely believe my own good fortune.

How wonderful he was! He regretted everything. He had to leave, that was plain. His

wife must have been an awful, loveless woman. She had to be, for a man as good as Peter

to need to leave her. The baby must have been ugly, not just its face, but its very soul.

Peter must have looked at it and seen the face of the devil himself. How could any man

be expected to rear a wicked baby?



I felt such a warmth growing in me. Peter was so dear, so true. I reached into my pocket

and withdrew a tissue, for I had begun to weep at his goodness.



“I’m sorry, Sally!” Peter exclaimed. “I know it was an awful thing to do, but I was a

fraud, I had been lying the whole time and I could not do it any longer.”



I dried my tears and dabbed my liquidy nose, taking a sip of the tea to help me to

speak. “It was not awful. It was noble. Thank you for telling me.”



Peter’s whole face softened at once. He rose from his chair and came over to me. I

pushed my curled foot right under the table. Peter took my hands and pulled me to rise

as well. I covered my exposed toe with the other foot. I was certain Peter meant to kiss

me; this was terrible, I was not prepared. I had eaten a fish sandwich for my lunch and had too much coffee

in the afternoon. I put my head to my chest. My chin touched my sternum, where my incorrect

glass heart was working ferociously. Peter put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed

them. This was the first time any man had touched me so deliberately. I was immediately

so excited, and then afraid at my own excitement. Peter touched my hair. I angled my

mouth and breath downward.



“Perhaps you could tell me a secret too,” he said kindly. “I will understand.” At this Peter

went to embrace me, as men embrace women all the time. I wanted to fall into it, despite

my own fear. I wanted to fall into it warmly and sweetly, standing there in the kitchen

like any woman might. Did Peter hold other women in this way in this kitchen often? I

purposely shifted my thoughts away. No, he did not. I could feel that Peter was warm

as he moved closer. He squeezed my shoulders again and I knew that he was stronger

around his arms than I had thought, even with his sloping shoulders and poor posture.



I stepped back. He could not do it.



I walked backwards away from him and turned for the door. I was gasping for air. I

shoved my feet into my boots and put my coat on and took my handbag.



“Good-bye!” I called. “Thank you, Peter!” I was stumbling the down the street, and even

now I am walking to my home for the first time in winter without Peter accompanying

me. I am so pleased with tonight, and with my heroic encounter with Peter. I know we

understand one another. He is such a good man. I am so fortunate to have been able to let

him see himself against the glass of my heart.