Mrs. Dickinson

Mrs. Dickinson sat on the purple velvet cushion of the small walnut stool that matched perfectly her walnut vanity. She rested her hands on her thighs. Starting from the left, she ran her eyes over her Sterling silver Black, Starr & Frost hair brushes, each arranged at 45 degree angles as they rested on the matching mirrored tray. She noticed an errant blonde hair snagged inside the brush. Using two scarlet nails, she pulled it free from the boar's hair, and released it into a waste basket filled with lipstick stained tissues. Next to the hairbrushes were two pots of Issima powder; she leaned forward and blew the excess off of the table where it will eventually become part of the beige carpeting. Some of the powder dusted the two crystal doves crowning the top of the bottle of L'Air du Temps; she picked it up, brought it to her lips, and blew again. She replaced it next to the two gold tubes of Guerlain lipsticks, number 200 Rose Flamenco and number 14 Rose Profond, next to the stick of number 10 Divinora mascara, to the Boume Vert Mètèorites compact, and to the small Cristal d'Arques glass containing twelve sable hair make up brushes. She took off what she called her "make up glasses" and rested them on a lace doily to her right. She sat upright, stiffly, and looked at her reflection. The late afternoon light illuminated the left side of her face; she tilted her head until the light divided it into two perfectly symmetrical pieces. She smoothed her hair with her left hand, then with both fluffed her bob. She raised her jaw, then her eyebrows, testing various states of delight to show Robert when he came home.

She stood and walked over to the white damask chaise. She sat down, and with a flourish of her hand brought the skirt of her burgundy dress to cover the threadbare spots. Removing her boudoir slippers, she rested her feet on the soft Persian rug, massaged the tassels with her nyloned toes, and planned what she was going to tell Robert. He needs to know, she thought, about Robert Junior's recent achievements at work, and how well liked he is by his friends and respected by his colleagues. He should know as well how Margaret telephoned, and with joy announced that she and Wayne have decided to have another baby. This will lead to deciding what she and Robert will need to buy for the new baby's arrival, and when they will make the trip to Richmond to visit. And he mustn't make any excuses why they can't go, like all the other times before. Margaret will soon no longer forgive them for not seeing their new grandchildren. They will probably need to send them some more money, she thinks; perhaps another ten thousand. And they will need a new car for the journey; the DeSoto is getting old and will need to be replaced. Maybe a car in blue. She has always wanted a blue car, a midnight blue, not a light or a medium blue, but definitely a midnight blue. Or maybe yellow, like the Impala they first had when they were married. And the closet door needs oiling, and two drawers in the kitchen are sticking. And what Mrs. Allen said to her in the back yard one day about her roses.

She notices the Seth Thomas grandfather clock near the walnut armoire. She can only see its shape, but knows it must be 4:30; at 4:38 Robert will be walking in the front door. She raises her feet, moves them to her left, and slides on her Roger Vivier stilettos from Dior. The clock strikes the half hour and she rises, stands in front of the mirror, smoothes down her dress, and retouches her hair. She walks into the foyer, turns on the light, and feels the light from the chandelier lighting her face as she stands at the top of the stair, waiting for Robert.

Outside, the mail man is next door, at 421 East Oak. After delivering the mail to Mrs. Allen, he turns at the pathway to 423-the Dickinson house. He pauses to look at it. It was once grand, he thinks, with its incessant declarations of self importance. Its stone faÆade looms heavily, with fragments of stained glass organized into a rose window above the front door. Ivy crawls into the eaves and obscures the second story. The balustrade leans to the right as the ground settles beneath it. The rose window suddenly illuminates, and he wonders if the burned out light bulbs in the hallway chandelier have been replaced yet. He mounts six steps and rings the bell. Counting two beats, he announces, "Mail man, Mrs. Dickinson." During that pause he knows she says, "Who is it?" but her voice no longer carries through the house.

Slowly the latch confirms status and the door opens, and through the aperture four scarlet nails wrap around the oak door. Layers of red polish are crusted down a central strip on each nail, the nail beds clear. The fingers tremble slightly. After an effort, the door opens half way. The heavily powdered face of Mrs. Dickinson appears, rising above the same ill fitting burgundy gown. As usual, it is worn slightly askew, the edges of the d¹colletage are frayed; its excess drape gathers loosely on her body. He looks up beyond her and sees another light bulb has burned out.
        "Afternoon, Mrs. Dickinson. I've brought the mail"
        "Oh-oh yes, well, thank you Randy. I apologize for my appearance; I thought you were my husband. He's due home anytime now."
        "I know Mrs. Dickinson."
        "Well, thank you then." She begins to close the door. Randy hesitates, then offers:
        "Uh, Mrs. Dickinson-would you like me to stop by one day to change those bulbs?"
        "Oh, no need for that, Randy; I will ask Mr. Dickinson to do it." "Sure thing, Mrs. D."
        "Good bye."

Mrs. Dickinson returns inside, aligns the letters on the credenza, and sits quietly on a chair. She listens to the front door, hoping for a Florschiem inspired footfall on the steps, the jingle of a key chain; the scrape of a key. Randy continues to 425 East Oak, then all the way to 687 Oak. At 5:27, he will return home, where his wife will ask him how his day was, and about the Widow Dickinson.