loss. Looking at first surprised, then admonished, he wandered out of the room.
Penny had had a dentist appointment the day it had happened. Afterward she’d walked over to Wishner’s Upholstery Shop, where her sister Diane worked summers as a receptionist. Diane was to drive her home.
When Penny arrived at the shop, it was deserted. Diane had been sent to run an errand. Wish was at Camp Chesapeake where he still went in the summer, although now as a counselor-in-training. Wish’s father, Murray, was out giving an estimate. The others were delivering a living-room couch. No one was around except a laborer who worked on the furniture. The man came into the receptionist’s area and asked Penny if she needed help. She said she was waiting for Diane. He closed the door behind them. He did things Penny never confided. Later, we were told that Murray arrived just in time to stop whatever was happening, but he could not stop Penny’s screaming. Nor did Penny calm down when her sister Diane returned and tried to soothe her. Murray and Diane loaded a hysterical Penny into Murray’s car and drove her home.
For a week, Penny wouldn’t let anyone into her room. Murray fired the offender, but no one pressed charges because Penny would not speak of the event, even to her parents. She wouldn’t talk to Marilyn or me at all. She became so withdrawn that finally the family sent her to New York to stay with her grandmother, hoping she would revive.
For nearly a year, Marilyn and I learned nothing more. When Wish returned from camp before school started, we pressed for details his father might have revealed about the incident, but he knew no more than we did. We sent Penny letters, but she didn’t answer. Her sister Diane was back at college. Her sister Charlene would say only that Penny was okay. She was going to a school within sight of her grandmother’s building. She was fine.
I wasn’t reassured. There was a meanness in brick and concrete, I believed. I had seen it the year before when my family had visited New York: the tall buildings that closed off the sky, the stench and sound of traffic, the dearth of trees. Humans were not meant to be confined within the bounds of masonry. I knew Penny would come back changed.
And she did. When Penny returned to Washington the summer before we started tenth grade at Coolidge High School, she was someone else. She had become beautiful, but it was not only that. Her skinny body had taken on delicate curves; she had developed small, hard breasts. The fullness had fallen away from her face, leaving her with high cheekbones that set off her aquiline nose and accentuated slanted blue eyes framed by long, long eyelashes. No one had noticed her lashes before because they were such a pale red, but now, coated with mascara, they were elegant, lush. Penny still had freckles, but they didn’t matter anymore except to Penny herself. And her hair! No longer carroty, it had grown darker and richer, a perfect Crayola auburn. A stylist had tamed its wildness into a shimmering, shoulder-length corona.
At her grandmother’s urging, Penny had even been fitted with a pair of contact lenses. These were the first contacts Marilyn and I had seen, hard pieces of plastic that covered her whole eye. When Penny looked to the side, the outline of the lens was visible, signaling to us that such a large foreign object in the eye must be a torture device. Penny said she didn’t care; the lenses didn’t hurt and even if they did, she’d wear them anyway. She would do anything to be able to see.
Strange, how easily Marilyn and I were dissuaded from asking what had happened at the upholstery shop. “You can tell us,” we whispered when she first returned to town. But after Penny’s eyes misted with tears and she shook her head because she couldn’t speak, we changed the subject. Maybe we were put off by the changes in her. Maybe we really didn’t want know—not yet, not then. And later Penny seemed too
Penny had had a dentist appointment the day it had happened. Afterward she’d walked over to Wishner’s Upholstery Shop, where her sister Diane worked summers as a receptionist. Diane was to drive her home.
When Penny arrived at the shop, it was deserted. Diane had been sent to run an errand. Wish was at Camp Chesapeake where he still went in the summer, although now as a counselor-in-training. Wish’s father, Murray, was out giving an estimate. The others were delivering a living-room couch. No one was around except a laborer who worked on the furniture. The man came into the receptionist’s area and asked Penny if she needed help. She said she was waiting for Diane. He closed the door behind them. He did things Penny never confided. Later, we were told that Murray arrived just in time to stop whatever was happening, but he could not stop Penny’s screaming. Nor did Penny calm down when her sister Diane returned and tried to soothe her. Murray and Diane loaded a hysterical Penny into Murray’s car and drove her home.
For a week, Penny wouldn’t let anyone into her room. Murray fired the offender, but no one pressed charges because Penny would not speak of the event, even to her parents. She wouldn’t talk to Marilyn or me at all. She became so withdrawn that finally the family sent her to New York to stay with her grandmother, hoping she would revive.
For nearly a year, Marilyn and I learned nothing more. When Wish returned from camp before school started, we pressed for details his father might have revealed about the incident, but he knew no more than we did. We sent Penny letters, but she didn’t answer. Her sister Diane was back at college. Her sister Charlene would say only that Penny was okay. She was going to a school within sight of her grandmother’s building. She was fine.
I wasn’t reassured. There was a meanness in brick and concrete, I believed. I had seen it the year before when my family had visited New York: the tall buildings that closed off the sky, the stench and sound of traffic, the dearth of trees. Humans were not meant to be confined within the bounds of masonry. I knew Penny would come back changed.
And she did. When Penny returned to Washington the summer before we started tenth grade at Coolidge High School, she was someone else. She had become beautiful, but it was not only that. Her skinny body had taken on delicate curves; she had developed small, hard breasts. The fullness had fallen away from her face, leaving her with high cheekbones that set off her aquiline nose and accentuated slanted blue eyes framed by long, long eyelashes. No one had noticed her lashes before because they were such a pale red, but now, coated with mascara, they were elegant, lush. Penny still had freckles, but they didn’t matter anymore except to Penny herself. And her hair! No longer carroty, it had grown darker and richer, a perfect Crayola auburn. A stylist had tamed its wildness into a shimmering, shoulder-length corona.
At her grandmother’s urging, Penny had even been fitted with a pair of contact lenses. These were the first contacts Marilyn and I had seen, hard pieces of plastic that covered her whole eye. When Penny looked to the side, the outline of the lens was visible, signaling to us that such a large foreign object in the eye must be a torture device. Penny said she didn’t care; the lenses didn’t hurt and even if they did, she’d wear them anyway. She would do anything to be able to see.
Strange, how easily Marilyn and I were dissuaded from asking what had happened at the upholstery shop. “You can tell us,” we whispered when she first returned to town. But after Penny’s eyes misted with tears and she shook her head because she couldn’t speak, we changed the subject. Maybe we were put off by the changes in her. Maybe we really didn’t want know—not yet, not then. And later Penny seemed too
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