Arlene
Sanders
CHERRIES IN THE SNOW
She was a woman of a certain age. A woman who wanted a man, but for whom romance was like a foreign country she had not visited in some time. And now this man had asked her out, and she was slightly aflutter.
He would come to her apartment—she lived alone—at eight this evening, and they would have dinner at Chez André and then see an old film at the Circle, possibly Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, with English subtitles.
“Good evening, my dear, you look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you, Ted. Come in. I’ll get my coat.”
When he slipped the coat around her shoulders, she felt his fingers brush lightly across the back of her neck, a pleasant sensation, remembered from the distant past.
“I’ll get my pocketbook,” she murmured.
In the mirror over the dresser in her bedroom, she stared at her face. Some of the silvering had worn off the mirror, and soft, dark streaks slanting across the glass gave her image the aspect of a cameo, delicate, but distinctly antique.
She had let her hair turn gray, having decided that bottle-black was not for her. But “natural” looked old, and sometimes she longed for the raven curls and rosy cheeks of her youth, bottled or not. Now her hair was silvery gray, softly waved, chic.
The reflection in the mirror smiled back at her. Her lipstick was the same perfect shade of red—Revlon’s “Cherries in the Snow”—she had worn in high school. Still a pretty woman, she thought. She decided that she had aged gracefully, without the help of dyes and paints, and she was proud of her slim figure.
Tonight her cheeks were rosy. Whether this was because Ted had brushed his fingers across the nape of her neck, or because Wilkins had let himself be remembered at this moment, she could not be certain.
She’d met Ted at a church bazaar she had helped organize in her “natural” state, however, and thought that changing the color of her hair now, after he had asked her out—an event she considered roughly akin to that of the Second Coming—might be a bit unsettling for him.
The maître d’ adjusted his starched white cuffs, which had ridden up his beefy arms half an inch or so. He smelled of Eternity and cigars. Jim Wilkins had worn Old Spice, borrowed from his father, thirty years ago. Ted smelled of soap.
Tonight she wore Arpège, which made her feel alluring, like Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. The old perfume commercials had been provocative: “Promise her anything, but give her Arpège. Arpège—by Lanvin.” This in impossibly sultry tones.
She would not speak with the waiter in French, nor would she order anything weird, such as squid. Certainly nothing that would be strong on her breath, like garlic, because what if . . . ? She hadn’t been kissed in thirty years. Not since Jim Wilkins.
Wilkins had vaulted over her porch rail, tossed red roses on the swing, wrapped his arms about her slim waist, and kissed her with the passion of a horny eighteen-year-old, and the date not yet begun. Mussed and breathless, she had pricked her fingers on sharp thorns when she gathered his flowers and fanned them into her mother’s Roseville vase, and in her excitement, hadn’t noticed specks of blood on her lace cuffs or on the ribbed neck band of Jimmy’s sweat shirt. They had skipped dinner, skipped the movie, and driven directly to Hains Point to neck in the back seat of his old jalopy.
He spoke, Ted did, of columns of figures on ledgers, in which he made entries for sales of wrenches, claw hammers, and roofing nails at Corrigan’s Hardware in Delft Bay. His store was flanked by Delmosey’s Stationery and the Florence Crittenden Thrift Shop, which supported homes for unwed mothers, and she wondered if frayed, sequined gowns on elegant mannequins, decades old and posing impassively in the window, reminded him of her.
“How old are you, Winifred?” he asked.
She felt as if he had struck her with one of Corrigan’s claw hammers. The date was over. She’d finish her dinner, beg off the movie on the pretext of a headache, go back to her apartment, toss the pretty negligée she had bought that week, and put on her flannel granny gown.
“Excuse me?” she said. She had decided to tell him the truth if it came to that, but she couldn’t believe he would ask. Nor could she fathom the rage that roiled within her in response to his rude question. She could not remember the last time she had been this angry.
How could a man be so insensitive as to ask a woman how old she was, not ten minutes into their first date? She would have preferred that he pick up his glass of Chardonnay and fling the wine in her face.
She should gather up her coat and pocketbook, toss her silk scarf around her neck, and simply walk out of Chez André. Teach him a lesson.
She ordered escargots—snails simmered in garlic sauce—and glanced at her colorless nail polish and ringless fingers. Ted adjusted his glasses and studied the menu. His hands were clean, his nails manicured the way she thought a man’s hands ought to be.
“What’s this?” he asked, turning the menu and pointing to Boeuf Bourguignon.
“Beef stew,” she said, “with Burgundy wine in it.”
“That’s what I want,” he said.
She didn’t even wonder what it would be like in bed with him. This date was over.
By now she preferred to lie in bed alone and dream of Jimmy, and how it had been with him thirty years ago. There was so much to remember. The joyous, rough feel of his hands on her body. The silly things he’d said to her, and that she had believed, because they were true. The way he couldn’t wait. She had always thought of Jimmy Wilkins as belonging to the Old West, a rough-riding cowboy, her Marlboro Man. He belonged to harsh prairies, rowdy saloons, campfires. Leather chaps, a gun in his holster, his beautiful Winifred at his side. He belonged with men who roped steers, herded cattle, settled their differences with pistols, made passionate love to their women, galloped off with them into flaming, magnificent sunsets. She had never been with any other man.
“I’m fifty-seven,” said Ted.
“Please. I didn’t ask you that,” she said, realizing there was a subtle edge to her voice.
He looked up from the menu. “You were offended that I asked?”
What difference did it make? The date was over. Might as well tell him the truth.
“Yes,” she said.
“Really?”
She hated that word: “really.” People who said “really” might as well wear a flashing neon sign: “I’m illiterate, incommunicado, and a pig!”
“Why were you offended?” Ted asked.
What a stupid question. Or maybe it was a hostile one. No, it was both.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She curved her lips—one of her best features, she knew—into
a smile.
“Of course it matters,” he contradicted her.
He had hurt her feelings, and now he seemed annoyed that her feelings had been hurt.
Now was the time for her to walk out the door.
“You have a nice smile,” he said.
She decided to hate him. And she would seek revenge, too. Poison his food.
“I like older women,” he went on.
Cleave his skull with a sharp axe.
“And pretty hair, too. I like gray hair. It’s natural.”
Dump his body in the ocean.
“Ted.”
“Yes?”
“Are you looking for a grandmother? Is that why you asked me out?”
“What?”
The Medal of honor is the highest one the Government of the United States awards. Only 245 men got Medals of Honor for combat citations during the War in Vietnam, and Second Lieutenant James Wendell Wilkins was one of them. He was a brave soldier, the only man she had ever wanted, the only man there would ever be for her. Even now.
Ted told her his wife had died two years ago, and friends had urged him to meet someone new.
“I decided to leave Richmond,” he said. “There were just too many memories.”
“Why did you choose Culpeper?” she asked.
“Beautiful mountains. Nice people. I like being in the country. Molly and I always planned to retire to the country.
“Tell me about her,” she said.
“I loved her.” And then he took off his glasses, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
“I’m sorry.” Winifred nearly laid her hand on his. “Ted, it’s too soon for you.”
“It’s been two years,” he said. “My friends thought—”
“Never mind what your friends thought. You’re not ready to meet anyone.”
“Well, when?” Now he seemed like a small child, lost.
“Maybe not for a long time,” she said. She decided not to say maybe never.
She brought her hand to her forehead and sighed.
“You’re not feeling well?” he asked.
“I have a headache,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Let me take you home. We can see a movie another time.”
“Thank you,” she said.
At the door of her apartment, she pulled out her key and quickly let herself inside.
“Thank you, Ted. I enjoyed the dinner.”
“Well, goodnight, Winifred. I hope you feel better tomorrow.”
She did think, at the time, that “killed in action” was better than “missing in action”—better for both the soldier and his loved ones. Because that way, you knew. When his mother had knocked on her door, face taut, expressionless, Winifred had tried to be brave. As brave as he would have wanted her to be.
She unzipped her teal jersey sheath and let it drop to the floor. Took off her silk slip, her bra, her lace panties. Stood squarely in front of the floor-length mirror and studied herself for a long moment. Tears welled up, but she dabbed them away with a tissue. Then she slipped naked between clean, fresh, lavender-talcumed sheets.
“Jimmy,” she whispered, “Are you there?”
Strong, suntanned arms embraced her. An eager, young mouth found her lips and began a deep, passionate kiss. His muscle-hard body covered hers, found its way inside her, demanded her all, gave his all in return. She was young, yielding, moist. Her body firm, like cherries just ripened. Her wedding gown would be white silk and lace, with tiny seed pearls. Laurel leaves in her hair. He was everything she wanted. Their nights together, their flaming sunsets, would last forever. She was happy, blessed, fulfilled. This was enough. It was almost too much happiness to bear.
Arlene Sanders is an Appalachian Mountain writer, born and raised in the South. Her work has received awards in contests sponsored by GLIMMER TRAIN, Lorian Hemingway, and E. M. Koeppel. She has stories published or forthcoming in the ICONOCLAST, SANSKRIT, EDGAR LITERARY MAGAZINE, MINDPRINTS, PINDELDYBOZ, NEW WORKS REVIEW, WILLARD & MAPLE, TERTULIA, WRITERS POST JOURNAL, SOUND AND LITERARY ART BOOK, SLOW TRAINS, and other literary magazines. Sanders has completed two story collections and is working on her first novel. Write to her at ArleneSanders@dellmail.com and see more of her work at www.ArleneSanders.com.
