It didn’t matter that they could not identify what it was exactly that turned them off to me. Whatever it was, they would instinctively feel that it was something born out of a netherworld, some grotesque swamp crawling with repulsive creatures, some so loathsome that they weren’t even imagined in nightmares. My terrible fear was that they would sense all of this, and I would soon be on my way again, fleeing, searching for that impossible place that would enable me to deny my second self and let me become ordinary.
I couldn’t help wondering, maybe wishing it, if such a hopeful dream existed for my sisters, too, if during some free moment when they were alone, they permitted themselves to admit to the same longing. For them, however, the moment they opened that door, the terror and guilt came rushing in behind their fantasy, ripping and tearing it apart, growling and roaring until they cowered and chastised themselves for having even a moment like mine. It occurred to me that they might be pursuing me not out of anger but out of jealousy. I had gone farther away than any of them had. They couldn’t tolerate the fact that there was one of us who could escape, because that reinforced and drove home their own failure. And for me, at least right now, their own doom.
I would not succumb.
I would not surrender.
I would not turn back.
Daddy would turn back. In the end, he would reluctantly decide to let me go. He would be touched by mercy and also by the love he once held so strongly for me. Maybe it was the last trace of humanity at work in him, some part of his early existence that had lingered. At least, that was my prayer.
I turned to my small suitcase and unpacked my things. The very act of settling into another room in another house felt like another big step in my emancipation. I decided to take a shower and change into fresh clothes. While I was dressing, there was a knock on my door.
“Yes?”
“When you are ready to come down, let me know,” Mrs. Winston said through the closed door. “My nephew just called back. He would like to interview you this afternoon. He’ll send a car around for you.”
“Really?” I opened the door, even though I was still in my bra and panties. I saw that wasn’t something Mrs. Winston easily accepted. Her eyes widened, and she looked away.
“You have to be more discreet, dear. Anyone could have been in the hallway,” she said, still not looking directly at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just so excited with the news.” I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself quickly.
“Yes, well, all young people today have trouble harnessing their horses,” she said.
“It’s the first time I’ve been outside of my own home. It does take some getting used to, I imagine.”
“Yes, it does,” she said, with a little more understanding and forgiveness in her tone. “Put on something nice but not something that’s . . . that’s . . . what’s the word they use today, obvious? I’m sure you know what I mean. Shall I call him and tell him you’ll be ready in ten minutes?”
“Yes, thank you so much, Mrs. Winston.”
“Amelia,” she said.
“Amelia.” I smiled and closed the door.
Could all of this happen for me so quickly? Was there some good angel looking out for me after all?
I went into a small panic. This was no time to make any mistakes, but I had only two outfits from which to choose. One was a skirt and blouse, and the other was a pair of designer jeans and a blouse. Which was more conservative? The skirt’s hem was about two inches below my knees. Was that too “obvious”?
I decided not to risk it and settled on the pants outfit. I pinned up my hair quickly. I rarely needed more makeup than a little brush of lipstick. Any more than that might ring some alarm bells. After one more look at myself, I hurried out and down the stairs, to where both Mrs. Winston and Mrs. McGruder waited to inspect me.
“I don’t have very much with me,” I said, nearly moaning when I didn’t hear either offer some approval.
“With her looks and figure, you can’t do much more to be subtle, anyway,” Mrs. McGruder said.
Mrs. Winston nodded. “That’s fine. For now,” she added. “If you should get the job, you’ll need to buy some appropriate dresses, however. Ken has a number of young men working for him.” She made them sound like a disease.
“Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”
We heard a car horn. Actually, it was a pickup truck that had pulled into the driveway. Mrs. Winston opened the door so quickly and roughly I thought she might rip it off its hinges.
“There’s no need to wake the dead!” she cried at the slightly balding man in a khaki shirt sitting behind the steering wheel.
“Sorry, Mrs. Winston,” he called back.
“That’s Michael Thomas. He’s been with Ken a long time,” Mrs. Winston said. “Married to a woman nearly fifteen years younger,” she added, with disapproval leaking out of the sides of her mouth. “They have four children now. She’s a practicing Catholic.”
How small was this city? I wondered. How long would it be before they knew some of the real details of my life? I smiled at the women and headed for the truck.