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Under the Sun Cynthia Oi |
Improbable friends
sweeten a ChristmasFRANCES and Rachel were the most unlikely of friends. Dark-haired and dusky-skinned, skinny Rachel was all edges and sharp angles. Bony elbows protruded from the sleeves of her usual outfit of a red-and-white stripped T-shirt and equally bony knees jutted from beneath a studded denim miniskirt that Frances invariably remarked was inappropriate for "ladies" their age.
Whereupon Rachel would counter that the roly-poly Frances was "full of it," leaving unsaid one of the many words that would send Frances into a tizzy about proper feminine behavior and civilities fast being lost in the early 1970s.
I met Frances first. I'd awakened one winter morning, puzzled by an eerie, muffled atmosphere. Apprehension quickly dissolved when I saw the shroud of whiteness covering everything. I ran outside clad only in my jammies, the excitement of seeing snow for the first time warming my bare feet.
Frances was freaked. She'd spied me gamboling in the snow in front of the apartment house, pried open the window of her first-floor studio and yelled at me to get back inside. I don't remember her exact words, but she was horrified that I was romping around in full daylight wearing only nightclothes.
Frances was like that. Her sensibilities were from another era, as evidenced by our second encounter.
A couple of friends were visiting and got into a contest to see who could walk furthest on their hands. One of them was complaining that his sleeves were restricting his movement when the door bell rang. Just as I opened the door, he whipped off his shirt and flipped on his hands. Frances, who had come up to complain about all the thumping on her ceiling, was startled and yelped. My friend, startled by her squeals, toppled right into her, knocking her on her back.
Her loose-fitting blouse billowed over her head, revealing an expanse of plump belly and bra. Her alabaster complexion bloomed red from embarrassment and exertion as she struggled to regain her feet and composure. Mortified, she hurried away, clutching at the shirt that had defied her modesty.
The next morning, I went downstairs to apologize. She was tugging on a pair of gloves in preparation for going to Mass, but innate politeness dictated that she accept my mumbled expressions of regret and invite me to sit until her ride came. A tidy hat with a wisp of veil nestled in soft curls over a chubby face. Her floral-print dress was as immaculate as her tiny home, her blue eyes as clear as the crystal vases lined up on a shelf.
A squawking voice in the hallway broke my scrutiny. Rachel blew through the door, eyeing me like prey after learning I was the one who had upset her friend. But she had no time to scold me; she had to drive Frances to church.
Later, I would learn the odd habits of the two women. Frances had a car, but was afraid to drive in the winter so Rachel would chauffeur her to church, wait bundled up against the cold until the service was over, then ferry her back home. Rachel's own ride had been a motorcycle until her boyfriend Benny disappeared with it a few years back. Frances pretended that Benny was just "away" so as not to dredge up Rachel's misery and would plead need to go grocery shopping or on other errands so that Rachel could use the car, too.
Frances' husband had divorced her, but as a Catholic, she refused to acknowledge the end of the marriage. She still wore her wedding band and Rachel said nothing when Frances spoke of her husband as if he remained part of her life.
Frances, in contraction of her matrimonial denial, had not put up a Christmas tree since the divorce because she felt she no longer had a family. Rachel, who was Jewish, had never had the holiday tradition. But on that snowy day while Frances was at Mass, Rachel hunted up a small fir and enlisted me to help decorate it as penance. Frances was so pleased, she baked cupcakes she hadn't made in years, whipping up a mess of frosting so sweet it made your teeth and heart ache in celebration.
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Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976. She can be reached at: coi@starbulletin.com.