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Chapter Eight
Gina
Ican’t stop thinking about the ad. It's like a burr in my brain, or a familiar scent you can’t quite place but know you’ve smelled before. All that to say, the more I think about the ad, the more my curiosity gets the better of me.
Within days of my argument with Daddy, responses start rolling in. Men from all over the country, from all walks of life, are interested in getting to know me. First, the letters come, and then the phone starts ringing. From dawn to dusk, it hardly stops.
I am overwhelmed with the attention and don’t know what to do. My father is thrilled, of course. He reads through each letter and then hands them off to me with a flourish, as though he’s just presented me with a gift. “These are your options, princess,” he says. “You can choose any one of these men and you'll be set for life.”
I look through the letters, not sure what to think. They are all so different. Some are funny, some serious; some talk about themselves endlessly, while others barely say anything at all. I respond to a few. Then a dozen by the end of the week. But I don’t know how to choose between them.What do I really want in a husband?
Nothing, really. Curious or not, I can’t bring myself to think about what life will look like after “I do.”
Truth is, I don’t want to be married. God, the responsibility. Just thinking about everything it entails makes me dizzy. I don’t know what choice I have, but marriage never felt like something that suited me. I watched Mama all those years, slaving away, setting aside her own wants and needs for the rest of us. And she and Daddy had a good marriage. The best you can hope for, in my opinion.
I’ve never wanted even that.Have I?
What I want is to be an actress. I want to go to Hollywood. Sure, it won’t be easy. But I can still see how far I get. Now, that’s an adventure. When I tell my father this, he calls it a pipe dream, not rooted in reality. He says it’s important to know one’s lot in life. And my lot is not in Hollywood. He asks why I can’t be “normal,” why I can’t just want the same things other women my age want. To settle down with a nice house and a family.
He means well, I suppose.
“Did you always know you wanted to be married?” I ask Leonard as we’re restocking the shelves.
He looks at me like I’ve just spoken to him in a foreign language. I realize what he’s thinking is “what kind of question is that,” but he’s too polite to say so out loud. I should have known better than to ask him. He has white hair and a hundred years on me, but maybe it’s just because I hate his wife and I want to rub it in.
“Oh, yes. The moment I laid eyes on Martha, I knew. She was the one.”
My bottom lip juts out. She must have looked really different back then.
“I don’t think I ever want to get married.”
He looks over at me and smiles. He’s thinking about how young and stupid I am—about how different the youth is these days. He’s too nice to say it, but he thinks I’ve lost my way, and maybe I have. “You’ll change your mind.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I doubt you want to work in this drugstore for the rest of your life.”
“At least I get paid.”
Leonard chuckles in his innocent way, and it reminds me how much I like him. “You just haven’t met the right young man yet. But you will. Mark my words. You will.”
Later, I’m looking for something in the supply closet when I overhear Leonard and Martha whispering in the office. I can tell without hearing exactly what is being said that they’re talking about me. I lean close and press my ear to the wall.
“You need to fire her, Lenny,” Martha says, her voice like ice. “She’s bad for business.”
I imagine Martha, sitting in her chair with her arms crossed, watching her “programs” on the small television he keeps in the office. She’s too lazy to do much of anything else. God forbid she lift a finger around the store.
“She knows the customers,” he pleads.
“She’s rude. You know how I feel about her—how we feel about that whole family. No wonder her brother made a beeline out of town just as fast as he could. Can you imagine?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, dear. I don’t think—”
“Just get rid of her. Then we can quit talking about this.”
I can tell that the soap opera is back from the commercial break by how quiet the room gets. The only sound is the gentle hum of the TV. “You know I can’t do that,” he says. “She knows what the customers want, usually before they do. We easily double sales on the days she’s here.”
“You’re always saying how special she is,” she says, her words dripping with venom. “Maybe you’re in love with her.”
