A Short Story by Pamela Eason
Photo by Maegan Tintari
By the early 1960’s, the southern wooden shacks that dotted winding country roads were leaning sideways from age. When the cracks between their vertical planks let in enough rain and wind and sun to make their residents miserable enough, rectangular homes constructed with red-bricks and white mortar, courtesy of the government’s FHA loans, begin popping up. LEGO’s red and white plastic bricks were patented about the same time. Ella Jane thought the almost simultaneous appearance of both was not a coincidence.
Ella Jane stood on the porch of one such house, a sad, narrow little thing, a far cry from Mrs. Millie Renfro’s. She’d just left that one – a wide, shaded, wrap-around infused by the sweet jasmine fragrance of the camellia bushes that bordered it. Pots of thick flowing ferns, six sky-blue rocking chairs, three laced-iron side tables, and one swing dotted it.
Her right shoulder ached from the drag of the heavy Avon case. She checked her Timex. 3:10. Maybe best if Jillian didn’t come to the door. Ella Jane never knew what state of mind she’d find her in.
She’d stayed too long on the farmhouse porch anyway, chit-chatting with Mrs. Millie, condensation making rivers down her cold iced-tea glass, spotting her blue-pleated skirt.
Mrs. Millie, out in the yard, arms loaded with a pan of okra and orange and red zinnias when Ella Jane pulled up, wheels crunching against the little gravel drive.
“Let me put this on the table and we’ll have a sit-down on the rockers and see what you’ve got for me,” Mrs. Millie said and returned with two emerald glasses filled with iced tea. She usually added something to her order for her granddaughter, Mary Beth, sixteen now, living way up there in Saluda, North Carolina. “I rarely see her anymore,” she’d said, staring across the corn field, eyes vacant for a second or two.
Ella Jane had suggested the Empress Deluxe Compact and Lipstick in petal pink. “She will absolutely love it,” Ella Jane promised with the exclamation of her Ooh La Peach smile, half of which clung to the rim of Mrs. Millie’s tea glass.
Heavy, forest-green curtains covered the two big picture windows on each side of Jillian’s door – two shut eyes. When Ella Jane pulled her ignition key, the corner of the one to her right drew back.
She might not answer. Ella Jane checked her Timex. 3:11. Jillian’s three girls would be heading home on the school-bus right about now.
Children. “The Avon Lady,” they’d say, gleefully, pointing out Ella Jane to their mothers at the grocery store, the drug store, Charlie’s Café, the Five & Dime. Ella Jane would smile, give a little wave of acknowledgement. The mothers forced a return smile, nodded.
It was that dang commercial – “Ding-dong. Avon calling.” Two years ago, she’d dreamed of college, trips to places she’d never been, but then there was Harry, the hometown boy who kept pursuing her. She given in. Now this. At least she had her own business. And what she sold made people happy – at least for a moment at least. Had she pushed the little white doorbell? Yes.
3:14. She’d need to be home by 4:30 to change and get the promised Chicken Tetrazzini going. Her specialty. A favorite of Harry’s and the three couples – the Friday night card club.
Ella Jane took in the length of the brick wall facing her. How could a prayer get through? She thought of St. Augustine, her honeymoon, the walls of Castillo de San Marcos. Built almost three-hundred years ago with tiny fragile shells, pink, yellow, lavender, of dead clams – a fortress standing against enemies and Atlantic storms.
Whew! It was stifling. The window unit hummed, dripping cold water onto a gray concrete pad. Inside, dark, oak-paneled walls trapped the cool air. 3:15. Ella Jane turned slightly towards her car.
The door lock rattled. She turned back, straightened her shoulders, waited. Jillian’s eyes were puffy – crying again. She’ll keep it all bottled up – won’t trust me with it. They sat on a stiff, gold, brocade sofa. The light from the two matching lamps fought the depression, hanging heavy like the drapes. Why hadn’t she left before Jullian opened the door? What could she do now?
Ella Jane pulled the little Avon book from her bag, pretended not to notice. “They’ve added some shimmer to their line this month. Sparkling blush, pearlescent polish, silvery shadows, lip gloss, and sparkling blush – shimmers in the light.”
The forced smile. The nod. Jillian turned the page. Nail enamels. Jillian spread her left hand, folded her calloused fingers back into her palm. Gardening? Canning?
“The pearl nail polish is all the rage now. It’s on sale. 75 cents this month. The Deep Sea Coral would look lovely with your skin tone,” Ella Jane said, pulling a bottle from her bag. “Shines like a pearl in the light.”
Jillian took it, turned the bottle in the lamp light. “It’s lovely,” she said, handed it back, flipped to the eye shadows. Jillian’s eyes fell on the Eye Shadow Wand, little clear tubes of grey, pink, green, blue, and brown powder stacked together.
“It’s new. I have a sample, if you’d like to see.”
“It’s okay,” Jillian said and flipped slowly past pages of jars and tins filled with cream foundation, face powder, liquid rouge. Past the amber, pink, and blue bottles filled with cologne and perfumes, bears and eagles for men, owls, kittens, birds, lambs for women.
The cool air clung to the moisture on Ella Jane’s skin. She pulled at her damp blouse. What time was it? It would be rude to check. She was getting a chill. The school-bus brakes screeched at the end of the long drive.
“I’ll get the girls a bottle of the Pinky-Dink polish,” Jillian said quickly, her face growing taunt. The girls would want to look and then there’d be the begging for this or that. Money was tight.
Ella Jane, reached for her receipt pad, wrote the order, and handed Jillian the carbon copy. She latched her bag and stood. “Jillian,” she almost said in her most compassionate voice. How she’d love to give Jillian a hug, offer her something more. They were at the door.
“Thank you! I’ll see you next month then with the Pinky Dink for the girls.”
She was back on the porch. “The Avon Lady,” she heard the youngest girl shout, bounding down the driveway, Barbie lunchbox rattling.
“Hello girls.” Ella Jane waved. She walked down the three brick stairs, got in her car, turned the key, pulled onto the road. A trickle of tears, muddled with Clear Blue eye shadow and Smoke Gray mascara, choked her prayer and made little furrows down her Sparkling Peach cheeks.
