Part 26 (1/2)

DURING THE BREAK, Annie came up to Henry. Her crossed arms belted the teacher's cardigan, and one collar flapped gently over the other, curled like the outer edge of a sh.e.l.l. She had come to see his latest sketch, and he obliged her by drawing on a polka-dot dress and putting her up on roller skates.

But despite the prospect of lording it over Chris, Henry found that he had little desire to ask Annie to come home with him after cla.s.s. He did not understand why-though he had looked forward to seeing her all week-he now didn't want her with him, why the very sweetness and softness he had enjoyed seemed suddenly unalluring. Instead, after cla.s.s, Henry shuffled out with the other artists, then walked over to the diner, where he knew Cindy was working. He asked her when she was getting off.

”Getting off my s.h.i.+ft or just getting off?” she asked with a smirk worthy of Ethel Neuholzer.

But on their way back to the Tuxedo-riding their bikes side by side, just as he had with Annie the previous week-Henry learned that, despite Cindy's somewhat superior air, she was only nineteen, a runaway herself and a Hollywood hopeful. He called her Cinderella and was disappointed when she told him that he was not the first to do so.

”And what do they call you?” she asked him as they lay back on his bed together, one hour at best after they'd opened his apartment door. He stared up at the ceiling, finding a squirrel-shaped blotch of dampness in the concrete.

”They call me Henry,” he said.

”Ever Henny?”

”No.”

”Hank?”

”No.”

”Hanky?”

”Stop.”

He looked to his side to find her face. The pillowcase was scratchy. Too much starch, he thought.

”Never,” he said. ”No people ever call me Hanky.”

”I'm going to call you Hanky.”

”No,” he said. ”You're not.”

She laughed, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s seemed to float, buoylike, over the top of the bedsheet.

He gave her a menacing look and could see that he'd scared her with it. He had learned to do that, and was almost sorry, but she was the one who apologized.

3.

The Feminine Mystique They wore their hair long and straight now, as if they had never bothered to have it styled and somehow were proud of that. They barely wore makeup. Sometimes they deigned to wear headbands, sometimes a ponytail pulled to one side, as if this bit of asymmetry was also a bit of rebellion.

There were only three practice house mothers in the fall of 1963. Two of them were named Barbara and one of them was named Diane, and Martha decided to call them all Barbara and wait for the Diane to speak up.

Martha had stopped believing that she was right-about thumb sucking, about sleep schedules, about child rearing in general. She had stopped believing that practice could be useful in an actual life, with all its sharp corners and unexpected vacancies. Most painfully of all, Martha had stopped believing that what she was doing at the practice house had any kind of future.

Unable to escape the wide, recent shadow of Betty Friedan and her Feminine Mystique, Feminine Mystique, Martha understood that virtually everything that had gone on in the practice house for the last thirty years would now at best be misunderstood and, much more likely, reviled and revoked. Far from being proud of their places in the program, the Barbaras were clearly embarra.s.sed that they had signed up for home economics at all. Martha understood that virtually everything that had gone on in the practice house for the last thirty years would now at best be misunderstood and, much more likely, reviled and revoked. Far from being proud of their places in the program, the Barbaras were clearly embarra.s.sed that they had signed up for home economics at all.

Martha held the newest practice baby in her arms as she showed the Barbaras around. The baby had slept all the way home from the orphanage and seemed, wrapped in the usual blanket, to be in a larval state.

”Oh, precious,” one of the Barbaras said. ”What's its name?”

”Not it,” it,” Martha said with some of her old firmness. Martha said with some of her old firmness. ”She.” ”She.”

”Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Gaines. What's her name?”

Martha realized, with a wave of vertigo, that she had not yet named the baby.

She looked back at the girls, blinking.

”Oh,” she said. Her mind raced with H H girls' names. Helen. Harriet. Hope. They had all been used. Holly. Hannah. Hazel. She could think of nothing. girls' names. Helen. Harriet. Hope. They had all been used. Holly. Hannah. Hazel. She could think of nothing.

”Doesn't she have a name?” another Barbara asked.

”Of course she has a name,” Martha said, and after another moment's hesitation, she said, ”It's Henry. It's Henrietta.”

THERE WAS STILL ONE FUTURE that Martha could imagine: a future in which she and Henry lived in a simple house somewhere, and he went to college, and she wrote a book, or helped in a nursery school, or gave lectures on child care. He could still go to college, Martha thought. There was bound to be a college somewhere that would ignore his lack of a high school diploma and focus instead on the fact that he'd held down a real job. He could still be a college graduate. And she could still be something other than the woman who used to run something that no one thought should exist.

Martha had a strong feeling that Henrietta would be her last practice baby. Partly because of that, and partly because the weather this autumn was so warm and beautiful, Martha a.s.signed herself the daily job of taking Henrietta on the afternoon walk. The wheels of the carriage-once so white and buoyant-were now permanently gray. The navy blue sides had held up well, but the rim of the hood was tattered from a thousand little adjustments, and on this bright late October afternoon, Martha was glad to be able to push it back and let the baby see the sky.

IN CALIFORNIA, THE SKIES WERE SUNNY, too, but Henry was longing for rain. When it rained at the Disney Studio, employees in both the Animation Building and the Ink and Paint Building had an excuse to use the tunnel that connected the two. It had been built for the sole purpose of protecting artwork that had to pa.s.s between the two shops. Though extracurricular trips to the Ink and Paint Building-alternately known as the Rainbow Room for its splendid colors and the Nunnery for its splendid women-were made surrept.i.tiously, rain allowed the trips to be legal, and therefore to last longer.

The first time Henry was asked to make a tunnel run, he didn't realize that someone from Ink and Paint would generally come down to meet him halfway, and instead he walked the whole length of the tunnel, with its clean, tiled floor, slightly arched ceiling, and dim overhead lights. People walked through it as if it were a train station. They stopped and smoked, they talked shop, they gossiped and they flirted.

When Henry stepped out at the other end of the tunnel, he felt he had emerged into a life-size paint box. Though most of the girls worked wearing white lab coats and white gloves, and though the walls were gray or white to prevent unintentional distortions, colors were omnipresent: in jars of paints, gla.s.s canisters of powdered pigments, centrifugal mixers, bowls, scales, beakers, test tubes, and rolling carts of coaster-size paint cups that were periodically offered to the painters, like snacks or sandwiches...o...b..ard a train. To Henry, the colors were as sensuous as food. That Disney mixed its own hues-as distinctive and immutable as the notes in the musical scale-increased the sense of rightness about the place: one right blue for the bluebirds; one right yellow for the tambourine.

There was also the unspeakable rightness of a girl named Fiona Coulson-tall, boyish, British, and apparently oddly disinclined to sit still long enough to be a good painter-who seemed to enjoy stepping away from her brushes to pick up the latest drawings or deliver the finished cels for checking. She happened to have a desk not far from the building's entrance, so by early November, at even the hint of rain, Henry made it a habit to check the Out basket and see if there were things to take over. The first time Fiona gave him cels to take back, she said ”Carry on” to him, and seemed pleased by her wit. She was not a terribly bright girl. But her legs and her British accent more than made up for anything that she lacked.

She called him Gainesy. She was twenty-seven years old, unfazed by her unmarried state, and she seemed to enjoy treating Henry like a novice, in every way.

”Is it all right if I kiss you?” he asked her one morning. The tunnel was cool, damp, and dark, and Henry knew instinctively that Fiona would like his asking for permission.

”Yes,” she said deliberately, as if she was talking to someone who'd never kissed a girl before. ”It's all right if you kiss me.”

She stood with exaggeratedly good posture, as if she had once been a dancer and still hoped to be confused for one. Everything about her seemed pushed forward and swaybacked.

A few people walked by them, and Henry waited for his moment.

He tried to remember kissing Daisy Fallows for the first time, thousands of days and nights ago now, when the challenge had been to pretend to be more experienced than he was. Now he faced the opposite task: to feign innocence he had long ago lost.

”That was nice, Gainesy,” Fiona said.

He faked shy intensity, and kissed her again.

”Will you do the pickup tomorrow?” he asked her.

”Yes. Carry on,” she said, amused with herself all over again.

HE AVOIDED THE COFFEE SHOP for several days and instead ate his lunch at the main commissary and, a few times, with Fiona at the Ink and Paint lunchroom, known to all as the Tea Room. He had not seen Annie for nearly two weeks; a male model had posed for them for the previous few cla.s.ses. But Cindy caught up with him one evening just as he was starting home.

”Where've you been hiding?” she asked him.