The Strand of Pearls (Aurora Antonovic)

She carefully dons the black sheath she bought for the occasion, trying hard to forget the fact that she felt like she sold her soul to buy it by writing a cheap, romantic short story for a run-of-the mill woman’s magazine.  It was fast easy money, and she justified it by acknowledging it was the only way she could afford something appropriate for this party in such a short time.  She wanted so badly to look nice for him, to at least not stand out like a sore thumb by wearing the wrong thing.

She fingers the pearls he placed around her neck earlier that day, and remembers how sweetly he looked at her, almost boyish in his eagerness and vulnerability as he asked her if she really liked them.  She feels the pulse in her throat beating hard against them, and touches the strand yet again, hoping to gain courage and strength from them.

            

They arrive at the grand old house that states “old money” and are ostentatiously shown to a large opulent room filled with antiques and fine art.   

Champagne

is flowing, and tongues are already wagging. She tries to steady herself by holding onto his sure arm, and taking a few deep breaths.

            

He leads her over to his mother, whose icy blue, too bright eyes quickly fixate on the strand of pearls.  He wrongly thinks he has left her in good hands, and goes off to greet a colleague for just a few quick words of business. She resists the childish urge to beg him not to leave her, and tries to stand her ground, attempting to meet the cool stare of the older woman with her own steady gaze.

            

An elderly man comes to greet her, and the mother quickly leaves to join the gossiping throng. The man tells her that it is such a wonderful sight to see such a fresh, naturally pretty face nowadays, and he gently tweaks an errant curl, and smiles kindly.  This is all that stops her from fleeing, because by now she can hear the others’ words buzzing around her like busy, frenzied bees, words that sting like paper cuts to her sensitive soul. An older woman, whose dress is two inches shorter than her own, whispers that the girl is showing too much leg, another says that the “little thing” has too much hair, and  it alone must weigh more than she does. This leads another old gossip to say that she heard from the sales girl who sold the young woman that dress that it is only a size one, which causes another to raise the possibility that the girl is anorexic.  One says she heard this snippet is a socialist, and the other says, “How do you know?” “Well, she’s Canadian,” she whispers back none too graciously, “Aren’t all Canadians socialists?”

The girl fights a mad urge to both laugh, and burst into tears, all at the same time. She bites her lips and presses her fingernails into the palms of her hands, trying to stifle her anxiety.  The old man asks if she’d like a drink, and she nods gratefully, thankful that he does not ask her to name her choice of beverages, for she is incapable of speaking at the moment.

“I wonder what she had to do to get those pearls?” another wonders aloud, and knowing tongues begin their wagging once more.

The old man brings her some ginger ale just as business is wrapped up, and the giver of pearls returns.  The old man tells him what a lovely girl she is.  “You are lucky to have found her,” the he sagely says. “I believe ‘blessed’ is the word,” the young man replies, to which the elderly gentleman genuinely agrees. His smile reaches all the way to his kindly eyes as he bows his leave.

She turns to her companion, and thinks of asking him to tell them all that she did nothing for those pearls, that they are a product of his love, his kindness, his genuine devotion. She longs to implore him to tell them that although she really is a size one, she does eat, that in fact, she ate a tuna fish sandwich, and some cherries, and drank a bottle of mineral water for lunch that day, but she wants him to omit the part that she ate it while sitting on his lap while he played with her hair.  She says nothing, though, just drinks her ginger ale in quick, frantic gulps. He notices the two red spots on her cheeks, and presses a reassuring, cool hand against one of them. “Headache?” he asks sympathetically. She nods, again.

She somehow gets through the party, which is thankfully shortened due to her headache.  She wonders if he notices that none of the women even acknowledge her presence, that only the men are taking the time to speak to her.  She wonders if he knows just how much his mother hates her, and if he knows the cruel lies she is spreading about her, punishment rendered for the crime of this girl merely loving this older woman’s son so much, it hurts.

He turns to say good-bye to a parting guest, as his mother brushes up against her. “Bohemian whore,” she hisses, and the girl feels those words sharper than any slap could ever be.  She gasps and by now, tears are stinging her eyes.

He thinks her headache has worsened, begs their early leave, and gently guides her to the door. She says not one word on the ride home, except to utter a brief reply when he asks if she had a good time. It comes out in a one-word, wooden answer, the first and only lie she has ever told him: “Yes”.  He tells her how everyone told him how beautiful she was, how they heard she was an artist, and said how he must thank his lucky stars every night that she would even give him the time of day. By now, she is tuning out the words, only trying to ignore the burning ring around her neck from those pearls which had caused her such joy and happiness for a brief time earlier in the day, but such pain now.  She thinks of how they are marred, no longer perfect.

He sees her to the door of her loft, wondering if it is wise to leave her, but she insists she wants to be alone. Once inside, she quickly takes the pearls off with shaking hands, and pushes them under the pretty paper they had come wrapped in, now lying crumpled on her dresser.  Out of sight, out of mind, she figures.  She lets the sheath fall to the floor, hating it and hating what she had to do to buy it.  She tries not to think of what his face looked like as he gave her the pearls, and she tries not to choke on her tears as she cries herself to sleep.

first published in The Sidewalk's End