The Fiction of Owen Thomas

Still Life

A Short Story

Excerpt C

Mrs. Foves returned to her desk, closing the door to Mr. Wilbanks’ office behind her, and set to work typing up as much of the letter to Mr. Harold Carlton as she knew so far and when she was done with that, she resumed the various projects that she had left off the day before. 

As she worked, she tried to keep Robert foremost in her thoughts, as she always did.  It should have been easy enough today given her unusual conversation with Mr. Wilbanks and the way that, together, they had invoked Robert’s heroism and strength of character.  Standing in the entry of her employer’s office she had gripped the door frame and forced herself to imagine Robert gripping the open door of the plane, the hot breath of the valley overwhelming his senses, in that single moment before he stepped out over the darkening Rhone. 

But the more she conjured the memory of her husband, the more he seemed to slip away from her, like a wisp of something in the breeze.  When she was not absolutely vigilant in keeping her mind from wandering, she found that she was not thinking of Robert at all and that, instead, it was the very idea of the woman named Delia May that occupied her attention.  It was the way she dressed and smoked and spoke and occupied space; hard as nails and smelling like flowers; delicate but unafraid. She imagined the man that loved someone like Delia May.  The man that would let go of everything in him that was decent, falling from grace just for the pleasure of her kind of love.  For those eyes and those lips and that unapologetic ferocity.  A damnable, lowly man to be sure, and irresponsible to boot.  And yet, she could not help but wonder whether any man was immune; whether even her Robert might have fallen. 
The very idea was preposterous and she forced it out of her mind, mistaking feelings of regret for the pain and self-pity to which she was so accustomed. 

At precisely noon, she took her regular lunch at The Corner Counter on Smithdale with Sylvia Blake.  Sylvia was secretary to Mr. Haynes and was no friend of the spiritually weak.  As they shuffled sideways, sliding their trays along the cafeteria counter, they leaned into each other’s ears, speaking in hushed but animated disdain for Delia May and her kind.  Sylvia thought Delia May a harlot of the worst kind and was not at all reluctant to say so. Sylvia’s husband Milton was a Deacon down at the First Methodist and they were both known to speak with some conviction about the temptations along the wayward path, almost all of which seemed to concern harlots of the worst kind.  Mrs. Foves nodded her head in emphatic accord, and their lunch continued in this enthusiastic manner until it was time to return to work.

But even as their words cut to ribbons this woman they had not known for more than the minute or so that she had been in the office, Mrs. Foves felt a longing in her heart that she could not explain.  It was only with some effort that she was able to put Delia May out of her thoughts enough to attend to her responsibilities and the incessant need of Mr. Wilbanks.

At the end of the day Mrs. Foves walked back to the bus stop and waited for the Number 6 to take her home.  The air was now so warm that the tips of her hair around her temples, and the thin fabric of her blouse beneath her arms, and the petticoat beneath her dress, had begun to soak in the perspiration spreading over her body. 

Two men in ties and suit coats slung over their shoulders were also waiting.  One of them was leaning against the bus stop sign; the other rocked back and forth on his heels. They eyed her appraisingly but did not speak, nor she to them.

She looked down the street, but found no sign of the Number 6.  In the other direction, up on its green hill with the loop of Nightingale Boulevard draped like a gray ribbon necklace from behind, sat the museum.  It too seemed to eye her appraisingly, its windows glinting.  For reasons she could not begin to fathom, Mrs. Foves felt the pull of the familiar, of a conversation to be continued, and she turned to stare up at the building directly. 

“Excuse me, sir.  Do you know when the Number 3 is due?”

The men looked at her with contained surprise and then at each other and then at their watches.

“Not for another ninety minutes,” said the younger one with the dark eyes and large hands.  He took a step closer. “Can I be of some assistance to you?”

“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Foves, smiling up at him and, without a further word, she turned and crossed the street.