A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Terence M. Green
left at the counter displaying scarves and shawls, holding one aloft for inspection. To my right are a series of mannequin torsos, brazenly displaying ladies' corsets. Flustered, I drop my eyes to the hat in my hands.
And it is here, in my own hands, that I get an idea.
The men's hats and ladies' millinery counters are side by side, and I lean tipsily on the glass, staring at the array of sumptuous headwear. There is a woman bending beneath the counter, stowing a box away, who does not know that I am here.
She straightens, brushes her hands on the front of her skirt, and meets my eyes. The face that greets me is frail, perhaps somewhat older than mine, the eyes large. Her hair, tied at the nape by a white ribbon, is swept up one side and across the top of her head so that it falls in a soft roll across a high forehead. The mouth curves down at the comers in a way that is both sad, and to me at this point in time, particularly alluring.
"Can I help you?"
Suddenly, I am the one who feels frail. And foolish. I do not know what I want anymore. My desire to adorn myself, to play the dandy, blends into something else much more mysterious.
I place my hat on the counter. "I was thinking of a new hat," I hear myself saying.
I have always thought the fur felt hat, with its Russian calf-leather sweatband, to be a fine piece of manhood. In fact, I purchased it at this very place, almost ten years ago, with my first pay.
But now I am not so sure. The realization surfaces that being surrounded by females of all kinds is no guarantee of understanding them, and I am taken aback.
It lies on the counter between us, more than a hat, and remarkably less. Her eyes drop down to study it, then rise once more to meet mine. She is wearing a white, high- collared blouse with a pin at the throat, which falls in ruffles at her bosom. Her hands, I now see, have small veins on their backs. The nails are short, well kept.
I know her from somewhere, but cannot place where.
"I see," she says. Then a finger touches the brim. "It is an old hat. Looks like it has been worn well."
I have never thought of it as an old hat, or worn, well or otherwise. Through her eyes, it transforms.
"I bought it here," I say.
"An older style. We have new stock. A great deal. What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. Things have shifted. I realize that in some minute way, I am not the same man who wore the hat into the store. He is gone. I have replaced him. Who is she?
"Silk hat? Opera hart"
I lean forward on the counter and study the signs hanging behind her head, but in so doing, unthinkingly, I come too close to her. I do not understand this until I see her face contort slightly, realize from her expression that she has smelled the ale on my breath, and has judiciously backed away.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She says nothing.
I am mortified in a way that is new to me. "I've just come from—"
I stop.
"I'm sorry." I pick up my hat, nod. I turn and leave. I feel her eyes on my back as I stride down the aisle toward the door. I am careful not to betray myself further, not to embarrass myself with a stumble, a false step.
Sitting on the streetcar, traveling home, I am in a daze. I see nothing but the mouth turned down at the corners, the hair rolling across the forehead, the pin at the throat. I see the hat between us on the glass counter.
The next day, Saturday, I return, stand at a distance from her counter, beside a table that announces: BRACELET, 35¢; BEAD PURSE, 59¢; SHAWL, 50¢. I have no plan. I only know that things were not right, and now, in the clear light of day, I have to fix them. The floor is bustling with energy, with people who need to be in a place like this after managing the routines of their lives for another week, and it occurs to me that I am one of these people.
But she is not here. Another woman is displaying wares to a customer on the glass counter that stood between us last evening.
I swivel my gaze throughout
And it is here, in my own hands, that I get an idea.
The men's hats and ladies' millinery counters are side by side, and I lean tipsily on the glass, staring at the array of sumptuous headwear. There is a woman bending beneath the counter, stowing a box away, who does not know that I am here.
She straightens, brushes her hands on the front of her skirt, and meets my eyes. The face that greets me is frail, perhaps somewhat older than mine, the eyes large. Her hair, tied at the nape by a white ribbon, is swept up one side and across the top of her head so that it falls in a soft roll across a high forehead. The mouth curves down at the comers in a way that is both sad, and to me at this point in time, particularly alluring.
"Can I help you?"
Suddenly, I am the one who feels frail. And foolish. I do not know what I want anymore. My desire to adorn myself, to play the dandy, blends into something else much more mysterious.
I place my hat on the counter. "I was thinking of a new hat," I hear myself saying.
I have always thought the fur felt hat, with its Russian calf-leather sweatband, to be a fine piece of manhood. In fact, I purchased it at this very place, almost ten years ago, with my first pay.
But now I am not so sure. The realization surfaces that being surrounded by females of all kinds is no guarantee of understanding them, and I am taken aback.
It lies on the counter between us, more than a hat, and remarkably less. Her eyes drop down to study it, then rise once more to meet mine. She is wearing a white, high- collared blouse with a pin at the throat, which falls in ruffles at her bosom. Her hands, I now see, have small veins on their backs. The nails are short, well kept.
I know her from somewhere, but cannot place where.
"I see," she says. Then a finger touches the brim. "It is an old hat. Looks like it has been worn well."
I have never thought of it as an old hat, or worn, well or otherwise. Through her eyes, it transforms.
"I bought it here," I say.
"An older style. We have new stock. A great deal. What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. Things have shifted. I realize that in some minute way, I am not the same man who wore the hat into the store. He is gone. I have replaced him. Who is she?
"Silk hat? Opera hart"
I lean forward on the counter and study the signs hanging behind her head, but in so doing, unthinkingly, I come too close to her. I do not understand this until I see her face contort slightly, realize from her expression that she has smelled the ale on my breath, and has judiciously backed away.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She says nothing.
I am mortified in a way that is new to me. "I've just come from—"
I stop.
"I'm sorry." I pick up my hat, nod. I turn and leave. I feel her eyes on my back as I stride down the aisle toward the door. I am careful not to betray myself further, not to embarrass myself with a stumble, a false step.
Sitting on the streetcar, traveling home, I am in a daze. I see nothing but the mouth turned down at the corners, the hair rolling across the forehead, the pin at the throat. I see the hat between us on the glass counter.
The next day, Saturday, I return, stand at a distance from her counter, beside a table that announces: BRACELET, 35¢; BEAD PURSE, 59¢; SHAWL, 50¢. I have no plan. I only know that things were not right, and now, in the clear light of day, I have to fix them. The floor is bustling with energy, with people who need to be in a place like this after managing the routines of their lives for another week, and it occurs to me that I am one of these people.
But she is not here. Another woman is displaying wares to a customer on the glass counter that stood between us last evening.
I swivel my gaze throughout
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