“You could slow down and walk more like a lady,” Matthew said. Clearly angry, he trotted in his effort to walk alongside her; but his five foot seven inches was no match for her desperate necessity to get to the privacy of her room without delay. She was sure to mess everything she was wearing if she didn’t get there in the next few minutes. The heat and sweat made the insides of her legs chafe and her discomfort was almost more than she could bear.
“I wouldn’t be here at all if you took a little more responsibility for your life, Matthew,” she responded tightly.
The whole thing would be settled later at dinner unless, as she expected, Father laughed it off.
Finally home and unpleasantly breathless, Blanche barely muttered a quick hello to Julia and Mable at work in the kitchen before going straight upstairs to her room. Matthew had turned off toward the barn to feed the animals and wouldn’t be in the house before it was time to eat. That was good. It would give her time to organize her thoughts and perhaps talk to her mother about him before dinner.
Stripped at last, Blanche put her blood-soaked rags in a cloth bag she would later take out back and wash in the wooden tub when no one was around. She poured water from a pitcher on her dresser into its matching bowl and with a washcloth began to sponge herself clean of the day’s accumulation of blood and sweat. She could hardly stand the odor of her own body nor its shape. Forced to lift the folds of her stomach from her thighs in order to cleanse herself, unusually worn from the day’s trials and tremendous heat, she nearly cried in frustration at how she looked and what she was. She couldn’t imagine how other fat women dealt with their weight. Much better than she, apparently. She was the heaviest woman in Starcross.
Daily there was a battle at the table as Blanche tried to refuse food her mother pressed on her, her mother insisting that if Blanche didn’t eat she would get sick.
She was already sick. She was sick of eating. Lately, as she walked to school with her packed lunch, she fed it to the dogs along the way until several had begun to follow her faithfully each morning. So far she’d managed to get away with her little trick but she knew eventually someone would catch on.
She discarded the rose-colored water into her chamberpot and poured a little fresh water into the bowl, rinsed it, and then poured another bowlful for another sponge bath. On the terribly hot days like today she sponged down completely before her “quiet time.”
The water, although warm, felt good as it cooled the numerous folds and planes of her body. This was her special moment in the day, and she performed her task slowly and methodically, being sure she missed no part of herself. Finished, she tucked clean powdered rags begween her legs, brought them part way up her belly and back and then tied a light strip of cloth around her waist to hold the rags in place. Refreshed, she rested on her bed, closed her eyes and emptied her head of thought. It was the most peaceful time of her existence; her time to escape from herself and the day’s daily demands.
Sometime later — not much because of the delay at the Blackjack — came the expected light knock on her door.
“Coming,” she answered. Reluctantly, she rose to dress. She had hung her underwear over the back of a chair and her dress on a hanger from a hook on the back of the door. They had dried out nicely but just knowing that all that sweat was still in the cloth made her cringe.
Her body heat began to rise in the confining clothing, but with the day cooling off already, in another hour or so it wouldn’t be so bad.
Downstairs, she made her way through the dining room toward the kitchen. Big and airy and comfortable, with the windows opened and the drapes pulled against the direct rays of the sun and dust, the house was pleasantly cool. The living room was filled with several comfortable chairs and a large sofa with a playing table off to one side for chess or checkers. In front of the sofa was a long table for tea. On the floor were two over-sized oval rag rugs of colorful cloth her mother had braided; another was in the dining room under a large rectangular shaped table surrounded by eight chairs and positioned beneath a fifty-candle chandelier. Off in one corner a triangular shaped knickknack hutch was crowded with ornaments that Julia had collected over the years. Beside the adjoining door to both rooms hung a large family portrait of the Bartholomews painted when they had first lived in the house. Blanche had been thirteen. Each day as she came downstairs, her eyes rested on the painting. She had been thin. And pretty. Now she hated the girl in that painting who stared back at her.
In the kitchen, graceful, red-haired Mable sat at a large worktable polishing silver. She said, “I don’t see why I have to do this. He’s not my beau.”
Instantly, Blanche felt her stomach tie into a knot.
“Be nice, dear,” Julia said in a singsong voice. She wiped her hands on her apron and then brushed strands of fine hair away from her face with a slender hand. “You just keep polishing like a good girl.” Julia turned to Blanche and in a voice with too much gaiety said, “Steven is coming for supper. He stopped by today to bring some fresh butter. Wasn’t that nice?” Julia was talking too fast; she was trying too hard to sound happy.
Blanche leaned against the sink, her hands on its edge supporting her, her knuckles white with tension.
“I told you, Mother,” Mable said, catching Blanche’s reaction.
Blanche contained herself in silence; she rarely let her emotions show just because of remarks like that from Mable.
“You should be happy, Blanche, that you’ve got a beau. At your age, you can no longer afford to be choosy.” Julia was still using her gay, singsong voice, as if being bright and cheery would make everything all right for Blanche; make her a princess and Steven a prince.
“You could have asked me first, Mother, if I was up to seeing anyone tonight.”
“There was no time, Blanche. He was here way after lunch.”
“Besides,” Mable put in, “you two are engaged. You shouldn’t be putting him off at all, if you ask me.”
“No one’s putting him off, Mable,” Blanche said, turning to her sister. “No one’s asking you, either.”
“I just become absolutely starry-eyed when Roger comes to call,” Mable said. She stopped her polishing to extend a hand to touch the fabric of her mother’s dress, the same design and pale blue color as her own. “He’s going to ask Father for my hand this weekend. We’ve decided. It’s time.”
“Why Mable, that’s wonderful,” Julia said reaching eagerly for her. The news was not a surprise. At twenty, Mable was bound to be married soon. As Mother and daughter embraced each other, theirs was joy so obvious that Blanche wondered how she had missed that same joy when Steven had asked Father for her hand.
Blanche walked over to hug Mable. If this was what her sister wanted she wasn’t going to begrudge what a woman was supposed to feel for a man. “I’m very happy for you, too, Mable. You’ll make Roger a wonderful wife.”
She meant it. Mable was born to spend the rest of her life happily being what Blanche supposed all women desired in life: to be a wife and mother. She knew she was the exception.
Once Mable had made her announcement she could talk of nothing else. Blanche began peeling potatoes, only half participating in the discussion until Mable asked, “Blanche, when are you and Steven going to set your wedding date so that Roger and I can set ours?”
A small shock of fear raced through her as she replied, “Oh, don’t wait for us, Mable. We haven’t quite decided yet.”
Instantly Mable began to wail, “Mother, Roger and I can’t get married before my older sister does. It wouldn’t be proper. It’s not proper.” She stamped a tiny foot to emphasize her point.
“She’s right, Blanche,” Julia casually agreed. “Younger sisters do not normally marry first in proper families.”
There it came again. The big push to get her out of the nest and into her own home. Suggestions and hints had been dropped for years by Julia, becoming more and more pointed: Blanche was nineteen, it was time to think seriously about getting married, most girls her age were long since married. Blanche was twenty-three, most girls her age were already mothers. Blanche was twenty-five, all the girls her age were mothers with children about to go to school. Now Blanche was twenty-eight and was teaching the children of many girls with whom she had gone to school.
And Mable was twenty and banging at the altar door, feeling that she should have been married three years ago.
Blanche could have crumbled under the pressure at that moment except for the one thing she was sure she had inherited from her mother — her inner strength. “I’ll talk to Steven.” She bent without further word to finish the potatoes.
Promptly at five forty-five, Alexander arrived home with Steven Trusdale at his side. “I found Steven by the gate,” he said, turning to the sweating young man. Dutifully, Blanche walked to Steven’s side giving him a slight smile. “He says he’s joining us for dinner this evening.”
“That’s right, dear,” Julia said, automatically hanging Alexander’s coat, hat, and gun belt on a coat tree by the door. “Blanche, it’s so hot. Why don’t you take Steven’s coat?”
“Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Bartholomew,” Steven protested. “It isn’t necessary.” Blanche knew it could be two hundred degrees and Steven would wear his suit coat. And wear it stylishly: middle button fastened, top and bottom ones left undone. Underneath and bulging the right side of his coat, strapped to his waist was his gun. An extremely proper man, he was never out of step for whatever any occasion called for. Steven, like Blanche, was fat; as fat as she at least — a thing that perhaps had drawn them together. That, and their both being well beyond the usual marrying age. They were realistic enough to know that for them this was it in Starcross, each other or nothing. And nothing was unacceptable in their social circle of friends and family.
Steven’s face was round as a pie with little blue pig-like eyes. He wore long bushy sideburns and a moustache which seemed to add more weight to his face. He was not quite as tall as Blanche, a private unmentionable embarrassment to them both. She did her best not to stand too close to him in public.
To his credit, Steven had his own ranch several miles out of town and several hundred head of cattle. He had been prosperous and diligent and had made the land work for him. He could provide well for his future bride.
Blanche, for all her years, had not gathered fancy linens, made special clothing, or collected things such as silver and dishes to bring with her on her wedding day. Once or twice Alexander had mentioned a money dowry but she had never pressed for details and he had never elaborated. Even so, she knew she was expected to leave eventually, dowry or not, to make a home and raise a family of her own.
With Steven.
“Why don’t you and Steven go sit down and relax, Alexander,” Julia told the two men, “while we finish setting the table?”
Steven smiled weakly as they left, Alexander’s big arm across Steven’s shoulder.
“Mable, go and fetch Matthew,” Julia said. Mable went to the barn as Blanche and Julia buried the dining room table under mounds of food: potatoes, salads, meats, and sweets. More than Blanche would want to consume in a month. But she knew that this table would be cleared of every morsel this evening. And only she and Steven would pay for it. She had to work at smiling and chatting as she and Julia completed the table and then waited for everyone to gather, take their places, and prepare for grace.
Finally they were seated, heads bowed while Alexander gave the usual brief thanks. As he prayed, so did Blanche: not for a bountiful table — that was all this house ever saw — but for strength to get through the evening. She was determined to talk to her father about Matthew’s frequent skipping. She preferred not to bring it up in front of Steven, but his presence might be to her advantage. He believed schooling was important. When he and Blanche had gone to school together years ago, he had been the class’s top student. Of course, it hadn’t gotten him anywhere to speak of but was an achievement nonetheless.
The talk flew across and around the table as silver clacked against plates and food was passed again and again. Blanche took only small portions but still was forced through politeness to take more than she wanted. It was easier than arguing with Julia. Finally Blanche thought enough casual conversation had gone on. She knew Matthew had just been waiting for her to say something; he had been silent and sullen throughout dinner. “Father,” she began. “I’d like you to speak to Matthew about school.”
Alexander looked up from his heaping plate to glance at his son. “What about it?” He immediately turned his attention back to his food.
“About not attending.” Blanche waited for the family jokes to begin.
“Call it skipping, will you, for Christ’s sake?” Matthew growled at her.
“Matthew!” Julia spoke sharply.
“Skipping? Did you skip today, Matthew?” Alexander hardly missed a beat with his fork.
“I was at the Blackjack.”
“When do you think,” Alexander asked, “that you’ll be ready to start your own saloon?”
“Father!” Blanche wasn’t prepared for this new twist in his sense of humor.
“Anytime,” Matthew answered coolly, looking directly at Blanche.
“You have to be eighteen first,” Alexander said. “It’s the law.”
Blanche slammed her spoon down on her plate with a loud bang. The sound seemed to reverberate around the room. “He needs schooling first,” she said sharply.
Everyone looked at her, surprised at this uncharacteristic outburst. But she felt strongly about Matthew’s education. “He needs schooling,” she insisted.
“And you need to keep away from harlots,” Matthew countered.
“What do you mean, Matthew?” Julia asked quietly. Her eyes flew first to Blanche and then to her son.
“She was talking to one of the dancehall girls outside the saloon this afternoon,” Matthew accused. “If anyone saw her, people will laugh me out of town.”
Julia looked at Blanche and in a firm voice said, “Please explain yourself, Blanche.”
“Explain myself? Explain myself?” she repeated. “This is ridiculous. I’m trying to discuss the importance of Matthew going to school and you, Father, are discussing how soon he can open up a saloon. And you, Mother, you’re only worried that I was talking to a dancehall girl. What about Matthew? He skipped!”
“Which one was Blanche talking to, Matthew?” Alexander asked.
“The one they call Teresa,” Matthew said with a sneer.
“Ask me, Father,” she said angrily. “I’m the one who spoke to her.”
“So, you admit it then, Blanche,” Julia said. “Do you know what people say about people who associate with those kinds of women? Do you know what they’ll say about you?”
Ignoring her mother, Blanche turned to Steven for support. “Steven, please explain to Matthew why he should finish school before starting any kind of business.”
Steven only swallowed a couple of times as new sweat popped out on his face. Blanche looked at him for a couple of seconds and then gave an impatient sound of disgust. She should have known better. How he made that ranch work for him with his wishy-washy ways remained a mystery to her.
She turned to Alexander to explain about the dancehall girl. Strangely, Teresa’s face almost materialized before Blanche, so clearly did she have her in her mind. She could have reached out and touched her. Blanche blinked a couple of times to drive the image away. “The woman was only trying to help me, Father.”
“She’s a tramp,” Matthew growled cruelly.
“She’s part of a business, Matthew,” Alexander advised. “You have to look at her that way or you’ll never work well with the ladies you employ.”
“It’s ridiculous to call them ladies,” Julia said.
Alexander turned to Blanche. “I know her, Blanche. She comes into the bank now and then. Nice woman, but....” His voice became unusually fatherly. “Matthew is right. She is all those things you hear about.”
“Blanche.” Lord, now it was Mable’s turn. It was going to be so good to get to bed tonight. Just to be alone.
But Mable asked, “When do you and Steven plan on setting your wedding date?”
A blow!
Almost physical.
Steven looked first at Blanche and then at his plate. Thank goodness he wasn’t much on talking. Most times Blanche found that a big help. Like now. She would handle the matter herself, as tactfully as she could, without letting everyone know how easy it would be to kill Mable right here and now. She said in a carefully controlled voice, “When we get time to sit down and talk about it Mable, we’ll let you and everyone else know.”
Ignoring Blanche’s underlying warning to let things alone, Mable turned to Steven. “Steven,” she said in a sickeningly sweet voice, “Roger is going to ask Father for my hand this weekend.”
Alexander’s head came up from his plate. A big smile filled his dark, handsome face.
“It’s supposed to be a surprise, Father,” Mable said. “So please act it when Roger asks.”
His pleasure at her news was obvious, making Blanche feel even further pressured. She and Steven had already been engaged a year and she had deliberately put off their wedding date, sidetracking Steven every time he brought up the subject.
“Better get going, Blanche,” Matthew added, enjoying his older sister’s noticeable discomfort.
Mable carelessly reached for the pitcher of water on the table, averting her eyes as she coyly spoke. “Steven, you wouldn’t want to see Blanche’s younger sister get married first, would you? It’s not proper, you know.”
He knew. His sweat glands told everyone at the table that he knew. But a forkful of food into his mouth was his answer.
“Well, Steven?” Mable pushed. She didn’t give up easily. She was going for the jugular. Carefully she poured him a fresh glass of water.
Blanche spoke sharply in his defense. “Let Steven alone, Mable. He came to visit me. Not you. We’ll let you know what we plan to do, without your help.”
With dinner over, Alexander stood. He put his big hands on the edge of the table and announced, “Enough talk, everyone. Let’s go into the living room.”
Immediately, Matthew excused himself, claiming work in the barn. For once Mable volunteered to help Julia clean up. “Go walk with Steven, Blanche,” she said generously.
That was all Blanche needed right now; a walk in the sun. And why did Mable encourage them? The answer screamed at her.
And somehow, Matthew had been exonerated from skipping school while she had been scolded for talking to a harlot. Now she was expected to spend the evening with a man she had no more feeling for than old Thomas Johnson over at the drygoods store.
“Well,” Alexander said. “It looks like I’m alone.”
And how he loves it, too, Blanche thought. A chance to sit and prop up his feet, smoke a long black cigar, and read undisturbed. She’d give her right arm to be in his position. “Let’s go, Steven,” she barked at him. Meekly he got up and followed her to the front door.
“Do you want your parasol?” he offered.
“No,” she snapped. “Let’s just get out of here.” Her impotence was more than she wanted to think about. A fast walk down by the Brazos River would do her good. If she were alone it would do wonders.
Blanche and Steven wandered back through town passing the stable and blacksmith’s shop, run by a bull of a man who wielded a twenty-pound hammer as if it weighed nothing. Blanche listened to the ringing of his heavy sledge as he fashioned wheel rims, horse shoes, building nails, or any oddity one might request from the artist of iron even at this hour.
They passed the barber’s shop before turning left onto Baker’s Street, heading toward the river and through the more residential area, passing one- and two-story homes of white clapboards, a few with white picket fences. The good up-keep of the houses was in sharp contrast to the dilapidated shacks of wood or adobe inhabited by drunks or the lazy with scrawny squawking chickens and emaciated dogs running loose. Trees growing randomly over the flat plains broke the monotony of the landscape and offered shade to the homes. Later this spring, when this unusually hot weather let up, there would be flowers growing in folks’ yards, and almost every dwelling, no matter what its status, would have its own garden of vegetables and herbs nearby.
It was a constant battle against the severe Texas weather that battered the buildings of Starcross. Untended exteriors were left silver-gray, cracked and splitting. Within two years fresh paint blistered and curled off clapboards exposed to the hot summer sun and was blown free by fierce winds. During dry seasons powdery grains of dust settled over everything, keeping storekeepers and housewives and young girls busy dusting surfaces and shaking out garments and rugs. But right now, with the sun low in the sky, the buildings took on a healing glow, hiding paint chips and dust and pleasing Blanche’s eye for neatness and cleanliness.
The river flowed on the western side of town. Trees and bushes grew everywhere, cleverly decorating the limitless flatland of the prairie and along the river’s banks on either side, housing the animals and birds. Although the shrubs weren’t beautiful in appearance, they served to break the monotony of the hundreds of square miles of surrounding flatland.
The water level of the river was so low that Blanche and Steven walked on parts of what was usually water-covered banks. Blanche closely observed the land she would normally not have seen. There was nothing spectacular about the clay bank, but she studied it to preserve the memory against a time when the bank would no longer be visible.
She was deep into her thoughts, feeling better just for being here, when Steven spoke for the first time since leaving the house. “Uh, Blanche, about what Mable was saying.”
“What about it?” She wanted to walk along the river and not think about anything.
“Have you considered a date?”
“For what?”
“Our, uh, marriage?”
“Oh, Steven, stop stammering.” Couldn’t he just once be manly about something and say whatever it was he wanted to say? “I told you before,” she said, “that I’d think about it.”
“But that, uh, was two months ago.” He looked pathetically apologetic.
“You’re not listening to me, Steven. I said I’d think about it and I will.” As soon as she thought she could bear the feel of his whiskers against her skin on a daily basis. As soon as she could adjust mentally to the weight she would feel lying on top of her body any time he wanted to be there — as was her duty.
Tentatively, Steven stepped close to her and took her in his arms. The evening had cooled sufficiently to allow her body to stop its heavy perspiring and, she saw, Steven’s own.
Cooler and more comfortable, she allowed him to hold her beneath the shelter of a mesquite tree. It wasn’t too bad for a moment but, as always, Steven’s breathing became more rapid and, irritating the very life out of her, his nose started to whistle as his breathing rate increased. Then, as he held her close to him she felt a bulge against her pelvis because of his apparently large male endowment. As he became more enamored he pressed against her a little more and then a little more until she couldn’t stand him. She hated that part of his body. Hated it and didn’t want it. As many times as she had tried to become excited by his maleness, she had never been able to. How many times she had lain awake nights thinking of him standing nude before her? He was her fiancé. She should be aroused by him. She tried desperately to be, once even went so far as to touch herself while thinking of him. All that had happened was that she had felt shame and had somehow let herself down.
“That’s enough, Steven,” she said pushing him away.
“Why?” he protested. “When we’re married....”
“Yes,” she said holding him back. “When we’re married. But we’re not, yet, so don’t.”
Steven never argued, never quarreled. He backed off. Just once she wished he would say something, be more aggressive. Like that cowboy she’d seen today. Maybe it would have made a difference.
For another hour or so they wandered along the river bank before turning back to the house. The sun had escaped the Texas sky for the day and cool gentle breezes had moved in. A soft darkness settled over the land obscuring the hard lines of the distant buildings, producing a soft edge to the harsh desert world.
Along with the soothing breezes, the thought that tomorrow was Friday put Blanche in an almost heady and benevolent mood toward Steven. As they walked toward the house she impulsively reached for his hand. Surprised, he smiled at her as he matched her steps back toward the house.
How bad could it be, she questioned silently, being married to this man who really was quite devoted to her? She began to total the amount of time he would actually touch her in a twenty-four hour period. There would be the lovemaking of course, the time she most dreaded, and the sleeping side by side. But she wouldn’t necessarily have to sleep in his arms. There would be a considerable amount of touching and holding and kissing at first because, she assumed, marriages always started out like that. But then, after she and Steven had fit into a routine, the physical contact should lessen. She calculated the time she thought she would have to physically give him. It couldn’t be more than two, perhaps three hours total, in a twenty-four hour day; and probably not even that much every day. Couldn’t she handle three hours a day for a home of her own and a man who would certainly see to her needs? Wouldn’t it be worth it to be independent of her mother’s disappointed eyes and her father’s patient tolerance of her?
As for teaching, that would be out entirely. Women didn’t teach once they married. That would certainly solve her unhappiness with her futile efforts to keep Matthew in school. He would become someone else’s problem.
Mable did have a right to marry secondly. Otherwise it definitely would be an embarrassing situation to her. To the whole family actually; a family which always went by what etiquette and protocol and tradition dictated. Blanche would hardly be fair if she didn’t marry Steven first. She knew she would marry him. Had to. This was the end of the line. She absolutely could not live with her parents for the rest of her life. She was the town joke now because she had waited this long.
Three hours of bodily contact? Of course she could handle it. She would have her own home and a life of her own with only one other person to deal with instead of an entire household.
In an expansive mood, Blanche paused beneath a mesquite tree and said to Steven, “Why don’t we talk about setting a wedding date soon, Steven? We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think? We’ll discuss it this weekend. You are coming over, aren’t you?” She spoke rapidly as if to pause for even a moment would cause her to lose the momentum of her words. She rushed to get them all out before she changed her mind.
Joyfully, Steven took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. She thought of the cowboy who had smiled at her today but Steven’s mustache scratching her mouth drove him from her mind. Blanche returned Steven’s kiss thinking that this kiss would only take a minute or so. That wasn’t too much time in a twenty-four hour period for all the other benefits she would gain.
But at the moment she couldn’t think of one.