1926
|
Beef, round |
gratis |
|
Salt pork |
gratis |
|
Tomatoes, can |
12½¢ |
|
Carrots, bunch |
5¢ |
|
Prunes, box |
25¢ |
Two library books returned, two more checked out for the week. Tik-Tok of Oz for Anna Louisa, The Young Diana for me. She said she’d rather the newest Hopalong Cassidy. Carl must be reading that to her.
|
Parsley |
2¢ |
Rain today.
|
Pork chops, three |
gratis |
|
Peas, two No. 2 cans |
20¢ |
Rain.
|
Ham steaks |
gratis |
|
Pound of pearl onions |
9¢ |
Florrie Daniels appeared on my doorstep. Seven years, three weeks, and two days since I saw her last. Offered her coffee (the good stuff), but she said she was just saying goodbye. She’s going to California. Never thought she’d really leave.
|
Fryer chicken |
gratis |
|
Mushrooms |
6¢ |
|
Pimentos, jar |
10¢ |
So much rain it’s flooded the backyard. A.L. built a raft of matchsticks.
|
Pork chops, three |
gratis |
|
Pork chop, one |
11½¢ |
I bought this notebook thinking a travel journal would keep me company (of course, only a writer would make friends with A NOTEBOOK). How many lonely nights are strung between New Jersey and California? A tent, a cot, a lamp, and enough ink to last me three thousand miles. I’d observe all through the window of the Model T—every curve of mountain, every ripple of golden field, every last stretch of desert—and then scribble it all down once I made camp for the night. I have a Folding Autographic Brownie to help me capture the trip, once I read the owner’s manual, that is. There has to be inspiration in a journey like this. The ad in Variety had said MGM would provide each aspiring scenario writer the contract (three months!) and salary (near to $75 a WEEK), but the ideas, I have to bring with me.
But then, as I was pulling away from the apartment, everything I hadn’t sold stuffed in the back of the flivver, I heard my name and suddenly I didn’t need the notebook because I had a friend, a real friend. Ethel was running down the sidewalk in the rain with a suitcase. It was like the final frame of a movie, only she splashed her way right into the beginning of this one. Take me with you? she asked. She tried to explain, with tears all over her face, about Carl and her daughter and wanting a ride as far as Nevada, but all I could think was She’s here and Yes.
I’d gone to see her earlier in the week. When she saw me on the doorstep, she dropped the bowl of potatoes she’d been holding. Potato and butter and crockery all over my shoes and the daffodils, but I was too nervous to say a word. It had been too long since I’d seen her last and she looked so different but exactly the same. I just stood as butter soaked into my stockings and listened to her babble about her day, her week, the last seven years. She invited me in for coffee, but I’d come to say goodbye, for now, forever, and I knew if I came in I’d never want to leave her again. I still ached over ending our friendship all those years ago.
But I didn’t have to. Because, when I was about to drive away from Newark and everything, there was Ethel and her soggy suitcase crawling through the door of the flivver and I didn’t have to say goodbye. She’d been crying all night, she said. Carl had left her, she said, and took Anna Louisa too. A few months at his aunt’s Nevada ranch to establish residency for a quick “Reno divorce.” I said the right things like That’s terrible and Of course I’ll help but really my heart was pounding.
So I’m not doing it alone after all. Not driving across the country or camping or looking for inspiration across the prairies and deserts. Though I can scarcely believe it, I have Ethel and, at least for a while, I don’t have to say goodbye.
Later
Ethel cried herself to sleep. We were still seven miles outside of Wilmington when she dozed off, sliding farther and farther down in the seat until her head rested on my shoulder. When we got to the campground, I sat for half a minute. Her hair smelled like Watkins Cocoanut Oil and, besides, I didn’t want to wake her.
I paid our twenty-five cents for the campsite, but I didn’t set up the tent, even though yesterday I couldn’t wait to try it out. I did shake out the blanket, that red tartan one that the man at Montgomery Ward swore would be warm enough for an arctic night. It was big—I’d planned to wrap it twice around myself—but I tucked it around Eth still lying there across the front seat. I dug out my extra sweaters from the duffel strapped to the running board and made myself a little nest in the backseat.
I’m writing this by the light of my new battery flashlamp. Tomorrow I’ll ask her more about Carl. About what reason he could possibly have to walk away from her. I’ll ask her what she means to do when she gets to Nevada. I’ll ask if it’s all worth saving.
Tomorrow I’ll ask her all that. Tonight, for now, I’m content to just listen to her breathe.
After all I said about not needing a journal as a friend, look how much I’ve just confided.