Marie

A quiet smile moved across Ellen's pale lips. She stood, hips resting against the cupboard, slicing a yellow onion on the counter. At each slice a tiny spray of oily onion juice misted upwards. Translucent concentric rings of onion lay on the chopping board, leaning on each other.

As she cut the last slice from the papery yellow skin she was blinking frantically; she stepped back and rinsed off her hands under the kitchen faucet. She was remembering the look on Jay Leed's face when he passed by their room in the teachers' dorm. She and Cal had been given the octagonal room in the center of the second floor and they had painted each wall a different color. Jane, who was just learning to talk, was delighted.

"Jane, this is red." And Ellen would point to the red wall.

"Red, ed!!" Jane would say gleefully, sticking out her belly.

construction paper cut-outs of the alphabet were Scotch-taped to the walls, Mother Goose illustrations, magazine pages, origami birds with their wings extended, pictures of whales and posters showing the plants of the solar system in their repetitive journeys through starry blackness. Jay Leed, the headmaster of the boarding school, had peered in at the chaos, his face stuck for a moment in appalled indecision, shook his head and walked on. Twenty years later the memory still made Ellen smile a private smile of mischief.

She dried her hands on the faded dishtowel, feeling her swollen knuckles. Arthritis at forty-five. In the old days she had had suchlovely fingers, long, thin and delicate, bare of rings, fingernails unpainted and cut close like a man's. Clasping her hands, she had felt beautiful.

Through the window above the sink, Ellen watched a robin bounce from branch to branch in the top of the apple tree, shaking down honey-sweet blossoms like scented snow. On her first day back from the hospital she had been speechless with joy for the beauty of the earth. On her second day back from the hospital she had stood in the kitchen, hands on her hips, looking about with amused criticism.

"Caaaal!"

He came running in from his tomatoes. "Yes, yes what is it hon?"

"The kitchen."

"What's the matter?"

"I want it painted," she told him imperiously.

"Something really exciting, like orange. Bright orange. I want it painted bright orange."

He thought about it, slowly removing mudy work gloves. "All right, orange it is."

When her husband came in with the cans of Sears semi-gloss paint, Ellen could hardly keep herself from dipping the paint roller. Cal made her sit and supervise the work.

"You rest El, now hush, I want you to take it easy. Don't be so stubborn, you know what painting would do to your back. Sit! Sit! How about some coffee? I'll make a fresh pot."

So she sat at the table and he poured her coffee. Watching him bend his grey head over the white steam, she thought 'he's so good to me' and felt her arms go weak with love and gratitude. It was beyond love actually, it was huge and flowed through her, radiating outward, engulfing everything. Cal turned with the mug in his hand to see her blinking away tears. He went to her, bent down, spoke softly.

"Oh, honey, El, now none of that. You're home now, it's all over."

She drew a breath, fighting herself.

"When they put me out, when the doctor came in and said, 'Ellen,...' I thought..."

"I know, I know, shhh it's all right."

But she needed to tell him again.

"I thought to myself, I said, God, if you're there, I know I never believed in you, I've always tried to be the best person I could be,'" her voice strained against steadiness. "'I know I'm not perfect... God, if you're there, if this is it, I trust you to understand. And if there's a heaven...'"

"Ellen, now hush honey, you're home, it's all over. You're home, I'm right here."

She put her chin to her chest, biting the inside of her lip, then looked up into his face, broad with goodness. Behind him, the wall over the stove was still shiny with fresh paint, the newspapers flecked with orange and the roller resting in the tray. She breathed in the paint smell and suddenly smiled shyly.

"Do you remember Jay Leed?"

And Cal threw his head back, laughing at the ceiling.

She was smiling to herself now, though she had stopped blinking onion juice out of her eyes. It was time for a cigarette. She dropped into one of thekitchen chairs and sighed through her lips, feeling the familiar ache at the base of her spine. Arthritis again. She thought of lying down but knew she couldn't relax until the dinner preparation was done and off her mind. The cigarett, though it would surely be her death, tasted good.

Whenever she thought of her orange kitchen she thought again of Marie Caldwell. Miss Caldwell was a guidance counsellor at the high school; she and Ellen had first met to discuss Jane's academic difficulties. Reading books in class, not paying attention or, worse, correcting her teachers. Hearing this, Ellen was torn between irritation and amusement. 'I taught my child to read before she was in kindergarten,' she thought, 'of course she reads.' She felt the pressure of pride in her ribs. She and Jane were so alike, both rebels, it amazed her constantly. Ellen explained her point of view to Miss Caldwell. The two became good friends, and even after Jane graduated and left for college dorms, her counsellor visited Ellen every week. The two sat in the kitchen talking over coffee, buttering slices of home-baked bread.

"This is just delicious bread, Ellen, I don't know how you do it!"

"Oh heavens!" Ellen clicked her tongue.

They smiled wamrly at each other across the table and Marie looked away.

"It's a recipe I found in Good Housekeeping, you start with the white bread dough and then roll it out, rub butter on it," she was demonstrating with her fingers on the tablecloth, "and sprinkle it with this cinnamon and sugar mixture. Then you roll it up like this, tucking it in with your fingers... hey listen, next time you come we'll make it together, would you like that?"

"Oh, I don't know, I don't think I could make it as well as you do." She blushed.

"No really, it's very easy, I'll show you how next time you come and you can take some home with you. Marie, be brave!"

Marie dropped her head, smiling. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Her voice, soft and musical, seemed to Ellen full of kindness, full of understanding for human sufferingand a humble love of human greatness. Ellen looked at the woman sitting across from her, the silk flower pinned to her light blue polyester blouse, the faint drift of lavander perfume, the rouge powder on her white cheeks. Ellen's stomach glowed with a strange warmth, her ribs tingled with nervous pleasure.

She saw herself in her own eternal jeans, the blue sweatshirt she wore even in summer to hide the roll of fat at her waist, her breasts that sagged, her thinning hair, her knobbly fingers. Often her appearance surprised her -- except for the arthritis, she didn't feel old. When the cashier at the grocery store called her Ma'am she looked around to see who was being addressed, and then remembered. It was difficult to become accustomed to, looking old.

"Ellen," Marie said, "how did you ever think to paint your kitchen orange? It's such an unusual color."

Ellen opened her mouth, uncertain. "Well I guess I'm a little unusual," she said finally, laughing.

Marie nodded her approval. "I love it," she said as if just realizing. "It's wonderful, what a warm color! I feel so comfortable here, in your kitchen Ellen."

Then they were both embarassed, and sipped coffee in silence.

The next week Ellen didn't hear from Marie. Ellen telephoned on Friday.

"Well, do you want to make that bread or don't you?"

On Tuesday when Marie knocked at the screen door, the dough had risen once and was ready for rolling out. They stood at the counter, sprinkling cinnamon and sugar with teaspoons onto the flattened buttered dough. Ellen breathed in the warm yeast smell, the dusty cinnamon, her nostrils wide with gladness for all sweet homey things.

"I just never could make bread," Marie told her, as if it were a secret. "I really admire people who can. It never wants to rise for me."

"Well you have to be careful when you dissolve the yeast, if the water's too hott it kills it and if the water's too cold the yeast doesn't work and your dough won't rise." She looked up to see Marie's face close to hers, looking back. Ellen struggled to meet the other's eyes and, with a great effort she did, finding herself in a world of placid blue. They stood gazing hypnotized. The oven clicked, preheating. The smell of cinnamon was making Ellen dizzy, nothing made sense, she could hardly catch her breath. Then, independent of thought, she leaned forward and touched her lips to Marie's.

Miss Caldwell did not come to visit again.

Ellen looked down at the long train of grey ash in the ashtray and put the cigarette out. She stood, pushed in the chair, went to the refrigerator and chose a cucumber from the bin labeled Crisper. With a paring knife she stripped the dark green waxy skin and began to slice. The lices lay on the chopping board, pale green with clusters of white shiny seeds in their fleshy centers. Halfway through, Ellen laid the knife down. Picking up a cucumber lice she looked at it, the squared off edges, theperfect pattern of seeds, felt its cool wetness in her fingers. Leaning over the countertop she covered her face with misshapen hands and wept for all the world's beauty.