The Dress

By Fay Tarlock

(Previous installment)

Part 2

Janie did not put the dress on until the others had finished their makeup and gone on stage. At the dress rehearsal she had worn her blue rayon print; the girls had looked at her as if to say, “Just what we expected.”

Tonight she was feverish with excitement as she slipped the billowy organdy over her shoulders and let her hair down from the makeup band. A friend at the beauty parlor had shampooed her hair that afternoon, giving it a golden rinse and an end curl. Now it formed a shining halo for her face. Her eyes were bright, her lips the color of the cherries at her belt.

“Why, I’m beautiful!” Janie marvelled as she faced the mirror. She said it humbly, even fearfully.

Stepping onto the stage as she had been taught, her small head high on her slender neck, she was graceful and startling. The two boys who were to pull the curtain saw her first. Their popping eyes were all Janie needed. When the others saw her there was ecstasy in her smile. The ebullient youths who had been parading in their rented dinner jackets stopped still; the girls were too startled to speak.

John Rons exploded the silence. Advancing towards Janie, he took both her hands and said, “Oh, boy, can I kiss you tonight!” “Places!” called Miss Ardman.

The play had a fast, smooth pace. When Janie moved or spoke, or even raised her hand, she stole every scene. The sense of power made her voice lilting, her laughter gay. She felt the exaltation of complete fulfillment when it was over.

Yet there was one more pleasure to come, a dance in the gymnasium.

Janie knew what she was to do: place the dress carefully in the zippered bag before she removed the grease paint. Miss Ardman, however, was conspicuously absent. “Her boy friend came from the City,” Janice whispered in answer to Janie’s question. “She didn’t even know he was coming and is she excited! She said to take off all our makeup before the dance. But we’re not going to.”

Janie watched the other girls leave the stage, their faces gaudy as parrots. She started to remove the dress, her hands pausing in midair to admire herself again in the mirror. After the sensation she had made tonight, she couldn’t go to the dance unless she wore the dress. It was made for dancing. She could see herself floating like a transparent cloud, the frosty white skirt with its red dots billowing behind her, her hair blown back. Didn’t Miss Ardman have her fiance, an ex-flyer who was going to be a doctor? She didn’t need the dress tonight.

Janie let her hands slide to her sides. Then quickly, as if someone were waiting for her, she removed part of her makeup, enough from her lips to make them look natural, a little from her cheeks. Carefully she wiped at the beading on her lashes. Satisfied, she went towards the gymnasium.

One of the side doors was open. She waited outside until the music started. But she was a second too early. Across the floor she saw the startled eyes of Miss Ardman. That lady in her black tailored suit had her hand on the arm of her fiance, ready to dance. The fiance was a tall, fair young man with glasses. He had a handsome, serious face, the kind of face a girl saw in her dreams.

Involuntarily Janie stepped back. Miss Ardman was looking directly at her. “She’s angry,” Janie thought as she stood there, afraid to take the little smile off her face.

What happened next wasn’t real. It was something from a story and Janie was in the story. Miss Ardman spoke to the tall man beside her. He nodded and they came across the dance floor, straight to Janie alone in the doorway. And Miss Ardman wasn’t angry. Her eyes were kind.

She laid her warm hand on Janie’s cold arm. “You look lovely, Janie,” she said in a voice loud enough for others to hear. “This is my fiance, Robert Fleming. I think he wants to dance with you.”

The man smiled and bowed. “If Janie will do me the honor,” he said, offering his arm. In a quick rush of happiness Janie took his arm.

Before they could move onto the floor, John Rons came bounding up the side. “This is our dance, isn’t it Miss Ardman,” he asked, giving the teacher a little wink. As they followed Janie to the floor he called, “The next is mine, remember.”

Everyone in the gymnasium was looking at her, Janie was certain. She could hear the envious sighs of the girls as they passed by on the crowded floor. “How you do rate!” Janice whispered enviously as she danced by.

This was only the prelude, the next dance was with John. She and John were a handsome sight and John knew it and liked it. “Golly, Janie,” he breathed into her ear, holding her tighter, “I went out like a light when you came on the stage tonight. I didn’t know you were like this.” The old Janie would have giggled. The Janie in the dress was quiet, smiling mysteriously.

“It’s the dress that put you out,” she said slowly, lowering her beaded lashes.

“No,” insisted John. “That’s only part of it. You’re so different.” He sighed audibly.

The sigh was meat to Janie’s new vanity. “You’re so used to having all the old girls follow you around that you’ve never taken the trouble to know anyone who didn’t,” she told him, pouting prettily and withholding herself. She didn’t even care if he was offended. John laughed.

Then the waltz music became swifter and John started to whirl. She held her head back, as she had pictured herself. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the clouds of transparency around her. Some of the dancers left the floor to watch. She closed her eyes, too full of bliss to talk.

After the dance, John was surrounded by girls. They closed about him, twittering and calling like birds. Not for a second was Janie left alone.

Don Betger swaggered ahead to claim her. She knew that he had been hanging around the house, pestering her mother. Looking at him under the glare of the gymnasium lights, she saw him as if for the first time. His clothes were too flashy, his hair too long. His mouth was weak, maybe cruel. No strength came from him. She shivered as if a cold wind had blown into the gymnasium. “No, Don,” she told him. “I’m not dancing any more tonight – not with you nor anyone.” She watched his face darken with quick anger and was relieved when he turned to another girl.

Other men wanted to dance with her. She could see the invitation in their eyes. Two of them started quickly towards her. Turning, she slipped out of the same side door and ran in the red satin slippers down the drafty corridors to the auditorium.

Back in the dressing room, she washed her hands and carefully removed the dress. With relief she saw that there were no marks of grease paint or stains. She put on the blue rayon and the rusty brown coat. Outside her arms and hands felt empty, as if something had been torn from them. She knew how Cinderella must have felt standing in her rags on the palace steps. I haven’t even a glass slipper to remember my magic night, she told herself as she pulled her coat closer. Then she raced home.

During the week following the play Janie avoided Miss Ardman. At the time it had seemed urgent to wear the dress. Now she wondered if the smart thing would not have been to have hung up the dress and gone home. She argued that Miss Ardman had not minded. Had she not rushed over to introduce her young man? Still Janie was troubled. There was the matter of a promise, given in all honor and broken rashly.

There was also another matter facing Janie. John Rons’ smile had been more than warm the first Monday after the play. Without hesitation he had started for Janie’s seat. Instead of making room for him, she had slid across the aisle to Amy Huff. After that she had carefully avoided John. She was not yet ready to meet him.

The Flower Ball came on the first Friday in May. Although it was a town dance, excitement as eager and warm as spring itself ran through the school.

Don came to town Thursday night; Janie avoided him by spending the night with Amy. When any of the girls asked her if she were going to the dance she said, “Oh, sure.” Miss Ardman’s face was glowing, a dead giveaway that Robert Fleming was coming.

After school Janie scrubbed the kitchen.

“I don’t see why you do a thing like this when you ought to be resting for the dance,” Mrs. Carlson complained.

“I’m not going to any old dance!” Janie flung the words at her as she yanked out the kitchen drawers.

“What’s got into you the last few days? Ever since that play you’ve gone around here either sulking or pouting. I don’t understand.”

“Can’t you leave me alone?” Janie demanded, her voice growing shrill.

She rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

After the youngest children were put to bed, her father and mother left for the dance. They would not stay long, Janie knew, just long enough to chat with their neighbors, see the decorations and spring dresses.

She waited until they were safely gone before she put on her brown coat and walked aimlessly towards town. Stepping before the big house of red brick, she peered over the hedge into the living room. There was a side window with a lifted shade. Yes, it was Miss Ardman, still in her brown school dress. She had her hair down in a long bob, looking very young, not like a school teacher at all. She sat there, neither reading nor sewing.

When Janie rang the doorbell, Miss Ardman came, her eyes red, as if she had been crying.

“You didn’t stay home from the dance because I spoiled things by wearing your dress?” Janie blurted out the words, her voice thick. When they were out she leaned against the door jamb, trembling with relief that she had said them.

Miss Ardman pulled her inside the door. “No,” she said. “That’s not the reason, although when I first saw you come into the dance, I felt like doing just that.”

Janie began to cry. “I didn’t mean to break my promise,” she said between sobs. “I felt like I had to wear that dress to the dance or I would die. I guess there’s no use telling you how sorry and ashamed I am.”

“That’s the best thing you can do,” Miss Ardman told her, wiping Janie’s eyes and nose with her own handkerchief.

She drew Janie into the living room and sat beside her on the couch. The tension of the past week ebbed from Janie.

“When I looked out there and saw you,” she confessed, “I knew what a low thing I had done. You could have shamed me there before everyone and made me hate myself and you. But you didn’t. You acted as if you were proud I’d worn your dress.”

“I had a lot of confidence in you, Janie. I knew you would tell me about it.”

The coldness and hardness were gone from Janie’s body, leaving it light and relaxed. Her tears came again, not the wrenching sobs, but easy ones. “Don’t stop me,” she protested. “I’m so happy.” She felt clean and good. “I wanted to come to you but I didn’t have the courage.”

“You came at the right time,” her teacher told her. “I was in a low state myself. This afternoon when I came home to curl my hair and rest, I got a telephone call from Robert’s landlady. She said he had the flu, but that he had been planning to come right up until this afternoon when she put him to bed.”

She smiled ruefully at Janie. “For a while I almost thought he wasn’t ill. I was so disappointed.”

The barrier between student and teacher was gone.

“Why,” Janie cried, shocked into speech, “teachers are human, just like anyone else!”

She laughed with Miss Ardman. Clasping her hands over her knees, she confided, “I wanted to go to this dance so bad my skin hurt. But I wasn’t going with Don Betger and no one else asked me.” Avoiding Miss Ardman’s surprised look, she said, “After I wore the dress I knew I could never go with him again.”

“Then the week of misery was worth it,” Miss Ardman said gently. “You can do better things than go with Don.”

Janie’s stifled yearnings and resentments stirred within her. “I want to do better things, but I don’t know how.”

She looked down at her hands while Miss Ardman stared at the carpet. Suddenly she jumped up, facing Janie. “There’s just one thing for you to do,” she said with determination.

Everything had been hopeless for so long, Janie felt none of her teacher’s enthusiasm. “What is it?” she asked, not moving.

Miss Ardman became a school teacher again. “Ordinarily,” she said in her clear, precise voice, “I don’t think that a college education is the sum total of life. People can be just as happy, just as useful – that is, some people. But for you, Janie, I think it is the quickest and best way.”

Janie slumped against the sofa. “I’ve got about as much chance of going to college as you have of being queen of England,” she said.

Miss Ardman’s eyes were bright with zeal. She sat by Janie’s side, her voice as sharp as a new blade. “I’d like to know why you can’t go to college. No,” she commanded, lifting her hand. “Don’t tell me! I know all the answers you have and there isn’t one that’s valid! All I want to know is, does it mean enough to you to go?”

“Of course I want to go, but how can a girl like me do it?”

“That’s the whole trouble, a girl like you!” Miss Ardman snapped off each word and thrust it scornfully at Janie. “What’s wrong with a girl like you? You feel sorry for yourself. It isn’t because you are poor. It’s because you think you are. That’s what’s holding you back! Don’t you know, Janie,” she ejaculated, “poverty is no disgrace! It’s just an inconvenience. All we have to do is get rid of the inconvenience.”

“I know,” Janie acknowledged. “I ought to get away from Ronsville long enough to show people I can do something. Here I’m just Janie Carlson in an old brown coat.”

“That’s why college is the best way for you. It will polish those rough edges and open the way to a new life – for you and for your family.” Miss Ardman was on her feet now, pulling Janie with her.

“It’s easy, really,” she said as they went upstairs. Inside her room she pulled out a last year’s blue linen dress. Obediently Janie put it on and sat in front of the mirror while Miss Ardman arranged her hair. “Now smile,” Miss Ardman said, “as if you expected people to like you.”

“Could I be like that always?” Janie asked as the two girls watched her face in the mirror.

Miss Ardman had an answer. “I have friends who would be downright glad to have you live with them. You could help with the dishes and stay with the children when necessary. On Saturdays and Sundays they would pay you extra to give you spending money. I’ll write tomorrow, but I know we can call it settled.”

“There’s tuition and books,” Janie reminded her.

“Let me think,” Miss Ardman replied, tightening her lips. “I believe we can manage that, too. There are scholarships to help girls like you. If we go about it the right way, I’m sure we can get one. All you need now is money for clothes.” She gave Janie’s cheek a triumphant pat.

“I do baby sitting, but it doesn’t pay much in Ronsville. People have too many relatives.”

“A pretty girl like you,” Miss Ardman deliberated, a critical look in her eyes, “shouldn’t have trouble getting higher paid work.”

She gave Janie a thorough inspection from her curling bob to her pumps with the run-over heels. Her mouth still tight, she went into her closet again and emerged with a pair of saddle leather sandals, almost new, and a fleecy white jacket, slightly worn at the cuffs, but presentable.

“Now we’ll go to the drugstore,” she decided. “Ernie Todd owes me something for all the money I’ve spent there when I’ve been lonely for home. He told me he was going to put a new girl at the fountain as soon as the tourist business picks up. We’ll save him the trouble of looking for one.”

Then her eyes caught the old coat. “Let’s say goodbye to ‘brownie’ forever,” she declared, rolling the coat into a tight bundle.

“Oh, no,” Janie protested, reaching for the bundle, “Ma can make a coat out of it for one of the kids.”

“Nobody’s going to wear this coat again,” Miss Ardman said positively. “We’ll find a better one.” She gave the bundle a decisive throw, landing it in the waste paper basket.

Janie felt a little cool in the fleecy jacket, but light as if her feet had wings. She sniffed the air with its promise of flowers. It smells just like I feel, she thought.

“There will be times, Janie, lots of times when you will be all alone in this thing. Will you have the fortitude for it?”

Janie threw back her head, feeling a surge of strength through her body. It was the strength of a person who suddenly understands himself. She thought of John Rons. He did not seem so important tonight. Soon she could meet him on his own grounds. There would be other boys, boys who might mean more to her than John.

“You haven’t answered my question, Janie.” Miss Ardman tightened her hold on Janie’s arm.

Janie did not slacken her pace. The strength was still there, flowing steadily. “I don’t know how to tell you,” she finally answered in a voice new in its maturity. “That morning you read the cast of the play – the morning I was late as usual – you made me a little angry and ashamed by reading to me. I thought you were just picking on me, but I kept remembering the words. Now maybe I understand what you were trying to tell me. From this night on I’m going to say to myself, ‘I’m rising to do the work of a human being.’ When I’m alone I’m going to remember those words and that you had confidence in me about the dress.”

Miss Ardman said nothing, but Janie could see the satisfied look on her face as they turned under the neon light and went into the drugstore.

(The End)