Prodigal

Sole

If it hadn’t been for her Daddy’s sickness, Opal Pratt might have worked a lifetime at the shoe factory. Anyway, that’s what was told. It probably started at Opal’s high school graduation. Two of her mother’s sisters, three of her father’s brothers and one of his sisters, their spouses, and assorted, slow-witted cousins arrived to celebrate her accomplishment. She was the first from both sides of the family to graduate from high school. The aunts hoped she would be an inspiration to their broods. The uncles only hoped their brats would go to work, and soon.

After the ceremony, they all gathered at the Pratt’s modest home. Daddy had dug a pit and was barbecuing a goat with the help of the uncles and several beers. Momma boiled roasting ears and cooked snap peas with hog fat. Aunt Bella worked the churn for peach ice cream from the fruit she’d brought down from Ripley.

Opal took additional helpings of ice and rock salt to Aunt Bella and spelled her working the crank. It was hard work.

"You’ve done a good thing, Opal girl. You got your diploma and you’re goin’ to work Monday. You’re a good girl and you always make us proud. You always will make us proud, won’t you?"

Opal wasn’t sure if it was a question or command, but she said, Yes, ma’am and kept churning. The whole family was proud of her, and she felt like a star.

Opal was relieved to be free of school. She had not been an honor roll student. On the other hand, she’d never been held back. She didn’t run in the cheerleader/jock crowd, but she wasn’t one of the redneck bunch either. She’d managed to slide through school almost invisibly. Sometimes she wondered if she really existed.

For four days after graduation, Opal luxuriated with no lessons to worry over. She performed her daily chores, listened to the radio and daydreamed about her future. On Monday, her world would change.

Daddy never had much to say, but on that Monday morning when Opal climbed into the truck’s cab with him, he practically made a speech.

I got you this job, girlie, and it’s on my head if you muck it up. I’ll be retiring not so long from now, and I aim to go with my head held high. Do what the bosses tell you. Be respectful. Don’t shame me.

I’d never shame you, Daddy.

And that was her promise.

Daddy left her with Mrs. Blaylock, secretary to the big boss and Opal’s supervisor. She called Opal a clerical helper and showed her to the workroom where Opal was to do most of her tasks. A large worktable dominated the center of the room. Paper, envelopes, pencils, pens, paper clips, and items she didn’t recognize lined shelves across one wall. A mimeograph machine sat at the end of the big table. Opal had to learn to operate it. Mail was delivered to the workroom, and Opal would sort and deliver it to the right people. She could barely remember all the instructions and was sure that opportunities abounded for mistakes that would reflect badly on Daddy.

There were two lesser managers working for the big boss in the office part of the building. A factory foreman had a mostly glass office in the actual factory. Mrs. Blaylock made it clear, though, that Opal was to be directed first by herself and then by the other two secretaries as she might be assigned. Opal wasn’t to bother any of the bosses.

Everything was more complicated and foreign than she’d imagined. Even the three ladies were unlike the country women she knew. The secretaries looked like women Opal had seen in shops in Vicksburg. They wore high heels, stockings, and pretty skirts with blouses or shirtwaist dresses with petticoats. They wore earrings and maybe a bracelet or necklace. Some of her teachers had dressed like that. Dressing nice made the ladies at work look pretty even when they weren’t, like Mrs. Blaylock who frowned all the time and had an odd mole on her forehead. Maybe that’s why she frowned.

Opal was sure that Momma had been pretty once, back before she married and life got hard. None of her first three children had reached five years of age. One was stillborn; one died of pneumonia at four years of age; and one didn’t survive polio. Losing those little ones was probably why Momma held Opal so close to home. Being naturally shy and obedient, Opal never pushed the boundaries. Now she was a high school graduate adult with a job, and the boundaries were way off in the distance.

By the time Daddy retired a few weeks later, Opal had mostly learned her job even though the mimeo machine still challenged her.

One of her favorite tasks was taking correspondence and orders to Mr. Foster, the plant foreman. Entering the factory was like stepping over the rainbow into an exotic land. There was almost a yellow brick road. Of course it was only two, wide yellow lines painted on the floor that marked off a safe walkway. No one from the front office except the big bosses was to step outside this path to Mr. Foster’s office. She never even let the toes of her shoes touch the lines. The sounds and smells of the factory were intoxicating. The whirring, clicking songs of the machines and the delicious aroma of leather and machine oil were far superior to the musty smell of her workroom. Opal always breathed deeply of the factory scents and smiled. Out there was where Daddy had worked so long on the machine that cut the soles of shoes to each size he was directed. Back in the office, she’d made a friend. Miss Corliss was secretary to the sales manager. He got most of the mail so Opal had cause to be at Miss Corliss’ desk at least once a day. Corliss was the youngest and prettiest of the secretaries, and she seemed very smart. She always had a smile for Opal and a few words of greeting.

When Opal had made a mess with the mimeo on some of Corliss’ work, the young secretary had gone to the workroom with Opal and showed her how to avoid the mistake.

Sweetie, don’t scrunch up your pretty face to cry, Corliss had told her. Everyone makes mistakes when learning something new. Corliss squeezed Opal’s arm reassuringly. At that moment, Opal would have stuck her hand in fire if Corliss asked. Opal’s parents were good people. They loved her and provided what she needed, but there was little conversation or demonstration of affection. They were plain folk occupied with life other than Opal. Corliss was different. She sparkled. She laughed. She looked so pretty and smelled so good. She was kind to Opal and gave her tips and advice on doing her work and pleasing Mrs. Blaylock. This pretty lady liked Opal, and it made Opal proud. She’d never had a friend like Corliss.

If there was no mail for the sales manager, Opal made up another reason to go to Corliss’ desk. If Opal and Momma had baked over the weekend, Opal took a little package of cookies to Corliss.

Mrs. Blaylock noted the time Opal spent at Corliss’ desk and advised her to stick to business.

This isn’t a soda shop, young lady. You do your visiting somewhere else.

One day Corliss surprised Opal. Sweetie, don’t bring your lunch tomorrow. I’m going to fix a special lunch for you and me, and we’ll eat in the workroom. No one can fuss at us on our lunch break. Opal hadn’t the courage to tell Momma not to make anything, so she took the lunch that Momma had made and hid it behind some supplies in the workroom. Besides, if Corliss didn’t really mean it, Opal would still have her sack lunch. But promptly at noon, Corliss appeared in the work-room, brown eyes shining and with a large paper bag. Little girl, wait till you see the lunch I made.

On the work table Corliss laid out the feast: cold chicken sandwiches piled high with garden tomatoes, pickles, crisp lettuce, and mayonnaise; mustard potato salad, and two slices of strawberry rhubarb pie. Corliss dug out plates, utensils and napkins. Her dark curls fell about her face as Opal watched, enchanted. Opal followed Corliss’ lead and began eating when her friend settled to the meal. It was their secret party.

Opal dear, quit fidgeting with your dress and eat your lunch. Don’t you like it?

Oh, yes ma’am. It’s delicious. You’ve given me such a pleasure. I … I’m just embarrassed.

Sweet pea, you’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. What’s wrong?

I’m not good enough. Miss Corliss, you’re so good to me and I’m so … nothing. I’m ashamed of the way I look, the way I dress, being so plain and not so smart. You, Miss Thelma, and Mrs. Blaylock, you’re all something. And you look like something.

Opal, I don’t want to pry, but do you give all your paycheck to your parents?

Well, yes ma’am. That’s what I’m supposed to do.

But your daddy, continued Corliss, he gets a pension from the factory. Surely they don’t need all your check.

I never questioned. Daddy’s been sick lately and there are doctor bills. Corliss served up a slice of pie to Opal. I just wonder. Certainly you should pay something to your parents like I pay rent to my boarding house, but you should also keep a little something for yourself, too. Does your mother make your clothes?

Yes.

And you’d like something different, wouldn’t you? Here’s what I think. Corliss reached across the work table and took Opal’s hand. "You talk to your mother. You agree on an amount that she needs from your check and you put aside something for yourself. After a bit of your saving, I’ll take you shopping to a place where you can buy some pretty clothes that aren’t expensive, but will make you feel good. You are pretty, you know. Do you think you can do that?"

Miss Corliss squeezed Opal’s hand, and Opal knew she could follow that lead. Momma was startled and not at all happy to hear Opal’s proposal, but she eventually agreed after some discussion. Four weeks later, Corliss planned to pick up Opal and take her to the dress shop.

The car Corliss drove was old, but it was her own. She was independent, and Opal increasingly tried to be like her. Opal had waited at the living room window since breakfast so she wouldn’t keep her friend waiting when she arrived. Momma was impatient with Opal’s fussiness. Finally the old car drove up to the porch and Corliss stepped out, more beautiful than ever in casual summer slacks and a crisp blouse. The country girl had never worn slacks. Opal met her on the front porch, trying not to appear starstruck. Momma held back in the living room.

Corliss, lithe and bubbly, hopped up the wooden porch steps and gave Opal a kiss on the cheek. We’ll have such fun today, she gushed.

Opal took her inside to meet Momma. Daddy couldn’t come out. He was very weak now. Momma greeted Corliss politely, but cautiously, and Opal hopped into the car to go to Vicksburg.

The dress shop was small. Corliss knew the sales clerks and the location of all the best bargains. She quickly found a suitable skirt, blouse, and dress for Opal to try on. Since she’d always worn homemade clothes, the dress shop made her nervous. She’d never tried on store-bought clothes.

Not that one, Opal said to Corliss. I’m too plump for that one with ruffles. That’s what Momma would say.

You leave it to me. Corliss led Opal down a short hall and into a curtained cubicle. Take your dress off, sweetie. I’ll be right back.

In the privacy of the dressing room, Opal shed her homely dress and wondered if she should slide out of her slip. She kept the slip, and crossed her arms across her chest instead. Corliss appeared at the curtain, pushing it aside and laughing at Opal’s blush.

Oh, look at you, Miss Modesty. You must try these. I think they’re really you. They’re marked down, too. Corliss had returned with a pastel shirtwaist dress and a tan, flared skirt with a middy blouse possessing military-type buttons.

Corliss handed Opal the blouse and studied her young, rounded form from her neck to her toes. Under Corliss’ scrutiny, Opal fumbled with the small buttons.

Here, let me help. Corliss’ voice was husky now.

As instructed, Opal stood still, hands at her sides. Corliss stepped closer and reached for the first button. If Corliss had any reservations, she overcame them. Her head dropped to Opal’s neck; her hands sought Opal’s young breasts. Opal cried out and stepped back, bumping into the wall. The woman and the girl stared at each other wordlessly.

On Monday morning, Opal stayed in bed. She told Momma that she didn’t feel well and that she should stay home today and from now on to help tend to Daddy. So, home she stayed. There was no shame in that. No one ever questioned her decision.

The Waiting Room

The squish-squish-squish of tennis shoes on shiny linoleum announced the arrival of Opal Pratt. Nurse Mary Beth Hamilton didn’t need to look at her watch. It would read 7:20 a.m. At that time every morning, the shift change meeting concluded and Opal arrived, like clockwork, so to speak. Good morning, Mary Beth. Does it look like a good day? Opal’s inquiry was also part of the morning ritual.

Well, some better. Some not so good. We’ll see where the day takes us, Mary Beth responded.

Opal continued down the hall to the familiar third-floor waiting room, a spacious area that felt cramped only because of the mish-mash of too much furniture mis-matched in shape, style, and color. For the most part, there were gray metal, straight-back chairs with arms and green, minimally padded seats. Three sofas in shades of brown sat far enough apart that a single family could not lay claim to the entire inventory. Other straight-back chairs in nondescript shadings, obviously borrowed from other hospital rooms, were squeezed into existing conversation groups. A handful of puffy, stuffed chairs was scattered among less comfortable furniture. They were prizes to be staked out early in the day. An abundance of end tables dotted the room. A gaggle of table and floor lamps stretched up their necks to offer splashes of light when called on.

To a newcomer, it might look like someone’s attic. To Opal, it looked a lot like home. She couldn’t count the days she’d spent there.

Because she arrived early and had learned the ways of the room, Opal settled into a stuffed chair that provided a useful view of both the waiting room and the hall. It also served to accommodate her width. She was not the gemstone she’d been named for. Opal sank into the chair with a sigh. A hospital vigil was draining, but the building was blessedly air-conditioned, one of the few in town with the modern convenience.

Another sigh and she looked toward the single redeeming aspect of the waiting room: a pair of matching picture windows like motion picture screens featuring a Saturday serial of the changing scene on the north side of town. Smaller buildings and a neighborhood or two led the gaze all the way to distant spires reaching heavenward from the Confederate Cemetery.

The Confederacy was still important in Vicksburg, Mississippi. It had been ninety-four years since the city fell to the Yankee army on July 4, 1863, but only a dozen years had passed since the city had once again officially celebrated Independence Day. The memory of that date could not be erased with waving flags and fireworks too similar to cannon fire. The bluecoats had desperately wanted Vicksburg because of its prime location on the valuable Mississippi River. It had been called the lynchpin that held together the two halves of the Confederacy. And because of that, the Yanks hadn’t hesitated to hold the city in siege and starve not only soldiers, but also the residents, women, and children into submission. The resolute Confederates held out as long as they could. They became ill. Women and children starved and died. They ate their horses and dogs. Women and their babies hid in caves at night to escape the bombardment. Finally, forty-seven days after the siege began, the revered General John C. Pemberton sadly surrendered to spare the good people any more suffering. It was the Fourth of July. There had been more than thirty thousand Confederate casualties. Despite the tragic resolution of the siege, the general had always been well respected, and the hospital bore his name in pride.

Opal had been well past her twenty-first birthday when city leaders proclaimed the Fourth of July once again an official holiday. She had been old enough to know they were wrong and had suspected they knew the truth as well. The past died hard in Mississippi.

Shaking the memories and anger from her head, Opal looked once again out the windows toward the place where the honored dead were buried. Was it right that a hospital should have a view of a cemetery anyway?

Opal reached into the worn, carpet-sided bag that carried her day’s supplies and retrieved a smaller bag of crocheting. She was making another afghan. This one was emerald green and gold. It would be beautiful on someone’s sofa.

Opal began mechanically counting the crochet loops she was creating while surveying the waiting room. She would wait to make her walk down the corridor to the patient rooms. The only other visitors at this hour were on the sofa at the far wall. They were a middle-aged couple, maybe younger, but looking nearly used up. From the man’s overalls and dirty boots, Opal surmised that they were farm folks and, from the swipes of mud and grease on his pants and bib front, she also guessed that he had come straight from the field. They were dozing: she with her head lolled forward, his flopped painfully back, causing him to snore and snort in uncomfortable bursts. They must have come in during the night with a family member or close friend. Most likely a farm accident.

A cousin of Opal’s had been run over six years ago by his own tractor. Surgeons had to take off his left leg. They’d patched up his arm, but it never worked again, just hung limp at his side, useful only in filling up his shirtsleeve.

No one shared Opal’s vigil. No spouse was at her side like the farm folks. No son or daughter to bring her comfort or lunch. At forty-five, she knew there were no children in her future, and likely no spouse either. She alone stayed the course every day at the hospital. She would let the couple sleep while they could and offer her sympathies later.

Lost in her reverie, she barely noticed the arrival of Mrs. Jenkins and her teenage daughter. The pair headed to the two chairs just in front of a picture window like they did every day. The light of day seemed to give them hope. Mr. Jenkins had been in a car accident last week out on a country road suspiciously near a juke joint. He could recover from the two shattered legs, but the head injury caused concern. He’d been only briefly conscious at the beginning, then wild and crazy-talking. Surgeons drilled holes into his skull to relieve pressure from the bleeding inside his head, and then Mr. Jenkins got real quiet. Alive, but real still. They couldn’t tell Mrs. Jenkins for sure what would happen next. Opal started to rise from her chair but then saw the strain of grief on the good lady’s face. Mrs. Jenkins had already visited her husband’s room and had seen no change. Opal