Chapter 2
I woke up early and left John still asleep while I packed a suitcase to take with me. I couldn't believe that prostitution was wrong, and getting ready to go to a brothel didn't seem any worse to me than for some other woman to go to work in an office or store.
I guess I'd been pretty dumb about sex when I married. I was so green I didn't even know that prostitution was considered shameful until I had been on the turf a couple of weeks! I guess the worst shock was when I learned that in many cities, prostitutes are treated like criminals. While I was at Blanche's, I hadn't wondered much about it, but since I left her place, I read everything I could find about prostitution.
I read magazine stories that supposedly were written by exprostitutes. Some of them were so far from the truth, they seemed ridiculous. In one story, the woman told about the horrors and shame of the brothel she had been in. As I read it, I kept wondering what was so horrible about it. The cat house that she described would have been heaven compared to Blanche's.
In other articles, I found some pretty wild errors. Especially the ones that told how women had been forced into brothels and robbed of their earnings. The girls I knew at Blanche's were there because they wanted to be there and, believe me, we earned plenty.
I read every book in the library on the subject, trying to find out why I had been willing. I felt I had found the answer. My parents never told me about sex and I got my ideas about prostitution from John. But it still didn't explain my willingness to return or why I liked being a prostitute.
The books often spoke of the shame. At Blanche's, I had been shamed and ridiculed when I went out in public, but there had never been any shame in offering myself to a customer. I was embarrassed my first two nights, but it was the same embarrassment that I felt on my wedding night. On both occasions, I had been afraid, but I still wanted to go through with it. At Blanche's, I was willing because I was curious to find out what it would be like with other men.
When I left Blanche's, I thought that John would try to put me in another brothel and the idea didn't bother me. I knew what the men would do to me and what they would expect from me. My ignorance of the facts could have been an excuse for my first time, but I couldn't use it now.
About ten, I started to wake John. He was sleeping and he looked so peaceful, I didn't have the heart to wake him. When I kissed him on the cheek, he stirred, rolled over on his back, and flung his arm across my pillow.
John is ten years older than me. He's tall, thin, and has jet black hair and brown eyes. John's hands are large and his long tapering fingers make people think of a piano player. I had always hated a mustache on a man until I met John.
Grace lived in Parkville, 40 miles from us. I carried my suitcase to the bus station and used the last of our money to buy my ticket. I didn't even have enough left for a pack of cigarettes.
I took a seat beside a window and watched the passengers get on. A woman about twenty-five took the seat across the aisle from me. She was tall, slender, and had blue eyes and light brown hair. Briefly, her glance touched mine. There was something in the look she gave me that made me suspect she was a chippy and I wondered if she knew that I was.
I hoped she'd be able to tell so we could sit together and talk, but if she knew about me, she gave no sign, keeping her head turned, staring thoughtfully out the window. I watched her light a cigarette and impatiently smoke it. She would take a long drag, flip the ashes off with her forefinger, and inhale again. In a moment, the floor around her was gray with ashes.
She looked up whenever a man got on the bus, gave him a fleeting glance, then turned her face. I was sure she was a prostitute. I had the same way of looking at men myself. I look at them, not with desire, but wondering if I've done business with them. It's a funny feeling, to look at a man's face that is almost familiar and not remember if you've gone to bed with him or not.
The bus was filled and the driver was in his seat when a soldier, a sergeant, got on. He had his choice of two seats, the one beside me or with the other girl. He studied us both and when the bus started moving, he sat down beside me. I wished he had taken the other seat because I knew he would try to start a conversation, and I didn't want to answer any questions.
We got out of town and the bus started rolling real fast with its funny swing-swing motion that always puts butterflies in my stomach. I can take a bus for a short trip, but on a very long one, I get travel sick. The soldier took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He held the pack out to me.
"Cigarette?"
I wanted to say no. If I took one, we'd start talking and I didn't feel like talking, but I took one anyway and watched his face when he lit it for me. He had a nice face. Not handsome or real good looking the way John was, but he had a nice face. I noticed how the crows feet around his eyes wrinkled into a smile when he blew out the match. It's funny, I thought, this is the first guy that I've ever compared to John. I glanced out the window to keep him from reading my thoughts and waited for him to ask me how far I was going.
"If you'll look over there, you can see the only covered bridge left in the state," he said, pointing out my window.
I looked down the gravel side road. The wood bridge spanned a narrow creek. If a horse and wagon had been coming through, it would have looked like a painting.
"It's beautiful, or can a bridge be beautiful?" I asked.
"I think so, especially that one," his slight laugh was slow and easy. "My grandfather helped build it. That used to be a plank road, by the way. The bridge is still pretty sturdy but I don't think it would hold up a heavy truck. Cars use it all the time."
I glanced at him with interest. He had a quiet voice.
"Are you kidding me? I mean about your grandfather?"
"I'm afraid not," he smiled and shook his head. "My grandfather built a lot of bridges. In his later years, he built them out of stone and iron and a good many of them are still standing. But I like this covered bridge the best and I visit it all the time."
He was proud of his grandfather and I thought what it would be like to have grandparents or parents that I could be proud of. I never knew my grandparents, but I was always ashamed of my father. We talked on; Tom Sterling, he told me his name, had a way of raising my interest in little trivial things.
"Who do you know in Parkville?" he asked.
It was a bombshell that caught me by surprise. I tried to think of something to say.
"I-I'm going to see-see about a job," I stammered, "atat the telephone company."
It was the first thing that popped into my mind. Tom gave me a quick look and tapped out his cigarette with his toe. Next, he was talking about something else, but I was too rattled to make any sense out of what he was saying. I was too thankful that he hadn't asked me anything else and afraid he would.
"I'm stationed in Parkville, but my home is in Amitythat's about thirty miles from here," he said.
"Oh," I answered. Once more I held my breath.
He didn't ask anything else. The bus slowed up and started to rumble down Parkville's brick streets. I watched the street signs, trying to locate Green street. It was eleven-thirty when we pulled into the depot. It was dirty and grimy; the floor and benches were littered with newspapers and empty pop-corn bags.
Tom stayed close to my side, although I tried to lose him in the crowd. I stopped on the sidewalk and drew a sharp breath. I didn't want him following me. He started to take my arm, but I drew away, and he dropped his hand to his side.
"I'm the recruiting sergeant here and I'm in the post office building on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays," he explained.
"Oh." It was all that I could say.
Just talking to him made me tongue-tied. I didn't like the way he kept looking at me and I wondered if he knew I had lied to him. I was afraid to move. I had told him I was going to see about a job, but I didn't know where the telephone company was. Somehow, it was important that he didn't find out about me.
"I had a very pleasant journey and I hope we meet again," he said.
He turned on his heel and walked away. I waited until he turned the corner and then I followed to make sure that he didn't double back. When I saw him going up the post office steps, halfway up the block, I returned to the depot.
Grace had given me her phone number and I used my last dime to call her. As the phone was ringing, I read the information on the plate above the mouthpiece and found out why Tom had looked at me so strangely. There was no telephone exchange in Parkville. The office was in the adjoining city. Grace answered on the fifth ring.
"Hello, this is Wanda. I'm at the bus station."
"Be there in ten minutes," Grace promised.
She sounded pleased. I waited on the bench that faced the street, thinking about Tom. Now that he was gone, I wished I had told him I was a chippy and where he could find me. He was a nice guy and I would like to have done business with him. But I'd probably do business with a lot of nice guys and a lot more who wouldn't be so nice, so it shouldn't make any difference. He was just a guy I met on the bus.
But it did make a difference. I didn't know why, but I wanted to give in to him and I wondered what he'd say if I had told him I was a chippy. Maybe if he had known that, he wouldn't have been so friendly.
Grace pulled up in front.