Kate McNamara Mainstream
5417 NW 31st Terrace 3000 Words
Gainesville, FL 32653
katemcnamara.bellsouth.net
(352)281-0322
The Ring
By
Mary Fallon Fleming
He didn’t know what to do with it. Repeatedly he took it out of his pocket, rolling it around in the palm of his hand. It shone and sparkled, and he felt fascinated by it, as if he were a child or a naïve aboriginal man, finding, by chance, an artifact of the industrialized world.
He took it out of his pocket again. How lucky he was to have found it! But he couldn’t keep it, no, he must turn it in to the police. He opened his palm and studied the ring carefully. The crystalline stone glinted in the yellowish lighting in the print shop. A diamond ring, lying in the gutter by the street curb outside! Who could have lost it? Could it have bounced out of a pocket? Bertram drew his hand in closer until the ring was under his nose. Behind him the printing press droned and clunked monotonously. Sunlight peeped in timidly through one small, dingy window, only to find itself competing for brilliance with the bare light bulb hanging from the low ceiling of the store. The ring was so elegant, so rich! Its facets glittered and twinkled, contrasting sharply with the dull grayish walls of Bertram’s workplace. His fingers, blackened with ink, curled into a fist. He studied his hand. The ring was there, warm in his sweaty palm, a reminder that others led lives that he could only dream of.
“Hey, Bert, what are you doing?”
Bertram looked up in surprise. His boss, Mr. Frank, had come through the door from the store front, finding him in idleness. Quickly Bertram shoved the ring into his pocket. How unlike him, to be caught loafing! He cleared his throat, afraid of a reprimand. It was hard to work for Mr. Frank.
“Nothing, Mr. Frank, I was just getting ready to load the next copy,” said Bertram. Mr. Frank scowled at him.
“What’s that you got in your pocket?” he said.
“Nothing!” said Bertram. He shuffled over to the printing press, making a show at checking the copy as it came off the press in a neat pile. He picked up the pile of copy and stacked it on the table and cleared his throat. Mr. Frank grunted, and then disappeared again behind the door into the store front.
With the din of the printing press in his ears, Bertram looked behind him and saw the door close behind Mr. Frank. For a moment he kept his eyes on the door. Then he shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the ring again. Slowly he opened his fist and stared. It was so beautiful! Each time he looked at it, he felt astonished once more. Within its setting of gold it held a huge emerald cut stone surrounded by channel set bagets, four on each side. How much was it worth, two thousand dollars? He imagined the hand that would merit such a ring, long and pale with carefully manicured red nails. And the woman who would merit such a hand, svelte and toned, smooth skinned and poised, red lips pouting beneath shadowed eyes fringed with black lashes. It was almost as if he could possess such a woman. He, Bertram Crouse, a forever master printer’s apprentice, who lived in squalor on twelve dollars a week. He, Bertram Crouse, would ask her to be his. Yes, she would say, yes, I love you! And we will live off my father’s fortune in my posh 5th Avenue penthouse directly across from Central Park West. I will love you. I will stand by you. I will love you. So the daydream went, until Bertram flushed hot and closed his fist again.
But, no, he must turn it in to the police. He was honest, wasn’t he? He must turn it in at the next available opportunity. After work, on his way home to his smelly, cramped apartment, he would turn it in to the police station. He shoved the ring deep into his pocket one more time, determined to put it out of his mind for the rest of the day.
It was six o’clock. Bertram left the print shop and stepped out onto Convent Avenue and went north. The November sun had set, and street lamps already glowed in the dark. It was cold and felt like sleet in the air. Bertram zipped his winter jacket and shoved his hands into the pockets, scissoring his arms before him to warm himself. The ring was still in his pants pocket. He felt a little uneasy about that, walking in the dark on the lower east side of New York. He would walk down 153rd Street, past St. Catherine’s of Genoa School, right into the 42nd Precinct police station, where he would turn in the ring and know – what, peace of mind? A mood settled on him as he walked in the cold, but he kept his hands in his jacket pockets, and did not fish for the ring in his trouser pocket instead. He could feel his lips settling into a hard line and a frown forming on his forehead. He was almost thirty-five. Where had all the time gone? What had any of his efforts ever brought him? He looked at his feet as he walked, at his soft, shabby shoes, that advanced one before the other as though they were marking time.
“Hey, Mister!” A soprano voice accosted him and made him look up from the sidewalk, but just for an instant. It was a girl, a thin girl wearing a short red dress and high heels. Even as he turned his eyes back to the pavement Bertram had seen her; short bleached hair with dark roots showing, small breasts and thin, white arms and legs. And very young. Behind her he saw a red flannel jacket lying wadded in a heap on the pavement.
“Hey, Mister!” He heard it again, and this time he could also hear scratchy footsteps behind him, someone in high heels running after him. He turned around, and she stopped and smiled, and beckoned for him to come back.
Bertram hesitated. He thought about the prostitutes sometimes, but he never engaged them. Still, there were times when he would dare to stop to talk to them. He looked the girl over as she walked towards him; large brown eyes with bluish circles under them, concealed miserably beneath pale make-up; Cadillac red lips and crooked teeth; a pink garter of lace, which he could see on her upper thigh, just below the hem of her dress. Her legs were long and well formed. He found himself staring at them, and then at the red patent leather high heels that she wore on her feet.
But she came right up to him, and said,” Hey Mister, I can do you real good for two dollars.”
He looked at her, at her large, brown eyes fringed with black lashes. Close up, the dark circles were even more noticeable. She smelled strongly of cheap perfume. Her eyes glittered under the street lamp. She had drawn her eyebrows with dark pencil into two high arches on her forehead, giving her face an intense expression. Her smile was expectant.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Eighteen,” said the girl. She kept smiling and moved even closer to Bertram.
“How long have you been at this?” said Bertram.
“Four years,” said the girl. “I ran away because my step-father was messin’ with me.” “But come on,” she said, “I can show you a good time, and it’s only two dollars.” “Besides,” she said, “I could use the money.” She lost her smile. For a moment she looked down at her feet, at the red patent leather high heels. “My pimp kicked me out,” she said. “I’m hungry. Please, let’s do it!”
Bertram shook his head. “But I’ll buy you something to eat,” he said. “Come on, go get your jacket.”
She smiled again and ran back to pick up the flannel shirt, the heels of her shoes scratch-scratching on the sidewalk. She pulled it on as Bertram turned again, north on Convent Avenue. There was a greasy spoon, right on the corner of Convent and 153rd. Bertram ate there frequently.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Carla,” said the girl.
“How come you’re running around like that, in the cold, with hardly anything on?”
“Oh, I’m used to it,” said Carla. “I’m from Wisconsin.”
They fell silent for a few minutes as they walked along the street. Outside the diner, they stepped into a circle of yellow light that shone through the glass door. Bertram opened the door and stepped aside for Carla to enter.
“Ladies first,” he said. Carla looked up at him with a frown, her quizzical eyebrows drawn together in the middle. Bertram felt the hard lines in his face softening, and he smiled. “That’s right,” he said. “I said ‘Ladies first.’ That’s you.”
Carla’s face lit up immediately. Her crooked teeth looked yellowish in contrast to the red lipstick, but still it was a wonderful smile. A young smile. Had he smiled like that, too, at eighteen? She would be a pretty girl, thought Bertram, without all that ridiculous make-up. Suddenly he thought of his own appearance, of his dirty blonde hair that was thinning on top, of his cheap wire-rimmed spectacles that sat way down on his big nose. He reached up to push his glasses back. His skin felt oily to his fingers, oily and pock marked from adolescent acne. Self-consciously he straightened his perpetually rounded shoulders and looked down at his faded blue work shirt and threadbare trousers. So they must be making a fine pair, he thought, he and the painted prostitute, standing together like that in the doorway of the greasy spoon.
The smell of grilling meat and coffee was rich as Bertram led Carla to a booth near the window, and they sat down across from each other on the torn red vinyl, the stained Formica table top between them. Bertram picked up the yellowed menus that were sitting upright behind the napkin holder and handed one to Carla. The waitress with the dyed red hair came to take their order.
“Hi,” she said, holding her pad and pencil and pressing her lips together in a thin smile. “Are you ready to order?”
“What’ll you have?” said Bertram. Carla’s eyes widened as she read the menu. How long had it been, thought Bertram, since she had had a proper meal?
“A cheeseburger and fries,” said Carla. “And a Coke.”
“Yeah, I’ll have the same,” said Bertram. With a nod he handed the menus to the waitress, and she walked away to place their ticket with the short order cook.
“So where do you stay?” said Bertram. Carla was looking through the foggy window, peering out at the people passing by in the darkness on the sidewalk outside. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, it depends,” she said. “A lot of times I sleep in that doorway, where you first saw me.”
“In this weather?”
“Oh, yeah, well, you know,” she said. “Sometimes my tricks let me spend the night with them, I mean, when I get lucky.” The waitress brought their food. Immediately Carla picked up three French fries and ate hungrily. She lifted the bun on her cheeseburger, removed the onion, and doused the patty with ketchup. She took a big bite and chewed, the dark red ketchup staining the corners of her mouth, contrasting comically with the orange red lipstick she wore. Energetically she devoured the burger, and in a few minutes, it was gone.
“Here,” said Bertram. “Wipe your mouth.” He handed her a napkin. He watched her as she dabbed delicately at the corners of her mouth, like some debutante finishing dinner before the ballet. She was a character, he was sure of that. He ate his burger and watched her.
“Boy,” he said, “you sure were hungry.”
“Yeah,” said Carla, “I’ve been real hungry, recently—“ Her voice trailed off. She looked down at her plate, her bright smile faded.
“What’s the matter?” said Bertram.
“Oh, nothing,” said Carla. She lifted her chin, her Cadillac red lips turning up into an uncertain half smile.
“No, really, I can see you’re upset,” he said.
With one hand Carla reached up and caught a piece of her bleached blonde bangs with her fingers. She turned her eyes back to her plate. Bertram watched as she fidgeted, the color rising slowly to her face.
“What is it?” he said. “Tell me.”
“OK, I will,” she said, “I am upset. I have a problem. A big problem. I—I’m pregnant.”
So that was it! Bertram didn’t know what to say. For a moment all he could do was pity her.
“What will you do?” he said.
She put her hands in her lap and stared at her palms. “I don’t know, I really don’t know,” she said.
Neither of them spoke. The pause was awkward.
“But, gee,” she said. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” She leaned back against the vinyl upholstery, which squeaked behind her, and there it was again, that expectant smile.
It made Bertram smile, too. How resilient she was! He had much more than she did, much more, and yet there were times when he couldn’t muster a smile for days. And the pregnancy, what would come of it? But there was nothing he could do about it. Life was hard enough without taking up the crosses of others.
“Well, I suppose we might as well get our check,” said Bertram. They got up and went to the cash register and Bertram paid, and then they were outside again, Carla shivering inside the red flannel shirt, and Bertram zipped up inside his old winter jacket.
“Thanks again,” said Carla. “I mean, you really didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re welcome,” said Bertram.
“See ya,” said Carla.
“Good-bye,” said Bertram, extending his hand, and Carla grasped it and shook it firmly.
“OK, then, see you around,” she said, backing away from him and waving, heading back down the sidewalk on Convent Avenue. Then she turned around with her hands in her pockets and Bertram watched her walking away, her heels scratching on the cement sidewalk, back to her doorway where she would at least be sheltered from the wind chill.
“Good-bye,” said Bertram again softly, and he found himself waving, even though he knew she couldn’t see him anymore.
It was getting late, time to be heading home. But the ring! He had forgotten about it while he was talking to Carla. Now he put his hand back into his trouser pocket and felt it again, the spectacular diamond ring. He walked away from the diner and turned left on 153rd Street. It shouldn’t take him long to drop it off at the police station, although he might have to fill out a police report. At first his steps were light. He walked down the sidewalk in the cold, and ahead of him he could see, on the right hand side of the street, St. Catherine of Genoa Church, its brick steeple illuminated faintly in the light of the street lamps. Onward he walked, toward the police station across the street from the elementary school, which he had attended as a boy. But as he neared the old church, the feeling of fascination descended upon him again. He stopped and pulled out the ring and examined it as it lay, glittering, in the palm of his hand. No, he shouldn’t return it, it was meant for him, Fate, a message from God. There it was again in his imagination, that long, white, female hand, trembling ever so slightly as he slipped the ring onto the expectant finger. Here I am! I am yours! I will be your helpmate and your spouse and forever we will cleave unto each other until death do us part.
And then he had a feeling. He turned around and ran back down 153rd Street, back to Convent Avenue. He turned the corner and started calling “Carla! Carla!” but no one answered. He began to feel out of breath, but he kept on running, right down to the doorway where he expected to find her inside her red flannel shirt, shivering in the cold.
But there was no one there.
“Carla!” he called. He stood there a full ten minutes calling her name like a fool, until it began to sleet and he was forced to head back home. No, it was not a message from God. He would turn the ring in at the police station, exactly as he had planned all along. He walked down the street with his eyes averted to the ground, approaching the circle of yellow light that shone outside the door of the greasy spoon.
And then suddenly, there it was, the scratch-scratch-scratching of high heels on the sidewalk.
“Hey!” he heard. He turned around. There was Carla in her red flannel shirt and patent leather high heels.
“Hey!” he said. “Say, listen, I was thinking you could stay with me. I mean, I could sleep on the couch.”
“Really?” she said; Cadillac red lips, joyful, expectant smile.
“Yeah, really,” said Bertram. “Come here. I got something for you.”
And there it was, the small chapped female hand, bitten nails and rough cuticles, trembling ever so slightly as he slipped the ring onto the expectant finger.
.
