Splintered Heart (4 page)

They punched in some Marian Melnik statistics and data: How many actual working hours in a year; how much time off for weekends, holidays, vacations; how much time for lunch breaks, coffee breaks, trips from floor to floor via escalator, via elevator; how many hours for travel time to work and from work — all this was multiplied by the number 8 for eight years

The Burroughs whirred, sorted and rolled out a series of cards with holes that told them:

Marian Melnik had traveled 11,600 miles.

Marian Melnik had wasted 5,590 hours.

Total time spent working: 18,560 hours.

Until then, the job hadn't seemed like a permanent commitment. The cards rolling out were like Anatol pointing a finger, warning her — "This is
IT
Marian, you're spending your LIFE."

Then came the day, the moment, when all of a sudden, there was a feeling of wind on her face, a sense of time moving fast.

Fixing her makeup for her thirtieth birthday party, Marian talked to herself in the mirror. "You still look fairly good for a thirty-year-old virgin." She was thinking about other statistics — how many dates she'd had, how many boyfriends or almost boyfriends, how many, how few kisses.

"Silly girl, don't you know that counting kisses is "unproductive!" The word was one of Martin Silverman's favorite words.

There were men — salesmen, buyers, lawyers, and of course Martin, who occasionally escorted Marian to concerts, dinners and movies. But they seemed so shallow. Whenever she accepted a date, she was always disappointed and a little bored. Aunt Paula was always saying, "One of these days Marian dear, you're going to meet 'Mr. Right.'" And maybe that was true, she certainly hadn't met him yet!

Despite the fact that it was unproductive thinking, Marian continued counting. There was no need for a Burroughs machine. There were nine who had kissed her, a total of perhaps thirty-six kisses except for one experiment.

...Stephen MacGregor...
He was one year older than Marian, in medical school getting an additional degree so he could become a Psychoanalysist because, "it's what folks need, honey, and it's a good way to make a buck!"

Stephen was nice but his intonation was
Brooklyn
and he talked in a sports announcer's rah-rah slang. Everything about him seemed ordinary, especially his dream of a ranch house and station wagon in the suburbs. Marian was certain that what Stephen had in mind was a pots and pans wife and at least three babies.

He wasn't what she had in mind. He was stubby, just her height and definitely no Prince Charming. Nevertheless, Marian in the mirror was remembering that experiment one summer night — over one-hundred kisses, just kissing and hugging, that's all it had been — the sweetness and delight of a physical exchange. It had taken a lot of will power to banish Stephen MacGregor. Even over the telephone, when Marian was firmly and clearly explaining why there wasn't room in her life for a serious relationship, a part of her kept hoping Stephen would make some foolish jokes and ignore her logical reasons.

"Well I guess I'm just a late bloomer, Aunt Paula!" Marian began checking her hair for straggling ends, rehearsing what she'd say when Aunt Paula started in. Since Natasha's wedding, Aunty had been asking "Anything new dear?" with a certain pitying, pinchy smile that was infuriating.

Marian stuck out her tongue at her image in the mirror, then put on Aunt Paula's pinchy smile. She could hear the guests arriving. She knew she looked O.K. — not like an older woman about to enter the danger zone of the thirties — there were no wrinkles, lines, blemishes, just a small indentation on either side of the mirror girl's mouth which went away completely when she took away Aunt Paula's smile and replaced it with her own.

"Listen Aunty, if an item doesn't sell you put it on the rack, send it off to the storeroom. Who knows, I might become a hot item next season — maybe your niece will come into style and catch the eye of Mr. Right in the Spring."

Marian bantered with her guests, accepting the teasing remarks about getting older with high good humor. But when it was time to make a wish and blow out the candles on the birthday cake, Marian just stood there. Clothes? Jewelry? A new record player? What good luck something was there to wish for?

Nothing came to mind.

It was embarrassing — like the first day she wore a bra to school — no one could see the bra but how different and strange she felt with it there.

It was a looking down from above feeling, like the day she got her diploma — years of work and all she had was a rolled up tube of paper.

Everyone was waiting, the candles were melting, so she said "What I want is one of those new digital alarm clock radios, that way I can keep track of time passing, to pretty music!"

There was dead silence. No one laughed. No one seemed to realize that she was joking. And that was scary — that was the moment when Marian realized that being thirty was serious.

Marian enrolled in a twice-a-week sewing course, a one-year program that would progress from machine techniques to cutting, draping, pattern making and fine tailoring. "Sewing might just turn out to be very productive," Marian decided. A new, specific skill might get her out of the department store world and into a more creative vocation.

Despite her father's theory, "A young person, once set on course, cannot change directions", Marian was determined to change directions.

Two other nights a week, she attended music classes in advanced harmony and composition. Marian had a tune humming around in her head, a simple melodic line that exploded into chords and dissonance. She'd had it in her mind for a long time. Immediately after the second class, she started noting it down on music paper — symphonic variations — "For My Father," was the title.

"It isn't too late for me to become a composer," she told him in her mind. "Some of the greatest were late bloomers!"

Never before had Marian worried about losing time, but now she was. Monday sometimes became Friday before she had time to figure out what date or what day of the week it was. She was always hurrying. There weren't enough hours in the day, or enough minutes in the hour. She felt as if she were racing, running, sometimes getting out of breath. When once upon a time, a week was like a year, after that thirtieth birthday a year sometimes seemed like a week.

It was on Marian's thirty-third birthday that she bought herself a spinet. It was for her bedroom. She'd been practicing and composing on the
Baldwin
in the living room. The symphonic variations were evolving too slowly; she wanted to re-score them as a chamber concerto. While the small spinet did not have the volume or resonance of a grand, it gave Marian the ability to work on her music in privacy.

But Hannah came knocking on the bedroom door because there was a photo in a magazine she wanted to show her daughter, or because she remembered something she wanted her daughter to pick up at the store. She would interrupt to remind Marian about a leaky faucet. Or to discuss a letter that had to be sent to the lawyer. Or to talk about the headache she had and the fact that her blood pressure was up.

Things were changing at the store too. There were frictions, frustrations. Marian was doing more and more of the Executive Manager's work. Nobody gave her special praise or special attention anymore, it was considered part of her job. Promotion of some sort was again overdue, it was certainly time for an increase in salary, but nobody seemed concerned.

"
You
used to take people for granted, now
they
take you for granted," Marian observed, trying to figure out how to improve the situation at work and the situation at home. A long time ago, but it seemed like such a short time ago, Marian had felt as if she was the very center of the whole world. Now, she knew better — the feeling of self importance had been childish foolishness.

Certainly she could practice a little more quietly and even, perhaps, a little less frequently. What Mamma wanted was just as important as what Marian wanted, and keeping things smooth and peaceful in their nice home was essential.

"It's LIFE." Marian shrugged off the sense that she was losing something very precious. Conceding a little here and a little there was simply a matter of getting a little older and wiser.

The Executive Manager announced he was retiring the end of the season. It was time to negotiate with the owners, but Marian kept postponing it. It was not a black and white situation. She was not sure how much of a raise she ought to ask for; she was not even certain she wanted to take on the higher position or the greater responsibilities a promotion entailed.

Everything seemed just a little grey.

Marian still wouldn't go out with Marty on a date, not a real date with him picking her up at home and paying for her dinner. But she'd permitted him to escort her to an out-of-town convention. They'd stayed at the same hotel, had breakfast, lunch and supper, after-dinner-drinks together. It was difficult to stick to the principle of not getting social with an employee when he was so helpful with baggage. When he was always opening doors, bringing sweet rolls and flowers for her desk and managing to get front row seats for the Philharmonic.

Skinny Martin was also changing. He was filling out. Perhaps it was because he was working with weights, or because he was getting older and wiser but the fact was, Marty was getting to be a reasonably attractive man.

How a person looked didn't seem to be all that important anymore — for instance, the twigs at the corners of her eyes, the indentations on her cheek — they seemed to be there most of the time, when she was smiling or not smiling. Or the grey hairs that she'd found, just a few among the light brown — didn't everyone get a little grey hair sooner or later?

Somewhere around that time, Marian stopped talking to the girl in the mirror. For the first time in her life, she began to feel depressed — not deeply depressed as Mamma was, after a visit to Ralph. Just vaguely heavy, dull and sleepy a lot of the time.

It seemed sensible to heed the telephone advice from Aunt Paula — they spoke at least once a day about Hannah's blood pressure. "Marian dear, you work too hard. It's time for you to begin to take it easy."

Of course, Marian continued to do fulfill all her jobs at the store. She didn't shirk any of her responsibilities, but the fact of the matter was, it really wasn't necessary to work so hard. She watched more television, read more books — didn't finish most of them because each week there was so much to catch up with from last week's
Sunday Times
.

A birthday went by without anyone acknowledging it. Marian didn't bother to remind Mamma and Mamma forgot to buy the usual cake. The concerto was put on the shelf temporarily. The shopping, the domestic chores were attended to without objection. Her clothes seemed snugger at the waist and hips but she needed the nourishment, she was too tired at the end of a day, to bother with counting calories and carbohydrates.

It was as if the intellect-energy battery needed to be replaced or recharged and Marian was too worn out to do the job.

Faraway in the corner of her mind she knew that her father was right as usual when he'd said, "A young person, once set on course, cannot change directions." There didn't seem to be any new directions to try.

It would have been helpful if she could have talked about all this with somebody. She couldn't talk about it with Mamma. Mamma was her only friend but Mamma had become a bit of a nag.

"Clean up your room dear. Those papers on the spinet, it looks dreadful, Marian darling!"

"Marian dear, did you forget to bring home the new shower curtain? This is the second time I've asked you. We need a new shower curtain dear!"

"Why don't we have the Sheldons to dinner Marian dear? I need to discuss the insurance. Did you talk to Paul yet, about our taxes?

"Finish the vegetables Marian, a girl your age needs the vitamins and minerals.

"Darling — your toothbrush, it's pink! My goodness, you better make an appointment with the dentist immediately!"

"Yes Mamma." "Of course, Mamma." "Right away, Mamma." Whatever, whenever Mamma needed, requested, suggested, nagged — Marian simply obeyed.

Miss Cresset, the receptionist and assistant at the Dentist's office, was happenstance. Perhaps if Marian had brushed her teeth regularly, if there hadn't been pink on the toothbrush, if Mamma hadn't nagged, LIFE might never have changed. It was luck — fickle, blind, lucky coincidence.

At least twice a year, for the past thirty years, Marian had passed by Cresset's desk.

A bit greyer but otherwise the same, Miss Cresset was sitting there on her straight-backed chair at the same desk in that same rectangular anteroom which was one of a hundred identical anterooms in an imposing old stone office building.

"Receding gums," Dr. Rothman explained, "The bleeding is just a symptom. It's quite normal for the gums to recede at this point Miss Melnik. Just brush twice a day and gargle with the mouthwash Miss Cresset will give you. I'll want to see you once a week for a month until we get your condition under control."

...But how do you control age...
Though Marian was just thirty-four-and-a-half at the time, she knew receding gums were a sign of age — she remembered watching her Daddy shave, systematically brushing, rinsing and gargling because of his receding gums.