Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [53]
“I have some marvelous chiffon hose I could show you,” the salesgirl says. “Some lovely pairs. Dressy. Quite smart. Chiffon is all the rage now. But serviceable as well. A woman must have durability, don’t you agree?”
Yes, he does agree. Honora has durability.
The salesgirl holds a slim pair of delicate stockings between her outstretched fingers. The chiffon flows like liquid from hand to hand. Briefly, Sexton imagines the silky feel of the stockings on Honora’s legs.
“Sir?” the salesgirl asks.
Above him, the chandelier seems to be burning too brightly and, for a moment, to spin. Around him there are voices, animated and brisk, rising to a crescendo. He thinks again of Honora at the house waiting for him. He cannot bear the thought of going back to her. How can he ever explain to her what he has done?
“Get a move on,” a man behind Sexton calls out. “Haven’t got all day.”
“I’d like two pair,” Sexton says quickly. He takes from his pocket a thin roll of bills secured by an elastic band and gives the salesgirl a two-dollar bill and a one.
Behind him, someone cheers.
McDermott
It seems to McDermott that he has been waiting an age behind the man in the long brown overcoat. The customer has been staring at a pair of hose for minutes now, and McDermott can see that the salesgirl is growing impatient and slightly frantic. The line behind McDermott is five or six deep, and already someone has called out to get a move on. He himself would get out of the line if he could, but Eileen was specific: two pairs of Blue Moon silk stockings in Mirage, she said, and at the time, McDermott was happy to have instructions. Eamon and Michael were specific as well: they said they wanted jackknives. McDermott suspects that his brothers belong to one of the gangs that periodically terrorize the younger girls from the mills and steal their pay packets. McDermott has asked around for information, and if he ever gets proof or catches them at it, he’ll beat them to a bloody pulp. Just a half hour ago, McDermott bought them hockey skates in the sporting-goods department. Take it or leave it, is what he thinks.
McDermott wishes he had twenty people to buy Christmas presents for. He would like an excuse to visit every section of the department store — men’s shirts, household appliances, children’s toys, even ladies’ hats. He admires the gaiety of the displays, the color and the glitter, the world that the mannequins, in their dressing gowns and dinner suits, offer. McDermott lets the din settle around his ears and he doesn’t strain to hear the words. It’s enough that the voices sound happy — happy mostly for the early closing, he thinks.
The man in front of him finally makes a purchase, and someone behind McDermott cheers. The salesgirl wraps the stockings in tissue paper and then in brown paper and ties the packet closed with a string. When the man collects his package and turns, McDermott sees a face not unlike those he has seen often in the mill — a face gray with exhaustion and waxy with resignation. Poor bastard, McDermott thinks as he considers flirting with the salesgirl — though flirting is difficult for him. A fellow has to be able to hear the words that slide out of the side of a woman’s mouth, and McDermott can’t do that. He gives the girl Eileen’s instructions, and she seems relieved not to have to demonstrate her product. McDermott watches her tie his package with a string.
“Do you have any ribbon?” he asks.
“Ribbon in Notions on Three,” she says automatically. “Gift wrapping on Four.”
* * *
McDermott lifts the thin package from the glass counter. It flops in his hand. He folds it in two and sticks it in the pocket of his leather jacket. “What they’re doing to Mironson stinks,” Ross says, shaking his head. He picks his teeth, his breath as foul as a rotten fish.
The speak is packed because of the half day and the Christmas pay packet: an extra buck, a cartwheel, they call it. McDermott did his shopping before he allowed himself a drink; he has seen too many men who have drunk their pay packets and then