What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [44]
“All of that—the needles and the records—starts to add up. That’s a lot of money for a salesgirl,” said Candy.
“Who bought yours?” Teresa asked.
Candy’s arms tightened in their fold. “A boy I’ve been seeing.”
“That’s generous of him.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” said Candy.
Though she was on the ladder and above Candy, Teresa felt vulnerable and intimidated, as if it were not Candy at the bottom of the ladder but Mr. Carson’s awkward teenage son, trying to look up her skirt. Candy’s banter was odd—she rarely spoke to Teresa except to give orders.
“I saw you,” Candy finally said. “In front of the record shop. I was on my way to get a couple of doughnuts for me and Mr. Carson and I saw you standing out by the window.”
How long? she wanted to ask Candy. Teresa pictured her standing across the street the entire time, silently watching, with hardly anyone else around to notice either of them. She imagined seeing herself as Candy had, looking at a still figure admiring the glacial turns of the records hanging from fishline, the shimmer of the window, and how easy it was to guess what she desired.
But there was nothing—was there?—in Candy making note of her standing in front of the shop. Teresa looked down at the clipboard and the salmon-colored index cards as if they might give her an idea of what to say. Candy, though, spoke first.
“You stand in front of store windows a lot,” she said.
Teresa swallowed. “I like to watch the variety shows at lunch,” she said calmly.
“The singers,” said Candy. “I didn’t know you sang.”
“Well, I don’t—”
But Candy interrupted. “I saw you yesterday, too. Riding in Dan Watson’s truck.” She looked up at Teresa, and the tone in her voice was unmistakable: accusatory, yet not mean spirited, a flat statement that dared to be denied, as if she were confronting Teresa with an empty cashbox, wordless, yet with the facts in hand, a fact that needed to be explained.
“He was taking me home,” Teresa said cautiously, the words feeling too deliberate. She knew immediately that she would not be able to say either too little or too much.
Candy already had a story in her head, standing there in her pleated purple skirt, a thin gold bracelet shimmering on her wrist, her blue blouse with a stitched pattern on the collar, a sheer pink scarf knotted at the side of her long throat. She shopped at department stores rather than make her own clothes from Simplicity patterns from TG&Y—that much Teresa could tell just by looking at her, though in truth she knew nothing about Candy. Candy gave her things to do, instructed her as if she were the boss when in fact they were hired to perform the same tasks. A pretty girl who shopped at department stores, who owned a record player, was being courted by a sweet boy, and yet somehow still wanted more and could not hide it.
Teresa knew she shouldn’t say any more, but she wanted Candy to know and not know at the same time: “He plays guitar and he’s teaching me,” Teresa said, and the moment she said it, she realized for the first time that maybe her own life could be an existence that others could dream about. That everyone, at one time or another, stood near a window and looked out, imagining a life that was not their own. “How do you know him?” she asked, because she wanted to ask the questions now, not just answer them.
“Everyone knows Dan Watson. Just like everyone knows Mr. Carson. Just like everyone knows everyone here.”
“No one knows me.”
“I know you,” said Candy, but both of them knew it wasn’t so. All she knew was that her name was Teresa and that she stood outside store windows for a long time and that the most handsome man in Bakersfield had opened the door to his pickup truck to give her a ride home.
Mr. Carson’s heavy, lopsided footsteps sounded at the entrance to the storage room, and that finally broke Candy away from the aisle. She eased back toward the desk as if she had