Machine Dreams

been so careful to get her a nice one. She shouldn’t be scared; she’d done the right thing. The Victrola clicked off then in the parlor and she heard the dancers arguing good-naturedly about what to play next.
    After her mother had gotten sick, Jean had started going out almost exclusively with older men. When she was with them shefelt she was wearing a sort of disguise, being her best, most responsible self. Convincing everyone that she was, at twenty-one, head of a household, nurse to her mother, a working woman. She belonged with older men, not kids her age. The funny thing was, once you knew the older men you realized they were just like the kids, only they had better jobs, more money, and were more polite. When they drank, they got sad instead of happy. She looked at herself again in the spotless bathroom mirror and shook her head; she probably saw things wrong. Mitch and Reb were plenty happy tonight. And it was uncharitable to look at things so hard; still, she didn’t see as much to admire as she got older. Pointless, really, a lot of what happened. Didn’t people have to do more than just endure? Didn’t they have to be smart, as well, and know what things meant? Oh, she compared everyone to her mother: maybe that was what scared her. God, did she hate it—her mother’s strength? It was what she loved most and what she hated. Her mother had fought for every minute, and here Jean stood in this bathroom, or on a street in the town, or in Gladys’ kitchen, with all the years stretched in front of her. Oh, how had Gracie known so much? Even when JT was craziest, she’d seemed to value him in some strange way at the same time she held her own against him. It was how she’d been with the cancer, too: as though she respected her own assailant because it was part of her; she watched and didn’t panic and was somehow guided. How? Where had it come from? In the parlor someone had put on a record. Laughter as an Ellington tune came on so loud the sound distorted—Marthella’s laughter, Jean could tell. The volume was lowered a little then and a girl vocalist’s sloe gin voice rolled out over the melancholy swing of the music.
    Jean couldn’t think anymore; she wanted to dance. She opened the door and shut off the light and stood in the dim hallway. Straight ahead in the parlor Mitch was dancing with Marthella, jostled between two other couples. The others moved and Jean saw his hands cupped low on Marthella’s red skirt, caressing her hips and moving up to touch the small of her back. He pulled her against him. Jean knew his touch exactly: hard and slow and firm. Oh, didn’t they know everyone could see them? She turned away, her face burning, and walked down the hall toward thekitchen. She stopped then and leaned against the wall. Bess, Gladys, Cora: they’d all see her embarrassment if she walked in now. If she said something to Mitch later, he’d tell her she was only being prudish or that she hadn’t seen what she saw. Well, she wouldn’t say a word, but she wouldn’t be coming back to one of these parties.
The things I tell my pillow, no woman should
; over the sound of the music, Jean heard the wind of the storm still blowing, and women talking in the kitchen. A scraping of chairs. Bess must be leaving.
    Maybe Jean shouldn’t be embarrassed. Cora certainly wasn’t; she didn’t seem to mind at all. Maybe Jean shouldn’t either, but Mitch could damn well respect her and be discreet. Everyone was watching him with Marthella; Jean was ashamed but not really surprised. The truth was she’d never felt she owned him, that he was hers. He’d never belong to anyone the way some men belonged to women. Jean guessed she’d liked that in the beginning: his aloneness meant she could pay attention to other things. Well, here was the price. She’d have to pay it.
    “Jean.” Bess stood opposite her in the hall, her tall, thin form bundled in her heavy coat.
    “Bess, you’re going? We hardly got to say hello, with all the dancing. I’m just taking a rest.”
    Deliberately, they looked into each other’s faces and didn’t glance toward the parlor.
    “Yes, it’s late,” Bess said, “and Katie has a bad cold. Clayton’s not much of a nurse.”
    “But Katie’s done awfully well this winter, hasn’t she?”
    “Well, she’s twelve and says she’s too old now to be a sickly child.”
    Bess touched Jean’s arm, and her hand was dry and warm. Jean covered the hand with her own palm. Bess