Prom Night in Purgatory (Slow Dance in P)

~9~

A Time to Weep





It was much, much later when Maggie was awakened by the sounds of bumping and dragging above her. Her room was just a short flight of stairs below the large attic filled with decades of Honeycutt memorabilia. She lay in bed, listening, still too sleepy to be frightened, yet unable to ignore the fact that something or someone was in the attic. When she had dragged herself in from Johnny’s car earlier that night, she had avoided Irene because she didn’t want to share her pain and knew she couldn’t hide it. She had avoided even her own reflection because she knew it was written all over her face. She had crawled into her bed, and Irene had stuck her head in after a while. Irene hadn’t said anything, and Maggie had feigned sleep. Irene had stared for several long moments and then pulled the door shut again, sighing a little as she did.

Now, several hours later, Maggie was pulled from sweet oblivion and felt resentful of the boogie man who had disturbed what little peace she had left. Tossing off the blankets, she grumbled to her bedroom door and wobbled up the stairs to the attic. The stairway was lit, and Maggie could see that the lights in the attic were also blazing.

“Aunt Irene?” Maggie rubbed her bleary eyes and looked at the disorder around her. Just a few months ago she’d organized every inch of the space. Now it was a disaster. Boxes were over turned and dresses pulled out of protective zippered linings. A few hats had been tossed helter skelter, and in the corner, with tears streaming down her face, Irene Honeycutt sat on a faded love seat in a gauzy peach formal, hair done and make-up on. Thoughts of Dickens’ Miss Havisham from freshman year English rose unbidden in Maggie’s head, and she shuddered a bit at the comparison.

The dress was loose at the bust; Irene’s frail shoulders and shrunken chest didn’t fill it out as well as her younger self. The waist was pulled tight, where age had thickened her youthful form, but she had managed to zip it, even still. She looked terribly uncomfortable.

“Irene?” Maggie said again, trying not to overreact at finding the bride of Frankenstein crying in her attic in the middle of the night.

“Hello, dear,” Irene burbled, attempting cheeriness and normalcy, and failing miserably. “I was just wondering if I could fit into this old thing...I was up here looking for Lizzie’s record player. I don’t know what I’ve done with it.”

“You’re all dolled up. Make up and hair at three a.m., Auntie?” Maggie sat down next to Irene on the dusty love seat and reached out to finger the skirt of the peach confection.

“Go ahead, say it, I’m a silly old woman!” Irene tried to smile, but her words ended in a sob, and she mopped at her eyes with an old flannel doll blanket.

Maggie didn’t respond to that. Irene wasn’t silly. She was sad and obviously troubled about something. Maggie wondered if it had anything to do with seeing Johnny Kinross back from the grave, sitting in all his youthful glory in front of her house earlier in the day.

“This is beautiful. Is it the dress you wore to the prom? I think I recognize it from one of the pictures in Roger’s scrapbook.”

“It’s funny...I remember wearing red to the prom. I came up here looking for the dress. I know I have a red dress.”

“So you didn’t come up here looking for the record player?” Maggie poked at her and tried not to smile.

Irene shot her a look that indicated she thought Maggie rude for pointing out her lie. Her tears stopped falling, though, and she smacked Maggie lightly on the arm.

“Smarty pants!” Irene huffed, and Maggie snickered, making Irene smile a little too.

“I remember this dress now. I really am getting old. I did wear this. I had purchased the red dress, but at the last moment I got cold feet. Lizzie, my little sister, informed me that no one would be wearing red and I would feel silly. She was right. It was the only time I ever took fashion advice from a ten-year-old. The funny thing was another girl at the prom was wearing a red dress just like it. I’d forgotten all about her. She stood out like a sore thumb, but she looked wonderful. Johnny danced with her...” Irene’s eyes filled with tears once more, and she stopped talking and suddenly stood. “That dress is here somewhere.”

Irene started pulling dress bags from a long, free-standing rack, unzipping them like she was on a quest. Maggie scurried after her, tidying up the abandoned and discarded articles of clothing Irene left in her wake.

“Here! I knew it was here somewhere,” Irene cackled gleefully, and wrenched an armful of red from a dress bag smashed between two others. Irene’s curled and pinned coif was now a rat’s nest, and her eye makeup was smeared, but she seemed extraordinarily pleased with herself, so Maggie didn’t comment.

“Look at it, Maggie! It’s gorgeous. And here are the shoes and the clutch! I never even got to wear this!” Irene wailed mournfully. Struggling out from the disarray she’d created, she headed down the stairs, the red dress hanging over one arm, the shoes and the little silver purse clutched in the other. Maggie looked around in despair. Shaking her head, she left the chaos for another day and pulled the long strings on the weary bulbs, covering Irene’s mess with darkness. Gingerly she made her way down the stairs and went in search of her aunt. She couldn’t very well go back to bed when Irene was having a major melt-down.

She found Irene in her bedroom, sitting at the ornate vanity in the corner, fixing her smudged makeup and smoothing her ruffled hair. Maggie hadn’t spent any time in Irene’s room, and she looked around at the girlish abode with troubled eyes. The big mahogany bed had a wilted canopy above it with long curtains that could be closed at night. The spread was a faded rose color with matching pillows and a yellowed lace bedskirt hanging below it. The furniture was well made and delicate. A small lady’s writing desk with a slim cushioned chair adorned one wall. Pictures framed in roses covered the dresser and vanity. Even the wall paper was a faded pattern in pale pink. Maggie couldn’t see anything of Roger’s in the room and wondered if they had slept separately.

Maggie sank down on the bed, and a hint of lavender and talcum powder rose from the rumpled sheets.

“Has this always been your room, Aunt Irene?” Maggie questioned softly.

“Hmmm? Oh, no. Not always. When Roger and I moved back into the house after Daddy died, we shared the master bedroom. When Roger died, I moved back in here. Gus and Shad and a few others helped me move all my things from the attic. It looks almost like it did when I was a girl. I love it. It makes me feel young again.”

Maggie watched her aunt for a minute more. Irene repinned some loose hairs and powdered her nose. Then she stood and reached for the red dress that was laying in a heap on the thick beige carpet.

“Auntie? Why are you doing this?”

Irene froze, halfway through trying to unzip herself from the peach formal to don the red. Her hands fell back to her sides, and she looked at Maggie with sorrow-filled eyes.

“Is it because you saw Johnny today?” Maggie continued gently. “He told me he came here because it was one of the only places that still looked the same.”

Irene crumpled weakly onto the vanity bench, her shoulders bowed in dejection. After a moment she nodded her head in surrender.

“When I saw him, I forgot for a moment that I no longer looked the way he does. He hasn’t aged a day. I was frightened because none of it makes any sense. It wasn’t until he had gone, and I’d stopped shaking, that I came into the house and caught sight of myself in the entrance hall mirror. For a moment I didn’t recognize myself, Maggie. My reflection was that of an old woman, and I realized, maybe for the first time, that my life is....over. I won’t fall in love again. A man won’t look at me with passion in his eyes. I won’t ever be kissed the way a woman wants to be kissed, ever again. I am an old woman. But I don’t feel old inside. Inside, I am still beautiful and young. I’m still the girl who wanted to wear this dress but lost courage at the last second.”

Maggie slid off the bed and knelt at Irene’s feet. Sadness made her heart heavy and her head drooped into Irene’s lap. Why was it that human beings constantly grieved for what they couldn’t have? She was no exception. She lifted her head and tried to smile.

“Let me help you put on the red dress. You should get to wear it at least once.”

Irene smoothed Maggie’s hair and gazed down into her face, a face that reminded her so much of herself many years ago. She shook her head slowly.

“No...I don’t think I want to see myself in it after all. I’d much rather see how you look in it, Maggie. It will do my heart good to remind myself that once upon a time I was as young and beautiful as you are now. Come on. Let’s have a look.”

Maggie reluctantly stood and, dropping her pajamas, stepped out of them and pulled the red dress over her head and down her body. She smoothed the thin straps onto her shoulders, and Irene zipped the back in one swift pull. Maggie spun and, seeing her reflection in the vanity mirror, smiled with pleasure. She had always been a little uncomfortable in red, as if it drew the kind of attention she’d rather not have. But she should wear it more often. Her skin glowed against the vivid hue, and her eyes were lit up like Christmas lights. Her hair was rumpled from sleeping so she reached for a brush on Irene’s vanity and brushed her hair to the side. She had gone to bed with it damp, and it had dried in heavy waves, giving her an old pin-up girl look.

“Take off your glasses,” Irene demanded. “Let me do your eyes. You know they say a girl can never wear too much blue eye shadow!”

“No! Aunt Irene!” Maggie objected, pulling away.

“I’m teasing! Wrong decade, Maggie!” Irene chortled at her own joke and proceeded with a surprisingly light hand to line and shadow Maggie’s eyes. Stepping back, she clucked over her handiwork. Then she reached for a tube of deep red lipstick and demanded that Maggie pucker up.

“Now. You take your lipstick and put it in your little purse....see? Right here.” Irene produced the little sparkly silver purse she had discovered in the attic. She unhooked the clasp with a snap and dropped the little gold-plated lipstick tube in the bag.

“It’s the perfect size. Look, you could even fit your glasses inside.” Irene demonstrated the convenience of the little clutch. Then, clicking it shut, she handed it to Maggie.

‘You are now ready for the dance. Now let’s see you twirl!” Maggie stood, and stepping into the matching shoes, she twirled for Irene. She immediately found herself giggling with delight. Girls never outgrew playing dress-up.

Irene clapped and giggled right along with her. “The hair is different than mine would have been. It wasn’t really in fashion to wear it long. But you and I definitely could have passed for sisters.” Irene began to hum and, extending her arms to Maggie, began spinning her around the bedroom in a dizzy dance to her off-key tune.

Around and around they went until Irene got quite breathless and collapsed onto her bed, her dress poofing out around her, revealing her skinny legs and old-lady knees. Maggie curled up beside her and stared at the high ceiling as she waited for Irene to catch her breath.

“We girls danced together all the time when I was young,” Irene sighed. “You do it nowadays, and people call you mean names, but we would jive and jitterbug and swing together all the time. The fancy dresses kind of get in the way, though.” Irene giggled again, and at that moment she sounded very much like a seventeen-year-old girl.

“You should have worn this dress, Auntie,” Maggie murmured. “The peach is beautiful, but maybe the red would have forced you out of your shell.”

“Aw, Maggie. I was never in a shell. It was more like a self-imposed cell. I don’t think anything could have altered the path I was on. Not even a bright red dress. I think back on those days. What if I hadn’t married Roger? What if I’d gone to New York and studied fashion like I secretly dreamed. What if I’d gone to Paris for the summer after I graduated like my daddy promised me I could? I look back and think what an absolute ninny I was.”

“Why didn’t you do those things?”

“I didn’t understand that the choices we make stay with us forever, Maggie. My daddy always spoiled me. He gave me everything I wanted. But most of all, he adored me. I took it for granted. I just thought everyone would treat me that way. I didn’t know how precious his love was. Then Roger came along, and he was rude to me, made me cry, treated me quite badly. We called it playing hard to get. I was intrigued by him. I made it my goal to make him want me -- to be his girl. It was a game to me. It wasn’t until after we were married that I realized that Roger would never adore me. He might have loved me; I actually think he did in a way. But he would never think I hung the moon like my daddy did. He would never treat me like I was a treasure, because to him, I wasn’t. I had no value to Roger beyond the pretty face and the Honeycutt name. And now, here I am, seventy-one years old, and the choice I made at seventeen is the choice I still have to live with today. So many times I could have left. But I had lost all confidence in my ability to make good choices. I didn’t have any education or world experience, so I stayed. And I gave my life away.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke but lay, watching the ceiling fan whirring its peaceful tune. Time was a greedy banker who never paid interest.

“Johnny feels like his life was taken away....” Maggie whispered, slipping her hand into Irene’s. “I know it’s not the same...but he has his whole life in front of him and doesn’t want it. You have your whole life behind you and wish you could have it back.”

Maggie waited, wondering if she’d said something wrong, but Irene didn’t reply. Propping herself up on her elbow, she peered down at Irene. She was asleep. A delicate snore escaped her open mouth, and Maggie shook her head fondly and pulled a coverlet over the two of them. There was no way she was getting up for dance practice in an hour. Or school for that matter. Lying down again, she drifted off to sleep, her head filled with images of Johnny and Irene, young and carefree in 1958.





Maggie awoke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner and a cheerful disc jockey counting down in another room. She felt like she had been asleep for a only a short while, but from the amount of sunshine streaming in the windows, it had been a lot longer than that. Irene no longer lay beside her, but the peach formal was laid across the bed. The bed was neatly made beneath her. Huh? How had Irene managed that?

“Note to self,” Maggie said out loud, struggling to a sitting position. “Prom dresses are not for sleeping.” The red dress was cutting into her sides and making her legs itch like she had rolled in grass. The thin bejeweled strap of the silver clutch was wrapped around her wrist; she even had the red shoes on her feet. Looking down at them, she felt a little like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. She clicked her red heels together a couple of times and said the required line about there not being any place like home. Climbing off the bed, Maggie attempted to straighten and smooth the wrinkled dress.

“Where are my pajamas? This dress has gotta go.” Maggie searched the floor for the pj's she had dropped the night before, but they were nowhere in sight. Irene must have picked them up. Catching her reflection in the mirror, Maggie yelped in surprise. The ruby lipstick Irene had applied was smeared around her mouth, and her eyes looked like she’d gotten a bit carried away with the whole smokey-eyed look. The smokey part extended about an inch below each eye.

Her hair was a lion’s mane, and Maggie reached for Irene’s brush with the inlaid mother-of -pearl handle. It gleamed as though Irene had randomly decided to polish the silver upon awakening. Next to the brush lay the matching mirror and comb, and a perfume bottle with a bulbous diffuser was placed nearby. Lipsticks were scattered here and there, and a photo of a young Roger was placed in a position of prominence on the far left side. Maggie picked it up and studied it for a moment; strange, she hadn’t noticed it last night. A little note was wedged into the ornate frame of the oval vanity mirror and Maggie leaned in for a closer look. It wasn’t a note after all, but a ticket stub from a movie theater called the Marquee. The ticket stub didn’t look much different than a carnival ticket - it just had the name of the theater and the price of the ticket printed in the corner - $0.60.

She’d seen the remains of the old theater downtown. The long vertical sign still remained, jutting out from the side of the abandoned brick building. The Marquee windows had been broken and the movie posters removed long ago. There had been a fund raiser hosted by the Honeyville Historical Society to refurbish the old theater not long before the fire that had destroyed Honeyville High. The project had been put on hold, however. Irene said the money raised would now go toward building a new school. She said it had been one of her favorite places growing up, and she was disappointed that she might never see it restored.

The vacuum started up again somewhere else in the house, and Maggie turned away from the mirror, puzzled by Irene’s sudden need to pull out all her old things and display them like she was seventeen again. A ribbon of fear wound its way around Maggie’s heart. She needed Irene to keep it together; Irene was the only person Maggie had left in the world.

Maggie walked toward the bedroom door and tripped, her heel catching on the edge of the heavy rug that was spread across the wooden floor. Wait. There was no rug in this room. Irene’s bedroom had beige carpet that she fussed over incessantly. Maggie stared down at the gaily patterned rug -- roses and vines intertwining in a repeating pattern across a pale pink background. She looked around the room again, trying to find an explanation for the impossible. The door to the heavy wardrobe stood wide, giving Maggie a glimpse at the clothing inside. Tops and skirts stuck out in messy disarray, and pearls and shoes were strewn on the floor nearby. None of the clothing was familiar. The lamp sitting on the bedside table was different too. Last Christmas, Gus had given Irene a gold reading lamp that she could turn on simply by clapping. Irene had thought it was the most exciting thing she had ever seen and had gleefully clapped the little lamp off and on, over and over, like a kid in a toy store. She had placed it by her bed; it had been there last night. Maggie had clapped it out, relieved that she wouldn’t have to get up. And in the corner, a record player in an ornate console, not unlike the one she had seen in Lizzie’s room, stood open and ready, a record docked on the waiting turn-table.

Maggie reached for the door, the heavy knob smooth and familiar against her palm, soothing her in a way only tangible things can. There had to be an explanation. She would just go find Irene. She walked out into the long hallway and proceeded down the stairs.

She noticed immediately that the house had a new sheen, an air of vibrancy and wealth that made her doubly suspicious that she had awakened in a different house. The wood floors gleamed, and the runner centered on the stairs was plush and new. The banister beneath Maggie’s hand was smooth, and a hint of lemon oil rose as she ran her hand along its surface. At the bottom of the stairs was a table and a stiff-back chair that Maggie had never seen before. Around the corner a phone was anchored to the wall . It looked like something used only for decoration. The rotary dial protruded above the rectangular brass box, and the ear piece, at the end of a long cord, was attached on the left side. Maggie touched it gingerly. It rang suddenly, a shrill clanging in the quiet hallway, and Maggie sputtered and screamed, jumping a foot in the air. Footsteps started down the stairs. Maggie looked up to see sturdy shoes, nyloned legs, and a full yellow dress covered with an apron. Not Irene. Maggie raced through the short corridor and into the kitchen. Her heart raced as she looked at the white cupboards, so familiar yet so wrong. The counter tops were a cheerful red formica, the floor linoleum in a marbled pattern of red and beige. Not Irene’s kitchen. Somebody had baked bread, and the loaves were cooling on a cloth on the wooden table that was centered in the large space.

Maggie felt the way she had the time she had mistakenly walked into the men’s bathroom at school. All the dimensions were the same: the corners, the mirrors, and the colors were identical, but the function and fixtures were all wrong. And everyone inside was a stranger. At the time, it had taken her brain a moment to compute and inform her of her mistake. When she realized what she had done, she’d been almost as horrified about going back out as she was about staying put.

She looked out the kitchen window that overlooked the front porch. Rose bushes lined the walk. That was the same. There was the front porch swing. Check. A long pink Cadillac pulled into the drive. Irene was home! She would explain. Maggie watched as the car came to a jerky stop halfway between the house and the garage. Three girls in skirts and blouses and cardigan sweaters in varying colors and similar styles piled out of Irene’s car. They were laughing and chattering, and Maggie frowned in dismay. The girl with the dark hair and the familiar gait led the way up the front steps like she owned the place. They were coming inside!

Maggie raced through the kitchen, praying the phone call that had summoned the strange woman had ended. The corridor was empty, and Maggie took the stairs two at a time, flying out of sight just as the front door swung inward, granting entry to the trio of teens that spilled inside. A door opened to her right, and a little girl of about ten stuck her head out as Maggie reached the upper landing.

“Lizzie?” Maggie cried.