Page 112 of Hell to Pay
“And perhaps to have a chance to sit with you in the evening, no?”Dr. Müller said. “No one could object, after all,to a discussion of books between a man and a woman, especially with such an elderly chaperone.”
I knew my cheeks must be wholly pink now. “I hope not,” I said. “But I expect I’d do it anyway. Can I help you carry all this home? The books are very heavy.”
“Certainly,” he said, “although you must find a bag for the toilet paper. Otherwise, we’re sure to be robbed in the street.” And I laughed and agreed and only hoped I wouldn’t miss Joe’s arrival during the errand.
But he didn’t come.
The next afternoon at one, he still hadn’t come, and I was telling Frau Adelberg in defeat, “I’ll go lie down for an hour, if you can manage.”
“Of course,” she said, “if you’re unwell.” Her gaze was too sharp. “Or is it disappointment?”
I smiled weakly, but only said, “Thank you.”
A chime at the door, and there was Joe. In the suit again, but without the rucksack. Frau Adelberg said, “Fräulein Glücksburg cannot see you today. She is unwell.”
“Oh!” I said, as my cheeks flamed. “No. I can?—”
“Nonsense,” Frau Adelberg said. “You’ve been silent and slow all day, and I don’t believe it’s from love. How could it be?”
I wanted to fall through the floor. Joe said, “Should I come back tomorrow?” He looked uncertain for once, and I very much wanted to slap Frau Adelberg.
“No,” I said, hastily removing my apron. “No, I—maybe we could find a—a bench, and sit a while.” I was wearing the yellow dress today, the one with the purple flowers. My shoes were heavy and black—still the BDM shoes, as they wore like iron—but from the ankles up, I felt prettier than I had in months. If I hadn’t been feeling so decidedly un-pretty, that is.
Frau Adelberg said, “On your own head be it, then,” in a sort of darkly foreboding tone, and I wondered exactly whatshe imagined would be worse than the things that had already happened to me.
Joe didn’t say anything until we’d walked to the end of the street. Then he asked, “Are you really not feeling well? You don’t look quite—” He broke off. “I don’t know how to say this. You could have found a smoother fellow.”
“I’m not feeling well, no,” I said. “You can notice it. You could hardly help doing so. We could sit in the square, perhaps? I’d be glad to sit.”
He asked, “Will you take my arm?” His voice was tender, and when I did take it, my head full of confusion, he covered my hand with his for a moment, then walked with me, sat on a bench among the cobblestones and the odd pigeon—meaning the wily pigeon, for the rest had long since been eaten—and asked, “What’s wrong?”
I averted my gaze, and he said, “Marguerite. Sorry, Daisy. What is it?’
“I’d like it,” I said shyly, “if you’d call me Marguerite. When we’re alone.” It felt bold to say, especially the “alone” part, but I said it anyway.
“Good,” he said, “because it’s a beautiful name, and it suits you. The way you’re—how fine you are. But tell me, please. What’s wrong?”
“I have an ache in my midsection, that’s all,” I said, my cheeks flaming.
“Oh,” he said, then added, “Is it your period?”
“Pardon?” I was confused.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know the word in German. Your menstrual period, when you bleed.”
My palms were on my cheeks now; I’d never been so embarrassed.“Meine Tage,”I managed to say. “Yes, but you shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—you can’t say such things.”
“Your ‘days,’” he said. “I suppose that’s a good euphemism. Why shouldn’t I know about it? I have a mother and twosisters, and my parents are pretty modern, or they’d like to think so. My sisters certainly are. I’m guessing that you can’t get aspirin very easily nowadays, either. Would you like me to ride back to the post and get you some?”
He was so matter-of-fact, I had to drop my hands. “No,” I said. “I can’t take aspirin.”
“Really?” For the first time, he sounded surprised. “Why not?”
“Our intimacy,” I said dryly, “is progressing by leaps and bounds.”
He laughed out loud. “Well, I hope so. Also, is it bad manners if I hold your hand?”
“No,” I said. “It would be—it would be allowed.”
