Martha

In short, Martha is a librarian. Her life is lived according to achievable goals, won through repetition and ritual that give order and meaning to her tidy existence.

At 5 am every morning, Martha awoke within the first three soundings of her alarm clock. She never hit the snooze button; what was the point of setting an alarm if you weren’t going to abide by it? She would go and shower briskly, not using too much shampoo or lingering for any reason. The purpose of showers is to be clean.

Martha does not wear excessive makeup; she finds it crude and unbecoming of a purposeful woman. A little blush was, she supposed, acceptable in most cases, but more than that and she loses patience. This morning is no different than any other.

After finishing her wash-up with near mechanical efficiency, Martha returns to her small bedroom to change (even though she lives alone, Martha wears a bathrobe when she walks from the bathroom to her bedroom) She dresses quickly, having lain out her clothes the night before on the chest near the foot of the bed. Her purple blouse is freshly ironed, and one of her innumerable ankle length skirts lies neatly folded beside it. Martha disdains jewelry, for it is a clumsy and expensive thing of no real value; who would want to own something so worthless? Instead, she wears a plain silver wristwatch, of good quality but not overly expensive. It has lasted her seventeen years to this day, always on time. Martha is the kind of person that checks her watch with regularity, because she knows there is always something for her to do, or somewhere she must be. Clocks never lie.

It only takes her half an hour to prepare for the day’s work. After eating a slice of toast with margarine and drinking a cup of mild tea (too much caffeine damaged the brain, to Martha’s thinking) she was ready to leave. On her way out, she would put exactly 2 tbsp of cat food into Mitsy’s food bowl. Mitsy was Martha’s boon companion, a tortoiseshell animal with large, intelligent eyes and a feline grace that carried her well into old age. She fed herself, caught and killed mice when they tried to steal food, and was constantly at the window to watch for any mischief in the late hours. All in all, a clever and dignified creature. Martha felt they got on rather well.

Although she could make the drive to work in under seven minutes, Martha always had plenty of extra time, and so today she takes the long way. She enjoys looping around the beach, which is empty and silent this early in the morning. Martha savors the peace; she can’t come here later, when the place is crowded with noise and trash. No, that is not her way. When she arrives at the library she likes to be exactly on time, neither early nor late, and she has tailored her route to perfection. Jill is already there, an early bird as well. Jill is a fellow librarian, a sensible woman, and, Martha suspects, a lesbian. Not that such things mattered, not really, but the extraordinary idea of homosexuality still stirs murmurs of disquiet in Martha’s mind. She holds secret prejudices that, as a modern day woman, she cannot not display to the world. They would compromise her credibility. Martha walks quickly but does not run, because she knows where she is going.

At the library desk, Jill greets her; “Hello, Martha.” Martha thoroughly approves of her practical outfit, the way she tucks her shirt in to her clean pressed khakis.

For her first hello of the day Martha always tries to smile wider than usual, and with warmth she says “Hello, Jillian!” Martha believes in the use of full names, because it is only appropriate to be direct and nicknames were a horrid practice (in her humble opinion) Martha works with Jill in companionable silence, organizing and re-filing the books from the drop slot that day.

“Wherever could Natalie be?” Martha asks, breaking the silence.

Jill shrugs, a look of concern stretching across her careworn countenance. “She should be here by now. I’m sure it will only be a minute.”

Martha disagrees and thusly does not respond. Natalie arrives half an hour late, reeking of cigarette smoke. Martha has strong suspicions as to the character of such a girl and her aptitude for employment, but she keeps those to herself. It is a matter of propriety.

“Natalie, you really should try to come on time,” Martha gently chides the girl. Natalie is a dark skinned young woman who scowls perpetually and does not speak often. She mutters something under her breath that she thinks Martha can’t hear, and they all set about shelving the new arrivals and taking stock of the old.

At 10 am a young man with curly hair and small, watery eyes comes in, as he does nearly every weekday. He leafs through silly romantic novels and often walks down the path by the river, where benches are set up. Martha pities this boy and wonders secretly if he is daft in some way. He sometimes looks at Natalie with a desperate, muted longing that does not escape Martha’s watchful eye. Natalie doesn’t notice or pretends not to. The boy approaches the desk sheepishly and returns a small stack of leather bound books. Natalie receives them without making eye contact, wielding the laser scanner with quiet violence. She hands the book back to him, and as he opens his mouth to say something more she turns away, calling for Jill. The boy stands rooted momentarily, shifting from foot to foot before slowly retreating into the musty safety of the bookshelves. Martha and Jill are conversing amicably. The topic is celebrity marriage.

“They never last,” Martha repeats four or five times. She disapproves of gossip in principle, but secretly enjoys the frivolity of such things. As she and Jill discuss the details of a particularly nasty separation scandal (the man had turned out to be ‘a day husband’, as Martha called them) Natalie starts to cry. Her body shakes in near silence with angry, tearless sobs; a muted sniffle draws the attention of others.

“Oh, but whatever’s the matter, dearest?” Martha asks. Martha always calls someone dearest when she is feigning sincerity. The fact is that she disapproves of divorce and takes a covert and vindictive pleasure from its details. She is simply curious, but never wants to appear rude.

“My Mom and Dad,” she mutters, prompted by Jill’s soothing reassurances, “they split the same way. The other day…I mean, my Dad,” her voice breaks with sorrow, “He just…” Martha lingers a bit, trying to console the child. Natalie will not speak to Martha and keeps shooting her venomous looks, aware that her concern is the crude product of courtesy. Jill is giving suggestive glances over the girls shoulder, eying the door. Martha leaves quietly, intending to continue work in some tranquil corner. She can’t focus, however, and decides to take the air. Outside wait the crisp beginnings of a early Fall day, a light chill counterbalanced by the warm glow of the sun. Martha is not consoled by any of this. She feels a little queer and out of breath.

On the steps she nearly runs in to the young man, the one with the watery eyes, who stands nervously in her way. As Martha begins her descent, the boy moves quickly to block her path.

“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you,” he exclaims at Martha’s look of surprise, stuttering and squeaking with painful pubescence, “but I was just wondering if I could ask you something?”

Martha, mystified, replies “Why certainly, my dear.” And the boy, wringing his hands, tries to explain his question. His voice is scratchy and broken with hormones.

“How old is Natalie?” finally tumbles out of his mouth. Unused to such solicitation, Martha is unsure of how to respond. Taken aback, she answers the only way she can – with complete honesty.

“I’m sorry, dear; I think you mightn’t be her type.” The boys face darkens and collapses at this remark. He stands with his eyes fixed to the cracked cement, jaw clenching audibly with tremors of emotion. Martha feels for some reason that she is guilty and says to the boy, “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll find someone.” Only when the words leave her mouth does she realize how foolish they sound. The boy looks up at her slowly, and though his eyes are damp and weak they color with blind hatred, rage so intense that Martha simply looks the other way. He quivers with fury, unsteady on his feet.

“What would you know,” the boy snarls through his tears, “you old cunt!”

Martha gasps. She is simply speechless. In all her life she has never heard anyone use that word. Not in conversation, at least; not in relation to her! The boy, too, is startled at his own audacity. He sways side to side for a moment, giddy and unfocused. Then he flees her, running down the steps and across the lot.

After watching him disappear from view, Martha slowly descends the stairs. She reaches her car and places her hand on the door but finds she cannot move. She thinks of the way Natalie muttered under her breath, and the way that word had sounded when the boy had said it, and even the way she had seen Jill glance at her earlier. Then she gets in the car and drives home.

At her house, Martha is unsure. She had not been due off work for hours and she has never spent this part of the day at home. Even Mitsy looks surprised to see her walking through the door. Martha spies her reflection in the hall mirror (needs dusting) and realizes she is getting older; wisps of grey hair escape her orderly bun, and wrinkles map the ravages of time across her face. The phone rings. Martha looks at it and knows it is Jill. “No. I can’t come back. I went home. I’m feeling rather unwell.” Martha hangs up before Jill can reply. Dazed, she realizes that today is the first sick day she has ever taken. Sitting in her rocking chair, it seems as though the material of Martha’s being is drifting apart. The orderly events that take up the space of her small, library sized world diverge, shunning one another. She has a slight but jarring headache; she feels as though broken glass is tinkling about inside her skull.

Mitsy crawls into her lap, purring in a consoling fashion. Running her hands through the animals soft fur, Martha lets her head loll back on its neck; a soft moan of defeat escapes her lips. Nameless questions flit fitfully through her mind. She remains motionless fo some time, staring at the ceiling, as though to catch the answers there.

Quite suddenly, Martha has a rather ridiculous idea.

“Mitsy,” she says, “I think I will have a drink. What do you think of that?”

Allowing herself a small chortle, she gently deposits Mitsy on the table and fetches a small glass bottle from a low shelf she hasn’t opened in years. She pours the liquor into a small china cup and resumes her seat. Mitsy looks doubtful.

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?” Martha whispers to her cat, who obviously does not reply but watches expectantly. “Cunt,” Martha murmurs, just to say it, just to feel the forbidden syllables wrap about her tongue.

After a moment’s hesitation she tilts the liquid down her throat and it tastes wonderful; it reminds her of her girl hood, of a nice boy she’d met at the school dance who’d told her she was pretty a long time ago and kissed her on the lips. She remembers these things because the taste in her mouth is disorder, that terrible beauty she had so long ago forsaken for the dull comforts of surety and survival. The lovely warmth hits her heart, which throbs exultantly against its cage of weary bone. When Martha puts the china cup down she smiles, warm honey spreading across a pancake; Mitsy is surprised once more. The phone is ringing, but Martha hardly hears.

“I told you I could do it!” she laughs, long and loud, and something deep and vital has ruptured and she begins to cry, sobbing really, the first time since she was small.

© 2010 Robert Levites

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Robert Levites is a somewhat desperate college student.