Free One Hundred Years of Marriage by Louise Farmer Smith

dashed to the base of the tree. She stooped down and saw the red cap on the bird’s head. The first real woodpecker she’d ever seen. Why had she fired without knowing what it was? She blinked back tears and stood up. She wanted to go home. She hated this family. Why had Cecil done this to her?
    Mr. Brady gathered up both their jackets, and with the rifle at his side, walked up the bank toward her. “Come on, Alice. It’s starting to get chilly.” He held her suit jacket by the nape, and she slid her arms in.
    Cecil was nowhere to be seen. With shaking knees she slipped and slid in the high heels as she and Mr. Brady made their way up the rise. Mr. Brady tried to keep a hand under her elbow, but she was still sniffling and turned her head away so he couldn’t see her face. Where was Cecil? She didn’t know whether they were headed for the house or away. She was in no condition to face the women.
    “Now just stop right there,” Mr. Brady said softly. They were standing in a little clearing. Alice’s heart thumped. “Someone wants to take your picture,” he said.
    What on earth? Alice looked about and finally, in the trees, saw the top of a dark head bending over a box camera, hair as long and dark as an Indian. Mr. Brady stepped away. Alice sniffed and wiped her cheeks. She patted her hair, but without a mirror, it was hopeless, so she just lifted her chin to the side and composed a model’s smile.
    “Did you get her?” Mr. Brady said and headed for the person with the camera. Alice shielded her eyes and looked into the deep shade. It was a small white woman with her hair down. The loose hair made her look like a girl, but Alice saw now that the woman’s tan face showed the white squint marks of someone who’d worked in the sun for years.
    She wore a dark dress and lace-up lady’s shoes and held Mr. Brady’s coat while he wound the film in the camera. “Come here, Alice,” he said and waved her closer. The small woman turned to leave, but Mr. Brady said to her, “You might as well say hello.” He lifted a branch aside and Alice stepped into the cool shade where the festering smell of the forest floor surrounded the three of them.
    “Miss Sarah meet Miss Alice.”
    “Pleased to meet ya, Miss Alice,” the woman said, nodding her head with meticulous country manners.
    “How do you do,” Alice said and smiled.
    “Fine, thank you,” Sarah said, clearly nervous. Mr. Brady put the little roll of film in his pants pocket, and Miss Sarah held up his jacket for him. Alice watched as he slid in his long arms and this woman smoothed her hands along his broad shoulders. He took Alice’s elbow and walked her out again into the sun. She was going to have to think about all this later.
    When they came in, Mrs. Brady was in the front hall. “You bring me anything?” she asked her husband.
    “Couldn’t hit the side of a barn,” he said, and without a glance at Alice, headed upstairs.
    “Cecil’s in the kitchen talking to Estelle,” Mrs. Brady said to Alice. “ You can wait in the living room.” Had Cecil told his mother about the woodpecker?
    Alice sat down on the edge of a stuffed chair and looked at her ruined shoes—all Mother’s work on the tureen gone in an afternoon. Her blouse was damp with perspiration. She ran her fingers over her hair, tucked up stray strands and tried to pat the sides into a decent shape. If she had had the money for a bus ticket, she would never get in a car with Cecil Brady again.
    She clasped her hands now and waited for this horrible day to end. These people were Philistines, interested only in money and social position. Cecil loved to hang around the Drama building and help with the sets and the lighting. He was always telling people his girl was an actress or bragging about her reading poetry on the radio. She thought he valued all this as much as she did. But he didn’t care about theater or poetry. And his sisters seemed to think she’d be a social embarrassment.