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for tea, and even a banana when the madam had a
hankering.
Mrs. Stanley spoke to Molly and Sally as though they were her servants. She expected them to do as they were told, and in return gave them her old shifts and dresses, which meant they were better dressed than either had ever been before. On cool, sunny days when she was inspired to go shopping, Mrs. Stanley insisted they attend her, and led the way with stately, measured steps, holding her head so high her hat seemed to float above her shoulders. Walking the Gloucester streets, she fixed a knowing half smile on her lips, which seemed an insult to any woman who recognized her and a greeting to any man, whether he’d made her acquaintance or not. Sally and Molly trailed behind her wide wake, huddled against each other, barely noticed.
They hated those excursions into town; Molly wilted under the glare of the women on the street. Sally couldn’t bear the smell of fish, which permeated the whole city. Mrs.
Stanley made a show of paying for their shoes and buying an orange for them to share. This prompted the most forgiving souls in town to credit Mrs. Stanley for looking after the two simpleminded women.
One day, when Mrs. Stanley announced an outing to town, Sally claimed she had a headache, “something terrible,” and Molly begged to be left to take care of her.
Mrs. Stanley considered: without them, there would be no need to buy a second orange and she might even get a cake for herself. “As you wish,” she said, and went on her own.
No sooner was she gone than Sally threw her arms around Molly and giggled.
“You’re not sick?”
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“You are the most believingest girl,” Sally said. “Now, come over here and read me the papers.”
Tucked in a nest of clothes and blankets on the
mattress, they leafed through cast-off newspapers and magazines, stopping at every advertisement for skin cream and kitchen soap, patent medicine and farm machinery. Sally could not believe that there were people stupid enough to think that Mrs. Philby’s milk tonic would remove frec
kles or that Hanson’s thresher would double the yield of a rocky field. “And them’s people smart enough to read!”
On the day of the feigned headache, Sally took the newspaper from Molly’s hands and kissed her on the mouth.
Molly hugged her and kissed back, but when she felt the advance of Sally’s tongue, she was startled and drew back.
There was a new slyness in Sally’s eyes, and something else, too. Longing. “My Mol,” she said, and kissed her nose.
Molly felt the rise and fall of Sally’s bosom through their shifts: her own breath quickened to match. Eyes locked, Sally took Molly’s face between her hands and began covering her eyes and cheeks with soft, running kisses, returning again to her lips.
“Are you game, my darling?”
Molly still had no idea what Sally was driving at.
“Didn’t you never make yourself, well, feel nice?” Sally whispered and reached under the covers, cupping Molly’s breasts, and lightly dancing her fingers over her belly and on down to her sex. Molly clamped her legs together and pulled away.
“It’s not like with them,” Sally promised. “It’s nice. Nice as kissing me.”
“Then let’s just kiss.”
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