When Women Were Dragons(86)

“What kind of party is it?” she asked.

“A fancy-dress party,” I told her.

“So dress fancily,” she said very patiently, as though I was too slow to understand the obvious. “As a fancy dragon.” I glared at her and she crumpled, just a bit, which made me feel bad, so I sat down next to her on the bed and held her hands.

I explained how prom worked. How girls wore long gloves and high-heeled shoes and dresses that rustled when you walked and boys wore something called a tuxedo, which no one really understood. She was disappointed. Beatrice loved anything involving a costume.

“And besides,” I said, “I wouldn’t dress up as a dragon even if it was. They’re just—” I stopped myself in time. I nearly said “vermin,” but that was unkind. Nothing good could be gained from insults. I pressed my lips together. “The dragons are a distraction. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What I need is a pretty dress.”

Fortunately, I had some. One by one, I pulled out my mother’s dresses, which I had wrapped in tissue paper stuffed with sachets, and laid them on the bed. I removed her hats and shoes from their protective sacks and arranged them into ensembles. Beatrice clasped her hands and gasped reverently. The apartment was suddenly filled with the smell of rosemary. The dresses were old-fashioned, but they were lovely all the same.

I tried each one on—along with matching purses, shoes, and gloves—while Beatrice commented on their various qualities and defects. She asked me to walk across the room, turn, sashay, and say something interesting.

“I want you to look fancy,” she said. “But I also want you to look like you. Put on that one and then say something about math. You look most like you when you talk about math.”

The dresses fit—my body was exactly the same as my mother’s had been, a fact that astonished me. We were cut into the same shape. Or we were, until her body was reduced to kindling and ash and wind. (The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.) I shivered. Would my body betray me the way hers did? Would I leave behind the ones I loved the most?

“I’m wearing the pink one,” I told Beatrice. It was pink silk with a tulle slip and a lace overlay on the skirt—hand knotted in a complex pattern that looked almost like constellations. I tried it on and twirled for Beatrice, who twirled right along with me.

“Pink is always the very best one,” she said with authority. “That’s just science.” And she went immediately to her art table to draw a picture of me in a pink dress, riding a dragon. It was the first dragon picture she had drawn in a month. It bothered me, but I decided not to argue, and I did hang it up on the refrigerator when she was done, if only to humor her into going to bed on time. Later, I took it down and was about to throw the picture into the trash.

I paused.

The dragon was black and green. Little hints of silver grey shot through the dragon’s body. It looked just like Marla. How much did she understand? I took the picture and put it under my bed, next to my mother’s carved box.



It was the night of prom, and Randall Hague, per our arrangement, approached the front door of my apartment building, driving his father’s car. He wore a dark suit, the kind you wear to a job interview, or a funeral. I barely recognized him, which wasn’t unusual. I met him outside because I didn’t want him seeing what our apartment looked like. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of it, I just never had invited anyone in other than the occasional babysitter. And also Mrs. Gyzinska, but she wasn’t exactly invited. Sometimes, a person just gets used to keeping the world at bay.

The dress was made of taffeta and chiffon and tulle and it whispered when I moved. A lace shawl made from silk threads, hand knotted by my mother, was draped around my shoulders—it was the color of the sky. I wore my hair in pin curls like my aunt, and I wore red lipstick like my aunt. I didn’t intend to look like her, but maybe I did in a way. Unconsciously, I found myself taking a wide stance. I found myself wishing I wore army-issued boots.

Beatrice, I knew, was watching me through the window, along with Mrs. Darga, the widow who lived in the brick building next to ours. I liked her, and so did Beatrice. She often babysat. Both her son and her daughter died during the war. Her daughter was a nurse and her son was an airman, and both were shot by enemy soldiers, in different countries. Despite that sadness, Mrs. Darga was an unflappably cheerful woman. She was about the size and texture of a tree stump, with a large bun growing out the back of her head like a burl. She often arrived with trays of pierogies and golabki and bowls of cabbage soup, and told us emphatically that if we didn’t eat everything immediately we would surely starve and die on the spot.

Through the window, I heard Mrs. Darga say, “Córuchna, that may be your new papa,” to which Beatrice responded with uproarious laughter and a loud, “DON’T BE RIDICULOUS.” I reddened, hoping Randall Hague didn’t hear.

He parked the car, came round to the passenger door, and was about to open it without a word, when he thought better of it, turned on his heel, and faced me. It wasn’t that he was an ugly boy. Just . . . utterly forgettable. He offered his hand, and once again I shook it. His expression was grave and serious.

He reached his hand toward my dress, and then thought better of it, and shoved it in his pocket instead. “Your dress is very beautiful,” he said, a flush rising in his cheeks.

“Thanks,” I said. “It was my mother’s.”