Dawn (standard:drama, 2857 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: Oct 20 2003	Views/Reads: 3469/2382	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
She listened to music, ate toast and hot tea. Again she looked at the embroidered picture. The cross-stitched porch invited her. She stared at the tiny windows and sat down, never taking her eyes from the mesmerizing scene. One of the black squirrels move

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Both grandmothers kissed the girls good-bye and returned to their homes
and both to their sick beds. Gramma Jean had a stroke the year before 
and Gramma Donna was very frail. 

The girls expected to go home to the cottage when everyone drove from
the cemetery but Aunt Jenny said, “No, your clothes are already packed. 
You're going home with us.” 

The trip in the back seat of the solemn black car took eight hours. The
little girls said very little and tried hard not to cry. They squeezed 
each other's hands and tried not to be frightened. Aunt Jenny and Uncle 
Walter were quiet people and didn't even talk to each other. The radio 
played very quietly. 

There were no children at Aunt Jenny's home and she didn't know how to
deal with the little girls. She put them to sleep in a simple room 
under the eaves. The heat came through a register in the floor from the 
warm kitchen below. The white sheets on the beds were clean. The 
matching worn chenille spreads hung on the floor. Brown pull down 
blinds hung limply at the window. The girls' clothes were in the closet 
and in the single four-drawer dresser. The monopoly game was on the top 
shelf of the closet. 

On that first Saturday Uncle Walter took the girls to town. He left them
at the barbershop while he went for supplies. He left instructions to 
“cut it short.” 

Aunt Jenny believed in a simple life, plain food, plain clothing, and
plain living. The ribbons were never worn again, and the frilly dresses 
were soon outgrown and replaced with more serviceable clothes. Lily 
Celeste had a way of looking striking in whatever she wore, but Donna 
Jean slipped into the background. One day Lily Celeste bought a tube of 
lipstick at the ‘5 and 10' on her way home from school. The girls stood 
in front of the mirror and practiced putting on the makeup. Lily 
Celeste said, “No, like this.” They started to laugh and laughed until 
Aunt Jenny came up the stairs and opened the door to the bedroom. 

“What is this?” she asked staring at the girls, hands on her hips. “If
God wanted you painted, you would be painted.  No, no lipstick, not in 
this house. You are plain, do you hear me? Plain.” 

Donna Jean stood staring at the outburst from her aunt. Her knees felt
weak and her face red but she didn't speak. She was plain.  Aunt Jenny 
just said it. She was plain. God made her plain. She would never be 
pretty like Lily Celeste. She was plain. 

Donna Jean began to believe it. She believed she was plain, and she
began to drift further and further into Lily Celeste's shadow. Where 
the sisters had always been hand in hand, now Lily was popular and her 
friends became Donna Jean's friends.    Donna Jean had none of her own. 
She was plain, even homily. 

Lily Celeste was the only true friend Donna Jean had. Donna Jean never
did anything unless Lily Celeste was with her. They got jobs after 
school at the dime store. Sometimes Lily Celeste went out with her 
friends without her sister. On those occasions Donna Jean sat in their 
upstairs room reading one of her library books and waiting. 

One night Lily Celeste did not come home even though Donna waited all
night.    Aunt Jenny stood by the screen door, her flannel robe 
covering her long gown, her thin hair in a ponytail hanging down her 
back. She waited and walked until morning when the two uniformed 
policemen came up the sidewalk. 

Lily Celeste died immediately when the car she was riding in hit a tree.
She had been so happy that night. She wore a pink sweater set over her 
dark skirt and a pink ribbon in her hair. She had been so happy when 
she left the house, now she was gone. Donna Jean's sister and only 
friend was gone. 

Donna Jean carried her two cardboard suitcases and three boxes down the
worn stairs from the upstairs bedroom for the last time. 

She sent Christmas cards to Aunt Jenny every year, other than that she
had no contact with her. 

She carried a library card from another library and got a job in a large
department store. She folded ladies scarves and put her fine hands in 
nylons to show the color to women on the other side of the counter. She 
ate lunch alone, resisting the friendly overtures of the other 
salesgirls, until eventually they all left her alone.    At the end of 
the second year she was promoted, and then she was called Miss Marler. 
No one called her Donna Jean anymore. And no one called her Dawn. 

Miss Marler lived in a plain apartment on the third floor of a decent
building two blocks from the store. She lived frugally, for the most 
part. She seldom went out, except sometimes on a Saturday afternoon to 
a matinee, and ate her meals on a tray in front of the TV set. She had 
her hair cut every four weeks at the salon down the street from the 
store. She wore no makeup. Her cheeks were always red.    She was 
plain. On Sundays she attended the Wesley Methodist Church but always 
left before anyone could speak to her. She lived a simple life. Her 
furnishings were simple. She only had one interest, and that was 
collecting antique pictures. On Saturdays she would take the bus to the 
sales advertised in the newspaper. 

Donna Jean had acquired several nice pictures. One was a seascape that
she loved to look at. It had a calming effect on her after a 
particularly trying day at the store.    She had several still lifes. 
Yet, she knew she needed something more, but she didn't know exactly 
what. 

Keith Evans was transferred from the flagship store in Albany. He was a
simple man, had no family encumbrance and was free to travel. He had an 
easy way of speaking and laughing, drawing people to him. He was short, 
compared to most in his age group. His once dark hair was thinning. His 
nose too large. But those that knew him didn't notice. Keith was good 
company. He got into the habit of stopping to speak to Donna Jean when 
she ate alone at her lunch table. “Hello.”    “Nice day.” “Do you think 
summer will ever come?”  Harmless passing of the day conversations. 

Donna Jean got to enjoy these pleasantries, even looked forward to them.
Then one day as she sat going over the newspaper ads looking for 
antique sales Keith sat down across the table from her. 

He drove her to the next sale and from time to time they went together
looking for antiques. Then one day in early April, two weeks before her 
41st birthday, she saw the picture she had been looking for. It was a 
framed embroidered picture, of the type that was popular in the 1930's. 
It was a small cottage with a front porch.    There were evergreen 
trees behind the house and on the sides. It was two storied with 
windows on the second floor, and a large chimney, that must have been a 
fireplace inside. The walk to the house was bordered with yellow 
flowers, close to the ground. Lilac bushes bloomed by the porch and 
hollyhocks in the front yard.    Black squirrels ran among the flowers. 


The picture mesmerized Donna Jean. This was what she had been looking
for.    Keith helped her hang it on the wall over the white sofa. It 
reflected in the mirror across the room, so it appeared to be 
everywhere she looked. Keith sat on the sofa eating a sandwich and 
Donna Jean looked at the picture. It was perfect. So peaceful. Finally 
Keith rose to leave. 

Every day after work Donna Jean looked at the picture. The walk up to
the house was so inviting. The yellow flowers were so intense she could 
almost smell them. 

She had lunch with Keith once or twice a week, the rest of the time she
ate alone.    The other girls quit trying to befriend her. They began 
to whisper about her.    Once she heard one say, “Yes, Miss Marler and 
Keith, can you believe he would ever see anything in her, simple and 
plain as she is, and cold as a fish?” 

Plain, simple, she knew, but cold?  No, she was not cold. If they only
knew how her heart ached. If they only knew what it felt like to be 
alone. No, cold she was not. 

She kicked off her shoes and drank her black tea as the TV played
unheard. She looked at the picture. The hollyhocks were brighter than 
yesterday. Dancing ladies, she said, some little girls should make 
dancing ladies with full long skirts and big hats from those flowers. 
The windows were blue. I wonder what is behind those windows? she asked 
herself. 

The next day was Saturday and Keith was to make a trip to Albany, Donna
Jean felt a cold coming on and stayed home from her shopping trip, 
besides she had already found the picture she had been looking for. 

She listened to music, ate toast and hot tea. Again she looked at the
embroidered picture. The cross-stitched porch invited her. She stared 
at the tiny windows and sat down, never taking her eyes from the 
mesmerizing scene. One of the black squirrels moved! No, that was her 
imagination! Wasn't it? 

After lunch she laid down on the coach. Suddenly the telephone rang. 
“Donna, it's Keith, I'm coming back early tomorrow, is it all right if 
I come over about 8:30?    I have something I have to tell you.” 

The next morning Donna Jean dressed in her new blue blouse and combed
her short straight hair. She put on a drop of cologne and just a bit of 
lipstick on her mouth. She waited until 9:00, and then 10:00. At 11:15 
she poured herself a cup of tea and carefully wiped the lipstick on a 
paper napkin. She put a record on to play.    The black squirrels 
chased among the flowers. She could almost smell the pine trees. She 
relaxed against the pillows on the coach. A light glowed behind one of 
the blue windows. She stood and strained her eyes. Through the window 
of the corner room she thought she saw a curly haired girl in a pink 
dress lying on a flowered bedspread. 

At the other side window she saw a family leaning over a dining room
table and she heard a baby laughing. 

She looked into the porch window and saw a fireplace and smelled the
wood burning. The dark haired mother and blonde father carried a baby 
into the living room and they sat on the carpet in front of the fire. 

Donna Jean's eyes filled with tears. Plain, simple—not cold, not cold.
She stepped closer to the picture and reached to touch the door on the 
small porch. 

“Ring, Ring,” Donna Jean turned toward her door and back to the picture,
“Ring.”    Her hand touched the blue embroidery thread of the door. 
“Ring.”  The man and woman and the laughing baby looked,  “Ring.” 

“Dawn, Dawn, honey, my beautiful one, are you there?” 

Donna Jean backed up to her couch. Her hand outstretched to the
vine-covered cottage. “Dawn!”  A fist pounded on her apartment door. 
“Dawn, open the door please.” 

She looked toward the door. The voice was louder. “Dawn!” She looked
back to the picture. She could see the light glowing in the small 
embroidered window.    She stretched her hand toward the picture. The 
smell of the fire in the miniature room beckoned warmly. 

“Dawn, please. I know you're there!” She looked toward the chain lock on
the wooden door. The smell of the fireplace was weaker. “Dawn, please! 
I know I'm late! Please! I love you!”  She walked toward the door, 
glanced at the picture.    The windows were dark. “Dawn!” he pleaded. 

She turned the doorknob and through the crack of the door beyond the
chain she saw his face. His blue eyes were full of love, pleading. 
“Dawn, I love you! Open the door.” Her trembling hand shut the door and 
reached to open the chain, looking over her shoulder at the picture. 
The black squirrels were frozen on the pathway. The hollyhocks were 
still. No light shined from the windows. No baby's laughter was heard. 
“Dawn, I love you,” the man's voice said. The lock chain fell free and 
the door opened wide.


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