Franca stares at the looming pile of brown boxes on the stoop of her front door. “Girl Scout Cookies” is emblazoned across the sides of all thirteen boxes. She felt her breath suck deep into her chest. Or maybe that was her heart shriveling into itself. Either way, it has arrived.
“Darling!” her mother’s shrill voice snaps her head up. The door opens and Mary’s face looms toward her, platinum blonde hair, bauble earrings dangling against paper white skin. Her Crest white teeth are rimmed by red lips – Cherries in the Snow red from Revlon. She is smiling, ear to ear, but for Franca it resembles a grimace.
“Franca, look what arrived!” as if Franca was not standing literally one foot in front of the massive load of anxiety.
“Yes Mamma.”
“Well, aren’t you excited, darling?”
Franca gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Oh, poo, of course you are. This is your ticket to your new bicycle!” Her mother’s exuberance feels performative. But Franca says nothing.
“Oh, come on then, let’s get them inside and make our plan of attack.” Her mother uses the word ‘our’ as if she will play a role in selling these atrocities. Franca grunts in response, but Mary doesn’t seem to notice as she giddily hops on one mule slipper clad foot, and grabs Franca’s arm, pushing her toward the pile. Then Mary holds the front door open wide as Franca carries each box in, the weight of them more than the 4 lbs the box notes on its top flap.
The last box in, stacked high against the foyer wall, Mary turns and announces, “You’ll start this afternoon.”, turning on her slipper toward the kitchen.
Franca begins to protest.
“None of that my pet, you’ll be the best cookie salesgirl this year, I just know it! You never let Mamma down.”
***
France pulls the red wagon, laden with boxes, up the short cobblestone drive toward the first house. Standing a mere five feet from the front door, her legs stop. They won’t move. She looks around furtively, to ensure no one is watching her strange movements, as she pushes and pulls her right leg to take another step forward. Nothing.
“I can’t.” she mumbles to herself, the resignation a rush of relief in her stomach. She has been reprieved. She turns and her legs suddenly propel her forward, back down the drive toward the security and privacy of the hedgerow lining the properties front lawn.
Franca looks at her watch – 5:35PM. Mamma should be gone by now, off to her nightly traverse of the clubs in New Haven. Franca can recite the schedule by heart: First Aldo’s for cocktails, or Aperitivo as her mother pronounces them- then Tre Scaleni for a four course dinner, of which Mary will eat very little, then on to the New Haven Club, and finishing at Marco Polo’s. She won’t be back until well after midnight.
Franca scurries home, the wagon suddenly lighter. She hauls the boxes, four at a time, up the stairs and down the hall. In the rear of her room is the cedar closet, the one place no one enters except for twice a year: winters start and winters end. It is spring. Completely safe.
She shuts the door after covering the tower of boxes with an afghan and two jackets. I’ll think of them in the fall, she confirms and heads to watch a rerun of The Brady Bunch.
The next morning Franca is at the breakfast table when Mary enquires about the cookies.
“I sold them all Mamma.” Franca says through mouthfuls of cocoa puffs and whole milk. She feels that it was remarkably convincing if she does say so herself.
There’s a pause. Franca braces for her mother’s inquisition, but instead she is startled by Mary’s response. “Oh, my love, I knew you could do it!! Where is the money?”
Franca freezes, the spoon halfway to her gaping mouth. Her thoughts spin like a carousel wildly through her internal eye. “I dropped it off on my way home. It was so much Mamma I didn’t want to lose it.”
“Oh, you’re such a responsible girl. My girl.” Mary gives Franca an unexpected hug, awkward from the side, dropping a wet kiss on her forehead. Franca shrivels. “Now we just wait until September!”
***
“Franca!” Mamma is on time, Franca thinks as she looks at her alarm clock. Six AM on the dot. “Franca, darling, time to get ready for school!”
Franca opens her eyes. The first day of school. She has been dreading this day, the 5thof September, for months. This month means the cookie award will be announced. Of course, Franca knows she won’t win it. The cookies sit accusingly in her cedar closet, their judgement leering at her for the past five months, growing stronger each week. She must figure out how to dispose of them now. There is no more time.
Mary bursts into her room, flinging up all the shades as she swings through the perimeter. Then she pauses at the cedar closet.
“Darling, its chilly today, lets grab you a heavier sweater.” And before Franca can leap from her bed, the cedar closet door flies open, Mary thrusts herself in, popping on the overhead light and stumbles over – the boxes.
There is a saying, ‘Time stands still.’ But for Franca, at that moment, it didn’t stand still. It shattered. Time shattered into a million little jagged pieces, thrust in arcs around her room, slicing her arms, her eyes, her heart.
Mary did not move. Franca could see her shoulders rising and falling, rising and falling with each breath. Then with uncharacteristic quietness, Mary stepped backwards out of the closet, closed the door and turned slowly toward the bed where Franca lay, a marble statue of fear, confusion, and pain.
Not a minute passed when Mary slowly said, “Please get dressed, darling, we don’t want to be late.” We, as if her mother had any role in this. “And tidy your closet when you get home.”
***
Mary takes one last drag from her Benson and Hedges Menthol, blowing the smoke into a neat ring above her head. She glances around the kitchen before heading to the front door. Through the doors frosted panel glass she can see the outline of her daughter’s head and something else – a blob of something where her daughters body outline should have been. She hurries in her slipper mules, catching a kitten heel on the scatter rug and grabbing the umbrella stand as she rights herself before flinging open the door.
Simultaneously she takes in Franca’s wide-eyed expression, her mousy brown hair hanging defeatedly around her eyes and the towering box of Girl Scout cookies in front of her. Despite the woeful appearance of her only child, Mary is happy the child has a goal, something to keep her productive and, hopefully, successful. Mary feels a bubble of excitement rise as she blurts out “Darling!”
When Franca does not react, she continues “Franca, look what has arrived!” What is wrong with this child. All of twelve years old, her daughter has gone from a bubbly exuberant preschooler to a sullen, reclusive pre-teen. Such a disappointment, Mary thinks as she moves toward the box tower and Franca. I deserve better.
“Yes, Mamma,” Franca mumbles, casting her eyes downward.
Mary feels the irritation rise along her arms, itching like a sunburn. Goodness why has she suddenly been left to deal with this?
“Well, aren’t you excited, darling?” Mary grits her teeth, the words seeping through the gaps of her recently completed orthodontia like electric pulses. Her daughter’s vague shrug pings off Mary’s nerves and she holds her breath, to reserve her reaction. “Oh, poo, of course you are. This is your ticket to your new bicycle!” Mary gives her best smile, trying to stave off the urge to slap the girl. You can do better, Mary, she chastises and takes a breath.
“Oh, come on then, let’s get them inside and make our plan of attack.” Coaching. That’s what she needs. Just a little encouragement and motivation. I’ll show her how it’s done, keep a positive outlook and never give up. Mary hears her own father’s slurred pronouncements rattling through her thoughts.
She holds the door open and pulls Franca’s arm forward toward the boxes. Franca slowly lifts one and carries it inside. These can’t be that heavy, Mary thinks, they’re only cookies for heaven’s sake. Such drama. Mary turns toward her kitchen. “You’ll start this afternoon.”
She hears her daughter clear her throat, as if to defend against this suggestion. “None of that my pet, you’ll be the best cookie salesgirl this year, I just know it! You never let Mamma down.” There, I’ve set the stage. She can’t fail now, Mary tells herself as she slips back into the tiled aqua and pink kitchen, her gin and tonic icing brightly on the counter.
Mary hears the door slap as Franca leaves, her wagon loaded with the cookies to be sold. She feels optimistic, her mood lightning as she goes about finishing her toilette, spraying a healthy dose of hairspray on the crown of white gold hair and reapplying her lipstick.
On her way out, she grabs her kid leather purse and the keys, gives one quick glance around the living room, and smiles her way out the door.
***
Mary’s alarm goes off at 5:05AM. But she didn’t need it, she is bursting with enthusiasm for this school year. She knows it will be the best one yet for Franca. She smiles contentedly as she removes her curlers, cold creams her face, and gives her pearly whites a good brush. Licking her lips of the last of the WinterFresh toothpaste she heads downstairs.
At exactly 6:00AM she bursts into Franca’s room, all sunshine and butterflies. Her enthusiasm pushes ahead of her like a tsunami, intent on eradicating any gloom her pre-teen daughter may bring on this first day of school.
“Franca? Franca, darling, time to get ready for school!” Mary flits to each window, snapping up the drawn shades, allowing the glorious sunlight to stream into the small room. Mary notices eddy’s of dust swirling in the beams and makes a note to leave cleaning products and a rag for Franca to attend to after school. The room is chaotic, and she remembers to speak to Franca about her tidiness tonight at dinner. Next to godliness, she says.
Mary smiles at her perfect daughter. She thinks about her own childhood, so disordered and unpredictable. Mary quickly shakes her head and spins toward the far wall. It will be chilly today; she’ll need a sweater. Lunging for the doorknob to the only cedar closet in the house, Mary catches a side glimpse of Franca bolting up in bed. Before she can react, her hand flings the door open. She stands frozen. Confused. As if the earth has just titled to the right, ever so slightly. She stares at a looming pile of brown boxes in front of her. “Girl Scout Cookies” is emblazoned across the sides of all thirteen boxes. She felt her breath suck deep into her chest. Or maybe that was her heart shriveling into itself.
Her mind a petrified block of nothingness, all thinking has stopped, Mary gently steps back and closes the door.
“Please get dressed, darling, we don’t want to be late.” Mary turns toward the hallway.
“And tidy your closet when you get home.”