Seattle Press on Line - The Women's Room

Writers' Corner

The Women's Room

Mar 28, 2002 -- Part three of three

By Lon McKinney

If you haven't read the beginning of this story, click these links for Part one and Part two.

The two of us walked the few blocks to the cafe. Beth went in first, keeping her rucksack with her. The staff was busy steaming lattes for the early risers. A group of joggers stood in line at the counter. Beth turned to me, winked, and trotted through the door in the back that led to the restrooms. I waited a minute or so and then slowly meandered back after her. No one seated in the cafe paid any attention. I knocked on the ladies room door and Beth opened it up. Without speaking, I went in.

"Here's the soap, Ms. Megan. Give it a good scrub, it's been awhile." She turned on the water until it was hot and bent over the sink. She braced her hands on the porcelain rim in a pose of absolute trust.

I let the water rinse over her hair, scooping it up in my hands to help it along. I lathered up her mess of wet curls. The water ran a muddy brown as I washed, and bits of burrs and leaves rinsed out of her hair. I carefully scrubbed the months of neglect and rinsed again with more hot water. The highlights that had been gray began to take on a silvery hue. And like she'd said, the soap smelled heavenly.

"Gawd, Ms. Megan, I cannot tell you how good that feels. Please wash it again. Just once more and I will be one happy camper."

"Ok Beth, one more good wash and rinse. And just call me Megan, okay?" She nodded without speaking and I lathered her again as she held on to the sides of the sink. I scrubbed and rinsed her hair off a second time.

"I'm purring like a kitten, Megan. This is heaven." Her contentment came from deep down in her throat.

I was watching myself through the steam in the mirror. Megan, I thought, you always were a pushover. What would Andrew say if he saw you here now? I rinsed all the soap out until the water ran clean and then I turned off the tap. I handed her the small blue faded towel she had laid out. She wrapped the towel around her head and began to rub it dry.

"Megan, you just don't know how good it feels. I am truly a new woman. Like I said, 'ol Lennie won't even recognize me. I might even have to get myself a new fella." She laughed out loud and I found myself laughing along with her.

"Thanks again," she said. "Now you scoot on out an' I'll clean up like we were never here. Go get your coffee and do your writing. Just forget about me. I'm clean as a whistle now." She pushed me out the door into the empty hall. The restroom was silent, as if I had been the only one there.

I wanted to go back and talk to her but she'd been insistent. I went to the counter and got a cup of coffee. I sat down outside, opened my bookbag, and took out some notebooks and a pencil. I looked at my wrinkled hands with a smile. Megan, this has been one unbelievable morning.

I had finished half of my coffee and started writing when Beth walked out of the women's room. She'd brushed her hair out and combed her curly silver mane back away from her clean face. She had a small cup of coffee in a paper cup. One of the help had passed along to her, I was certain. She looked almost beautiful, like a faded rose.

"Thanks again," she whispered, with the look of sharing a great secret. She put her finger to her lips indicating I didn't need to speak. She put her hand on my shoulder for an instant. Then she set a folded-up piece of paper down on the table and walked away. I watched her move down the boulevard. Her dungarees sagged over her old hiking boots. She put her cup down on the sidewalk for a moment and pulled her rucksack up onto her shoulders with her strong tan arms. She took a cigarette from her pocket and struck a match on the side of a building to light it. She continued away slowly with her head held high, blowing wisps of smoke proudly into the morning air. She never turned to look back.

I picked up the paper she'd left behind. I unfolded it and read:

Megan

I walked, without a direction
on the edge of paradox.
In dying light, inside a solitary spark
of night
I prayed for morning.
The heart of a friend
has made me whole.
Shadows move across my counterpane
of lingering stars
reaching down to touch my heart
to take me home.

-Beth

I stood up. A tear began its slow track down my cheek. I looked down the street where Beth had been, cigarette in one hand and coffee in the other. I couldn't see her. But I thought I heard the whisper of her scraggly voice. I couldn't make out the words, but I could guess.

I slipped the scrap of poetry under my coffee cup, left my stuff on the table, and walked to the side street where she had turned. I saw no one, only a big old orange tom cat sauntering slowly into someone's yard, looking back at me for a moment, Cheshirelike, and moving on. A cigarette butt that had been recently snubbed out, perhaps by an old boot, smoldered insignificantly on the sidewalk. I walked back to my table outside. My books and notes and cup all sat in their respective places where I'd left them. The poem was gone, as if it had never been there at all.

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