Every Man Wants a Space Girl

I’m proud of the dress I made. The fabric is a poly-cotton blend, cream, with dark pink polka dots. It has a scoop neck, and capped shoulders, because honestly, I’m not fond of my upper arms.

The skirt is full and swingy, and I even made the crinoline underskirt. Maybe, it’s a little too much for a summer party, but heck, I love it, and besides, it’s partly advertising.

Mom thinks it’s great that I can sew, and draw, and paint. She considers these good skills for a future homemaker. She’s right, of course. But I’m headed to Beckworth College of Interior Design. And then, it’s on to Florida.

So I can get away from New England, to the land of sun, swimsuits, and the building boom. They’re putting up houses and hotels like crazy. Someone has to decorate and pick out swatches, and that someone is me.

I make all my own clothes, my drapes, and I even make the cutest outfits for my little nephews. I dress them up, plop them in my dad’s car, and we go to the superette together. “We’re going on a trip to space!” I tell them, and they laugh, and I make goofy little space noises, like “boop,” “boop,” “beep!”

It’s only natural. These days, it seems like space is all anybody talks about.

This is probably about when I should tell you about Marilyn’s party.

My mom thought I should go because maybe, I’d meet a boy, and “settle in.”

Because deep down, she doesn’t want me going to Florida, or anywhere.

If I move, she’ll have no one to talk to. Just my dad, my sister Ethel, and my nephews, who can only smile and babble and make “boop “beep” space noises.

I was ready to leave for the party when I heard my parents in the pantry.

Mom: “Oh, Cal. Should she shun that girl? I hate gossip. Besides, the Tifford boy is sure to be there.”

Dad, put his pliers down on the brand-pantry counter. Mom’s face turned a shade of scarlet that meant war.

Dad: “The Tifford boy. That’s just who we want as a son-in-law. Works at the greenery. Can’t fix a car worth a tinker’s damn.”

“Cal!” Mom huffed, never once mentioning the plier.

Dad wants me to go to design school, and have a career. But what he really doesn’t want is me to end up like Ethel, divorced after five years, back home with two small, crying children. Just as mom and dad were talking about retiring, maybe by ‘65, getting one of those glide trailers, and seeing America.

I was going to pop in the pantry and whirl around in my dress, so they could admire it and tell me how proud they are. But after I heard them, I decided to head out the side door, mom’s car keys in my hand.

I got to the party by 8 p.m. Music was popping, and everyone was on the back patio, dancing to Bobby Darren, singing “Dream lover.”

As I got there, Johnny Drake and Bill Hitchens were leaning against Johnny’s car, parked on the street. As I walked past, Johnny said, “Get a Protestant. Only Catholics have problems with those medicines.”

I pretend not to hear, but I catch a glance at Bill’s face, reddening with embarrassment. “Uh, hi, Rosalie.” He looks down at his sneakers, and Johnny chuckles.

“Hey,” I said dismissively. My family are the only Catholics in the neighborhood.

Behind me, Johnny laughed a shrill laugh, and Bill slapped at him.

I always feel like you’re supposed to make some kind of entrance, and I never know how. I didn’t even put down my purse. I just went out on the patio, trying to work my way into the group of dancers, like I was there all along.

“Hey, it’s Rosalie!” Daisy Mathers shouted. I smiled and waved, and my pocket book, on my arm, bumped at Burt Sorkin. “I’m really sorry,” I said breathily. I was. Burt’s is the only Jewish family in the neighborhood. I gotta give credit to Marilyn. I think she’s the only person in this whole town who isn’t prejudiced.

Then Marilyn appeared in front of me. She does that, like, “poof,” she’s just there. It spooks some people, but I’m used to it.

She touched my arm. “I’m so glad you came, Rosalie,” and I know she is. I smiled, and patted her cheek. She’s kind and sweet. Mom’s right. People can be cruel with gossip.

Marilyn looked calm and confident. Gotta say it, part of me wants to be more like her. I mean, the part about being calm and confident.

We all danced, song after song. “The Happy Organ.” “Mack the Knife.” I can’t be the only person that song gives the creeps.

Then, a slow one. The Platters. Some people moved away. And leave it to Tom Bicks to say, “Our neighbors are selling their house,” right as Mazy Gifford walked by, giving him a look like murder. He earned it. He’s another bigot.

I think Mazy’s the prettiest, smartest girl in school. A wiz at chemistry. She told me she’s going to study pharmacy. “You open a drug store in this town, and I’ll support you,” I told her. “The heck with everyone else.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Rosie, I love this town but there is no way I’m opening a drugstore here!” I felt stupid, and realized I don’t know anything about what it’s like to be Mazy Gifford in this town.

I do understand wanting to start a new life someplace else, though.

I was about to leave the patio, too, but then Henry Jakes asked me to dance. I do like him, a little. So it was me and Henry, and a few other couples, with girls getting their heels stuck between the patio stones, and boys looking hot and over-dressed in suits on a summer night, or dressed-down in jeans and T-shirts you can tell moths invaded.

After the song, I left quickly, telling Henry over my shoulder, “Thanks! I’m going for some soda!”

I learned my “quick exit” cues from Ethel. Too bad she didn’t use them herself.

What I wanted was to relax, stand outside someplace, alone,drink a cold, icy drink, and look at the stars.

I admit, I was as fascinated as everyone. What’s going on up there?

But I'm a little scared, too. Everyone is.The Russians beat us. Dad calls Sputnik “a tin can with a red rag tied to it,” but even he looks pale when he says it.

The drinks were in the kitchen. I always feel like a burglar or something in the kitchen of a friend’s house. Because it’s not really theirs. It’s their parents’. Marilyn’s parents were there, and they looked fresh and handsome, and kind, but you could see pain in their eyes.

I get it. They’re putting on a brave face, for Marilyn’s sake. Her dad looks like he wants to go on some hunt with an ax. I suddenly thought about all the people who seem angry these days.

But Marilyn strode around in her dignity, handing me a Coke, and smiling. She said, “I’m really glad you came.” She leaned in: “You’re gonna be gangbusters at design school!”

I smiled, and impulsively gave her the biggest hug, and even she was knocked off her feet, a little.

“Hey,” I said, “let’s go outside and get some air. Want to?”

For a second, she looked over at her parents, and that’s when I saw, she’s not as sure or free of hurt as she appears. Her parents nodded.

For a moment, I thought I would cry.

Marilyn and I were standing outside, with our Cokes, batting at mosquitoes, and Johnny and Bill were still there, leaning against the car. I don’t think they went inside once, or danced with anyone, probably because no respectable girl would get near them.

They weren’t talking about Catholic and Protestant dates anymore.

Johnny said, “So I took Elva to this movie. ‘Teenagers from Outer Space.’ An Earth girl, bags an alien guy!”

Marilyn rolled her eyes, and motioned to me to move away. Marnie Wilkes was standing outside, next to Carl Fitch, who was trying to get her attention with a story about joining the Army.

Johnny must have been annoyed that I ignored him earlier, so he said loudly, “Just give me a space girl. Every man wants a space girl. Earth girls don’t know nothing!”

Everyone stopped talking and stared at him. Bill said, “Man, I gotta go home.”

That was when it happened. Marnie was holding a bottle of Coke. She dropped it, and it shattered on the pavement.

In the backyard, someone turned down the music. Marnie was walking with a stride that was sort of terrifying to see. “Okay, Johnny Drake, since you’re such a genius!”

Johnny looked confused, and muttered, “That girl’s battier than Dracula.” But I saw him tremble.

Marnie went right up to him, standing on tiptoe, close to his face.

“I better get my dad,” Marilyn whispered, but I touched her arm. “Wait,” I said.

“You want a space girl?” Marnie demanded. “Are you proud of yourself, Johnny Drake?”

“You need a lobotomy,” Johnny barked. But Marnie turned savagely, and tap-tapped in her shoes over to her car. She has her own car, a giant old Buick.

She jammed a key into the trunk, and the trunk lid opened with a whine.

She looked around at all of us, gathered in a little circle around her, a shaking circle.

“This is what you’ve all been yakking about in school, so you might as well see for yourselves!”

“Marnie, just cut it, you’re ready for the fruit farm,” Johnny said, and Bill slapped at him again and shouted, “ Shut up, man!”

“She really is, though,” said Daisy. The rest of the kids at the party had appeared.

“I’m never having another party,” Marilyn declared, looking at me.

Marnie reached into the Buick’s trunk, grabbed a flashlight, and swung it around, like she was an emcee at a theater show, a really frightening one.

“Just look. Look!”

I wanted to leave, but I knew I wasn’t going to. I didn’t want to look, but I was going to look, just like everyone. And I was going to cry, just like everyone did.

Johnny turned away, but Bill pushed him. Johnny looked, and clutched at his stomach.

“Holy Mother,” I exhaled. I was shocked, fascinated, and sad, all at once.

It was gray, and almost kind of pretty, curled, like a garden snail, maybe, and something rippled across its skin. You hoped that meant it was breathing, but it was just maybe the warm breeze that picked up, just then.

I don’t even like thinking, “it.” I don’t really know a good pronoun. “It” isn’t “it,” though.

It was Mazy who stepped forward. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Yeah,” Daisy said brightly. “Mazy’s a doctor!”

Brock Withers huffed, “She’s a pharmacist, you pea brain.”

Everyone glared at him.

I didn’t know what to say. I could hear Marnie crying. She sounded a whole light year away, however far that is, and yet right there. But she didn’t sound like a helpless girl, crying.

I reached out to her, trembling, but she pulled back.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Marnie. What happened?”

Even though I think we all knew.

“You wanted a space girl,” she declared. “So, guess what.”

I reached out to her again. “Marnie, it’s okay. You don’t have to – “

“It’s not okay!” she screeched.

Daisy said right out loud, in front of the boys, in front of everyone: “You didn’t have to go through with this, Marnie. There are doctors , you know.”

I’d had it. “Daisy, shut your fat trap,” I said. “As usual, you don’t know anything.”

One thing about Daisy, she’s so dumb, she doesn’t even know when she’s been insulted. “I’m just saying!”

“That’s ‘cause you know,” Johnny said. Daisy strode over to him, smiled, and cracked him across the face so hard, he stumbled into the Gregor family’s trash cans. He crashed into them and fell over, with trash all over him. His head was down, but I saw a tear fall, shining in the street light.

Some people started laughing, like they’d forgotten everything that was actually happening.

I motioned to Marilyn with my eyes. “Come on,” I said. But Marilyn had run into the house, and was back with her mom, and a towel.

She glanced at me, then, and she and I both reached into the trunk, making a bundle. For a moment, maybe because I just needed to, I touched it, and instead of being repulsed, it felt soft, and helpless, and I started crying again.

We gathered up the bundle, which felt heavy, and yet light, and seemed to undulate a little. We knew that it was just happening because we were not as graceful and gentle as we tried to be. I guess every little thing made us feel some hope, but that hope quickly flickered out.

Marnie put out her arms, and took the bundle from us, and pressed it close to her.

“You’ll always be mine,” she said. Glancing at Daisy, she said, “Yes, I could have done that, but I didn’t. Sue me.”

Then she said, “It’s all mine. And now, you all know. Good thing school’s over, so you can’t just go blab about it in the halls on Monday.”

“Oh, Marnie,” I started, and Marilyn said, “I do understand.”

“You don’t,” Marnie said to Marilyn, but not in a cruel way.’

Clutching the bundle close to her, Marnie closed the trunk with her free arm.

She opened the passenger door, slid the bundle in, and as Bill went to her, offering, “Come on, I’ll take you,” but she shook her head.

“Where are you going?” I asked, feeling desperate.

“Home,” Marnie said calmly.

“Home,” I repeated. I had a million questions, but I didn’t ask. Maybe I could have, but I didn’t.

“Marnie, dear,” Marilyn’s mother said, but Marnie shook her head, though she smiled a little at Marnie’s mother, and at Marilyn.

I saw Marilyn’s dad come out, but Marilyn’s mother waved him back.

Marilyn was already in the car, and Bill was closing the door for her.

In the next minute, the Buick was pulling away, red lights in the night.

“Where is she going?” Marilyn asked.

“She said she’s going home,” I said.

But my heart quaked. I guess as long as Marnie knows where home is, that’s all that matters. I wanted to send her flowers or a prayer card, but I wouldn’t know where to send them. The crowd was drifting away, except a few people, like Marilyn, her mother, and Mazy. And Bill.

We all stared up at the stars. No one spoke for a long time.

THE END

Bio: Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer, living in Lowell, Mass. She produces Poe in Lowell, honoring Edgar Allan Poe's three visits to the city and has served on the board of Lowell Celebrates Kerouac! honoring the Lowell-born Jack Kerouac. In addition to previously appearing in Aphelion, her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Horror Zine, Dark Moon Digest, Raven Cage, and many more. She is author of six poetry books and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.

E-mail: Meg Smith

Website: Meg Smith's Website

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.