MISS KITTY

What a relief to be outside after that contentious bridge game. The stifling heat inside and the rudeness of pugnacious people was more than I bargained for.

I heave a sigh of relief bend my body into the wind and start out. The frosty air nips my cheeks and lips. I taste snow in the air. In Philly you always know when the weather’s about to change. Pretty soon the white stuff will begin its slow drift, gently at first and the sun will disappear. Until then I’ll enjoy my stroll along the pretty shop-lined streets.

I slide my silk scarf over and around my head to cover my ears, tie it at my throat and tuck the ends into the collar of my coat.

I inhale a gulp of frigid air and head east on Walnut and over to Chestnut toward the Benjamin where I’ll collect my granddaughters from school.

I’ve just passed Macy’s when I realize I’m too early. I’ll be shivering in front of the building waiting for school to let out.

I double back, pull open the heavy oaken doors and step into what used to be Wanamaker’s the ancient relic of Philly’s better days.

It’s cozy in here. The warm air flows throughout the store enveloping me in its comforting cocoon. Aromas of perfume float out and away from the cosmetic counters permeating the air swirling and vaporizing even to the far reaches of the first floor. I absorb the pleasant odors, smile and glance at the huge metal Eagle perched above the shoppers in the middle of the store. That old constant soothes me.

Music wafts down from above, from the mezzanine where the antique monstrous organ pumps out its melodic chords.

I feel a slight breeze and sense the rustle of fabric from somewhere above. I look up to see yards of pink silk draped around the feet of group of little-girl-manikins in pink tutus poised on a ledge circling around a pillar. Stiff tulle skirts jut away from the tops of the manikins’ slender thighs.

The exhibit draws my mind back to a time long ago to the years of tap, toe, and ballet classes; glossy black patent tap-shoes, pink tutus over tights, luminous satin pointes, pink satin ribbons‎ wound over the instep to crisscross and tie around the calf, toe shoes that blister even with the clump of lambs’ wool stuffed into the toe.

Miss Kitty…

What happened that last day?

No! I won’t think about that. Not now.

Today I’ll remember the pink fluff of her softness, the thrills elicited by my beautiful dance teacher. Not the bad stuff. No, not that.

Miss Kitty in pink--always pink, hugs infused with the warm sweet talc of her body. Her wee ones enraptured by her, pirouette gawkily, arms raised in triangles rather than soft arcs, lift up to “reach the sky.” Dance routines accompanied by the stern-faced, pointy-nosed, black-as black-haired pianist. As I think about then--I can’t recall what happened to her. I never thought about her. She was--just there--just furniture.

Miss Kitty’s miniature dancers follow her directions but are impatient for the delicious breaks to come, the reason we are here.

Rest time—best time.

We little ones descend the dark narrow wood-slatted staircase that leads into the basement darkness, a darkness broken only by a single yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. Miss Kitty pulls the chain and a soft yellow light brightens this small area below.

We seat ourselves cross-legged on the floor a semi-circle around our sweet Miss Kitty who has perched herself on her tiny chair. We stare up at her with adoration while she gazes past us, face drooped with fatigue or boredom--expressionless, eyes focused off into the blackness, into the distant depths of the room. She dabs a fine linen handkerchief at the tiny droplets that glisten her face, arms, and chest. A glowing sheen of moisture covers her body. 

I hold my breath.

Finally she announces--“It’s time!”

We line up to take our turn to hug Miss Kitty to bask in her soft warmth to encircle her slender waist with our tiny arms to feel her body encased in the palest of pink silkiness.

My turn. I gather the material between my fingers crimping the folds of the creamy shiny fabric, fondle the silky soft pink of her costume caress her sensual body.

This basement is the wondrous place below her mirrored storefront studio, our secret place where no one else may venture, out of sight of the uninvited.

Our mothers wait upstairs, lips thin below scornful scowls, disheartened by our secretive, too-long breaks downstairs. They slouch seated on the bench, backs resting against the glass façade; our street clothes and their purses clutched in their arms.

End-of-year recitals, tulle and sequined-satin  costumes, shoes glued, silver-sparkled made beautiful for that one day. No loss, by September they’ll be too small for our fast-growing feet. The excitement of that day is too much for our little hearts. 

I picture Miss Kitty and my mind savors her baby-powder scent, her softness, her wan expression, her pinkness.

Back outside, the cold jolts me into reality. Dark now--the wind punches my face. A few soft snowflakes glitter my black coat.

The warm memories dissipate like smoke. I’m left without Miss Kitty--again. My dream is gone. Miss Kitty is gone.

Truth floods in. I see her in my mind. People told what they saw. It was as if I too saw her that day, the day she stepped into a pink Rolls Royce and was never seen again.

#caress #Miss Kitty #tulle #sequin #satin #talc
#snowflakes