Frozen Waves

by Birute Serota

Some women have short love lives. Love comes into their lives like a tropical virus and leaves them weak and trembling like a newborn lamb. And even after it's over they shake their heads and wonder at the ferocity of what hit them. That's how love is for some women; that's how it was for Petra Kazlas.

Petra stood at the chocolate wafer line at Nabisco watching the one window in the factory, knowing that when that window turned from black to grey, her shift would be over. Odette Givens, down at the end of the line, was singing "Good Morning Heartache" again. Odette sang those sad Billie Holiday songs so much that even Petra knew them by heart—"My Man," "Everything I Have is Yours," and her favorite, "Gloomy Sunday."

Odette said that song was just too sad to bear. She said all kinds of people committed suicide the year Billie Holiday sang that song. Petra shrugged. Imagine killing yourself over a song, she thought. Sounded like nonsense to her. Petra never understood those songs about men leaving women broken and alone like orphaned birds. She had been alone so long she had forgotten about love.

Petra shoveled cookies into corrugated paper trays. She bagged her tray and sent it on the upper conveyor belt. The chocolate on the cookies didn't smell right and it didn't taste like it was supposed to. They called this chocolate too green, not ready for eating until it sat for some time. Maybe it was because of the preservatives in the chocolate. Petra didn't eat the chocolate wafers anymore because she remembered Aldona, the new girl who came from Lithuania. She tried to save lunch money by eating Mallomars all day long while on the line. At the end of her shift she threw up right on the conveyor belt. They had to stop production until they cleaned up. They fired her and the next day they told the ladies on the lines that green chocolate is no good for you.

Isabel was on the next line watching a mountain of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies come down the belt from the floor above. She used a long stick to straighten out the rows so that they wouldn't pile up together in a mountain of crumbled cookies. Isabel was crying about her husband again. These women were always wailing over men. It didn't matter whether they were Lithuanian, Irish, Mexican or Negro, their stories were the same. Isabel's husband was seeing someone on the Oreo line. Sylvia's husband was coming home late every night. Mary's boyfriend fell in love with the bottle and Odette's husband vanished years ago. Agota Kelmas was the only woman on the line who was content with her husband, Pranas. Agota always told Petra that a good man meant a quiet life and a bad man meant tears. You just needed to pick carefully, like fruit down at the market.

The other women always kidded Petra about her manless life.

"Who are you saving it for?" Charlotta would ask her.

"Leave her alone, she's waiting for the right man, that's all," said Agota.

"She's waitin' for a man with a gold-tipped one," Odette would say with a wink. They cackled like hens at that one. Petra just watched the chocolate wafers marching by, and all those hands a blur of snatching them up in little trays and sending them down to the next station where Agota sealed them shut and down to Odette who put them in cartons.

Petra's father had been enough man for one lifetime she figured. He had been very particular about how Petra looked, what she said and who she went out with. He liked her to look plain; bland like his food. But now he and his diseased liver were buried and quieted. Petra liked the quiet of her life. She felt like a modest jewel muffled in gauzy cotton like her mother's amber brooch, which she kept in a little box. Petra had spent years being a good daughter, but now she was blessedly alone. The freedom of making her own plans was intoxicating. She dared to join the Baltic Chorale, a group of singers who met behind the Amber Tavern every Saturday afternoon to sing mournful songs longing for their homeland. She started saving money for a vacation. Not to Union Pier, Michigan like the other Lithuanians, but a luxury vacation. She was going to go to Bermuda during some cold Chicago February. She had always hated Chicago in February. It was a month in which the whole city turned as gray as the slush on its dirty streets. She was going to take two weeks in February like they were chocolate bonbons and fly to some resort hotel and sit on a palm-covered beach and have rum punch with little pink umbrellas in them and think of everyone back home wading through grimy slush in their galoshes. She cut out tropical pictures of white sand, coconut palms and big hotels and put them on her Frigidaire. She began putting money into an empty Hills Bros. coffee can. Her father had left her a small savings and she rented the upstairs flat on Talman Street that Agota Kelmas owned. She found that if she skipped any frivolous extras, she could put away forty dollars a month towards her vacation. She just knew she wouldn't be the same person once she came back from that trip. And there was no telling what could happen on such a vacation, who one could meet, or how its magic could change your life. She would come back with tropical memories and a tan and souvenirs that were unlike anything those Union Pier vacationers found on their leaden beaches.

One Tuesday, not unlike any other in Petra's life, a man named Johnny Charbonneau replaced Captain Eddy as the new box man. He came up like a cat that first day, grinning and introducing himself to the line. Odette was just finishing her rendition of "Stormy Weather."

"What you pretty ladies got to sing the blues about?"

"All you slick men, that's what," said Odette laughing.

"Slick, I ain't slick; I'm smooth, ain't I sugar?" he said putting his arm around Petra, who blushed and giggled like she was ten again. She was startled by how good it felt to laugh like this. Petra had never seen anybody like Johnny before. He looked like some tropical hothouse flower to her. Something exotic that doesn't grow in Chicago. He had a Southern drawl and long blond hair combed back like a duck's tail. His eyes were so alive it took her breath away. He looked like he was hungry for everything life could throw his way. There was nothing careful or measured about this man. She stared at Johnny Charbonneau's smile and felt like she was ten again and that she had never left Lithuania and all her days were filled with birch forests. Petra looked at that smile and her soul, which had long ago shriveled to a raisin, now grew plumper. That's how it is for some women. Johnny's even Chiclets teeth were mesmerizing, casting spells on her dry life like nets.

The next day Petra found herself spending part of the week's Bermuda money on a shampoo and set at Helena's House of Beauty. Helena piled curls high on Petra's head, ratting each curl to make it stiffer. Petra asked Helena to teach her about makeup. Helena kidded her about finding a good man. One as good as her Captain Eddie.

The next day when the line broke down, Petra asked a surprised Agota if her lipstick was on straight. Agota bobbed her head up and down like those dog statues in the back windows of cars. Petra walked right over to Johnny. She didn't know how to begin talking so she just stood there looking at him stacking boxes 'til he said: "Hey sugar, what's doin'?"

"Line broke down," Petra answered.

"Oh yeah, good, maybe I can cop a cigarette." Johnny put down the box and walked out to the loading dock. Petra followed him.

"Where are you from Johnny?"

"Where was I from last or where was I from first?"

"I didn't know it was such a complicated question," said Petra.

"Cleveland last, Florida first."

"Wow, you're from Florida." Petra was impressed.

"I ain't from the wow part of Florida, honey. Where you from? You got some kinda accent."

"I was born in Lithuania."

"Lithu-what? I never heard of it."

"It's in Europe. Now it's part of Russia."

"I bet they got some good cooking there. My mama was part some kinda European. She was a good cook. Are you a good cook?"

"I don't know," Petra stammered. "I think I'm OK."

"Maybe you'll invite me sometime. I get tired of eating in restaurants." Johnny cocked his head and looked her over.

"Well maybe you wanna come over Saturday night for some dinner or somethin'." The blood in Petra's head was pounding. If he didn't answer instantly, she was going to pass out.

"Why it would be a downright pleasure," said Johnny letting out a string of smoke. "You know, I like your hair that way." Johnny flicked his cigarette out into the dock and grinned his cat grin at Petra.

By Saturday afternoon, Petra had bought a new blue dress down at Goldberg's Fashion Forum, she had gotten her hair piled on her head at Helena's, had picked up a choice roast beef at Balta's Meats, a napoleon cake at Tulips' Bakery and the best brandy down at the Amber Tavern. She went home and picked all the dahlias in her stingy back yard and she pulled out her mother's amber brooch for good luck. By the time Johnny rang her doorbell, Petra was a swoon of colors, perfumes and emotions as she answered the door.

Dinner was quiet. Johnny kept pouring brandy in the cordial glasses. Petra felt like some wooden puppet, always politely smiling, serving, eating, talking, but part of her was hidden far away from this strange scene in her life. She looked at Johnny's big-toothed smile and suddenly felt like that green chocolate on the assembly line--somehow not ready yet. It wasn't until Johnny finished his cake and went to look for some dancing music on the radio and took her in his arms to dance that Petra finally looked at Johnny's eyes, instead of his dazzling mouth, and she found herself at home like a sore foot finds its worn slipper. She took a deep breath and relaxed in Johnny's arms and swayed back and forth to Frank Sinatra.

Johnny slept in her bed that night and in the morning Petra woke up on his shoulder and smiled. This felt so strange, so reckless, so unlike any other morning of her life that it was sheer intoxication. They didn't get out of bed until the late afternoon. They rolled around and made love and slept and ate and rolled around some more like they were children and there was nothing in the world calling them. Petra heard the Kelmas family on the back stairs going to church. She heard them come back hours later. She heard Mrs. Kelmas cooking Sunday dinner downstairs. She stayed in bed, her legs wrapped around Johnny's. She finally got up and made some pancakes. Johnny wolfed them down like he had never eaten one before.

"I knew it. I could spot them every time. I knew you was a good cook the moment I laid eyes on you. You reminded me of my mama. Come here, sugar, you're as sweet as these pancakes." Johnny kissed her hard like he was devouring her lips. She felt like he would soon eat her face the way he ate those pancakes, quick and hard and then he would consume the rest of her with his insatiable hunger. She would willingly martyr herself to his appetite.

Johnny slept at Petra's every night. He moved his small suitcase in. Petra spent every penny she could spare on Johnny: The best dinners, cigars, records, and ties. Always she'd bring home some surprise for him and bring it out with their brandy. The coffee can with the Bermuda fund hadn't seen a penny since Johnny came. She'd wash his hair and trim his nails; she'd polish him like an icon until he shone. She liked taking care of him. At night, she curled into his body like some lost cat. She liked the smell of him on her skin. She felt ripe with him. And she wanted to keep him, lock him up like her mother's amber brooch, always hers.

The women at Nabisco warned her to go slow. Mrs. Kelmas downstairs tried to tell her to go out with nice Lithuanian boys. She saw that Agota was uncomfortable talking to Johnny. She thought it was because she was old fashioned and didn't understand Americans. Even Helena at the beauty shop had heard that Johnny was a smooth one. She tried to tell Petra to be careful, but Petra wasn't about to hear anything bad about this man of hers. He was hers, as much a part of her as her arms or legs were. He was hers and no one was going to say he wasn't.

Petra began to talk of marriage, of love, of years together, of plans-- words like painful rocks to Johnny's ears; love-phobic ears, ears sensitive to talk of forever. It wasn't that Johnny didn't like being treated so special. He felt as sassy and as comfortable as he had ever been in his life, but some mornings his eyes would snap open and he could feel the call. His mama always said he had his father's wild blood-- pioneer, cowboy, hobo like his grandfather and his father before him and like all the restless men of his line. On these mornings he knew that no matter how well he was treated, or how much he wanted to stay, to eat, to love, to be pampered, it was only a matter of time before the blood made him too itchy to stay, before his eyes started darting in all directions looking for a space without walls, looking for the road.

One hot July morning he said goodbye. Petra didn't know that he meant forever. She thought he meant: for this moment goodbye. And in her wild abandoned surprise, her lovesick stupor, she didn't notice that her coffee can was emptied. She didn't care about the money. She could hardly remember how to breathe without Johnny. She called in sick every day for two weeks. Agota left her pots of soup and stews. Petra didn't eat them. When she finally returned to work no one mentioned Johnny. Everyone helped her bag her cookies. Petra finally asked Captain Eddy where Johnny went. He told her that Johnny had come by to get his check. Someone said he had a new car. Captain Eddy saw her stricken face and by way of condolence said that there were running people and there were staying put people and damn if they didn't always get together and hurt each other.

Odette sang through the rest of July.

That August, Agota Kelmas took Petra with her to Union Pier, Michigan. Petra sat like an invalid on the beach, cold and lumpen, not even realizing that she had missed her period. She walked and ate and sat hardly noticing where she was. Petra found herself humming snatches of Odette's blues songs like they were lullabies. Agota tried everything she could think of to cure Petra's love sickness, but Petra looked incurable. She wished that Petra would cry or tear her hair or scream in anger but she didn't do any of those things. She seemed too numb.

The last day of August, Agota took Petra to a Lithuanian picnic at the Lankus resort. Tables were set with potato kugelis and smoked sausages and sauerkraut soup. A band was playing tangos and stout couples were turning dramatically to the Latin rhythm. Petra sat in an aluminum chair with a physical ache so strong she felt as if she had lost an arm but still stared at the space where her fingers should have been. Agota brought over a plate of food, but Petra pushed it away.

"What did you like about that Johnny? I could never understand what you saw in him. He had no class; like a hillbilly." said Agota.

"That's what I liked about him. He was such a foreigner."

Agota laughed. "Foreigner? He was an American through and through. You're the foreigner here."

Petra almost laughed. "He had this mouth I liked." As Petra said this she realized that she always thought of Johnny's mouth or his hungry eyes. She could hardly remember what the rest of Johnny looked like. The rest of him was vague and fuzzy like his past. Like a punch, she realized that she knew next to nothing about Johnny. She only knew some deep part of her reacted to his ever- hungry, vital mouth. And for the first time in two months, something inside seemed to release and she breathed deeply.

The band stopped playing and Mr. Kelmas took the accordion and started to play the old songs. From all sides people joined in the singing. They were forming a huge circle, swaying arm-in-arm to the songs. Even retarded Magda joined the circle and sang snatches of songs. Petra didn't pay much attention but something insistent in the accordion made her foot twitch to the tempo of those harvest songs she remembered singing when she was ten and still living in Lithuania. A long forgotten rhythm was taking over her body. And when she heard Bronius Lankus, owner of the resort and recent widower, sing in his healing tenor, a song from her village about the girl who sings to the well of her love, who died in the war: "Oh well, poor well, let me fill you with hot tears," Petra woke up from her mournful lethargy. She felt as if she could listen to that voice forever--a tenor so clear and healing; a voice like balm for her pain. This voice cast a spell that was old, like something forgotten but still recognized, like home. This was not about love. Love was madness. This was about a cure for love. Petra decided she was going to marry that voice that was Bronius Lankus and spend all her Februarys at this resort growing hothouse flowers and staring at the frozen waves of Lake Michigan.

Agota Kelmas was surprised when Petra asked if her lipstick was on straight. She nodded and watched as Petra walked over to join the circle of singers. Petra seemed to link her arm to Bronius' arm as if they were two links of an unbroken chain. Agota smiled and walked over and took her husband, Pranas' arm and together they joined the others to make another link in an old but familiar chain.