ALL THE FACES I CAN MAKE
Jennifer Cole
Writing Center Coordinator


I stood in front of the large double mirror, water dripping in the sink below. Not to put on make-up, not for any reason really, except that there's nothing to do in a bathroom aside from sitting in a battleship gray stall, smelling Lysol and urine like a slap on the mouth. So I decided to make myself laugh by making faces at my reflection. It doesn't really work because I've seen all the faces I can make before, but since I had the mirror, I thought I might as well try. I pulled down the sleeves of the sweater I wore, my favorite light blue one even with the hole in the elbow, and pressed my hands down on the sink basin to see into the mirror better. I needed to watch out though, because the mean cleaning lady came every day about this time and she didn't want me to stay in the bathroom any longer.

I planned to go to Indiana by bus. It takes three days to get there and three to come back but even so I am only going to stay for one day. Thereís no particular reason behind the trip--just wanted to see the countryside. I consider myself a lucky person, because I can pick up like that and go somewhere like a fox after she's raised her young. A lot of people keep themselves too bogged down with everyday life, but I know I need to get out and see the world while I have time.

I wanted to bring my cat with me on the bus, because she might get lonely. But, if the cat, Ingrid, came I'd need to carry her toys: the catnip mouse, a green and yellow ball with a bell in the middle, and one of those plastic strips that comes around a frozen orange juice container like a jagged white worm.

I saw a woman bring her cat once. Well, not on a bus. Anyway, this woman seemed around sixty--her hair was cut short and blue-gray like my sweater. I made sure to see how old she looked, in case I ever wanted to bring Ingrid in a wagon. I didn't want anyone to think I was weird, but I figured I could do it because I'm thirty-five, and the older a person looks, the more people forgive things like that.

This woman's cat was in a cage in one of those red Radio Flyer wagons. It had a water dish and a small bowl with dry food in it. When the cat fitted its paws through the wire mesh, they curled around the slender wire and I could see the inner pink part where the claw attaches to the skin. A fluttering blue ribbon hooked to the edge of the cage as if perhaps the cat had won some show. There were no toys. But the woman carried a huge black bag, and I knew the toys and the rest of the cat's belongings traveled in that because it bulged in just the right way like a pregnant mama-dog.

I looked in at that cat but didn't stick my finger through one of the little holes, because my mother always told me that a person never knows with a cat like that if they're going to scratch or bite your hand. And sheís right too, because once when I was a little girl, I stabbed my finger into a cage holding a dog, when Mother and I went to the New Jersey State Fair. I wanted to pet it, but it bit my finger right through as if it was ice cream. I saw the white bone and held on to the end of my pointer, in case they could sew it back on. But, I lost it somewhere on the way to the hospital, just a tiny bit of skin wrapped in a paper towel like a birthday present. That's why I'm missing the top part of the first finger on my right hand. Mother got mad at me for touching a strange dog and lectured me all the way home.

"Sarah," she said, "You can't go around touching wild animals." She saw I was about to cry so she grabbed my newly stitched finger. Hard. "Don't be such a baby," she said. No, I know not to do that again.

I had thought about bringing Ingrid to Indiana with me that way, but a wagon wouldn't fit on the bus. Thereís no chance of her being lonely while I'm gone though, because I left the TV on that nature station--the one that shows long documentaries, so she can watch the birds. She sits and concentrates on them. Like they're real. And she makes that teeth-chattering noise and darts her head all around like a jack-in-the-box after its just popped. I even saw her bat the television set once.

Also before leaving, I filled up her bowl with dry cat food, not the wet mushy kind that would rot. I left enough for her to live for a month--well if she doesn't eat it all at once and puke. Sometimes she doesn't know when she's had enough. She hates cages anyway, the motion would bother her, and she'd have scratched me. She'd have lost half of her fur, because cats shed when they're mad like a lizard loses it's tail. At home she can play with her toys when she wants.

On my left-hand side in the bathroom, a woman stood looking in the next mirror. I could see her in the mirror behind me, tiny us' getting smaller and smaller. A black coat draped over her arm. She held a small suitcase.

"Oh dear, my nose is cold, I think the heat wasn't turned up enough on the bus," said the woman. "I think the driver could turn up the heat just a little. Could you move this shopping cart, please?"

I closed my ears to her; I didn't know what she blathered on about. I didn't want her to talk to me and I didn't want to turn to look at her, because I bet she was crazy. I wager she wanted to kill me right there. I saw that happen in a movie once where a man killed another guy in the bathroom of a bus station. The murderers left his body like a bloody fish on top of the sink. I looked at the woman, but was careful not to let her see my eyes. My mother told me when I was little that a person can steal your soul if you let them look too long in your eyes.

The woman shouted at me, thinking I was deaf because I wouldn't answer her. She wore black pants, a black blouse, and a little black blazer. Grayish black eye shadow blotched across her eyelids. She combed up the stark white hair that stuck out of her head like the toothpaste that continues to come out of the tube, even after the squeezing has stopped.

"Excuse me, can you hear me?" the woman shouted. "Could you move this cart, so I can wash my hands?"

I saw her staring at my wagon and knew that she wanted one just like it. She would try to snatch mine. I knew this because she put her hand on it and rolled it out of her way like she owned it. She combed her white hair, and all the while didn't take her paw off the wagon.

Just when she thought she had won, I jerked the wagon away from her with one pull. I had practiced in case anyone tried to steal it, just like this. At home I put it in the middle of the plaid rug and make pretend a person grabs it, which I knew would eventually happen. Then, I'd try to see how fast I could move it away, or take it back if someone had their dirty hands all over it. I can't believe some of the people in this world.

On her way out, the woman opened the door to the bathroom so hard that it slammed against the wall. I knew I succeeded, that she had wanted my wagon. People try this all the time, because I put a lot of things in it, like magazines and newspapers, even a couple of pairs of shoes. I found a beauty of a pair of women's red, leather pumps; it just amazes me what people throw away. Why, I found my favorite blue sweater in a dumpster out behind an apartment complex. A fully adequate sweater someone tried to throw away! About the shoes though, the only thing I could see wrong was one of the heels was a tiny bit shorter than the other. But that's not a real problem, so I stuck them in my wagon. I never threw anything out. And the magazines could be worth something--you know how people collect old magazines--I probably had a thousand dollars' worth. The cart was definitely heavier than it looked. I brought it with me everywhere because I could put all my stuff in it without bogging down my arms or anything.

The mean cleaning lady always showed up at ten minutes to three. I knew because I watched her. I could stand on the lid of the toilet in the farthest stall and she never even knew I saw everything she did in the mirror. I could look at her over the top of the battered metal door if I stood on tiptoes. I didn't want her to know I spied on her because she couldn't get along with people.

Right on time, she came in pushing that big gray garbage can on wheels like a bulldozer and practically knocked the little trash over before she could grab it and pour it into the big one. I didn't know who taught her how to do this, but she should learn that people throw away perfectly good items. I can always find something if I take the time to investigate it and not be in such a hurry to empty or go through garbage. Like I said, I found this, my favorite sweater--perfectly good, in the garbage, all because I took the time to look. Another thing wrong with people--they don't take the time to search.

"All right," the cleaning lady said as she came through the door, "I know you're in here. I can smell your damn self. Some people think they can just use any ol' place to take a bath," she muttered. "Come on out of there, before I have to call the cops. You ain't stayin' here anymore."

I knew she spoke to me, because she was mean, and that is just something she would do. She hated me. So I figured I'd leave for now, and let her have her stupid old bathroom. I already knew what she did everyday and I needed to go out and get an orange soda pop anyway.

While I was trying to steer my wagon past her without running into her garbage can, she said, "And don't come back in here or I will call the cops. You can't be using this sink to bathe in. This ain't a public bathhouse."

Her saying that made me mad, so I grabbed her arm. Tight, with all my fingers curled around it, my knuckles turned white. I started to tell her a story because she needed someone to tell her.

"I remember once I was with my mother, picking strawberries."

"Let go of me," the cleaning lady said.

"Little then. Five or six. And I didn't want to be out in the field picking. It rained and that made all the dark green strawberry plants, which are low to the earth, soaked through with water. Every time I took a step, my shoes got more drenched--saggy cloth that stuck to the bottom of my feet. I didn't want to be outside and I didn't want to have to bend down to pick the strawberries because my back hurt."

One by one, the cleaning lady tried to pry my fingers from her arm. But I got smart and grabbed her other arm with my left hand, while rearranging the grip on her right arm. Small red mark appeared on her skin like chicken pocks. She peeled my index finger from around her wrist, but as soon as she had it off, I clenched it back on. She threw her head back and forth like she might yell, so I talked louder.

"Well, first, Mother told me that I was too short for my back to really hurt and then she told me a secret. She said if I looked carefully and turned the leaves over, deep in the center, I would find the biggest, juiciest, sweetest berries. I got down in the mud on my hands and knees because my back still hurt even though I only measured four feet, and looked under the leaves. The bugs and spiders were all hiding there from the rain and dead leaves plastered to my arm. But I found a strawberry as big as a golf ball. I had the berry in my hand, and knew it was going to be juicy but I had gotten my arm stuck between two purple thistles and the strawberry plant and couldn't get my hand back without scratching myself."

I could see the back part of the cleaning lady's head and half of my own face in the mirror. Gray ran through my black hair. I shook her again, and moved her reflection. The mirror showed strands sticking out from under her lip like wire. She had a mustache. Looking to my own face I flared my nostrils, but couldn't see anything under my nose.

I remembered the story I was telling her, "And my mother said, 'See, you didn't look.' And then she laughed. I had to find out how to get myself out without losing the berry. I wanted to cry but my mother simply danced around in the rain laughing and yelling, "You didn't look."

"Get out of here, you crazy bat," the cleaning lady said. But I had both of her arms and I needed to make her understand, so I shook her back and forth like a big scarecrow, her head flopping.

"You've got to look," I yelled. This time, as she pried at my fingers I let her pull them off and then stood with my hands straight at my side. She grabbed her garbage can, bumped it into me and she started checking the toilet paper.

I don't know if she'll ever understand, but at least I tried. I figured I'd give her an hour to get through most of the cleaning and then go back in. I knew she wouldn't call the cops because she knew I had seen her stealing toilet paper. Anyway, I didn't have too much longer to wait for my bus. The view's supposed to be great in Indiana. I wheeled my wagon to a tan and black dumpster outside the bus station, hiking up the sleeves on my sweater ready to see what people had forgotten.

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