Passing Through

By Reeve Chudd

The dining room was filled with the familiar scents of roast turkey and Mrs. Carter’s heavy perfume as Blanche sat down for her monthly dinner at her parents’ home.  The oversized chandelier bathed the dining room in almost blinding light, and the black marble inserts in the redwood dining table shimmered with its reflection.  Blanche fidgeted with her fork when, suddenly, she noticed that her other hand was trembling.

Her father sat at the head of the table, meticulously centering the black straw place mat before him.  A subtle grin raised upon his face as he regarded the pretty yellow dress which adorned his only child’s slender figure.

“Milly,” he chimed at the room, “we’re ready out here.  Bring forth the bird.”

“Here we are,” replied Mildred Carter, as she whirled through the swinging kitchen door.  She, like her daughter, was a petite woman, and the large turkey platter she carried noticeably burdened her, yet she still hesitated before placing the platter on the table, as if awaiting the praise from her family that had never come.  

Better late than never, thought John Carter rose, and he took hold of the platter to lower it a few inches to the table.  His thick, powerful forearms rippled as he did, and the sight reminded Blanche of how she had admired her father’s muscles when she was a little girl and had compared them favorably to those of the fathers of her peers.  His thirty years as a mason had kept his arms firm and bulging.

“So,” he sat once more and faced Blanche, “how’s our junior accountant doing in big business of Philadelphia?”  He beamed at Blanche as he sliced the turkey.

Blanche wasn’t listening.  She was focusing upon the matching redwood credenza behind her father, which bore an embarrassingly vast array of photographs of herself at various ages, chronologically ordered from left to right.  It was a shrine that her parents had set up when she’d moved out two years ago.  Above the photo gallery was a large mural of the Philadelphia skyline, spanning the entire wall.  Mr. Kopolos, the dearly departed next-door neighbor, had painted the work when Blanche was still in nursery school.  It was quite pedestrian, she thought, and now hopelessly out of date, and she wondered how Mr. Kopolos hadn’t died of shame upon its completion.

“Blanche,” Mr. Carter again addressed her in a more forceful voice, trying to commandeer her attention.  “Blanche Carter!” he shouted.

“What?”  Blanche awoke from her meditation and looked abruptly at her father, visibly shaken. “I’m sorry Daddy. What were you saying?”

“Your mother and I were wondering how your new job is coming along.”

“Oh, fine.  Just fine,’’ Blanche mumbled, slowly recovering.  She thought it would have been so much easier had she telephoned or e-mailed her parents the night before to cancel her presence.  But she had not found the courage last night, and the simple course of action with sharing revelations with her parents had always been procrastination.  “We’re auditing a valve manufacturer, a subsidiary of a public company.  I’ve learned all about valves: check valves, gate valves, glove valves, plug valves, ball valves, butterfly valves, needle valves and pinch valves.  They make valves as big as your pinkie toe and as big as this room.  It’s soooooooooooo exciting!” she bathed the room in her sarcasm.

“Is anything wrong, baby?” Mrs. Carter said as she reached across the table to cover Blanche’s hand.

More pressure, Blanche thought.  She lowered her stare from her mother’s eyes to the empty plate in front of her, trying desperately to hide her fear.  She gently removed her hand from under her mother’s and clamped it, along with her other hand, on the edge of the table, and bit her lip, almost as a preparation to spring into action.  It had to be done now.  At last, she raised her head to face her parents.

“Daddy, Mom,” in feigned composure and resolve, she said, “I’ve decided to change my name to Anita.”

“What?!” Mr. Carter’s face shifted to a frown of disbelief as blood rushed to his face.

Almost in retreat, Blanche again lowered her gaze to the table, needing to show greater courage when she again raised her head. “Tomorrow, I’m going to court to change my legal name to ‘Anita’ Carter.”  Her serious face melted into a benign look of supplication. “I…I hope you’re not offended.”

Mr. Cartel stared at his daughter for what seemed like a full minute, with a tightly closed mouth, and breathed heavily out of his nose like a raging bull.  At length, his eyes narrowed into a painful grimace. “Of course I’m offended.  I mean, it’s not as if your mother and I have no feelings.”  Then he raised his elbows and placed his palms on his chest, nearly crying, “I picked your name, Blanche.  I did, and I’d do it again, because it was my mother’s name.  Your grandmother’s name.”

“What brought this on, Blanche?” her mother chimed in, matching her husband’s injured countenance.

Blanche leaned forward to her mother, “I just don’t want to be Blanche anymore, Mom.  That name doesn’t fit me.  It’s an old lady’s name, and it has a harsh, unfeminine sound.  Believe me, I don’t want to hurt either of you, but this is something I’ve thought about for years.”

Her mother shrugged her shoulders. “So why not just use a nickname; have your friends call you ‘Anita’?  I’ll call you ‘Anita’.”  

Blanche had prepared for this challenge.  She raised her voice for emphasis. “I want to call myself ‘Anita’, Mom!  I never want to be Blanche again — not on my checkbook, not on my tax returns, not to anyone!”

Mrs. Carter turned toward her husband, and they regarded each other as if in silent communication.  Their mouths hung partially open, as if each were courteously awaiting the other to carry on the interrogation.  Blanche was undone by this noiseless discussion, and she hastened to interrupt it.

“I haven’t changed.  I’m still your daughter, and I love you both.  I realize this is difficult for you to take in, but please try to understand.  I need to do this for my own sanity.”

Mr. Cartel half-smiled, reached for his daughter’s hand, and said softly, “Maybe you should go see a psychiatrist, Blanche.  This sounds like depression.”

Blanche yanked her hand from her father’s clutch and yelled, “For God’s sake, I don’t have a mental problem.  I just want a change.  Can’t you even try to understand that?  I’m sick of hearing ‘Blanche’, ‘Blanche’.” she retorted, speaking her given name with a thick and almost comical nasal tone. “I’ve been on several dates with men who say the same thing: ‘You don’t look like a Blanche’.”

She had anticipated that this announcement would be a herculean task, telling her parents that their only child resented the name they’d given her.  No, they didn’t, and wouldn’t ever, understand.  The puzzled parents again peered at each other wondering what to say or, more to their telepathic empathy, where they went wrong.

Blanche began to fiddle with her fork.  “If you really must know, I’ve always hated my name, ever since I can remember.”  When she was thirteen, she’d searched through a baby name book and had discovered ‘Anita’, which seemed to her to be the name of an exotic, mysterious woman.  It was such an exciting name, compared to the curse given to her at birth.

Mr. Carter finally addressed his still silent wife. “Millie,” he begged, “why is she doing this to us?  What have we done to deserve this?”

Mrs. Carter’s eyes were reddening, and her nostrils flared in anticipation of falling tears.  She used the table for support as she stood up sluggishly, gazing downward.  Suddenly she glanced at her daughter longingly.  “Oh, God,” she blurted, covered her mouth with her right hand and darted through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Mr. Carter got up to go and comfort his wife.  He paused at the kitchen door and shot a sharp stare at his daughter. “Look how you’re torturing your mother!” he said through clenched teeth, and then he disappeared behind the door.  From within the kitchen, Blanche could hear her mother wailing: “What is all this, John?  What is she doing?”

Blanche could not remember the last time she made her mother cry, even when she graduated high school as valedictorian or when she graduated from college.  Guilt began to penetrate the determination which she had constructed so carefully in the days before her visit.  A gentle sniffle warned her that she, too, was about to cry.  She got up from the table and ran to the bathroom adjacent to her old bedroom, carefully locking the door behind her.

The bathroom hadn’t been used since her last visit.  Even the makeup compact she’d accidentally left was still sitting on the sink where she’d placed it.  She closed the toilet cover (probably left open when her mother cleaned it), sat down and began to weep, but the tears gave her no relief.  This plan had been so simple when related to her friends, and even to her superior at her accounting firm, who exhibited curious excitement and happiness for her.  A man that she had once dated, and who remained her friend even after he married another woman, told her that she was “brave to undertake such a significant change”.  But it also had been difficult for her with them, asking everyone to change all of their memories to include Anita and to forget Blanche.

The tiled walls of the bathroom reminded her of the day she had returned from Sunday school and found her father cementing the pink squares over the wallpaper in the bathroom.  She had loved the old wallpaper; its white background spangled with tiny rainbows always seemed to lift her spirits.

“Why are you covering the rainbows, Daddy,” she had asked.

“Your mother and I think you’ve grown out of them, Blanche,” her father had replied while stretching to place a tile near the ceiling.

“But… I like the rainbows!” she had pouted.

To this, her father had turned and embraced her. “Blanche, that wallpaper is for little girls.  Why…just look at yourself.” He turned her to the bathroom mirror. “You’re a young lady already.  And weren’t you getting tired of your friends coming over and seeing your little girl wallpaper, anyway?”

“I guess so,” she conceded.  She was warmed by her father calling her a “young lady”.

She watched as he worked on the tiling.  At last, he finished the job.  “There.  You see?” he said. “Now your bathroom is grown up, like your mother’s and mine.”

“Thank you, Daddy”, she remembered she’d said.  

Just then, Mr. Carter bellowed, “Blanche!” and tore through her reminiscence.  “I know you’re in there, Blanche.  Your mother and I have talked this thing over, and I forbid it.  Did you hear me, young lady?  I forbid it!”

Blanche shuddered.  She was still unprepared for this level of confrontation, but suddenly her father’s words allowed the guilt which almost overwhelmed her to give way to defiant anger.  “You can go to hell!” she screamed through her tears.  But then she slapped her hand over her mouth as she realized what she had screamed at her father.  She waited anxiously until she heard her father step away from the door.  She again regarded herself in the bathroom mirror.

Her eyes were badly bloodshot, and her cheeks glistened with running mascara which had mixed with her tears down her face.  She washed it off and dabbed herself with a face towel.  Then she opened the medicine chest behind the mirror, searching for some makeup she’d left behind.  The other side of the cabinet door caught her attention as she was making her exploration, and the hand-printed message upon it brought a relieving smile to her lips:

IS THERE INTELLIGENT LIFE ON EARTH? – B.C.

She released a soothing, light chuckle.  She had written this short query during her previous visit, when her father had asked when she would get married and have children.  The black marker she’d used to create this graffiti still sat on the shelf in the medicine chest.

Blanche thought for a moment, and then she grabbed the marker to inscribe an appropriate reply.  The complete message caused her to laugh out of her anxiety:

IS THERE INTELLIGENT LIFE ON EARTH? – B.C.

YES, BUT I’M JUST PASSING THROUGH. – A.C.

Replacing the marker at its prior resting place, no doubt for future use, Blanche stepped spryly out the bathroom door.  Her parents were once more seated at the dining table, silently chewing their turkey.  

“Listen,” she said to them calmly. “I’m of legal age, and I’ll do what I please.  And if you don’t want what makes me happy, then you don’t really love me.”  She grabbed her purse and coat and marched to the front door.

“Good night, Anita,” her father said with a half-filled mouth.

She whirled around, “Pardon me?” she asked.

“I said ‘Good night, Anita’.”

Her face lit up as she opened the front door, about to resume her crying.  “I’ll call you, Dad.  Good night, Mom,” she called out as she closed the front door behind her, stepping into the crisp night air.

“Goodbye, Blanche,” whispered Mrs. Carter.  

Reeve Chudd is a retired trusts and estates attorney from Los Angeles, now residing in Carmel, Indiana.  He wanted to become a professional writer, but he didn’t want to sacrifice eating.  His four university degrees, when added to $4.65, will purchase a grande latte at Starbucks.  He is on FaceBook, but no other social media.