VERMILION WANTED TO
Go to the Movies
By Karen Schwind
Vermilion Wanted to Go to the Movies
Copyright © 2013 Karen Schwind
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, except for obvious historical references. Any references to persons or incidents, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Josh Billings https://www.jbillingsdesign.com/
Vermilion Wanted to Go to the Movies
Vermilion wanted to go to the movies. Vermilion always wanted to go to the movies.
“We don’t need to pay fifty cents to know what happens,” argued Peter. “I can tell you what happens. They get together in the end,” he said, tapping his fingernails against the kitchen table, where they sat across from each other.
“We certainly do not know that,” Vermilion said, her accent stretching know into a long cat-like meow. “Clark Gable might not want Carole Lombard this week.” She leaned towards him and laughed, her hair falling over one eye as if she herself were Lana Turner.
But Peter would not be swayed. “We can’t afford movies every week.” His frown made the words sound harsher than they were, harsher than he meant them to be. Peter liked going to the movies.
Maybe not as much as Vermilion.
Actually, he didn’t like movies as much as he liked going to them. Walking down the sidewalks of New York, seeing men striding by in suits with fedoras or slouch caps pulled low over their eyes, women wrapped in scarves and gloves. Their eyes glanced over him, glazed with unconcern, and then jerked to a stop at the sight of Vermilion.
She strolled languidly along the busy streets, never tiring of watching cars and people rush by, always saying “How do you do?” to anyone who caught her eye. Two years in the city, and she still never met a stranger. Even native New Yorkers smiled at her, men often tipping their hats and blurting, “Fine, and you?”
Peter was used to the effect his wife had on others. Though he habitually wore one of two gray suits, a light wool for summer and a heavy wool for winter, and though something in his appearance—the slight movement of his body when he walked or the inexpressive face—suggested a man who had made up his mind to be invisible to the strangers of the world, he loved the way Vermilion shone against the pallor of the city.
“Why don’t we walk down to the drugstore and share a Coca-Cola?”
“No,” she said, then brightened. “We could have a Coca-Cola after the movie.” She reached out and touched his hand, her fingers warm against his skin.
He hesitated. “We can’t, Vermilion. This would be the third week in a row. We can’t spend almost a dollar a week on the movies.”
“It won’t cost a dollar for the movie. We don’t need Coca-Colas or popcorn.” Her voice grew softer and lower.
He looked at her while he thought about the small clip with ten one-dollar bills in it.
“No,” he said. “We can’t.”
The next day at work, Peter stared out the window. A gray mist fell—not rain, which he thought might have been better. A stream of humanity surging down the sidewalk shrank inside their coats, faces invisible.
Vermilion had brought up the movie again that morning as she made oatmeal for Peter’s breakfast. She made oatmeal for him every morning because, as she said, it was hot, it was cheap, and he liked it.
Holding a cup of coffee with steam drifting off the top, she waited until they sat at the table. As soon as Peter took his first bite, she said, “I think I’ll stop at Loew’s and see what time the movie starts.”
Before he could speak, she said, “I know you think we shouldn’t go this Saturday, but it never hurts to see what’s on. That way, we won’t be late if we do decide to go.”
He walked to work feeling defeated, pushing his hands into his pockets after turning up the collar of an old gray trench coat Vermilion had found for him at the second-hand store. They had laughed when he tried it on. “You look like Dick Tracy,” she said to him and kissed his lips with abandon, the way she did when she was happy.