Queen Esther

Abstract

P the most interesting bureau drawer in Ben’s mother’s room was her unmentionables drawer. Most of the items looked fragile, the same shade of pink, coral and dusty rose, stacked in three rows like silk scarves. Further, once the compartment was drawn open, a sweet aroma wafted out of a calico sachet bag. Petticoats, half slips, camisoles, panties, and, at the very bottom, the ballast—a chunky girdle festooned with bone stays, wire fasteners and elastic straps with catches that kept her nylon sheers from drooping like loose skin on her legs. “It doesn’t belong here,” thought Ben. He recalled an aged catfish he’d once pulled out of a pond with wire leaders and hooks decorating its mouth. Ben had looked forward to this day. She’d promised the two of them were going on a special trip. He sat all dressed on the side of the fully made bed. His father had left early to hurry onto the golf course. “Where are we going, Ma?” “To a Queen Esther social.” Queen Esther was the name of her Sunday Bible class. All women, most of whom Ben thought looked like boarded-up Victorian houses. His mother was the youngest and prettiest in the group. He watched her draw cocoa stockings up her legs, careful so as not to cause them to run, then roll their ends in cloth covered rubber bands high on her thighs. “Are the seams straight, Ben?” she asked. Lifting up the half slip. “Yes,” he said. She never asked his father. “Ben, go get the clear nail polish.”