The Banishment of Pinky Blue

I

A RAG doll, for sanitary reasons, was relegated to the storeroom on my fifth birthday. Ever since I could remember, perhaps going back to the day I was born, Pinky Blue had shared my crib. Her flat bland face was my earliest assurance of welcome to this world. She supported my bottle and she soaked up my tears. She was a soft, warm consolation after punishment, a silent, wholly absorbed listener to my confidences. Her face became filthy, her features vanished; of her expression only the painted red ribbon in her painted hair endured through five years of eroding affection. When cotton started to protrude from her neck, she was mercifully packed away by my mother.

I was lost. Sisters and brothers, whom I had in abundance, could not deliver me from the new, tragic desolation. I wanted Pinky, and without her life had no allure.

It was in this dejected state of mind that I went to work digging up ants from between the bricks that formed a walk in the front yard. While I worked I thought of Pinky, who might have lain at my feet, allowing ants to scramble over her legs. Without her, the ants went willy-nilly. I wanted her desperately. Disgusted, I prodded with the stick. The ants raced out, but were halted in their flight. Another little girl — not I — had spread her hands on the bricks, cupping them to prevent the ants’ escape. She was laughing with excitement, and when the ants retreated from her, why, there was I, cutting off exit on my side. I laughed too. The distracted ants tumbled over themselves. Whenever they sought a new avenue of evasion the other little girl’s hands darted ahead of them.

I do not know how long we played with the ants, but at last we felt sorry for them and let them go. The little girl was so like Pinky Blue in spirit and delightful camaraderie that I remember calling her ‘Pinky’ in my excitement, and she accepted the name matter-of-factly. I do not think I questioned her entrance into my life, for I was too pleased.

II

She did not come into the house with me — that day or any day to follow. We always met out of doors, we always were alone together. I do not know how or when the realization came to me, but I knew, without being at all startled, that I was the only one who saw Pinky, that she was for me and no one else.

She was plain. Her features were straight, almost severe. She wore her hair as short as any boy’s, and that was in an age of curls and huge hair ribbons. My sisters and brothers had irregular features, and my sisters were pretty, with flashing dark eyes and long black lashes. Not so Pinky. Her eyes could not flash, because they were a pale blue; when she was merry they lighted, but there was no sparkle, no flutter of lashes — just a clear, straight glance. I was devoted to her.

It was a privilege to be in the company of my sisters. They were older than I, and their activities made my home life thrilling. There were new plans afoot for entertainment the instant they lingered indoors — a play in rehearsal, novel attempts at interior decoration, candy making on the cook’s day out. And I would tingle with pleasure when included in these affairs, then suddenly find myself slipping away when the fun was at its height — slipping outdoors to meet Pinky, who was always waiting. She made no point of waiting for me any more than did the trees. She was just there.

One day I was playing with Pinky in the side yard. I was telling her of some plans I had, of transplanting violets to where Sir Malcolm, the canary bird, was buried. Suddenly I heard tittering, then the high clear laughter of the colored women in the kitchen. I glanced up, and they were staring at me.

‘’Lizbuth, what yo’ doin’ talkin’ to yo’se’f all de time?’ It was Clara, the cook.

I was sick with shame. Pinky and I ran away, leaving the uprooted violet plants to die. I wanted to cry, but Pinky was contemptuous of the incident. Was n’t it just as much fun to play in old Mr. Bullock’s back yard? He never bothered us.

At the time I adopted her attitude, but for months I was resentful toward the servants. I would take heart when some adult member of the family criticized the cooking, hoping this would lead to Clara’s dismissal. But the colored women stayed, and Pinky and I kept our distance from the kitchen windows.

We went into Mrs. Herbert’s garden one day. Hers was a beautiful garden, laid out formally and forbiddingly. I should never have ventured there had not Pinky wanted to see the flowers at close hand.

We walked along the closely clipped grass border, leaning over the flower beds. Pinky touched the flowers, but I was afraid to do so. We rounded a curve and came face to face with Mrs. Herbert, trowel in hand and astonished hostility in her eyes.

‘What is your name, little girl?’ she said to me.

Pinky gave me a mischievous poke.

‘Miss Blue,’ I answered. Pinky was delighted. Her eyes were gay.

‘You look very much like one of the little Custers,’ Mrs. Herbert said severely. ‘Custer or Blue,’ she continued in a disagreeable tone, ‘I don’t want you tramping in my garden.’ She watched us walk away.

As soon as we reached the street, Pinky, who loved fun and nonsense, was carried away with merriment. She ran beside me, stopping suddenly and saying in her most affected manner: —

‘How do you do, Miss Blue? Is n’t it a lovely day?’

And I would reply, ‘Indeed it is, Miss Custer. And I s’pose you want to smell that nasty old Mrs. Herbert’s flowers?’ Then we would burst out laughing. When we reached my house she chased me up the walk.

‘Last tag, Miss Blue!’ she shouted.

III

How much my family knew of Pinky I was never quite sure. There was considerable talk at home of how imaginative I was, and my fondness for playing alone. I was delicate and could not play strenuously with other children, so perhaps I did not seem as peculiar as a more robust child might have under the same circumstances.

It occurred to me at times that, to others, Pinky and I moved in such accord that we seemed like one person. But I knew we were not as one in many respects. Pinky had her own opinions, and, though we never quarreled openly, there were moments of misunderstanding.

My father gave me a bicycle on my ninth birthday, and my sister Alma took me out the first time to teach me how to ride it. For many patient minutes she balanced me up and down the street outside of our home, always encouraging.

‘It won’t take you long, dear, it won’t take you long,’ Alma would say with every wobble. ‘Soon you’ll be able to ride.’

The next day I took the bicycle out alone — that is to say, Pinky and I took it out. I practised along the curbstone while Pinky walked close beside as Alma had done. I would get seated, push on the pedals, land with a spill in the gutter. Pinky said nothing.

Again I would start off, and after many starts and tumbles I managed to balance myself the distance of one tree to the next. Then I would slip to the curb, clinging to the bicycle and waiting for words of praise from Pinky. She was most superior. The fact that I finally toppled off discredited any balancing feat that had gone before. I was furious with her. Angrily I would mount the bicycle once more and, as usual, sway and wobble. When I managed to keep my seat after several revolutions of the wheel, I would look at Pinky in triumph. She stayed snippy and mean. Even when at last I learned to ride, she never applauded.

All through grammar school Pinky was my very best friend. I had other friends, little girls the family either liked or disliked, but they never were as satisfactory as Pinky. None of them had Pinky’s original ideas. When I played with other children we often sat around wondering what on earth to do. That never happened with Pinky. She could think up more things to do than any person I have ever met.

Who but Pinky would have thought of getting on the roof of our house to see what it was like up there?

There was a trapdoor in the ceiling of the alcove of my grandmother’s room on the top floor. A ladder leaned against the wall. I never had seen anyone use the ladder or the trapdoor, but there they were. When I mentioned them to Pinky, she had to see what it was like up there on the roof.

My grandmother was knitting wash cloths when I hurried into her room. She loved to have the children come to call upon her, so she greeted me cordially and rummaged in her knitting basket for cough drops she saved for visitors like myself. I ran past her into the alcove. I shifted the ladder so that it leaned against the wall right under the trapdoor. I mounted it. My grandmother, in a frenzy of apprehension, witnessed my ascent. She pleaded with me, ‘Get off — get off!’ But Pinky, who had her own ways of travel, was already on the roof. I could hear her impatient feet overhead as I tugged at the trapdoor. It opened — I pushed it with my head and scampered up the ladder until the door slammed across the roof. There was Pinky, sure enough, radiant with excitement and extending a hand to help me climb out.

The roof was flat and covered with pebbles embedded in tar. We scuffled our feet and wondered how near the edge we dared go. We seemed immeasurably high above the ground. Pinky was so awed that I kept very quiet. Our house was as tall as any house in that section of the city at that time, so the sky line was clear, with only a church steeple and tree tops on distant hills to rival our aerial supremacy. The wind blew through our hair. We felt far above the world. Pinky, who was taller than I, stood slim and straight against the wind, reveling in the freedom we both felt but could not put into words. We were overcome with wonder, and never had I felt so closely intimate with my beloved Pinky Blue.

Grandma, meanwhile, had sounded an alarm down the stair well, so our moment of exaltation was of short duration. My older brother came at once to the rescue and hauled me back to the bosom of my slightly hysterical family. I was scolded and warned by every member; I was asked repeatedly why I went to the roof—‘Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?’ I said nothing. No use putting the blame on Pinky, though it was she who thought up the adventure.

That night I could not sleep for worrying about Pinky. I had never entertained fear for her safety before. Did her curiosity carry her too near the roof’s edge? Could she have fallen to her death? Oh, morning, come!

She was at the front gate, waiting to walk to school with me. I felt happy tears of relief at sight of her. She made no reference to our experience of the day before as we chattered back and forth and planned new adventures. That was one of the things that endeared Pinky to me — her readiness to forget past incidents.

IV

Then, of a sudden, Pinky became a problem. I realized it with shame and an aching sense of disloyalty during my freshman year at high school. With the lengthening of my skirts and the twisting back of my curls I acquired a self-consciousness that made conversation with Pinky an embarrassment. Girls walked arm in arm to high school, three and four abreast. How could I shy away from manifest friendship for the far more enjoyable society of the unseen Pinky Blue? I wanted her with all my heart, but my love for her was not strong enough to stand out against the possibility of my being thought ‘queer.’ I was forced to join the ranks of realists, though I was bored sick with their empty, aimless gabble, their silly giggles their lukewarm interest in me.

On the average of one day a week I hungered for Pinky so that I could n’t stand another day of separation. Then I would dawdle over breakfast, pretending not to hear the insistent ‘Yeeooo’s ’ of schoolmates at the front gate, refusing to hurry at my sister’s command; and finally, when the last ‘ Yee-ooo’ had died away, I would chase out the back gate and across vacant lots with Pinky.

We had to run the whole way over the short cut so that I should not be late for school, but we managed to talk between puffs and unburden our hearts. Pinky was as glad to see me as I was to see her. She had just as much to tell me as I had stored up to tell her. And the joy of listening to Pinky’s outpourings! I loved to hear her talk about the coming summer, her planned excursions away from the city to a country spot where one did as one pleased, explored at will. Oh, forwardlooking Pinky Blue! Her independence, her pleasure in every passing minute, and her serene anticipation of the future gave me more real happiness than I ever have known since.

Though my conscience stabbed me when I neglected her, Pinky acted as though our friendship were unaltered. She never spoke of the long lapses between our meetings, nor troubled to ask me why I avoided her. My sense of guilt made me secretive, however. I concealed my new interests and told her nothing about football and basketball games I now attended, or the highschool dances. I could n’t speak of boys to her. Was this because Pinky would never have a beau?

Away from her, I doubted her physical existence, scolded myself for continuing the childish practice of conjuring her out of my imagination. But I could not make myself stop yearning for her companionship. No amount of self-restraint could keep me away from her for long. And when we were together again I knew she was real. Why, I could see her! The years changed her very little. She always was half a head taller than I, always bareheaded, always straight and slim in clothes that were neither in nor out of style, but were inconspicuous and becoming to her.

I worried along through a year of high school and surreptitious rendezvous with Pinky Blue. My parents sent me to a girls’ camp in the Pocono Mountains the following summer, and Pinky did not follow me there. Her intuition must have told her I should never be alone night or day, but should sleep, eat, walk, swim, and play surrounded by forty girls who had a healthy dislike for a nonconformist. Pinky, instead of being jealous and possessive in her friendship with me, was too considerate of my feelings to intrude where her presence might prove an embarrassment to me. But I missed her — oh, how I missed her! The camp counselors called it homesickness and went out of their way to cheer me when life without Pinky seemed intolerable.

During the first term of my sophomore year at high school I saw her but four or five times. Once, when I was detained after school, we walked the whole way home together, leisurely and in perfect contentment. I permitted Pinky to do most of the talking, though, for whenever I started to interrupt her we passed someone on the street.

As is the way with a friendship that must be concealed, my love for Pinky lost much of its sweetness through deception. In order to meet her I had to pave the way with lies. ‘I have a headache and want to be alone,’ and ‘You go ahead, I’ll run and catch up with you when I find my Latin book,’ were excuses that became worn and frayed — lies so shabby I was ashamed to use them. I began to question whether Pinky was worth the wretched time I had arranging for our meetings.

She was. I knew it instantly every time I found her waiting. Dear, faithful Pinky Blue! Her bright quick mind, her genuine affection for me, her pale blue eyes that saw small wonders of nature my eyes failed to see until she pointed them out to me, were worth a thousand lies.

V

Then, late in November, the captain of the boys’ high-school football team formed the habit of meeting me on my way to or from school. These meetings were never by appointment, but occurred at unexpected times and places. Sometimes he was waiting for me at the front gate of my home, the way Pinky used to do, but more often I encountered him along the way. I would turn a corner and come face to face with him after I had given up hope of seeing him that day. My schoolmates did all in their power to encourage this youthful romance. They no longer formed an escort for me and policed my solitude. I walked with the football captain or, as others believed, by myself.

But Pinky Blue? What was I to do about her? She always danced up to me when I started forth alone and fell in step beside me. I always welcomed her whole-heartedly and plunged into excited conversation with her. What if, while I chattered along with Pinky, the football captain saw me before Pinky or I caught sight of him?

Fear of such a calamity made my life a horror. One of my sisters remarked that talking to one’s self was a form of insanity. Of course I never talked to myself, but . . .

Pinky must go. I came to this decision after three terrible days and nights of mental anguish. I loved her and needed her. She had a place in my heart that no one — not even a football captain — could fill. But she had no place in the world, no refuge from worldly ridicule. My own life had become so crowded with people and their opinions that I could not meet our friendship’s demand for privacy.

One morning I walked through the vacant lots and kept my eyes on the ground. My heart pounded painfully and my eyes smarted with unshed tears. Pinky was there beside me; I could see, out of the corner of my eye, her eager feet. I made no acknowledgment of her presence. Once I heard her gasp in shocked dismay. I never raised my eyes or permitted a word to fall from my lips. Head down, arms tight to my sides, I hurried along the short cut. It was the longest, most miserable journey I have ever taken. Pinky’s footsteps lagged — she seemed to be walking with a painful limp. I despised myself for my treachery, my deliberate cruelty to the now hurt and faltering Pinky Blue. She was like a wounded bird — like the bird with a broken wing she and I found fluttering at our feet on this same short cut not so long before. She had taken the bird and held it tenderly to her breast, then given it to me to place in shelter in the bushes. I offered no protection to Pinky. Instead, my betrayal was as ruthless as though I trampled upon her, crushed her with brutal selfinterest.

I emerged from the short cut with tears streaming down my face. The football captain stood on the street corner, and his eyes, worried and full of concern, searched my face. When he saw the tears he bent down and kissed me. . . .

Pinky never returned.