Time and Again

I remember most of the day in a series of pictures: Julia at the refrigerator while I hunted for things to make up a breakfast, marveling at its coldness, at its astonishing ability to actually create ice, at its freezing compartment, at the light that came on when you opened the door; her astonishment at instant coffee, her pleasure at its fragrance, and her wrinkled-nose disappointment at its taste; her surprise and pleasure in the frozen orange juice I magically took from the freezer compartment, stirred up in a pitcher, and poured over ice cubes.

And countless other pictures: Julia back in the living room, her third glass of iced orange juice in her hand, as she stood looking at the blank face of my television while I stood with my hand on the knob warning her of what was going to happen when I turned it. She nodded quickly, excited by what I'd promised, possibly not believing me or at least not really comprehending that I could mean it literally. Because I turned the knob, and in spite of my warning she was badly frightened, crying out and stumbling as she backed away, spilling a dollop of juice on the rug, as a distorted pattern on the screen suddenly turned itself into the moving speaking face of a woman urging Julia to try a new, improved dishwashing soap. Jules Verne hadn't prepared her for this; television was completely astonishing; she could hardly believe what she was seeing even as she stared at it. Then she babbled, asking how it worked, and she listened to my answer uncomprehendingly, alternately watching my face and sneaking looks back at the screen.

I told her that while what she was now watching was on tape, the machine could also show you distant events while they were happening, thinking this would astonish her even more. But she asked what I meant by tape, and when I told her there was a way of preserving pictures of people in motion together with the actual sounds of their voices, that was what astonished her.

I think the television set — and what I told her — was so bewildering that for a few moments she wasn't sure she liked it. But I slid a chair up behind her, touching the backs of her knees, she sat down slowly, and the bewilderment turned to a fascination as absorbing as a child's. With absolute open-mouthed attention to every movement and sound, daytime soap opera or commercial, she sat in rigid straight-backed motionlessness, having forgotten to even sit back. And when I showed her that you could change the picture by turning a knob, she sat turning the knob around and around at ten-second intervals, from serial to panel show to old movie to Julia Child, and I actually had to tap her shoulder to make her turn and hear what I was saying. I said, "I'm going out for half an hour. Will you be okay here?" She just nodded, her head already turning back to the screen.

In my bedroom I changed to wash slacks, sport shirt, sweater, moccasins, and put on a short tan car coat. She glanced up as I came back into the living room to say, "Is this how men dress now?" I said that yes, it was one of the ways, and she nodded, her head already turning back to a fascinating Allstate Insurance commercial.

I doubt if she realized how long I was gone, which was more than a half hour, closer to forty-five minutes. Because when I came in, she was sitting back in her chair but still staring at the television set: an old movie, a comedy from the forties that must have been ninety-five percent incomprehensible to her. But it moved and it talked and that was enough.

Of the series of pictures which are my memories of a lot that happened that day, the next is even more memorable than Julia's hypnosis by television. I had to turn off the set to get her away from it; she said, "Oh, no, not yet!" as the picture shrank and the screen went dark.

I was laughing. "Julia, there are other things to see! You can look at the television again later."

She nodded, and stood — but reluctantly, looking back at the set — and said, "A theater in your home — six theaters! It's a miracle. How can you bear to do anything but watch it?"

"Some people can't. But I don't think you'd be one of them. It's really no good, Julia, it's not worth watching, most of it." But of course she couldn't see that, not yet. I'd set the four or five packages I'd brought in on the davenport, and now I picked them up and began piling them into Julia's arms. "I think you'll have to put these on, Julia. You can change in my room."

"What are they, Si? Clothes? Modern clothes?"

"Yep." She hesitated, but I said gently, "People will stare at you otherwise, Julia," and she grimaced, and nodded. I said, "Forgive me for speaking of this, but I have to explain: I think you can keep on whatever underclothes you're wearing; though if you run into any problems, let me know." I was having trouble keeping my face straight. "There's a blouse, skirt, slip, and sweater in the packages. And shoes and stockings. Put them all on. I brought a garter belt for the stockings, which I'm sure you'll figure out. And if anything fits too badly, we'll stop at a store and replace it. Okay?"

"Okay." She nodded shyly, and went into my room, and I opened the last package, a suit box, brought out the street coat I'd bought her, and laid it over the back of the davenport as a sort of final surprise for Julia. It was tan cloth, with wide lapels, a deep collar, and big mother-of-pearl buttons. All these things had been expensive but I didn't care.

Julia was gone longer than I'd thought she'd be, and doors being as thin as they are today, which Julia surely didn't realize, I could hear her little exclamations of surprise and occasional puzzlement. Then I heard her say, "Oh!" in a shocked little tone, and the next picture in my assorted memories is of Julia — following a long wait after the "Oh!" — coming hesitatingly out of the bedroom and stopping just outside the door. Her voice embarrassed, she said, "Si, you made a mistake; just look at this skirt!" and I couldn't hold it in another second, and burst out laughing. The skirt I'd bought her was tan wool, and of a really conservative knee-length. And she had it on all right. But it was tight at the waist because she'd put it on over at least two of her own ankle-length white petticoats.

"Julia, I'm sorry!" I said; she was looking indignant. "But you can't wear those petticoats; wear the slip!"

"Slip?"

"The pink petticoat I brought you."

"I am wearing it!" Her face was shiny red. "Under my petticoats, and it's much too short!"

I'd bottled the laughter up, shoved it way down inside and it was off my face completely but fighting to get out. "No, Julia," I said gravely, "the slip isn't really too short. It's the same length as the skirt; a shade shorter so it won't show." I shrugged. "It's what they wear today. I didn't design them."

She stood for a moment as though thinking about arguing it, while I kept my face rigid at the sight of a good fourteen inches of ruffled white petticoat hanging down below the hem of that skirt. Then she turned abruptly, and was gone for at least ten minutes.

She came out of the bedroom walking like a duck, arms rigid at her side; it took me a few seconds and steps to realize that this strange walk was because her knees were pressed tight together. "Is this… how it's supposed to look?"

She stood motionless for my inspection, and I stood staring because Julia looked great. The blouse looked fine at the collar, the chocolate-brown sweater was a snug but not too tight fit, and the skirt looked terrific. As I'd suspected, she had a fine figure, though I hadn't known her legs would be absolutely beautiful. High-heeled shoes, the clerk had reminded me, were out of style right now, but I'd insisted on buying high-heeled brown leather pumps, and now I saw that I was right. In sheer flesh-toned stockings, those high heels emphasizing her fine-boned ankles and full round calves, Julia was stu