Her name was Paulette. Like Goddard, but no one knows who that is anymore. When she was young, she walked everywhere she went. She loved the feel of the breeze on her face. In springtime, she could smell the scent of rosemary and mint and watch children playing stickball in the street. In those days, her legs could carry her so far and fast, the old folks would joke that she had wheels on her feet. When she was 22, she married a sailor. He didn’t like her out walking after sunset, her favorite time of day. He didn’t like her wearing pants, her favorite walking attire.
“It’s not proper,” he would say. “You’re not Dietrich.”
She started walking during the day, when he was gone. Sometimes, she’d walk in secret— borrow a friend’s car, without his knowing. She’d take trips to other neighborhoods, where she could dress like Dietrich and walk for as long as she liked. She’d go to places where no one recognized her as Paulette. Like Goddard. Or as the Missus, wife of the sailor. Within a year, she was pregnant. It hadn’t been planned. She didn’t know how to feel.
This is the way things would be: A wife. A baby. A husband who’s always away.
She’d take the carriage out and walk with the baby, but it wasn’t the same. She wanted to walk longer and faster and further, but the baby needed feeding and the husband was home on leave, and dinner still wasn’t done.
She dreamed of being like Goddard, making love to Gershwin. And she dreamed of dressing like Dietrich whenever she liked. This wasn’t a fad or a passing trend. It was a movement. Like other women of her time, she wanted to break free, move forward, and march on toward something better. She longed to be liberated, to run free in the streets as she had as a young girl.
The marriage didn’t last. It didn’t end either. He left; she didn’t follow. And that was that. She didn’t mourn this ending. She embraced it, behind closed doors. She wore pants and fedoras and these newfangled things called pantyhose. And she danced to Gershwin.
Again, she walked every night after sunset. She didn’t walk as far or as long, but she was happy. She smelled rosemary and mint and the freshly baked pies some other man’s wife had made.
Paulette knew she could never be Goddard or Dietrich. She wasn’t a Ziegfield girl or a Rockette or anyone even remotely glamorous or important. She was just a divorcee who needed a job.
She could type and wear short skirts and stockings. So, that’s what she did. She hadn’t wanted to be a teacher—never a teacher— with all those children mucking around. With no emotion or connection, she could put her typing away at the end of the day. The evenings were hers alone, no dictation or shorthand to stop her. Her own child grew into a man: a stockbroker. He moved to New York and saw her rarely. Sometimes, he’d send postcards. He’d write short messages she’d read over and over again as she walked around the neighborhood.
Her walks were slower now. Her legs felt heavier than they ever had. But she wore her pants and felt the breeze on her face and felt free. It was on a postcard, she discovered she’d soon become a grandmother. She didn’t know how to feel. This is the way things would be: A divorcee. A son she never sees. And a grandchild who lives thousands of miles away.
She wanted to feel happy, the way one is supposed to feel at such occasions. Instead, she wanted to escape. Around the block was as far as she got. She walked with a cane now. Most of the time, she didn’t use it. She just carried it around as a safety in case her legs got heavy or her nerves got to her. Or someone tried to attack.
At night, she listened to the radio loudly and looked through old photos of a former life. She looked to the future, which wasn’t long, and wondered: What will the walks be like then, when it’s all over? Will they be longer and faster and further as they were when I was young?
This wasn’t a fad or a passing trend, it was a movement: She was slowing down. Months later, she discovered, she couldn’t wander far at all. Now, she needed the cane. There was no denying it. She hated this fact, the needing of something beyond her control. Her feet were calloused, her legs were heavy, and her nerves got to her. As she walked, every crack in the ground was a potential disaster. A broken wrist. A broken hip. The end. Alone.
On the last walk, there was a chill in the air as she stopped to rest. Down below, she noticed the pavement was uneven. This could be trouble. She poked at the sidewalk with her cane and stooped over to watch a parade of ants, marching along with purpose. They moved fast and far, as though they had tiny wheels for feet.
I’ll never move like that again, she thought.
With that, she propped up her cane and stood up, only to discover just then—her legs no longer worked.