Turn 26 of 44

Paint Carol's nails red to match everyone and give her the pearl necklace, earrings and diamond ring before the curl-brushing reveal. She then asks you to teach her how to talk, walk and act like a proper 50s housewife. You agree and start immediately. After only 30 minutes, she talks, walks and acts like you, Vivian and every stereotypical 50s housewife.

"Red," you decide, uncapping the bottle, "to match your mouth. Every gal on this street matches, and it's just the *prettiest* thing." Ten small red mirrors, stroke by careful stroke, and Carol holds her fingers spread in the lamplight like a fan of rose petals while they dry. Then you lift the pearls over her head and clip the earrings in her ears, and the diamond ring — the one from the vanity drawer, the one every gal gets one way or another — slides onto her finger like it's been waiting there all along.

"Oh," Carol breathes, turning her hand in the light. "Oh, Margaret, I could *cry*." "Save it for the brush-out, honey. That's the real waterworks." Then she swivels on the vanity stool and says, earnest as a schoolgirl, "Teach me the rest. How to talk, how to walk — how to *act*. Like a proper housewife. Like you." "Sugar," you say, standing, petticoats swishing, "I thought you'd never ask." So the lesson begins right there between the bed and the mirror. You teach her the walk first — hips forward, chin up, small quick steps, heels clicking like a clock that means it — and she goes up and down the bedroom rug until the sway is hers.

Then the talk: the pitch, the honey, the *well I never*s and *swell*s and *don't you worry your pretty head*s, and she repeats them back until they fall out of her without the gears showing. Then the acting — the folded hands, the head-tilt, the giggle that answers things that aren't jokes, the way a gal stands at her porch rail like the street is a show put on for her. Thirty minutes, and something settles over her like the last petticoat. She straightens a picture frame on the way past.

She smooths the chenille. She says, "Fred'll be wanting his supper soon — oh! *Your* Fred. Land sakes, I get so mixed up," and giggles at herself, and the giggle is yours, is Vivian's, is every housewife's, all one sound. She stands at the vanity in her pearls and green coat dress, red nails folded neatly, permanent smile fixed, and there is nothing left of Casey anywhere at all.

"Well?" she says, hips cocked, perfect. "How do I rate?" "Honey," you tell her, "you rate *swell*. Just one thing left." You reach for the brush.

"Her hair," you say, "is ready for her brush-out."