By Sharon Dilworth
They were unpredictable, difficult, always hard to handle. They rose from the ground, like mechanical monsters, spewing fire morning, noon, and night. Then suddenly, without any provocation, and for no apparent reason, they would blow.
The men who owned them named them for the women they professed to love – their wives, their sisters, their mothers, their daughters.
Dorothy, Edith, Isabelle, Carrie, Eliza, Lucy.
Manmade volcanoes. Men Killers. When they exploded, their destruction was massive.
Dorothy, Edith, Isabelle, Carrie, Eliza, Lucy –up and down the Monongahela River — the blast furnaces of Pittsburgh.
We are not religious. The war widow home is not a convent. But that’s what most people think — that we’re some sort of religious sect.
The other day at the market, the cashier, a slovenly teenage kid asks us why we don’t wear different kinds of clothes. “Like real nuns.”
He means habits or wimples. We don’t provide these words for him; we do inform him that we are not part of the Church.
He is suspicious of our denial. “If you ain’t nuns, what are you?
We want to correct his grammar but will not be rude simply because he’s ignorant.
“Don’t tell me, you’re criminals?” He has a large, flat face, red spotty acne all along his chin. We could ask him things – like when was the last time he brushed her teeth, does he ever think it might be a good idea to comb his hair, or maybe could he ever eat something without staining his shirt? We don’t.
He’s supposed to be doing a job here – we ask how much we owe for our purchases.
“Are you loonies?” This seems to excite him and he becomes unnecessarily loud. “Is that what you are? Nut cases?”
The shoppers behind us in line have quieted. They eavesdrop without shame.
“Maybe we are,” we say. “So watch yourself. We know where you live.”
“You don’t,” he says. He turns away from the register as if looking for help. “You don’t know anything about me.”
We put our groceries into our string bags and leave. No matter what our circumstances, we don’t have to be publicly disrespected. We have pride. Maybe too much, given our economic situation – but none of our business is his.
We know a home of war widows reminds people of loss; we’re a continual reminder that not so long ago, suffering was part of the quotidian and they’re worried that it will start all over again. They twist their fears into something sinister and mainly stay clear. And we know, that they believe it would be best if we would just disappear.
But that’s not going to happen. We’re not going anywhere. And it’s not like there are s going to be witch trials in the town square anytime soon. We do our best to ignore their stares and whispers. We don’t pay attention when they cross the street once they see us.
The director of the Home is a woman named Justina. She dismisses these concerns. “Just you’re imagination,” she says. “You do come up with the strangest things.” She doesn’t know.
But we do.
They don’t want to get too close as if widowhood is contagious. There is no shame in not having enough money to support oneself. There is a certain shame in not having family to help.
We are those women.
Up and down the river in Braddock, PA. And when we blow our destruction will be massive. We promise.
Sharon Dilworth is an award-winning fiction writer. She’s the author of three short story books including Year of the Ginkgo, Women Drinking Benedictine, and The Long White. Her work is also featured in the collection of short stories, Here: Women Writing on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. She is the recipient of numerous awards including the Iowa Award in Short Fiction, a National Endowment for the Arts Grant, a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts Grant, a Pushcart Prize in Fiction, and a Hopwood Award. Currently, Sharon lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where she is the Director of Carnegie Mellon University’s Creative Writing program.
