T-Backs, T-Shirts, Coat, and Suit

  “All right,” Chloë said, feeling very much the grownup in this conversation. “Chloë and Bernadette. That’s what it will be for our time remaining.” Time remaining sounded like a grown-up thing to say. She thought she was beginning to understand why Nick had asked her to help this person.

  Bernadette drove to her house in her black ’76 Pontiac Firebird. The hood ornament was the head of a bird, and fanning out behind it was the painting of a firebird, the phoenix, with its tail circling right and left in a pattern of red, orange, and yellow flames. Much too garish for Ridgewood, Chloë thought. Not in good taste. Rather childish.

  The car was very clean. Exceptionally clean. Spotless, in fact. She knew that Nick would not send her to anyplace that was not clean, but she wondered if he had remembered the health dangers of secondary smoke. Chloë reached toward the ashtray to see if there were any telltale signs of cigarette butts.

  “I don’t smoke,” Bernadette said.

  Embarrassed at having her thoughts read, Chloë said, “I must compliment you on the cleanliness of your car. A person could do brain surgery in here.”

  “I love this car,” Bernadette said. “Do all the work on it myself. Probably spend as much time under the hood as behind the wheel. I am so familiar with it, I can change its plugs, oil, and bearings blindfolded.” She glanced at Chloë and smiled.

  Chloë watched Bernadette’s smile. Chloë read smiles the way some people read tea leaves or tarot cards. The most important thing she watched for was how it grew. Slow and twitchy were the two basic styles. Female sales-clerks and office receptionists had twitchy smiles for twelve-year-old females. Dental hygienists, wonderful slow smiles; fast-food waiters, twitchy; actors playing fast-food waiters on TV, slow. Anchorpersons, two basic smiles: twitchy-twitchy when they were talking to each other and slow-twitchy when they were delivering animal stories.

  Bernadette’s smile took its time. It was, Chloë decided, exactly like Nick’s. Not twitchy. Not nervous. It was, in fact, a beautiful smile. Bernadette’s teeth were even and white, almost translucent, like milk.

  Bernadette said, “If you like my Firebird, wait until you see Daisy, my dog. She’s black, too.” Then Bernadette turned on the car radio to the classical music station and conversation stopped.

  Chloë had not been told there was a dog. She did not understand dogs or people who did. Big dogs always had their tongues out, and small ones were yippy. She pretended to like them when she went to the mall with Anjelica and Krystal, and they stopped by the pet store to browse. Chloë didn’t mind any animal that was safely behind bars, but the truth was, it was only in the movies that she found them adorable. She didn’t care for anything—including humans—with too much facial or body hair, and she failed to see the difference between animals in the wild and animals as pets. They were equally unembarrassed about performing certain bodily functions in public. But she never admitted that to anyone—anyone—especially Anjelica, who had a brother in Greenpeace, and Krystal, who actually taped all the National Geographic specials on PBS.

  When they got to the house, Chloë met the dog. It was big, and it was black, and it seemed no more anxious to meet her than she was to meet it. It stood still, close to Bernadette’s side, staring. After Bernadette made soft, clucking sounds, it approached Chloë, sniffing as it approached. Whichever parts were not covered with hair appeared to be excessively moist. Chloë did not want to be slobbered or shed upon. She pulled her arms in close to her sides to make herself as small a target as possible. “Are you going to tell me that I shouldn’t show fear?” she asked.

  Bernadette said, “It’s a good idea not to.”

  “Fine,” Chloë said, “because what I’m feeling is terror.”

  “She’s really very gentle.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Bernadette made more soft, clucking noises in its direction, and it finally lifted its head. It wanted something. Bernadette said, “You can pet her now.”

  Chloë replied, “Must I?”

  Bernadette said, “Of course not. But Daisy will remember that she offered herself to you, and you refused.”

  Chloë thought, I better. So she touched the top of its head with the tips of her fingers. It was not hot or oily but was, in fact, cool and clean-feeling, so she laid her whole palm flat on its back somewhere below its collar. With only that slight pressure on its back, it sat at her feet. She stroked a short section of its back between its collar and tail. She would not be too friendly; dogs kissed by licking, and she did not want to experience dog saliva on any of her body parts or find dog hairs on any of her possessions. The thought of finding dog hairs on her toothbrush made her shudder.

  Bernadette called it back to her side and said that they better call Nick and tell him that she had arrived safely.

  Chloë’s mother got on one of the extensions and Nick on another. Bernadette handed Chloë the phone. Chloë thought that Bernadette would get on one of her other phones so that they could have a four-way conversation, but she didn’t. It wasn’t until later that Chloë realized that Bernadette had only one phone in her entire house. And it was a wall-mounted rotary dial.

  Her parents were very glad to hear from her, and just before hanging up, Nick said, “Chloë?”

  She knew he wanted to say something important, and she was not in the mood.

  “Chloë?”

  “What?”

  “Chloë, will you promise me that you’ll help Bernadette?”

  “She has a dog.”

  Nick laughed. “So you’ve met Daisy.”

  “You knew there was a dog?”

  Nick laughed again. “Just promise me something. Promise me that you’ll help Bernadette and that you’ll give the unexpected a chance.”

  “That’s not some thing. That’s two things.”

  “Just promise me those two things.”

  Chloë sighed. “It’s awful hot here…. My hair is … and … Oh! All right.”

  Nick said, “Chloë, darling, I think you’re going to do just fine. Just fine.”

  * * *

  Bernadette asked if she needed help unpacking. Chloë said no. “I am not a person you will have to remind to wash, floss, brush, or flush either.”

  Bernadette said, “Good,” and then announced, “I am going to my room now. Once I retire to my room, you must not enter, and you must not bother me until morning except for an emergency.”

  Chloë thought, Why is she telling me this? Does she think I want to climb into her bed and cuddle? I am not a person who climbs into strangers’ beds unless I am in a hotel and the sheets are clean.

  Bernadette continued, “You can play the television after I’ve gone to my room, but if you must, use these.” She handed Chloë a pair of earphones. “Daisy sleeps in my room.”

  Chloë thought, That’s a relief.

  Then Bernadette said, “We get up at five-thirty.”

  “Five-thirty? A.M.?”

  Bernadette nodded.

  “Why?” she asked, thinking Bernadette wanted them up early so they could make the three-hour drive to Disney World.

  “Work,” Bernadette replied.

  “And second choice is … ?”

  “There is no second choice.”

  Chloë thought, That’s been the story of my life this summer. “Five-thirty, then,” she said.

  “I’ll shower in the morning and waken you as soon as I’m dressed,” Bernadette said and went to her bedroom. Without being asked, the dog followed.

  Chloë watched it. She thought, I don’t know much about dogs, but I wonder if this one is a cyborg. Bernadette had said that it was a Lab. Could that possibly mean Laboratory? No human dog could be that obedient. What had Bernadette done to make it so?

  * * *

  There was a chair, a bed, and a chest of drawers in the room that was to be hers. Everything—even the floor—was painted white. The only color in the room came from a quilt made of tiny squares the size of postage stamps and a cobalt-bl
ue glass vase full of fresh wildflowers that was on top of the dresser. Chloë thought, Nice touch! There was no mirror anywhere in the room. Not even on the back of the closet door. She would have to do her hair in the bathroom. Chloë thought, Not so nice.

  She unpacked and laid out her clothes for the next day. She always carefully planned her day’s wardrobe. She chose clean underwear, jeans, the long-sleeved turquoise shirt with the white ribbed collar and cuffs, matching socks, new Nikes, and the heavy leather belt with the silver-and-turquoise trim. (Not real silver and not real turquoise but an excellent copy.) And the turquoise headband.

  She lined up her other shoes on the floor of the closet, hung up her blouses so that all the hangers faced the same way, and placed her folded underpants in the drawer in a row so straight and precise that they looked like the lingerie counter at Bloomingdale’s. She stood back and admired her work. She then folded up the fifty-dollar bill until it was the size of a quarter and put it in the pocket of the ivory linen-and-acetate dress and pinned the pocket shut. She had bought the dress before she knew she was coming to Bernadette’s. She had never worn it—the price tag still dangled from the sleeve—but she could tell already that she would have little occasion to wear it in Peco, Florida.

  After taking a bath, Chloë walked through the rest of the house. She would look things over and see what she could buy that would be a suitable hospitality gift.

  The house was plain. Spotless but plain. No dining room. Only two bedrooms. The living room served as family room and library. There was a row of encyclopedias underneath the window seat. Only one TV and one bathroom. Of course, she thought, who knows what—besides the dog—lurks in Bernadette’s room. There were two air conditioners that looked like steamer trunks stuck in the windows, dripping water from their backsides into the yard, and there were two signs of the modern age—a Cuisinart and a small electric coffee mill—in the kitchen.

  Chloë folded down the postage-stamp quilt, moving from one side of the bed to the other so that she could smooth each fold and make the corners match. She climbed between the crisp, white sheets and lay flat and still.

  She felt almost as alone as she had felt on the plane before Heather’s grandmother had appeared. She began the thinking process again. She wanted to think about life, not her life, but life itself, but instead she kept thinking about Bernadette: How did she know that the dog would remember that I didn’t pet it? That was strange. But then Bernadette was strange.

  Her house was strange: plain but stylish, and so was she. Bernadette had those high cheekbones that all the fashion magazines say are the first thing they look for in models. Chloë thought, With contacts and a good makeover, she could be an attractive older woman, even with the impossible hair, of which she had grown quite a crop since the wedding.

  At the last slumber party she had gone to, the entertainment for the evening was to practice doing make-overs, even though no one was allowed to wear makeup yet, so they were not exactly make-overs. Neither Krystal nor Chloë participated. Krystal said she didn’t need any practice because she soon would be actually wearing makeup, since her mother would allow it as soon as she had to shave her armpits. Krystal didn’t lift her arms once all night. Chloë resisted doing the make-overs by saying she had a cold and didn’t want anyone to have to share her lipstick. The truth was she had no cold but she didn’t want to share a lipstick, so for the rest of the night she pretended to have the sniffles.

  She thought about all the slumber parties she would miss over the summer. What a relief. When she was nine and ten years old, they had been fun, but lately—ever since sixth grade—they weren’t. You were invited to come as yourself, and yet you were expected to be like everyone else once you got there. So you either had to pretend you were like everyone else or pretend you had a cold.

  Chloë snuggled farther down between the sheets, which smelled like a combination of Clorox and the out-of-doors, and thought about a possible hospitality gift: Does Bernadette know that there are any number of colors and patterns available in bed linens nowadays, or is there simply no place in Peco where a person can buy them?

  At a quarter after six the next morning they were in the Firebird and on their way to work. Bernadette parked outside a building that looked like a metal tent. Over the door was a sign that said ZACK’S MEALS-ON-WHEELS in big, bold letters. Underneath, in smaller letters it said: WAREHOUSE AND COMMISSARY. Bernadette got out of the car and went to a van that had ZACK’S MEALS-ON-WHEELS printed on its side. She unlocked the van and drove it the short distance to a loading dock.

  They went inside the warehouse.

  Mountains of cardboard containers lined the walls. More cartons than Chloë had ever seen, even in a wholesale club. They were full of soft drinks, snacks, paper cups, plates and napkins and straws and wooden stirrers. Across the floor there was a brightly lighted section that looked like the cafeteria at school. Two women wearing tissue-paper hats stood behind a counter making sandwiches and wrapping them.

  Bernadette filled two chests with ice and one with dry ice. Then she loaded up with raw hamburgers, hot dogs, two kinds of buns, slaw, sausages, sauerkraut, coffee, cream, sugar, two kinds of artificial sweeteners, iced tea, mustard, relish, ketchup and onions, potato chips, pretzels, pork rinds, candy bars, and dozens of the wrapped sandwiches. Everything was either tucked or clipped into place, and everything was counted and listed on a clipboard as she loaded it.

  “We have to return either with the food or the money for it,” she explained as she signed the clipboard. “I get paid a percentage of what I take in. The more I sell, the more money I make.”

  “Who buys this stuff?” Chloë asked.

  “People who work out-of-doors or in places where there are no restaurants nearby.”

  They would come under the category of the unexpected. Chloë had never met a working adult who didn’t have an office. Except Bernadette.

  They were loaded up, ready to go, when Zack of Zack’s Meals-on-Wheels came out of a far corner of the warehouse. He was a hairy man. Chloë expected his knuckles to graze the ground as he walked toward them.

  Bernadette introduced Chloë. “This is Nick’s kid,” she said.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. His voice sounded like tires that were low on air slowly rolling over gravel. He asked Bernadette what she intended to do with “the kid” while she was running her route.

  Bernadette replied, “Not the kid, Zack. This is Nick’s kid.” Then she said that she planned on taking Chloë with her. “I figure if she does half the work, I get half a vacation.”

  Zack said, “If you weren’t my oldest employee, Bernadette, I wouldn’t let you.”

  Bernadette said, “Do you know what he means by oldest employee, Chloë?”

  She said, “Of course I do. He means that you were born before anyone else who works here.”

  Bernadette laughed. “That’s true only on the days Grady Oates doesn’t show up.”

  Zack snickered. “Your aunt has been with me longer than anyone else who works for me. She’s the best in the business.”

  Bernadette winked. “You know, Chloë, it ain’t bragging if it’s true.”

  As soon as Bernadette had backed the van out of the loading dock, another, smaller van pulled in. Bernadette waved to the man behind the wheel. “That,” she said, “is Grady Oates. He drives the only van that doesn’t serve hot food. He services the discount malls out on the interstate. They don’t open until ten, so Grady doesn’t come to work until those of us who serve hot food have already loaded up. Grady is also the only person who uses his van as a family car. Except that Grady has no family. He lives alone. He’s a Vietnam vet. Lost a leg in the war.”

  “Which leg?”

  “His left. Doesn’t interfere with his driving.”

  “All the way up to his crotch?”

  “No, just to the knee.”

  “How many vans does Zack own?”

  “Eight, including Grady’s. But he also owns the
commissary, and it supplies the food for two other companies—one of them takes hot meals to shut-ins. It’s important to get to the commissary early to get a good variety of stuff. Soup is hot stuff in the winter.”

  Chloë got the joke but was in no mood to laugh. Sweat was happening already.

  Bernadette headed out to Talleyrand. Talleyrand is a three-mile stretch along the Heartfelt River where docks and warehouses line the riverfront. There are also two dry docks for ship repairs. Some ships come in for repairs; others come to load and unload. In a single day, automobiles from Japan and Germany, bananas from Costa Rica, and oil from Venezuela come to be unloaded. The street across from the docks is lined with stores selling ship supplies and warehouses for storage. Talleyrand is the oldest part of town. One of the side streets off Talleyrand is paved with bricks instead of asphalt. The buildings on both sides are weathered and gray, and the roofs look rusty.

  For Zack’s Meals-on-Wheels, Talleyrand was the best beat. It had to be serviced twice: once at morning break and again at lunch. Competition among food service vans was tough. In all of Peco, there were forty-six mobile units working out of eighteen commissaries. Sometimes there were as many as nine of them at Talleyrand.

  Zack himself sent two and sometimes three vans there, depending on how busy the docks and shipyards were. He sent others to various spots around town where apartments or malls were being built, and one van went forty-five miles south to where major repairs were being done on the interstate; that was the worst beat and was always given to the newest employee. Not only did the driver have to drive miles and miles to get there, but there were some days when the weather did not allow the road crews to work at all.

  By the time Chloë arrived in Peco, Bernadette had been working for Zack for seven years. Zack’s business had grown in the seven years she had been there, and she had helped it grow. She had earned Talleyrand.