“Meeting men, you mean.”
“Well, yes. Of course. It’s the natural thing. Woman needs man and man needs woman, and that’s all there is to it, I don’t care what anybody says. For the homosexuals, of course, it’s a little different, but it’s still the same, anyway.”
“… What?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. The point is, if a child sees his mother dating, it lets him know that she’s special. And then of course he feels special, too. I’m not making this up. Just think back to how you girls felt when I dated. You didn’t mind at all. You liked it.”
I close my eyes, rub my forehead. Where to start? I remember distinctly sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my sister, Louise, a few months after our father died. We were having macaroni and cheese with hot dogs sliced into it. While we ate, our mother sat at the table with us, doing her nails. She had a date that evening, and her hair was in pin curls, covered with a bright yellow kerchief. She chewed ice cubes from a sweating aluminum tumbler while she painted each fingernail a thrilling red.
She was going out to dinner. To a very nice restaurant, she said, that she’d heard all about. There was a live orchestra at that restaurant, men in tuxedos, and oh, the violins were supposed to be fantastic! There was a little lamp on the table that you turned on whenever you wanted the waiter to come. When they brought the check, they presented it along with a red rose for the lady—long-stemmed!
Our mother tried to date at least three times a week. She marked her calendar with red Xs and names, keeping a desperate tally. Tonight was Wolfgang Mueller (“Wolfie,” she called him), a wholesale meat man who had the unfortunate habit of spitting a bit when he talked. He was a very tall man, with black eyebrows that seemed intent on escaping his face—they grew straight out a good half-inch. “You could land an airplane there!” Louise said, the first time we met him. The hot dogs we were eating were a gift from him, presented to our mother the last time they went out. “For you, my Veronica,” he’d said, bowing slightly and handing her the meat, wrapped in white butcher’s paper and tied with red-and-white striped string. “Und here, you zee,” he said, pointing proudly, “I hef made the schtring so as to look like a little mouze. Here we hef little ears, here is das body, und here, the tail! You zee?”
“Oh, Wolfie!” my mother had said. And then she had shown Louise and me the package, saying, “Look. Can you see the mouse Wolfie made for you?” I stared in vain, and Louise left the room. “Next he’ll show up here in lederhosen,” she told me later.
I was ten then, young enough to believe that hot dogs mixed with macaroni was fine dining, and to be thoroughly captivated by the idea of dating—if not by the men you had to spend time with in order to do it. As I saw it, the men were pretty much beside the point; it was the getting ready part that mattered.
On a day when she had a date, my mother pored through magazines to find the style most appropriate for that evening, then washed and set her hair. About an hour before pick-up time, she took a lengthy bubble bath. She emerged in a warm cloud of fragrance, then sat at her dressing table, rolled up her robe sleeves, and went to work. I would sit on her bed playing with Betsy McCall paper dolls and watching my mother style her hair in one updo or another, bobby pins clamped between her teeth. Next she applied foundation in smooth, upward strokes to her face and neck, even to the back of her neck. She put a dot of rouge on each cheek, then rubbed it in for a quick blossoming of color—that was my favorite part. She applied her mascara carefully, her mouth open; then darkened her eyebrows. Next lipstick, laid on thickly, blotted on a tissue. She screwed on sparkly earrings, turned her head left and right. She would anoint herself with My Sin, and then slip into a dress that came from a plastic protector.
“How do I look?” she would always ask, turning on her tiptoes like the ballerina on my jewelry box. And I would always answer—truthfully—beautiful. I was sad when she was ready to go—the delicious sounds of clicking bottles and rustling fabrics would be gone, her rich scent would fade, and I would be left with Louise, whose idea of being a good baby-sitter was to let me do things for her.
I did not yet agree with Louise that our mother was absolutely mortifying—at least not all of the time. I did not agree that we should run away to New Jersey to live with our father’s relatives, all of whom were much more dignified than our mother. I was still tucked in at night, still wanted, at that time, to have my mother stay and stay beside me.
Louise, on the other hand, was fourteen, newly free of needing primal comfort and therefore deeply scornful of it; she spent most of her time locked in her room. Perhaps more than anything, Louise hated our mother’s going out with men she called the goons. She was so obvious about it, Louise told me; she was so eager to take up with anyone who came along. And it pained me too, it did. Louise and I had adored our father, a good-looking and gentle man who died with open-eyed surprise from a heart attack at forty-one. But we said nothing to our mother.
But now, finally, I do. “No, in fact we hated your dating. It didn’t make us feel better at all.”
“Oh, of course it did,” my mother says. I know the gesture that will accompany this remark: Veronica will reach up to the right side of her face and adjust a few pieces of the red hair curled there. Emphatically. I used to wonder why there weren’t fingerprintsized dents all along the side of her face.
I stretch the phone cord out to dump the candy box in the trash. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I don’t want advice just yet, okay? For one thing, it’s a different situation entirely. David isn’t dead.”
My mother sniffs. “As far as I’m concerned, he is.”
“You know, Ma, I only called to see if you could stay with Travis for a while this afternoon, maybe make him dinner if I’m not back in time. Could you do that, do you think?”
“Of course I can. I have a pedicure at one-thirty; I’ll be able to get there long before he’s home from school.”
“All right. So I’ll see you when I get home. Sometime around … I don’t know. Sometime.”
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Where are you going, honey? You sound a little … You’re not going to a therapist, are you? They’re crazier than the rest of us, really they are. I knew a woman—well, actually, you might remember her, Louise Castlebaum? Always trying to show off her legs, which, in my opinion, were not so worthy of showing off, but anyway, she went to a therapist—a full-blown psychiatrist!—and—”
“Ma! I’m not going to a therapist! I’m going …” Nuts. “I’m going shopping.”
“Well, now. That’s better! That’s a very good thing to do! Just forget about things, indulge yourself a little!” Then, her tone shifting, “And what should I say if David calls? Should I say you’re out with someone else?”
They should keep a permanent chair empty for my mother in some sixth-grade classroom. Stencil her name on it. She’d be so comfortable there.
“David is not going to call,” I tell her.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because, if you must know, he told me very clearly that he wanted us to have a week of no communication before we talked any more. At all. About anything. He is talking to Travis, but not to me.”
“Oh. I see.”
“All right, Mother?”
“All right. Sam?”
“I really have to go.”
“Real quick, now, just listen. You’re going out anyway, right? I have an extra coupon for a pedicure, you could swing by Stephano’s and get one with me. Wouldn’t cost you anything, not a cent, even the tip is included. I know you think it’s silly, but really, a good pedicure can do you a world of good, change your whole outlook. When your feet feel good, you do, too. This could be just the ticket.”
“I don’t think so. But thanks.”
I hang up the phone, go upstairs to dress. Once, after I broke up with my high school sweetheart, my mother bought me pedal pushers. She came into my bedroom where
I’d been weeping, holding them up and swaying them from side to side. “Look what’s back in style,” she said. “With a cute little pair of sandals?” When I didn’t respond, she sat on the bed beside me, put her arm around me. “Well, honey, what is it? Don’t you like yellow? I thought they were so cheerful. But I swear, they have every color under the sun. I can go back right now and exchange them. How about purple? Would that do it?” She squeezed me, leaned over to look into my face, wiped some tears away. “Pink?”
When we were roommates in college, Rita had once asked, extremely gently, if my mother were mentally retarded. “No,” I said. “Just … Southern.” That was the only explanation I could come up with at the time. And I still make do with it.
3
The salesman at Tiffany’s is wearing a navy blue suit, a beautiful red silk tie, and a white shirt with discreet blue stripes. Also monogrammed cuff links: gold, with a rich patina. He is half bald, red-nosed; a drinker, I suppose, though an elegant one, who makes his martinis in a Baccarat pitcher before he passes out from them every night. Perhaps I’ll buy one of those pitchers, too.
Thus far I have ordered a Limoges china tea set. It is for me to use in the late afternoons. I will sit by a window that has good light and that will also, very soon, have French lace curtains. Or Belgian, whatever’s more expensive.
After some deliberation, I selected the American Garden china pattern. I liked the drooping petals of the scattered and varied flowers, the hopeful green curl of the leaves that surrounded them. The thin, outer ring of gold (“Fourteen karat?” I asked. “Twenty-three, madam,” he answered) around the edge of the plate was beautiful next to the inner ring of a rich navy blue.
I never wanted such things before, and David was indifferent—he’d had enough of it all growing up. But now I do want them. I’m not sure why. Well, yes I do know why. I want them because they cost a fortune, and I think David should have to pay. Such a cliché—you break my heart and I break the bank.
Now I’m looking at silver, I want a teaspoon to accompany the tea set. Sugar? I will ask myself. Oh yes, please, I will answer. The man has recommended a floral pattern for the silver, something also called American Garden, but I actually prefer Audubon, which features birds, as well as flowers. “Would that work?” I ask the man, and he stares slightly past me as he answers, “Of course, you could do that …”
Ah.
On the back of my heel is a messy Band-Aid from where I cut myself shaving this morning—I feel as though that Band-Aid has migrated onto my forehead. I would like to step into the body of a woman who knows how to order silver. Also I would like to step into the body of a woman whose insides do not feel as though they have been spending time against the fine side of a cheese grater.
After an awkward moment I say, “I think I’ll just go ahead with the American Garden design. Now, a teaspoon is ninety dollars, is that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Uh-huh.” Jesus! “And … let me just ask you, a complete place setting of this silver would be …”
“Four hundred and eighty-five dollars, for the four pieces. Plus tax, of course.”
“Four pieces?”
“Yes. That’s the two forks, a knife, and a spoon.”
“No dessert spoon?”
“That would be extra. A dessert spoon would be another one hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Oh. Right. And so a five-piece setting would be …”
“Six hundred and ten dollars.”
“I see.” Ever so slightly, my stomach begins hurting.
The man waits, standing so straight and still I wonder for a moment if he is mechanized, a little Tiffany’s trick that nearly succeeds due to the verisimilitude of the reddened nose. But no, there, he is exhaling real air. I sense an extremely polite impatience. He knows I’m a fake; he doesn’t think I can afford any of this. Well, he’s absolutely right. I can’t. But the bill will go to David.
“Suppose I wanted an entire silver setting,” I say.
A light in the pale blue eyes. “For …”
I feel the color rise in my face. Has he understood? Does he know what I’m doing? Do I? “Well, I just … like it.”
“Oh yes, understandably, of course. But … Place settings, I meant. Service for …”
“Oh! Yes. For … six?”
He nods, smiles. His teeth cross endearingly in the front. I can see the tracks of his comb through his hair. I wonder if Vitalis is back in style. Should I tell Travis to start using it? Oh, too much is on me now.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “Let’s make it service for ten.” There. Now I feel better.
“Could you excuse me for just one moment?” the man asks. “I’ll get my calculator. And I need to go in back for some more order forms. It will be just a moment.”
I give a grand wave of dismissal. Queen Elizabeth. Elizabeth Taylor. “Take your time,” I tell him. “I’ll just look around.”
I put the sample teacup back carefully on the lighted display shelf, then move over to the jewelry. I walk past emerald rings, ruby rings, diamond necklaces, gold watches. Past whimsical pins: bejeweled sea horses and dragonflies, bees and frogs. I stop to admire long strands of lambent pearls draped over black velvet. Uniformed guards watch me from the corners of their eyes, their arms loosely crossed. I try on a channel-set sapphire-and-diamond necklace. Then I try on a bracelet, an Étoile twist, eighteen-karat gold, studded with diamonds set in platinum. I turn my wrist this way and that, watching the light bounce off the stones. Very nice. “And this is how much?” I ask the young woman helping me.
“Three thousand, five hundred dollars.” She is wearing a gray suit with matching heels, pearl studs. And a ring with an acornsized diamond; it must be borrowed from the store. Her hairdo, a tightly wound twist, is much too severe. To say nothing of her demeanor. This woman needs to get out and play more. Although maybe she does play. Maybe this job, in fact, is playing. Maybe she lives in a dump with three wild roommates and tells them stories about the dipshits who shop at Tiffany. I hope so.
“That bracelet looks wonderful on you,” the woman says. “It suits you.”
The standard line.
But “It does, doesn’t it?” I say. “I’ll take it. I’ll wear it out. We’ll just add it to the other purchases.”
“Certainly,” the woman says, and nods to the man across the aisle in china, who has resumed his post. He stands politely waiting. When I go back over to him, he looks at the bracelet. “Lovely selection. Very elegant.”
“Thank you,” I say. There’s no reason in the world for me not to wear things like this. I have always liked the look of blue jeans and diamonds; I, too, can wear them. This will be my everyday bracelet, my signature piece.
“Here’s how it all breaks down.” The man shows me the figures for the cost of the silver and china. With the cost of the bracelet, my total will be over twelve thousand dollars. Twelve thousand! The number zips a finger up my spine, thrills me deeply in a way that reminds me of sex. From what I can recall.
“Well, I … My goodness!” I say, and start laughing. And then stop. My fingers wander to the area behind my ear. An old, nervous habit: the body seeking a consultation with the body. “Whew!”
Silence from the man. From the whole store, it seems.
Finally, “I … Oh, God. I’m sorry,” I say. I take the bracelet off, lay it on the counter. “I think maybe I should just go with the tea set, okay? And the one teaspoon, as I had originally planned. Would that be all right?”
“Of course.”
I don’t know how people fall out of love, Sam. It’s an old story, isn’t it? The fact is, I can’t endure any of this any longer. “Endure.” He actually said that.
“Or … You know what?” I tell the man. “Let me have it all.” I put the bracelet back on, lean in closer to him. “Thought you’d lost me there, huh?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. It’s a big decision.”
“What’s your
name?”
“My name?” Three long fingers to his breastbone, shyly. Oh, he’s sweet. Why didn’t I marry someone like him? “It’s James.”
“I’m Samantha. Sam.”
“I’m glad to meet you.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
He looks up. “No, I mean … apart from that.”
“Well. Thank you.” I swallow away a sudden tightening in my throat, pull out my checkbook. I need new checks. I need, I need, I need, I need.
Driving home, I pass a young black woman standing at the side of the road with a little girl, perhaps four years old. The woman is holding up a sign that says, “Will work for food.” I pull over to the curb, lower the window. The woman approaches me hesitantly.
“Here,” I say, holding the bracelet out to her. “Don’t get ripped off, selling it. It’s real. It’s worth three thousand, five hundred dollars.”
The woman looks at the bracelet, then at me.
“Take it,” I say.
She shakes her head, mutters something, walks away.
“Hey!” I call after her.
She keeps walking.
I cut the engine, get out of the car, and run after her. “Wait! I want to give you this! It’s real! I’m not kidding!”
The woman turns slowly. “You a cop or something?”
“No, I am not.” My breathing is ragged. How did I get so out of shape?
“You crazy, then?”
“Mommy?” the child says softly.
“Just a minute, baby. Hold on.” Then, to me, “What’s your deal anyway? I take the bracelet, you shoot me in the back, is that it?”
“Mommy, I have to pee,” the little girl says.