Tapestry of Fortunes

  “And?”

  “He needed to talk about finances. Nothing, really.”

  “Well, speaking of finances, I found a coupon for forty percent off a permanent. Are you interested?”

  “I don’t want a perm.”

  “I think it might look very nice.”

  “You use it, Ma.”

  “I have a perm!”

  “Well, I’ll bet one of your friends can use it.”

  “That’s a thought. You remember Angie Ryan? I’ll give it to her, she needs a lift. Her husband should be institutionalized. Do you know what he did to that poor woman last week?”

  Oh, well. I pull out a kitchen chair. Sit down.

  Travis is upstairs doing homework, and I am sitting at the kitchen table, making a list.

  1. CALL DAVID TO COME AND GET ALL HIS SHIT, I write. Then, fearing Travis will see it, I erase SHIT and substitute THINGS. In parentheses I add, SO HE WILL HAVE WHAT HE NEEDS.

  Next I write: 2. POST SIGN IN FRANCO’S SUPERMARKET FOR ROOMMATE(S?).

  Then, 3. JOB.

  A job doing what? I imagine filling out the application. Last job? Girl singer in rock band. References? “Roach” Davis, lead guitarist.

  I wonder whatever happened to him. He might have made a career out of being a studio musician; he was really good. He could roll joints with one hand, and he taught me how, too. Now, there’s something useful I might put on my application.

  Oh, what can I do?

  What do I want to do?

  I rest my head on my arms, close my eyes, recall something that happened many years ago. When I was a first-grader, I once went to the bank with my mother. Outside, sitting against the wall on a red, worn blanket, was a man with legs that ended somewhere around his knees. His tan khaki pants were folded neatly beneath his stumps, and the matter-of-factness of this horrified me. The man held a cigar box out, rattled the change inside it, and smiled up at us, squinting against the bright sun. Then he tipped his straw hat and asked, “Can you help me out, ladies? Spare a little change?” I burst into tears so loud and heartfelt my mother immediately pulled me away, brought me back to the car, and rolled up the windows. “Shhhhh, it’s all right,” she said, dabbing at my face with a hankie and looking nervously about. And I said, no, it wasn’t all right, the man didn’t have any legs, he couldn’t even stand up. My mother said well, yes, that was right, but the man was here all the time, and he was happy, really, he liked sitting outside the bank and collecting money. This made me cry all the harder, until, exasperated, my mother finally pressed a dollar bill in my hand and told me to give it to the man, but to be sure not to touch him. I wiped my reddened face on the hem of my dress, then walked slowly over to give the man the money. “Thank you, little lady,” he said, and I told him he was welcome. And then I did touch him, I reached out and touched his arm and he put his hand over my hand and that was when I stopped hurting.

  I sit up. Maybe I can get a job in the nursing home a few blocks away. Every time I pass it, I look in the window to watch bits of activity: a woman dressed in a pastel sweat suit being pushed in a wheelchair down the hall; a circle of people in what looks to be a community room, singing. I’ve always had the urge to go in there and offer something. Maybe I will now. “I don’t really have any job experience,” I imagine saying. “But I really like old people.”

  The salary doesn’t have to be much, if I can find roommates. The important thing is that I do something that’s meaningful to me, that’s the truth for me. I’m going to start telling the truth. A woman I know once made a New Year’s resolution to tell the truth, and I remember thinking how extraordinary—and how difficult—that would be. You make such a resolution and no matter what someone asks you, you have to answer honestly. Think of it!

  “I’m working in a nursing home,” I say aloud, trying it out.

  The phone rings and I answer it distractedly. A man clears his throat, then says, “Yes. I’m looking for Sam Reynolds.” Reynolds. My maiden name. It must be a high school reunion, I think, and answer with some excitement that yes, this is Sam. I always loved Greg Mulvaney, the pitcher on our baseball team: dark, Italian, dimples. I never told him. Maybe he’s divorced now, too. A slow dance, a tentative confession … perhaps on both of our parts. Who knows what could happen? I push the bowl of potato chips I’ve been eating away from me.

  But then the man says, “I’m Stuart Gardner. Your mother gave me your number.”

  “… Oh?”

  “She told me you might be willing to meet me. Say, for a drink tonight? She thought we’d have a lot in common.”

  “Did she.”

  “Yes, she did. For one thing—”

  “What was your name?”

  “Stuart. Stuart Gardner. Like the museum.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you know, I really think it’s a little soon, Stuart. My husband—did my mother tell you?”

  “Yes, I’m very sorry. She said he’d died over a year ago, though, and she thought you might be ready for … just a drink, is all I’m talking about. Or coffee, whatever.”

  “I’m sorry, Stuart. I really don’t think so.”

  He sighs, a petulant sound that makes me sure I wouldn’t like him anyway, then asks, “Well, would you at least be willing to take my number?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You have a pencil?”

  I do, of course, but I do not pick it up. “Yes, I have one.”

  “It’s six-four-nine.…”

  I repeat the numbers back slowly, then say, “Okay!”

  “I really think we’d get along,” Stuart says. “Your mother’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Maybe after a while. I’ll call you when I’m ready. But I’m still having flashbacks, you know. I still see his face when I, you know, shot him.”

  “You …?”

  “Just kidding.”

  Silence.

  I hang up, realize I have broken my vow to tell the truth already. But I will get back on track right now. I pick up the phone, punch in my mother’s number. When Veronica answers with her usual happy and expectant “Yes, hello?” I yell, “What is the matter with you?”

  “Sam! Is that you?”

  “Don’t get me a date! With anyone! Ever!”

  “Oh, did Stuart call you? He’s the nicest man. You’ll just love him.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute! I just said, don’t do this! And you’re acting like I’m thrilled, like I just made plans for a rendezvous in Paris!”

  Veronica chuckles. “Well, not a rendezvous. Not even a date. Just a drink, sweetheart. That way, you find out a little about each other. Then you date. Dinner, maybe a movie, although you can’t really talk in a movie, I never did understand going to a movie on a first date. But dinner in a nice, oh, say, French restaurant, flowers on the table, not too expensive, but something that—”

  I lean against the wall, instantly exhausted. But I manage to say, “Ma. Listen to me. If anyone else calls me, I will hang up on them. I swear I will. I will just hang up.”

  Silence.

  “Do you hear me?”

  “Sam, you sound awfully blue. I’m worried about you.”

  “I will hang up!”

  “Well, fine, then. You just mope all you want to. Little Miss Blue. Some people revel in their misery. Some people just love to be unhappy.”

  “I need to find my own way, Mother.”

  “Well, good for you. You want to weep and gnash your teeth and carry on, go right ahead. Have a good time. That’s really great for Travis, too.”

  “I am not gnashing my teeth. I’m getting a job. And roommates.”

  “Roommates?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to open your house to strangers? Oh, Lord.”

  I hang up, refill the potato-chip bowl, and do not answer the phone when it rings again. I sit down with my list, add, LET MACHINE TAKE ALL CALLS.

  6

  I am at Franco’s, the small neighborhood grocery store walkin
g distance from my house. It’s more expensive, but less overwhelming than the supermarket, and there are small touches that offer comfort everywhere. Free coffee. A recipe-exchange board. The soft sounds of classical music in the background, with no overly excited voice breaking in to describe unbelievable savings on London broil. The smell of turkey roasting in the back room.

  The aisles are named for nearby streets, and their signs are hand painted in curly black script. Polite, high school–aged boys with neatly combed hair and clear complexions bag the groceries and, unless refused, bring them out to the car, no tipping allowed. This, of course, only makes customers more anxious to tip. But the boys steadfastly turn the money down, and on their way back into the store, they collect any stray carts and arrange them in a neat line outside the door. I can’t imagine where they find these young men. When they go home at night, it must be to the 1950s.

  The older people who work in the store are department managers. They are vigilant, restacking pyramids of tomatoes, straightening cartons of cottage cheese, stirring up the pasta salad at the deli counter. I like to be checked out by Marie, the cashier who’s worked at Franco’s for thirty-one years, and I wait in line for her now, ignoring the other cashier whose register is free. I want to ask Marie where on the community bulletin board I should pin my sign; some spots might be better than others. I’ve seen ads for places for rent before, stuck between ads for free cats, baby-sitting, piano lessons, carpenters willing to do small jobs. I’ve carefully printed my message on an index card:

  ROOMMATE WANTED

  Large bedroom for rent in very nice house with single

  woman and eleven-year-old son. No smoking. Pets or kids

  okay. Must be employed and responsible. $500/mo.

  It occurred to me, writing it, that it didn’t say enough. But I didn’t know how to add more. Please don’t be one of those types who never wears deodorant, I couldn’t say that. Please become my friend, I need a friend. I couldn’t say that either. No hospitalizations for psychosis, Rita had suggested. Neurotics okay.

  Well, I’ll see who calls, that’s all; then interview them, take it from there. I trust my intuition. I know about people. Except for David. Please don’t be like David.

  “Hey! Wake up,” Marie says, reaching over to pull my cart forward.

  I smile, begin unloading my few groceries.

  “What’s for dinner?” Marie asks, looking over her half glasses to see what I’ve selected. Then, “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s just … I need to post a sign, Marie. Where’s a good spot on the board?”

  “What are you selling?”

  “I’m renting a room. In my house.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I need … a roommate.” The word is ridiculous. I am forty-two years old.

  Marie hands me my change, tells the other check-out clerk that she’ll be right back. “Come with me,” she says, and leads me into the back room. Cases of soda are piled high; time cards are lined up on a rack on the wall. Get a job.

  “What’s going on, hon?” she asks.

  I shrug, sit down on a box full of seltzer bottles.

  “You and your husband split up or something?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Marie sighs, leans back against the time clock, crosses her arms over her blue cotton smock. “Franco’s” is gaily embroidered over one breast; over the other she wears her name tag, pinned, as usual, at an odd angle. She doesn’t need a name tag, anyway. Everybody knows her; she is everyone’s surrogate something. She is in her late fifties, overweight in the deeply comforting way. She has compassionate blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, beautiful skin that she has told me she owes to mayonnaise masks. I’ve been exchanging mindless pleasantries with her for years: comments on the weather, criticism of the Red Sox, a shared interest in Travis’s growth. Marie was the first person outside the immediate family to hold Travis; I brought him to the store when he was three weeks old.

  “When did this all happen?” Marie asks.

  “A couple of weeks ago. I’m keeping the house, but I’ll need some help with the mortgage payment. So I thought I’d advertise for a roommate.”

  “Oh, boy. I don’t know.”

  “Is there any place on the board that people look at more than other places?”

  She frowns. “Are you sure about this? You could get a real nut.”

  “Well, I don’t know what else to do. I can’t afford it by myself.”

  “Wait a minute!” Marie says. “I’ve got a prospect for you. My mother needs a place.”

  “Your mother!”

  “Her rent’s going up again. She can’t afford her own apartment anymore, but she doesn’t want to live with me—wants to keep her independence. She’s an awfully nice woman, Sam, real quiet, tidy, loves children. And you know all those great recipes I gave you? They’re hers.”

  A grandmother. Probably a real one, too, not one like my mother is to Travis. Someone who wears pearl studs and pastel dresses that reach mid-calf, rather than gold stretch pants with tight sweaters and multiple necklaces. It could work, why not? And if I can rent out the basement, too, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about the salary at any job I take.

  I tear a piece of paper from my grocery bag. “Here’s my number. Have her call me. I’d love to meet her.”

  “There is one thing …”

  “Yes?” Incontinence.

  “She has a boyfriend. They’re … close.”

  “Oh! Well, one of us might as well have one.”

  I shoulder my purse, stand. “Thanks, Marie.”

  She nods, sad for me. Although, I realize, I’m not sad for myself. Not at the moment. The relief makes me feel light. Maybe I really am lighter. Grief has a catabolic effect. That must make you lose weight. In the car, I check my face in the rearview mirror. It looks exactly the same. And then, just like that, I am sad again. I start the car, turn on the radio, hear What becomes of a broken heart? Good question.

  “This is such a crazy time,” I tell Rita. “One minute I feel awful, and then I feel kind of … ecstatic.”

  “Yeah, that’s what everybody says.” She is making dinner; I hear water running, the muted clanging of pots and pans. “That you just ride this emotional roller coaster.”

  “Exactly. The other night, I was lying in the bathtub crying. Today I feel like the day I got married is the day the lights went out. That I’m lucky to be rid of him.”

  “You are.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Chicken,” Rita says. “What else does anyone eat anymore? Imagine how the hens feel bringing their children into the world.”

  “Listen, I think I found a roommate.”

  A beat, and then Rita says, “You can’t have, already! You have to take some time, Sam. You have to be careful!”

  “It’s a seventy-eight-year-old woman, for God’s sake. I know her daughter.”

  “What does Travis think about that?”

  “Well, I haven’t told him. He knows we’re going to be getting a roommate, but he doesn’t know who, or when. I want to make sure she’s really moving in before I tell him about her.”

  Rita sighs. “You want to live with an old lady. Now, there’s a major improvement. Maybe you can go play Bingo together, wear each other’s shawls. That’s it, I’m coming out there. You need me.”

  “I don’t think it’s such a bad idea. She likes to cook, for one thing. And I want to rent out the basement, too. I’ll get someone more my age for down there. Or someone much younger, maybe a twenty-year-old. A biker, how’s that?”

  I hear the doorbell and say, “She’s here—the woman! She’s here to meet me.”

  “At night? She goes out at night?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Be careful!”

  “Of an old woman?”

  “Remember Bette Davis? Baby Jane?”

  “I’ll call you later.” I hang up, push my hair back from my face, a
nd go to the door.

  But it is not the woman at the door; it is David, ringing the bell to be sure I understand that he no longer lives here, I suppose. “He wanted to come home,” David says. He looks over his shoulder at Travis, moving slowly up the sidewalk.

  “You were supposed to keep him till bedtime!”

  “He wanted to come home, Sam, what do you want me to do? Why does he have to be gone, anyway? What are you doing?”

  Travis comes in, drops his book bag on the hall floor, heads for the kitchen. “What’s to eat?”

  “What happened?” I ask David.

  He shrugs. “He’s tired, I think. Has he been sleeping? Have you been putting him to bed on time?”

  “What’s to eat?” Travis yells.

  “You were supposed to eat with Dad,” I yell back. “I didn’t make anything! I don’t have anything!”

  Travis comes back into the hallway. “You don’t have anything?”

  I look at David, see the same question in his eyes. Outside, I see an older model gray Oldsmobile pull under the streetlight. A man gets out, dressed in a dark suit and hat, and goes around to open the door for an older woman. She takes a long look at the house, reaching behind herself to straighten the back of her dress.

  “You and Travis have to leave,” I tell David quietly. “Right now.”

  He turns to watch the couple coming up the walk. “Who’s that?”

  “I’m interviewing a roommate.”

  “Are you kidding?” He looks again.

  I’m not sure, suddenly, of anything. But with an authority that surprises me, I say, “Take Travis out for dinner. Right now. He was supposed to eat with you.”

  “I told you, he doesn’t want to go!”

  “Take him anyway.”

  From behind me, I hear Travis say, “That’s our roommate? Old people?”

  I take him gently by the arm. “It’s the woman I’ll be talking to. You go and get some dinner with Dad. I’ll talk to you when you get home, I’ll tell you all about it. Don’t worry about a thing.” I push him out the door with David, then straighten to wave to the couple. The woman is carrying a black patent leather pocketbook by the handle, using both hands. She is smiling. Her boyfriend cradles her elbow, guides her tenderly along. He has a white mustache, neatly trimmed, and he is wearing a bow tie. This woman can move in tonight. They both can.