“Good point,” Henry said. “Same thing with divorce—kids will ask that their parents be brought back together. You can respond in much the same way, remind them that though a parent may not be there all the time, the love is.”
Griffin rubbed his eyes, looked at his watch. Right.
“If there are no more questions,” Henry said, “let’s get these costumes handed out. Please try them on, make sure they fit—we’ve got plenty of sizes this year in boots, so I don’t want to hear about any more Santas showing up in sneakers. Trim the beards, if you have to, so your mouth shows. Remember, you’re responsible for keeping these costumes in good shape—get them cleaned if you need to, and definitely before you return them. After you have your costume, confirm your hours with Donna—then you’re free to go. Thank you!”
Griffin found a medium-sized costume and pulled it out of the box. Then he pulled a foam rubber belly out of another box, a beard and a wig out of yet another. The other men were trying their costumes on over their clothes, so Griffin did, too. When he had finished, he looked around. There were Santas everywhere. Ernie was Santa, the Luigi bothers were Santa, L.D. was Santa, and he was, too. He felt different, as though the costume had truly transformed him, had empowered him. He caught sight of himself in the window and gave himself a quick wave. White gloves. He’d never worn white gloves before. He wished Zoe could see this. He’d try on the costume for her tomorrow. He walked around for a while, making sure the boots fit and the belly didn’t fall, and talked for a while with another man who was new this year. “You’re sure I look right?” the man kept asking. Finally Griffin took his costume off, packed it in the bag he’d been provided, and waited at the end of the line to see Donna.
When it was his turn to step up to her table, she smiled and pointed at his chin. He’d forgotten to remove the beard. Her teeth were so white, her lipstick such a creamy red. He pulled off his beard, embarrassed, and stuffed it into the bag. Looking at Donna’s mouth reminded him that it had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman. And many years since he’d kissed anyone other than Ellen.
“Let’s see,” Donna said. “You’re doing the six-to-ten slot, right?”
He nodded. She studied a complicated-looking schedule full of penciled-in names. “Could you do Monday and Thursday?”
“How about Monday and Wednesday?” he asked. “Or Monday and Friday?”
She pursed her lips, tapped her pencil lightly against the schedule, then began making entries. He could smell her perfume, a light, spicy scent. Pretty. Sexy.
He wished, suddenly, that he’d never suggested coffee. He wasn’t nearly ready for this kind of thing. What the hell would they have to talk about? He was a married man, still in love with his wife. He was the father of a daughter who would be horrified if she knew the kinds of things he’d been thinking about this woman. In spite of himself, he saw himself pressing his mouth to Donna’s, running his hands through that thick blond hair. It appeared to be natural. Of course, there was only one way to tell. Horrified, he felt himself responding, and he shifted his bag to hold in front of himself.
“Okay, Monday and Friday,” Donna said. She wrote in his name, then closed the calendar and clasped her hands in front of her. They were beautiful hands, well-manicured, not like Ellen’s. Everything about her was different, and while it excited him, it also made him deeply sad.
He was a man who loved the calm normalcy of a long-term relationship. Romance was all right, but what really appealed to him was comfort. He liked the simple safety of marriage, the relief in it, the ease with which you could flop down on the sofa, exhausted after a hard day’s work, and know that you had company that required nothing of you. You could say you wanted to stay home and watch the stupidest thing you could find on television and have someone join you, maybe make popcorn before she sat down beside you. You could ask questions you’d never ask anyone else, express fears without fear. Griffin had always hated dating, and, until recently, had been so satisfied being married. And now here he was, thirty-eight years old and starting all over. He didn’t want to start all over. He wanted to go home and press his head into Ellen’s stomach and say, “Please. One more chance.” And if that wasn’t possible, he wanted to go home and be with Zoe, and walk around in his pajamas, drinking a beer. He wanted to go to sleep early, he was tired. He would apologize, say he just couldn’t do this. Maybe some other time, he’d say. He definitely could not go out with her tonight. Out of the question.
Donna picked up her coat and purse. “Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
As they walked out together, Griffin thought of an ad he’d seen on the Internet showing a page from a yearbook and declaring, “Your classmates are all here!” No, they’re not, Griffin thought. Some are dead. All are changed. Nothing stays.
Chapter 13
Donna picked a restaurant in Forest Park. It was quiet, she said, and the kind of place that didn’t mind if you came in and ordered just a cup of coffee. “Although actually, what I’d really like is a beer.”
“Me, too,” Griffin said.
He followed her to a brown-shingled single-story building on Madison Street where he’d never been. It looked more like a house than a restaurant. A sign outside identified it as ESTELLE’S, and a smaller sign read, WE SPECIALIZE IN BREAKFAST, LUNCH, AND DINNER.
Griffin got out of his car and walked up to Donna, who was exiting hers. “I like it already!”
“The best part is that there really is an Estelle. One of a kind. She’ll come out of the kitchen to yell at you a little, but it makes you feel great. I eat here a lot.”
“You live in Forest Park?” Griffin asked.
“No, River Forest.” She opened the door of the restaurant. “But I like the antiques stores in Forest Park—I’m over here a lot.”
Inside the restaurant, a thin graying waitress, midfifties, Griffin guessed, greeted them. She had an extra-short hairdo and deep wrinkles on her still-handsome face. She stood up from a booth where she’d been sitting reading the paper and smiled, then headed toward them. She was wearing a low-cut red blouse with several layers of ruffles, tight black pants, and white sneakers. A gold necklace spelled MARIE in flowery script; a pearl dotted the i. She stared uninhibitedly at Griffin until Donna said, “This is my friend, Frank Griffin. Frank, I’d like you to meet Marie Costa.”
“How are you, hon?” She pumped his hand enthusiastically, winked at Donna. Then she gestured toward the empty room. “Sit anywhere youse want.”
They chose a booth alongside a wall. Duct tape covered long tears in the red leatherette. They ordered beers, and Marie set down two overfilled mugs with a flourish. “Anything else?”
“No, thanks, Marie,” Donna said, and Marie disappeared into the kitchen. “She’s gone to get Estelle. Get ready.”
Within moments, a huge woman with an exaggerated brown bouffant appeared. She lumbered over to the table and glowered at Donna. “Where the hell you been?” She was wearing a tentlike red dress covered with a white apron. She wiped her hands across her belly, then put them on her hips, waiting.
“Hey, Estelle, how are you? This is my friend, Frank Griffin.”
Estelle ignored him. “I asked you where you been.”
“I actually made my own dinner the last few nights.”
Estelle frowned. “I made them pork chops you like the other night, and you didn’t even come for any.”
“Well, I’ll be here tomorrow for dinner. What are you making?”
“Chili and corn bread. Lucas will be here to help.”
“So it’ll be the hot stuff.”
“That’s right.” She pointed at Griffin. “Who’s this trash?”
“Frank Griffin,” Griffin said, holding out his hand, and she regarded him balefully. Then she stomped off toward the kitchen.
“She likes you,” Donna said.
“Really. What does she do if she doesn’t like you?”
“Throws you out.” Donna held up her mug. ??
?Cheers.”
He clinked mugs with her. This wasn’t so bad. “How did you ever find this place?”
“My ex-husband brought me here. He defended Lucas in a murder case. He was innocent,” she added quickly, “it was a case of mistaken identity. But Lucas offered him a free dinner—him and ‘the missus.’ We came here on a Friday night, and the next morning, Michael told me he wanted a divorce. He moved out that night. We’ve been divorced now for two years.”
Griffin didn’t know what to say. The apparent disregard with which she told him this, the practiced nonchalance. It had to still hurt her. He’d forgotten that things like this happened to other people.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It gets better. You’ll see.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re newly divorced. Or getting a divorce, right?”
“Getting. Right. How did you know?”
She took a long swallow of beer, then said, “I told you. I can read people really well. Another beer?”
He smiled, almost shyly rubbed the top of his head. “I think so, yes.”
Within two hours, Griffin had told Donna much about himself, including the fact that he once whimsically asked a drugstore “love computer” about Ellen and him. He’d been thinking he’d bring the analysis home and give it to her, a little joke. “I put in our birth dates and our names,” he told Donna, “and it gave back a printout of personality characteristics that was supposed to indicate how compatible we were.”
“So what did it say?” Donna asked. “That you were a match made in heaven, right?”
He looked down, skated his mug around in a small circle on the wet tabletop. “Well, no, actually. It said we could be good friends, but that to try to have a serious relationship would be dangerous. It said my idea of fun was to go shopping for filing cabinets, and hers was to go on a spur-of-the-moment safari.” He smiled. “It said my ‘compatibility partner’ was a fashion model.”
She smiled back at him. “And who was Ellen’s?”
“A movie star.”
She burst out laughing.
He supposed it was ridiculous. And yet he’d saved that printout, carried it around in his wallet for months, reading it so often he memorized it. It had described Ellen as reluctant to lose control and independent plus, as being able to easily walk away from situations, as in demand for every dinner party. One night he’d showed the thing to Ellen. She’d read it, then looked up at him. “Where’d you get this?”
“At the drugstore. What do you think about what it says?”
“I don’t get invited to any dinner parties.” She read it again, then asked, “Did you want this?”
“No, just wanted to show you.”
“Why?”
“No reason. Just thought it was interesting. You can throw it away.”
There was a reason, he realized now. Even then, all those years ago, he’d been looking for something, and had found nothing.
Now he told Donna, “It’s funny, though, how accurate those things can be.”
“What, you really are thrilled by shopping for filing cabinets?”
He feigned surprise. “You aren’t?”
“Well, how big is the markdown?”
He sat back in the booth, smiled. “I am less…adventurous than my wife. We really aren’t very compatible.”
She shrugged. “But what difference does it make? God above could come down and tell some people they were wildly incompatible with their spouses, and they’d still want to be with them. It’s like artists sacrificing so much for their art. For some people, their relationship is their art, and they’ll give up everything for it. That’s how it is for you, Griffin. Right?”
“Don’t be so sure. I’m changing quickly.”
“I don’t think so.” She touched his arm. “But I still like you. And if you’re…dating, I’d like to see you.”
Estelle stuck her head out of the kitchen and yelled, “CLOSING TIME!”
Donna raised her mug. “And to all a good night.”
He walked her to her car. It was cold after the beer-and-grease warmth of the restaurant; the wind blew up his coat sleeves and down his neck. He could smell snow coming. “So!” He hugged her—quickly, awkwardly. “Good night.”
“Do you like to ski?” she asked, suddenly.
“I tried it once. I wasn’t very good at it. In the winter, I hold heat in very high regard.”
“How about dinner at my house next week, then? I have really good heat.”
When he hesitated, she said, “Look. I don’t have any illusions about your…availability. I just like you. Think it over. Call me.”
“I will.”
She slammed her car door, started her engine, waved goodbye. He stood shivering, watching her go, then started for his own car. A beautiful, blue-eyed blonde, whom others admired, liked him. He heard a door slam behind him, and then Estelle said, “What are you doing standing around out here? Getting ready to rob me? Well, forget it. I could lay you out flat as a shadow, boy, and tend my business at the same time. I cook turkeys that weigh more than you.”
“Ah, Estelle. I was just saying good night to Donna.”
She glared at him. “Ain’t a man on the face of the earth deserves that one. And not you, neither.”
He smiled; she scowled harder, and began walking away. She carried two overstuffed shopping bags that bumped into her legs with every step.
“Want me to give you a hand?” he called after her.
“Do I look like I’m helpless?” She didn’t turn around, saying this. He couldn’t wait to make her like him. Next time he came to her restaurant, he’d bring her a beautiful bouquet. He knew women like this. Women like this, he understood.
It was 12:30 when he pulled into the driveway. He was tired; he’d be slow at work tomorrow. He was trying to remember his schedule for the next day when he noticed a small red car parked at the curb. He looked toward the house; no lights on. Who was here?
In the hallway, he turned on a light to hang up his coat. Ellen came out from the kitchen, holding a glass of water. “Oh. Hello.”
“Hi. Do you—” He stared. “Ellen? What did you do to your hair?” It was dyed black, the color it used to be, only different. A flat, false color, not the shiny darkness it once was. He’d once told her her hair reminded him of a lake at night, and she’d smiled.
“I just wanted to try it.”
“Oh, Ellen, why?”
“I never liked the gray, you know that.”
He said nothing.
“It’s my hair.”
“Did Zoe see it?”
“Yes, Zoe saw it.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t like it.” Ellen walked toward the living room. “Okay? Are you happy now?” She took a drink from her glass, set it on the floor beside her, then lay on the sofa, covered herself with the blanket with elaborate care. Then she looked at Griffin, still standing there. “What?!”
“You look…I don’t know. You look different.”
“Well. That was the idea, don’t you think?” She turned out the light. “Good night.”
“Ellen?”
“What?”
He came over to stand beside her. “Pretty soon we’re going to have to tell Zoe about your sleeping down here. I don’t want her to—”
“I already told her.”
“You…When?”
“Tonight. I told her my back was bothering me, and I was going to be sleeping here until—”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What you told Zoe, Ellen. Jesus.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?’
“Tonight. But then you got going on my hair, and I…I’m sorry, I was going to tell you. But now you know. She was all right with it, she—”
“Enough.”
He went upstairs and into Zoe’s room, pulled her
covers up higher over her. When would this elemental pleasure ever feel normal again?
He went into his bedroom, undressed before his mirror. Did he have any gray hair? Not yet. If he did, would he ever consider dying it? Of course not. Not even if he were a woman. For God’s sake.
He turned back the covers, then remembered the car parked outside. He turned on the hall light and went back downstairs. “Ellen?”
She turned over. “Yes?”
“Do you know whose car is out front?”
“It’s mine.”
“What do you mean? You bought a car?”
“No. Peter gave it to me.”
“He gave you a car?”
“Yes. He got a good deal on it.”
“I thought we agreed that we’d only have one car in this family.”
“This is two families, now.”
He stood silent for a moment. Then he said, “I really hate your hair.”
“Thank you.”
“It looks ridiculous.”
She turned over again, away from him.
He awakened suddenly, and in the dimness, he made out the top of Ellen’s head. She was sitting on the floor beside the bed. He raised himself up on one elbow. “Ellen?”
“What.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s…” She sighed. “I had a nightmare.”
He lay still for a moment. It occurred to him to tell her to go and call Engine Block, but here she was, Ellen in the darkness, wearing her crummy flannel pajamas, afraid. And here was he, no less frightened than she, really. He would take this mid-Atlantic brushing of elbows for whatever temporary comfort it might offer either of them.
“What was the dream about?” he asked.
“I don’t know. There was this man who kept calling me on the phone, saying really obscene things. Then I walked outside—it was afternoon, real bright outside—and there he was and he started stabbing me all over the place. And I could feel it, it stung, you know, like big paper cuts. And I—” She stopped, began to weep. “Griffin, do you think I might have a brain tumor?”
He wanted to laugh. Instead, he sat up, turned on the nightstand light, and patted the bed. “Come here.”