My mother said directly to me it was all right, but I’ll tell you, a hurt has come in me like a Mack truck. Nothing against Ginger, really.
“I have to do my homework,” I say, around the sideways ache in my throat.
“Okay.” She knows I’m lying clean through.
I start to put my dishes in the sink and she says, “Leave it, honey. I’ll do everything.”
“All right,” I say. I know that, too.
It is Saturday afternoon, and I am shopping with Taylor. First we went to Steinbeck’s and I got to watch her walk around in front of people, wearing outfits. She knows how to do all the model things: walk out so sauntering, turn in a pretty circle, walk back, haughty on her long legs. She was the prettiest one, no contest. Her sister wasn’t there, they alternate weeks.
Then we went out to lunch at a little restaurant with lace curtains and the same thing happened, Taylor left a tip and pocketed the bill. I started to say something but she said, “It’s no big deal. Don’t worry about it. They figure this in. As long as you leave a tip, it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“What happens if we get caught?” I asked, on the way out. Taylor acted like I hadn’t said a word until we got about a block away. Then she said, “Don’t ever say that, about getting caught.”
I got a terrible sinking feeling then, like I just wanted to go home. We are too different. But there is something about Taylor, like the pull of a magnet. She knows how to change people’s moods, even when they don’t want them to be changed. I think she is the kind people say “She could charm the devil” about. I can see it, the devil putting down his pitchfork, saying, “Oh, all right.”
Now we are in the dressing room of a fancy store and Taylor is trying on clothes. I didn’t see anything I wanted to try, so I’m just watching. The women who work here make me nervous. They act like they’re doing you a favor being here, they could be oh so many other better places. They are all pretty but fading, when they look down, you can see their skin is loose like an elephant. There are scarves and gold jewelry in cases, dresses lined up with plenty of space between them, all on fancy hangers. The dressing rooms have real doors, gold hooks to hang things on, pretty little benches inside in case you get tired from snapping and zipping.
Taylor has on a beautiful blue skirt and sweater. They go together. “That’s nice,” I say. Underneath, she has on a bra that is the same exact flowered material as her underpants. Her underwear is an outfit, too. Every day.
“Yeah, it is nice,” she says, turning to inspect how she looks from behind. She is chewing gum, cracking it loud. Those women didn’t mind anything about Taylor. They took her seriously, like she comes in every day and says charge it to one million dollars, even though she has never been in here before. Me, they knew about. Taylor says you have to come into these stores looking like a million bucks, then the old bags leave you alone. “Uh-huh,” I said, like this was a possibility for me.
She pulls off the sweater, steps out of the skirt, folds them both up small.
“Are you going to buy them?” I ask.
“Yeah, they’re on special.”
“How much?” One sweater I’d looked at had a price tag of $88. I’d put it back gently and then put my hands in my pockets.
“Free.”
I watch as she crouches down and stuffs the outfit in her purse.
Now, this is too much.
“I’m going,” I say. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
She looks up at me, some of her famous hair over one eye.
“You’re going to get in trouble, Taylor.”
She looks around the dressing room. “You see how many clothes I brought in here?”
“Yes.”
“You think they’re going to notice one outfit gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“They won’t. Believe me.”
“Well, I’m just going.”
“Fine.” She doesn’t look up.
I walk on the thick, pale blue carpet to the door. Then I get nervous. If I just stand there, I may look like I’m a get-away person. They may suspect her. One saleslady, her half-glasses perched meanly on her nose, is watching me like a vulture. I smile, go over to the dresses.
“Something I can help you with?” she asks from across the room, which shows just how sincere she is.
“I’m just looking,” I say and study the polka-dot dress in front of me. Even though it’s navy blue and white, the belt is red.
Taylor comes out of the dressing room, walks up to the counter, her wallet out. She is carrying a black belt with a silver buckle.
“That’s all?” the woman behind the counter says, but it is a nice voice, almost like a flirty sound.
“For today,” Taylor says, and looks her right in the eye, bored and tired-kind, like she is saying, You are one lucky lady to get to help me, now get on with it.
The women rings the belt up—fifty dollars!—and Taylor pays. And then she heads toward me. I have a sudden image of a cane going around her neck, yanking her back, and a policeman all dressed in blue with a big star on his chest taking my arm and saying, “You too, little lady.” This doesn’t happen, of course. Nothing does.
Next we go into a department store, to the lingerie department. Taylor brings handfuls of things into the dressing room, puts three bras and three pair of panties on under her clothes, and walks out. I don’t know why I’m watching this. Something has been sucked out of me and I am walking around on hollow legs.
I am lying in bed that night, thinking about how it would feel to have stolen underwear in my drawer. I’ll bet it feels kind of exciting every time you put it on. It would never be ordinary underwear. “Hey,” it would be saying all the time. “Remember?”
I hear the phone ring, hear my father answer it. Then he comes into my room. “Phone call. What are they doing calling so late?” He walks away. It’s a good thing something he likes is on television.
I come into the hall, pick up the phone, say hello.
“What, are you sleeping?” Taylor says.
“No. I was in bed, though.”
“Listen, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“You know.”
“Well.”
“It made you sort of scared, right?”
“No.” Sometimes you don’t like someone to come right out and say the thing.
“Yes, it did. I could tell. We won’t do that together anymore.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll do other things.” Crime? I think.
“I’ll take you to hear some good music or something next weekend. I’ll get you a date.”
I look carefully at the phone dial. There’s dust in there.
“Katie?”
“Yeah?”
“You won’t have to do anything.”
“I know.”
But I didn’t.
“I’m not sure,” I hear myself say. “I might not be able to.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
She hangs up.
Well, now she’s mad. I might have lost this. And then I will just have Cynthia. I call her back, and she answers on the first ring.
“Okay,” I say.
I go back to bed, close my eyes, but they feel they are stark open. Something once so sure in me is getting all mixed up. Many things can be true, all at the same time. I don’t know how you can be expected to be a person and keep up, it is just too complex. I saw the structure of an atom once and I thought, well, if that is only an atom, just think what all is in the sack of a whole human being. I can see now it was exactly the right thing to think. But what do I do about it?
“Sugar cookie?” Father Compton asks.
“No thank you.”
“Well, would you mind if …”
“Oh no! No, you go right ahead.”
He sits back in his chair, takes a good-sized bite, says around it, “So!” Little crumbs fly out and he gets embarrassed, but I make my face l
ike, Oh it’s fine, I didn’t see a thing.
We are in his office and I have a whole half hour if I want, which is so generous on his part, since I told him today we have no intention of joining, not my father or me. I thought I should make it clear. Father Compton said that was fine, that was fine, but he was a little disappointed, plus also I think he believes he could get me eventually anyway.
I came because I trust him and he is not a friend or a relative. I didn’t plan what to say, I thought it would just come out when I sat here, but I was wrong. I don’t exactly know how to start.
“How have you been?” he asks, after a swallow of coffee, which always smells so good but then when you taste it you get a bitter surprise. And you always want to taste it again because how could your nose be so wrong? but it is.
“I’ve been fine,” I say. And then, “I have some trouble. I mean, I’ve been …”
He waits.
I wait.
“I have a friend who has been stealing,” I say, finally. “Uh-huh.”
Well, he is not even surprised. He takes another bite of cookie!
“It was kind of a shock to me.”
“Yes, well, it’s not uncommon, Katie. People your age are often tempted to steal things.” He looks deep and significantly at me.
“It’s not me I’m talking about,” I say quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Really!”
“All right.”
Well, this is going down the wrong path.
“If it were me, I would say so.”
Nothing.
“I have a friend, Taylor is her name, she’s the one.”
“I see. And what has she stolen?”
“Well, she never pays for meals out. And she stole a whole outfit last week, put it in her purse, and it cost over one hundred and fifty dollars.”
Well. Now he is interested. I know what he was thinking. He was thinking, oh, gum, candy. Maybe a lipstick or two. But now he is sitting up straight and official. Everybody gets interested in Taylor, one way or another.
The ice on the pond is good today—light blue smooth, very little snow blown over it. Jimmy will watch me when he can, I know it, that’s our way. Then I’ll come in the station, and we’ll talk. Step by step, is what I need to do. Soon it will be Christmas vacation and then I’ll have more time. It is my personal goal that by day five, I’m going to say, “Jimmy, do you have any kind of feeling for me?” I can do it if I pick the right time, and I know how to pick the right time. It will be after we talk about older men and younger women. I have an article from the paper to get us going. It’s about how a sixty-five-year-old married a forty-year-old, which is worse than us. The man is a millionaire, of course, which is what these things usually are. But this is my twist: I will say, It seems to me to be possible that a younger woman would love an older man for his own self, too.
I skate a good half hour, although it is hard to keep from cutting it short when I know where I’m going when I’m through. But it’s good not to be so obvious, to act like, well, I would be here anyway.
I am up to the station, about ready to open the door when I look through the glass and what slams into my eyes but the sight of Jimmy kissing someone. His arms are tight around her waist which is so small and his eyes are closed like he is praying. I breathe out, step back. I hate the white my breath has left in the air.
I am walking away when the door opens. I hear the little bell and then I hear Jimmy say, “Katie!”
I turn around. “It’s okay,” I say.
“No, come here! There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Oh my God. It’s his wife. I smile, head back toward him. I have to do this, even though the word WIFE is walking out toward me, tall as a wall. Everything I ever thought about him and me is the stupidest thing.
“No,” Cherylanne says, “you must not give up now. This is only the challenge part. No woman ever got a good man without a challenge. Otherwise you wake up one day and you are bored. This way, you have a deep contentment all your life.”
It is late at night, and we are still talking. Cherylanne arrived at 3:47, we came home, shut my bedroom door, and here is where we have been since except for dinner and the bathroom. If you think you don’t care so much for someone anymore, just see them. So many things have come back, it feels like I’m standing under a shower of Cherylanne and me. I am so happy to be lying here beside her on my bed, it’s like the old days, including that she has the better pillow. Even though she said she has been emotionally battered and bruised she is willing to help me, to tell me all I have to do. “I am still strong on the advice front,” she said. “Just tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out. I must know the whole truth just like when you go to the judge. And then I can help you.”
And she has helped me. For example, when I told her about Jimmy kissing his wife and how it hurt so bad like a fist in my heart she said, “How do you know it was him kissing her? How do you know she didn’t walk in and smack one on him and he was suffering? Why else would he want you to come in?”
That made me feel so much better. It could be true! The more I thought about it, the more I realized he didn’t act like he ever wanted me to leave. And his wife was pretty, with her dark curly hair, but she was mean, I could tell it a mile away. She smiled at me with her lips pressed together and I slunk home, but now I see I could have looked straight at her like, Yup, that’s right, you’d better go home and think how to keep your man. I feel inspired, now. The battle has just begun.
“Have you brought him food?” Cherylanne yawns.
“No.”
“Well, Katie.”
“What?”
“You have really overlooked the basics.”
“He gave me some food.”
“Well, that is pure backward.”
I think about his sandwich, the tenderness of our sharing. I can make quite a few things now. I can make an angel cake that gets some of its insides plucked out and then you put in strawberries and whipped cream instead. My mother always liked that cake. It was fancy. I could bring it on a plate and he would say, Wow, you made this? Sure, I would say, and I would tell him that also I could make a whole dinner to go with it.
“What else?” I ask Cherylanne. I hope I don’t forget what she says. Maybe I should write it down.
“Well, try using some big words. He’ll think you’re more mature.”
“Like what?”
Quiet.
Then she says, “Well, it depends on the situation. And on what kind of man he is, which of course I don’t know.”
“I’ll take you to meet him.”
“And will I meet Taylor, too?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, good.”
Everybody likes outlaws. Everybody wants to look at them, like they are in the zoo.
Well, this was the mistake of the century. Taylor and Cherylanne are not a good mix and I say this in the extreme. So far they have eyeballed each other and said little minced words that only mean “I could not care less about you, girl.” It was instant hate. I never saw anything like it. Later I will hear an earful from both of them. For now, I am giving it five more minutes and then saying we have to go. I’d thought we could have a conference on Jimmy. I’d thought we could try on clothes and makeup. Well, that is as far away from us sitting here in the deep freeze of Taylor’s room as Pluto is from earth. If that is the last planet, that is what I mean. Whoa, my brain is saying, were you wrong. And in a high wounded tone I hear both their brains saying back to me, That’s right. Imagine a brain with its arms crossed, stubborn. That is them. This is the most severe case of bad first impressions I hope to ever see. I would say it will be the only impression, too.
“It is just chemical, and you can’t fight that,” Cherylanne tells me that night after dinner. Her face is different. One eyebrow is higher than the other, and her nose is pinched.
“I don’t know what happened,” I say. “I thought you’d like her.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, I hope I never again see anyone with her nose so high in the air as Miss la-de-dah Taylor Sinn. Good Lord, if it rains, that girl will drown.”
I say nothing.
Cherylanne keeps going. “Like I care that she’s a model! Like I care that she thinks she is the best-looking thing since Rosalind Russell!”
“Who’s that?”
“Just never mind, Katie, that’s not the point we’re on.” She looks at her nails. I see. She doesn’t know who Rosalind Russell is either. Sometimes she just likes to use certain names she’s heard. FDR, she said once, and she didn’t even know what the initials were for. She didn’t even know it was a person! I think she got it mixed up with FYI. She does know Einstein, which she uses quite a bit.
In my head is the quiet thought that Cherylanne has at last met someone much better-looking than she is. And that that’s all this is. Cherylanne started everything. But I’m not mad, I actually feel tender for her. She is just a visitor and things are not going well for her at home.
“So what did you think of Jimmy?” I say. I will give her the relief of another subject, even though I know exactly what she thought of him. She practically needed to put her eyeballs on a leash.
“Oh, my God,” she says, flopping back against the pillow. “Katie, if you could win him, you would be the luckiest woman alive.”
“I know. Plus he’s nice.”
“Oh! Nice! He is … he is…”
“I know,” I say.
“He cannot be in love with his wife and still be the way he is with you.”
“You think?”
“I know.” She might know. Or she might be trying to say things that I will like on account of Taylor. “I saw how he stared at you when you weren’t looking.”
I look at her quick.
“Really, I swear!”
Well, all right. Fine.
“Want some more peach crisp?” I ask. Celebrate.
“Okay.” She stands up, straightens her sweater and checks her face even though we are only going to the kitchen. “You know, Katie,” she says to her mirror self, “you’re lucky to have such a good cook as Ginger. Eating well is half the battle for a flawless complexion.” And then, before we leave my bedroom, she takes me by the arm. “Are she and your father—”