Been There, Done That (18 page)

I dialed Tim’s number, putting the charges on a phone card that I’d bought in the bookstore. My heart was pounding. It had been four days since our kiss, and I hadn’t heard from him. I’d fought the impulse to run to the phone the minute the Wallflowers list had been posted. I didn’t want to seem too eager; Tim had never responded well to pressure.

He wasn’t home. “You must be working late, Uncle Tim,” I chirped, trying not to sound disappointed. “I just wanted to share my great news with you. I got into the group I told you about. Maybe you can make it to one of my concerts.”

I thought about doing some research for my Ethics in Journalism class but realized my reading list was in the room with Tiffany. Oh, well. It’s not like I was going to be here long enough to get a grade. Besides, I did have some experience in journalism, after all—and I’m not just talking about
Salad
. I figured I could wing it.

I spent the first few years after college as a freelancer. My specialty was women’s issues—or, more specifically, women victim’s issues. I did it all: the glass ceiling, sexual harassment, domestic violence, anorexia. I had a hard time getting beyond the yuck factor: so much seemed like none of my damn business. How much money do you make? Did you just not eat, or did you scarf a dozen donuts and then stick a finger down your throat? Did your boyfriend rape you after he beat you up? I split my time between waiting for the phone to ring and finding excuses not to write.

My income that year was something like $4000. I didn’t write for the
Globe
. I didn’t write for anything anyone had ever heard of. Tim said that was okay, that all that mattered was amassing clippings.

I managed to avoid living in squalor since Tim made five times my salary—hardly a fortune, but he was already building a name covering Massachusetts politics for the
Globe
. That’s what brought us to Boston in the first place. I was happy to go, since Marcy, who had grown up in the area, had just moved to Cambridge; Dan was in his second year at Harvard Law School. As for my contribution to the household, that was the year I learned to cook. It provided three activities—cookbook reading, grocery shopping and meal preparation—that I could undertake in lieu of writing, all the while feeling I was doing something useful. I told myself I was being selfless, making these great meals as a special treat for Tim. In truth, Tim’s tastebuds were just as insensitive as the rest of him. He could have lived on peanut butter sandwiches and been perfectly happy.

When I wasn’t cooking I was painting the walls Dutch blue or turning old lace tablecloths into romantic curtains. Our apartment was in a crumbling old row house in Charlestown. My mother referred to it as “the firetrap,” ranting about everything from the purple claw foot bathtub (which I liked) to the vent-transported odor of our downstairs neighbor’s cigarette smoke (which I didn’t). I didn’t mind, really; she couldn’t complain about the house and ask when Tim and I were getting married at the same time.

I didn’t tell Tim when I sent my query letter to
Northshore Living
. Judging from my extensive history of rejections, they wouldn’t want me writing for them, anyway. I called the proposed article, “A Tablecloth’s Reincarnation.” It presented ways to give an old, stained lace tablecloth new life. Bunched and hung from two hooks, it became the kind of elegant swags that graced my living room (I included a blurry snapshot). Cut and hemmed, it worked as a dresser scarf, runner or doily. A simple tacking job could transform cheap, solid-colored pillows or placemats into faux heirlooms, while lace scraps cut into strips became elegant ribbons, and squares became gift basket liners.

They loved it at
Northshore Living
. They said it married Yankee thrift with contemporary elegance. To my astonishment, they asked me to do a monthly column, which they called “Everything Old is New Again.” Month after month, I suggested ways to give new life to old, cherished pieces—“that family heirloom you can’t bear to part with or a cracked coffee mug from the earliest days of your marriage.” Mismatched teacups became herb planters. Cut-glass dishes found their way into the bathroom to hold soap and candles. Gilt frames salvaged from ugly pictures surrounded new, dining room-worthy mirrors.

The column didn’t pay particularly well—
Northshore Living
’s readers weren’t the only ones who exercised Yankee thrift—but it thickened my clippings folder and gave me confidence. With Tim, I tried to shrug it off. “At least it’ll help pay the bills until I get going with my real writing.” But the truth was, I loved it. It required no prying questions, no confrontations with ex-husbands or ex-bosses. It gave me an excuse to poke around in thrift shops and consignment stores. It allowed me to focus on such noncontroversial topics as milk glass and braided rugs.

The column provided such exposure that a chain of suburban Boston newspapers asked me to do a column for them, too—weekly, this time. This one I called “Other People’s Junk.” Each week, I presented an item I had uncovered at a yard sale or thrift shop. I’d typically hunt down a similar item and tell my readers what they would pay for it at retail. I bought a framed poster for $3, say, and chucked the poster. Then I found an identical frame at Pier One for $22. When you took into account the hunting, the research and the writing, I spent perhaps twelve hours a week on the column, which paid $35 a pop. Take away the money I spent on my purchases, and I was left with an hourly rate that Tim described as being “what people cross borders in the middle of night to escape from.” I told him he shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition. He told me I should limit my junk work to assignments that paid well. “It’s okay to write for free, but you should at least be spending your time on something that matters to you.” My dirty secret, of course, was that I already was.

By the time I’d joined
Salad
, things with Tim had deteriorated almost completely. The job offer was tantalizing: paid vacation, sick days, health insurance—even a dental plan! When I told Tim I was going to accept the job, I expected outrage and disgust. How could I sell out like that? Instead, he just remarked, “It sounds like a good fit.” I took that to mean that he thought I lacked depth, although, in retrospect, perhaps he was simply relieved that he could finally leave without worrying that I’d end up on the street.

Walking back to the dorm at Mercer, I suddenly felt thirty-two again. I had an alternate life vision. I imagined—as I did far too often—that in a parallel universe, Tim had never left. Or, rather, he did leave for Washington, but he’d taken me along, sporting a diamond, of course (one carat, flanked by sapphires and set in platinum). By now we would have left Georgetown: we needed more space when the baby came along. Now that she was two (I’d always had a hunch our first child would be a girl), we were thinking about trying for a second.

I took a shortcut behind a block of dorms. The walkway was well lit, but there were too many shady spots beneath trees, too many bushes. I heard some rustling, and a rush of adrenaline made my chest constrict, my face tingle. I began to walk faster. All those rape prevention talks had gotten to me. I rounded a corner and came across a cluster of preppies sitting on a bench, chatting. We exchanged smiles. My courage returned. I took a few steps back and peered around the building, back into the shadows. A girl emerged from behind a tree. She had beautiful hair, dark and long. She turned back and reached out. A much older man, wearing khakis and a dark golf sweater, leaned forward and gave her a lingering kiss. They parted. Keys jingling, she scurried up her concrete dorm steps.

Before I could get a good look at his face, he got back in his car, turned on the engine and sped away. I scurried along the sidewalk, trying unsuccessfully to read the license plate. If only I were better with cars. People on detective shows always come out with observations like, “1992 Pontiac Seville, silver, with a dent on the passenger door.” The best I could do was: gold or tan four-door sedan. Or maybe two-door. I wasn’t actually counting. But I’m pretty sure it was a sedan.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled on the dorm door the girl had disappeared behind, but it was locked. No matter: she’d be in her room by now, anyway.

twenty-two

She was setting herself up for rejection, practically begging for it, but if Tiffany had asked me to attend her Christian fellowship meeting on any other day, I would have considered it. I was that desperate for roommate harmony. “And after the meeting, we’re all going out to dinner at Denny’s.” Her cheeks flushed with the pride of a person in possession of a social life. The kids I had met from her fellowship group would make perfectly nice dinner companions. They were, for the most part, wholesome and friendly and good-hearted (anyone who would voluntarily socialize with Tiffany was made of stronger stuff than I).

But the meeting coincided with my first Wallflowers rehearsal. “I can’t,” I said. She glared at me, waiting for an explanation. Since I didn’t want to open any old wounds, I dug at a fresh one. “I’m not—you know.”

“What?” She was challenging me.

“That kind of a Christian.” It came out all wrong, but I didn’t know how else to say it.

Her mouth tightened. “The group welcomes Christians of all denominations.”

“That’s nice, but—” I took a deep breath. How was I going to get out of this? And then it came to me. “I’m Jewish.” I tried to remember if I had shared any Christmas or Easter stories.

She stared at me. “Your last name is O’Connor.”

I stared back. Score one for the Tiffster. I almost said the name had been changed from Cohen but managed to stifle any excessively creative impulses. “My mother’s Irish,” I said before quickly correcting myself. “I mean, my father.” I’ve always been a lousy liar. “My mother’s not at all religious, so she always let my father have his Christmas trees and Easter baskets, but I’ve always thought of myself as Jewish.” That was good: covering my bases. Maybe I wasn’t so bad at lying, after all. Of course, I had been getting a lot of practice.

So Tiffany went her way (after telling me that Judaism is a beautiful religion and that maybe in time I would learn to welcome the love of Jesus into my life), and I went mine.

 
 
Perhaps it was the guilt from lying about my religion, but when I walked into the dorm lounge for my Wallflowers rehearsal, I thought for one paralyzing minute that the nuns from my parochial school had come to get me. Knee-length navy blue skirts, plain white blouses: habits were the only thing missing.

“This has been the Wallflowers’ standard attire since its founding in 1952,” Vanessa explained once we were all assembled. “I think we all like its classic look and sense of tradition.” I peered around. Thankfully, mine wasn’t the only nose wrinkled in distaste. One girl, with spiky black hair and a spectacular array of facial hardware, looked especially unimpressed. “But there’s also a feeling that we could use a little updating,” Vanessa continued.

Another new recruit raised her hand half way. “Maybe we could shorten the skirts a little? Like maybe an inch?” Her voice was so soft, I wondered how anyone would ever hear her singing. “And we could wear, like, short-sleeve shirts?”

“No short skirts,” piped in a chubby redhead attired in the nun garb. “No short anything.”

The soft-spoken girl fluttered her hands. “Jeans? And T-shirts? Like, really cool and casual?”

“No jeans,” said the redhead. “I look awful in jeans.”

“Jeans might work, Shelby,” Vanessa said, clearly unimpressed. “Thanks for your input. And, Gigi.” She smiled at the redhead. “You are not fat.” Everyone giggled in sympathy. “But we’ve talked about really revamping our image.” She exchanged a meaningful glance with Penny. “Possibly even changing the name.”

There was a collective gasp. “We will still be Mercer’s oldest singing group,” Penny trilled, a reassuring smile on her round face. “We just need a little updating.”

I considered raising my hand and suggesting we call the group, “Penny and the Novitiates,” but I sensed no one would laugh. Another new girl, skinny with buck-teeth (most Wallflowers were at least ten pounds underweight or twenty pounds overweight), cleared her throat. “The new outfits? Like you mentioned? I was in this singing group, you know, in high school? We wore black cocktail dresses—you know, real classy and kind of old-fashioned. So maybe we could do that?”

Vanessa’s lips tightened. Penny’s nostrils flared. “The Red Hots have already laid claim to the black cocktail dress look,” Vanessa hissed. “And we most definitely want to set ourselves apart from them.”

The Red Hots? Why had I never heard of the Red Hots? Should I be troubled? And, perhaps even more crucially: after life among the eighteen year olds, would I ever stop thinking in questions?

“I so hate the Red Hots,” said the redhead. “I am so pissed that they’ve, like, totally claimed the color black. Everyone knows it’s the most slimming.”

“We could wear white,” the bucktoothed girl said with a shrug. She really did stand out as the only student at Mercer not enhanced by adolescent orthodontia.