Nothing To Lose (A fat girl novel) (16 page)

“Then why are you afraid of her?”

“I’m not afraid of her. I’ve got a job for which I’m getting paid.”

“Not enough either. They can’t pay you enough to work in Newark.” He tossed the last hand into the pile and gave her his full attention. “What do you think Erica will do to you?”

“I have no idea. She might ask me where I’ve been.”

“Tell her it’s none of her business.”

“It is her business. Why should I be angry?”

He threw up his hands as if the whole thing was self-evident. “I just hate to see another victim.”

“I’m not a victim.”

“Hah.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Take it for what it’s worth.”

“It isn’t worth a damn thing.” Now she was annoyed.

“Look, don’t get mad at me because you work for some crazy bitch.” His face became contemplative. “Maybe you’re right. You’re the only one you’ve really got to answer to.”

“You mean you – everyone you – or me?”

“Everyone you, but yes, you especially.”

“Why me especially?”

“Well, just look at you. Repression is written all over your body.”

She didn’t know how to react. She was sure he didn’t mean to be insulting. Why would he have ironed her blouse if he was going to send her away angry? No, it was something else. Some people were analytical. “I’m not going to ask what you mean by that.” She poised her pencil over her pad to show him she was ready to get the information for which she had come.

“Suit yourself.” He went to stand by his pile of mannequins and sighed deeply. “This week we have a public service window for…are you ready? The Leprosy Foundation.” He cackled uproariously. “Aren’t the mannequins just perfect?…all those little chips and crumbling limbs.” When she didn’t laugh, he pursed his lips and went to a pipe rack with blazers and pleated skirts. “It’s the same old, spring story – same as every year – red, white and blue separates in synthetic blends.”

“Would you say,” asked April, imitating Erica, “old standards in new, easy-care fabrics?”

He inspected the buttons and lining of one of the jackets. “What would I say? I would say it’s all crapola. The fabric is craperoo and the finishing details are craperoo. But you have to do what you have to do. Soooo, if you want to call them old standards in new-easy-care fabrics, go right ahead.”

“Okay, so long,” she rose to leave.

“Ta ta.”

He was obviously a pain in the ass. Childish. Immature and annoyingly candid. Compulsively honest. So why did she like him so much?

Chapter Sixteen

Burdie’s at eight-forty-five in the morning. The lights blinked on dramatically highlighting leather gloves, personalized stationary, business machines, closet accessories, an executive jogger. If he closed his eyes, Luis saw it all moving out in the full, happy arms of the women of Newark. The worst thing was to see the same things there, unsold, day after day.

He himself bought little at the store despite the generous discount. His suits were custom-made with Burdie’s labels sewn in should anyone look. His bachelor apartment on New York’s East Side had no need of furniture, Burdie’s or anyone else’s. They called it the New Minimalism. It had looked good on the plan but, in practice, he only used the sleeping platform with its flexible reading lamp and extraordinary view of the river. He was no newcomer to river views. In the projects, he had had a good view of the wrong river.

He had decided there were cycles to his life. Not the biblical seven years of fat and lean. His were more like four or five. Princeton was definitely the fat, and then came the lean. When he had gone to Atlanta as an assistant buyer at little more than half his previous salary, there had been a spurt of hopefulness that generated constant energy. Psychic income, they called it – when a job made you happy and healthier. There was no psychic income in New Jersey. Often he felt depressed and with a growing uneasiness that stumped him. He was more a delegator now, although his input had made some of the merchandising gimmicks work better.

The lines for Burdie’s two midnight sales had choked the streets and wrapped around the block as everyone waited for the doors to open. The police had come, as had the television cameras. The event made all three network news shows. He had set a time limit – ninety minutes – and had a prize drawing on each floor. There had been a buying frenzy that was contagious. A woman went into labor. People were sure it was the chance of a lifetime.

When he had been at Burdie’s New Jersey for three months, his grandmother had a stroke that affected the left side of her face and her left arm. Her mouth turned down as if she was purposely trying to look grotesque. It made him feel so helpless, he found it hard to visit. He offered to move them out of the projects but his mother insisted it was the best place for them. He offered to send them on a vacation to Puerto Rico and that sent them into a fit of ready-making that belied their casual acceptance. As the time neared, his mother dyed the gray out of her hair and had a permanent. He thought of the similarities between them. They were both cunning enough to assume the virtues they needed to survive, she was a loner of sorts and so was he.

For a while, he thought his depression was due to lack of a continuing love. He needed someone to love over the long haul. He needed a background and a sense of community instead of just waking up every morning alone in his beige apartment. Yet when he looked around at the married couples that invited him to their perfect apartments and wicker-choked summer homes, there was no couple he envied.

Alan Leeds, his merchandise manager for soft goods and Merlow Hess, the manager of the Short Hills store – that was the largest of the eight-store chain – were his closest friends and they urged him to speculate in the stock market. They were making handsome profits and, seeing how it excited them, he joined in. “It’s better than sex,” said Merlow. Within three weeks, he lost five thousand dollars and that ended his speculating. He took up jogging, running two or three miles along the East River before taking the train to Newark. The jogging made him feel good, his mind raced with ideas, but it didn’t replace the optimism that was seeping out of him.

The second quarter earnings, reflecting his tenure, were very good considering that interest rates had climbed to thirteen percent and business in general was in a slump. Burdie’s New Jersey was the only unit in the corporation that showed a double-digit percentage increase.

The quarterly report wasn’t yet in type before two executive search firms contacted him. The overtures were conducted with such elaborate secrecy; he thought it was a joke. Five years ago he had walked into Burdette’s headquarters on Sixth Avenue and filled out a job application for the executive training program. Now he was such a hot property, his movements had to be protected.

The man from the search firm who sounded the least demented convinced him to listen to the offer over lunch. He looked like the model for Paul Erdman’s financial musclemen who control the currency fluctuations of the universe. Luis felt very much on his guard. “I’ve been in New Jersey six months,” he told his contact. “Anybody who’s grabbing at a six-month record is not in a stable situation.”

“Perhaps it will appear more stable when you hear their terms,” said the man quietly. “Double your present salary…” he put out his hand as Luis began to interrupt “they know what it is. They also know about the stock options and they have a similar compensation.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Luis, determined to keep the upper hand. There was something sinister about the whole business and it crossed his mind that the Burdette Corporation might be testing his loyalty and there was no real offer at all. “It isn’t that I’m not worth it, but the deal is too spectacular. I would say the answer is no.”

“Think it over for two days before you give me a definite no,” said the man. His air of interested disinterest was not altered. “I’ll call you.”

“Suit yourself,” said Luis.

A case of expensive wine arrived at his apartment by evening. A note from his contact was nestled amid the bottles. ‘This is in appreciation of your time and consideration.’ It happened to be wine he liked a lot. Was it coincidence or did they know everything about him?

Two days passed without a call. If it was a tactical maneuver, it worked. Luis felt anxious and unsettled. On the morning of the third day, his contact called to say they had added fifty-thousand to the per annum salary and, since this was virtually a new offer, he prevailed on Luis to take another forty-eight hours before saying no. This time, Luis didn’t protest.

Despite his outward disdain, he thought of little else but the possibility of making two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He felt as if he already made that much and could do the things such a person could do. He looked in the paper for summer homes in the Hamptons. He looked at Mercedes automobiles with a proprietary air. The possibility of being rich made him warm and happy in the center of his chest.

When the time came to give his answer, he said no again without any immediate regrets. Such a leap in salary would psych him out. And, suppose it didn’t work? Who would pay him such a salary again? He didn’t even use the situation to get more money out of Burdie’s, feeling he would have more clout in a year’s time. The high-mindedness didn’t last, however. Within a week, he had turned on himself as the real drawback. Perhaps, it was his deficiencies that had clouded the issue. Perhaps he was a fool. Now, after it was too late to do anything about it, he felt that he had missed the point.

Chapter Seventeen

“Are you doing anything about your life?” It was Sylvie on the phone from Ardsley, a small bedroom community in Westchester where she and Spencer Straight had settled with their son, Bradford, who, Sylvie said, was a big boy now.

“He’s almost four,” she explained crossly when April asked if he talked yet. “He’s learning to ice skate in preparation for playing ice hockey. He takes violin lessons.”

“Violin lessons? Can he hold it with his chin and everything?”

“He doesn’t hold it yet. It’s the Japanese method. He plays on a Cracker Jack box glued to a stick. Just until he gets the feeling of the bowing.”

“Does he read music?” April was in uncharted territory. She would have accepted that Bradford did brain surgery on the side.

“Of course, not. He’ll play by imitating the sounds. He listens to his record every night before he goes to sleep.”

Bradford’s nonstop life was making her feel depressed. She wanted to get off the phone and wash her hair. Her left eye felt as if something were in it. “Does he ever play with toys?”

“What kind of a crack is that?”

“Sylvie, I’m not trying to discredit you. Honestly, you sound so defensive.”

“Of course, I’m defensive. You’re asking if my child speaks yet when he reads all of the Sam and Sally books. Doesn’t that sound hostile to you?”

“Yes, it does. Stupid more than hostile. And thoughtless. I’m sorry.” She felt saddened that she had not been to see Bradford and bounced him on her lap. He was practically her nephew. Now it was too late. He was beyond cuddling and bouncing. She wouldn’t have minded seeing Sylvie, too, but Sylvie would be distraught at the sight of her. How could you have done this to yourself, she would ask and April would not have an answer. The question she feared most was someone asking her why she had let herself go. Something inside her had let go.

“This conversation is supposed to be about you, remember?” Sylvie’s voice was conciliatory. “How are you doing with your life?” She made life sound like a metaphor for knitting.

“My life? Well, now, let’s see. I’m working.” She stopped to let this positive fact sink in. “For a department store.”

“I’m afraid to ask, are you selling?”

“Oh, no. I work behind the scenes, so to speak. For a chain of stores in New Jersey. I work in Newark.”

“Newark? You go to Newark every day?” She could feel Sylvie turn anxious. She was afraid that April’s life was settling into some bizarre pattern that wasn’t reversible.

“Yes.”

“Why for godsakes?”

“A very good reason. That’s where the job is.”

“What kind of job?”

“Writing ads. I’m the advertising writer for soft goods. It’s an executive position. I get a discount on everything. Except sale items, of course.”

“Oh.” There was an upbeat pause. “That’s not so bad.”

“It’s part of the Burdette chain. Eight stores just in New Jersey.”

“Oh. Can you be transferred to another city?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but I guess I could.”

“Oh, well. It’s an investment in time. That’s not so bad. Not when it’s going to lead to a decent career.”

When she hung up, April was amazed that she hadn’t thought about her job in just that way. She hadn’t considered her trek to Newark each day as an investment that would earn her interest in the advertising world. It had taken efficient, pragmatic Sylvie to see that the job at Burdie’s put her in the most advantageous position she had ever been in to create a niche for herself in the business world. And she would do it, too. She would definitely make it work that way.

Chapter Eighteen

Your Friends Will Think You Struck it Rich! The thought was gross but perfect for the job. She wrote a couple of variations to convince herself. That Sinking Feeling. Get It With Plushtron Four. Frankly This is Carpeting To Show Off.