Open House (10 page)

“Didn’t go so well, huh?”

“Ha!” I fling wet hair off my face, kick off my heels.

“What happened?”

“Well. For one thing, I ended up walking home.”

“Really!”

“Yes, that’s right. I walked home. And let me tell you, that was the best part of the evening.”

“You walked all the way home from the restaurant?”

I look up from unbuttoning my coat. “Yes! Well . . . No. It was . . . from his apartment, all right? It was from there. But it was still far!”

“What happened, Sam?”

I burst into tears. And when King comes toward me, I hold up my stained evening bag to keep him away. “No,” I say. “Don’t.” I weep silently for a moment, then stop suddenly and say, “I am sorry to tell you this, King, because you’re a man. But men are assholes. Every single one of you. This can never change.”

“Well. Not every one of us.”

“Yes, you are. I’m sorry. But, yes, you are.”

“You must be freezing. Go change out of those clothes. Then come down here and I’ll make you some tea.”

“I don’t want any tea. And I don’t believe I want to talk. Thank you for baby-sitting. I mean, I’m grateful. I am. But I do not want to talk to you.”

He shrugs. “Okay.” He starts for the closet and his coat.

I regret myself instantly; King has never been anything but kind to me; none of this is his fault. “Wait,” I say. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave. I’ll go change.”

In my bedroom, I throw my dress on the floor, then kick it into the corner. I pull out a pair of jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt from my dresser drawer, start to put them on, then throw them on the floor as well. From another drawer, I pull out plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I change into them, add thick socks and my old, battered terry-cloth robe. In the bathroom, I take off my makeup and contacts, and put my glasses on.

On my way back downstairs, I peek into Travis’s bedroom, then tiptoe in to watch him sleep. I want to kiss his forehead; and I want to wake him up and say fiercely between my teeth, “Listen, buster, don’t you
ever
treat a woman the way I was treated tonight!” I do neither; instead, I stand beside him, cotton-headed, realizing the alcohol hasn’t quite worn off yet.

In the family room, a grainy black-and-white movie is on TV. A dinosaur is shaking a skyscraper around in his mouth, his eyes rolling unconvincingly from side to side. People cling to the side of the building like ticks. When King sees me, he turns off the television, folds his hands over his stomach. Waits.

“I think this was date rape,” I say, finally. “Almost.”

He starts to say something, then stops.

“I mean it!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, what did I expect? This is what always happens, one way or another.”

“Come on, Sam. It’s not what always happens. You know that.”

I stand still for a moment, wondering if I have enough energy for a good debate. He reaches forward, pulls my glasses off my face, and polishes them with his sweatshirt. “You can’t even see,” he tells me.

“Can too.” I watch as he rubs the glasses, holds them up to the light, rubs them again, and then places them carefully back on. The gesture is so tender it makes me start crying again, for all that is not tender in the world.

“Was Travis good?” I ask, finally, through my tears.

“Yeah,” King says gently. “Travis was fine.” And then, “You know, I’ve never been too good at fighting, but I could go over there and sit on the guy for you. Where’s he live?”

“That would be great,” I say, laughing, imagining the scene. The elegant Jonathan would be flattened cartoonlike beneath King.

Then I stop laughing, feel the tail end of my drunkenness wash over me like a mild flu. I realize I am not particularly capable of anything. “King?” I say. “Could you just stay here for a while, just until . . .”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. Good.”

The phone rings. “Who’s calling so
late
?” I say, and then, of course, know. “It’s him, the bastard.” I glare at the phone.

King picks it up, says hello. Then, “Yes, she’s here.” He looks over at me. “Do you want to—”

“No!”

“She’d rather not,” King says. Then, turning slightly away from me, “Probably you shouldn’t call her anymore. That’d be my advice.” A pause, and then, “A friend. I’m her friend.”

I feel a rush of feeling start in my center and then spread until I can feel it in my fingertips, in my toes. Safety, is what it is. And the blanketlike relief of it is awesome.

“Y
OU
WALKED
HOME
?” Rita asks, later that night.

“Well, it wasn’t that far. A couple of miles.” Now that I have the outraged sympathy I was looking for, I can feign nonchalance.

“It’s
winter
! You were wearing
heels
!”

“It’s not winter yet. It’s still November.”

“It’s always winter in Massachusetts. Except when it’s August and then it’s hell.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I had to get out of there fast.”

“Was he really that bad?” Rita asks. “Maybe he was just frustrated. Maybe he thought you were teasing him.”

“No, he was that bad. It wasn’t just nasty. It was scary.”

“Well, don’t go out with
him
anymore.”

I hold the phone away from myself, look at it.
Don’t go out with
him anymore
. Great advice. Gee, and I was going to call him tomorrow, ask him to come over and maybe hold a knife to my throat.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Rita. I’m going to sleep.”

“Wait, listen, I was thinking about coming out there. How would that be?”

“It would be
great,
what do you think? I’d love to have you come out here! When?”

“Next week, I thought. Right after Thanksgiving. I’ll come on Saturday, leave the next Saturday.”

“A week?”

“Yeah. Why, do you think that’s too long?”

“No! Well . . . yes. But no.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be helpful. I’ll fold all the socks. I’ll chop the onions for dinner. I’ll help you find a new roommate.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Maybe you’ll get someone better.”

“Nobody would be better than Lydia. You’ll see.”

After I hang up the phone, I stare at the ceiling, thinking. Rita hasn’t visited for a long time. Last time she was here, Travis didn’t have any front teeth. Now he doesn’t have a father, and his mother dates sociopaths.

And yet.

I turn off the bedside lamp, realize that nothing hurts. I take in a deep breath, as though the inhaled air will check around and let me know if that’s really true. It is.

15

“M
OSTLY
,
YOU ONLY MAKE A CHANGE
,”
THE BALDING
C
HINESE
man tells me. I stare at him for a moment, uncomprehending, wondering if perhaps he is offering advice, then realize he is talking about money: I am to
make change
.

It is nine o’clock Monday morning, and Mr. Lee is orienting me to my job at the Laundromat, leading me down a long aisle of square white washers. Gigantic dryers line one wall, round glass openings like portholes. A solitary figure, a thin, older man, stands folding at a waist-high table. His movements are slow and deliberate, graceful. He is matching exactly the corners of the thin, striped towels he pulls from the metal laundry basket.

“And also you make sure”—Mr. Lee turns to me, shaking his finger in my face—“no one steal! They try steal carts, dials from washer, who knows? Steal anything, you not watch!” He resumes walking again, and I meekly follow. He is wearing neatly pressed tan pants that end just above the heels of his Nike sneakers, and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled back. He has gray metal bifocals and a hearing aid that occasionally emits a high, squealing sound which Mr. Lee angrily adjusts—stopping in his tracks, grimacing, looking upward, and muttering.

“Also you clean up little bit,” he says. He smiles at me, revealing small, tea-colored teeth. His voice is softer now, kind. “People throw trash, forget. You keep nice, people want come in, do wash! Okay? Okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s fine.”

“You bring laundry?” the man asks.

“Pardon?”

“You bring laundry?”

“Did
I
bring laundry?”

“Yeah-yeah!”

“No, I . . . I have a machine at home.”

He turns away, heads for the little office in the back of the room. “Too bad. Fringe benefit. Do laundry.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice. Maybe tomorrow.”

I follow him into the office, hang my jacket on the coat tree after Mr. Lee removes his. He points to an old wooden desk. “You sit here. Shut door.” Pointing next to a small, square hole in the wall that is located above the desk, he says, “All business through window. Not let customers in office! Business only through window. Professional! You keep door locked.” He hands me a set of keys. “You go home, you give keys afternoon person, come at two.”

For a moment, I am frightened, wondering why Mr. Lee is so adamant about keeping the door locked. Is there that much money in the office? Are there robbery attempts here? I’m glad I’m on the early shift. Probably most criminals like to sleep late.

He opens a desk drawer, shows me a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. “You like candy, huh?”

“Well . . . yes. Sure.”

“Aha! I think so, first time I see you. Detective! Candy fringe benefit.”

Next he shows me large plastic containers of quarters and dimes, a tray for paper money. “For make change!” he says, and then, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “You know how?”

“To make change?” I ask. “Yes.”

He smiles widely, a flash of gold. “Some people, don’t know how. Dumb.”

“I see.”

“Okay!” he says, zipping up his jacket. “Other Laundromats now. I got more, go check.” He opens his wallet, hands a small white card to me. “You have question, you call. You get my wife, she tell you what.”

“Yes, all right. So, just to . . . let me just make sure, here. I make change, and clean up, is that right? And then at two o’clock the afternoon person will come. He
will
come, won’t he? I have to be home for my son when he gets back from school.”

“He come, he come!” Mr. Lee says impatiently. “Steven. He come, all the time. Never miss!”

“Okay,” I say. “Just checking.”

He is almost out the door when he turns back to yell at me, “No dye! No one using dye!”

“Right,” I say. “The signs say so.”

“Not enough!” he says. “You watch!”

“I will.”

He gets into an older model white Cadillac. He can hardly see over the top of the steering wheel, yet the car suits him. I sit down at the desk, open the newspaper, pour a cup of coffee from the thermos I’ve brought. I hear a sound and, looking up, see the older man who had been folding laundry standing in the window before me. “Change for a dollar?” he asks. He has a thick Southern accent.

“Quarters or dimes?” I ask, thinking,
Professional!

“Both,” the man says, and I pour a shiny pile of coins from my hand into his. The simple exchange fills me with pleasure. “Thank you,” he says, and then, “You new?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I’ll be here all week.”

“Okay,” the man says. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” He leans in closer, clears his throat. “My name is Branch Willis, and I know everything about this place. I been coming here for years.”

“I’m Sam.”

“Uh-huh.” A moment, and then, “You
are
a woman, right?”

“Right. It’s Samantha.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You
look
like a woman, don’t get me wrong! It’s just you never know. These days, especially. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended.”

He starts to shuffle away, then turns back to say, “You mostly stay in there, in the office, like he said. But you can come out, too. Up to you. You’re the boss.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” I sit back down at the desk, smooth the dollar bill Branch gave me, put it in the drawer. The door opens and another customer comes in, a woman with a little girl.

“Here’s Mary!” Branch yells over to me. “And her little girl, that’s Lisa. How y’all doing?”

I stand, stick my head out the window, smile. The little girl must be around four years old, a solemn and beautiful face, two tight blond braids. She clutches a baby doll tightly to her chest, carries over her shoulder a tiny diaper bag.

Minutes later, the door opens again, and an extremely tall and handsome young black man comes in wearing sunglasses, carrying a denim laundry bag and a blaring boom box. He looks around, selects a washer, then sets the boom box carefully down on the floor beside it. He turns the volume up louder.

Lisa covers her ears and turns to her mother, who turns away. Branch is minding his own business.

“Excuse me,” I shout. Then, louder,
“Excuse me!”

The man turns to look at me, raises his sunglasses. “What.” Even from this distance, I can see that his eyes are bloodshot.

“Could you . . . just . . . turn that down? Please?”

“Fuck you.” He dumps his laundry out. Black jockey shorts fall to the side of the tall heap, a floral print pillowcase. My God. Everyone does laundry.

I sit back down, move my chair out of sight of the window. Make change and clean up. That was the job description. Not suicide. I stifle an impulse to take one more peek at the man’s dirty laundry, then pop a Hershey’s Kiss in my mouth and suck nervously. I pull the phone closer to me.
911
, that’s the number. Isn’t it?
Is
it? Of course that’s it.
411
is information;
911
is emergency. “Yes, I wonder if you could help me,” I imagine saying. “I’m in a Laundromat and one of my customers is murdering everybody.”

But then when I chance another look out the window, I see the man sitting in a chair next to Lisa, helping her change her baby doll’s diaper. “Say what?” he says to her. And then, smiling brilliantly, “Yeah, she’s a
good
baby.”

I
ARRIVE HOME
a full forty-five minutes before Travis is due. The phone rings as soon as I hang my coat up. “I’m returning your call?” a young woman’s soft voice says. “About the room? I’m the one who put the sign up?”

“Oh!”
The Japanese girl. The one who will so beautifully peel oranges
.

“Yes,” I say. “Thanks for calling back. I wonder if we could get together. To . . . you know, talk about this.”

“When?”

“Well, I guess . . . as soon as possible.”

“I’m not doing anything now. If that’s all right. I could meet you now. Where do you live?”

I tell her the address and the girl says, “That’s close. I can be there in five minutes.”

I go into the kitchen to set out two mugs. Herbal tea, we’ll have. And then, spying the bowl full of fruit I keep on the table, I push it closer to the mugs. Just in case.

When the doorbell rings, I open it to find a girl as Asian-looking as Gidget with a buzz cut.

“G
UESS WHAT
?” I tell Travis. “I found us a new roommate. She’ll move in December first.”

“Oh, man,” he says wearily.

“She’s very nice. You’ll like her.”

“Well, who
is
it?”

“She’s a student, honey. She can speak Japanese! Her name is . . . well, she changed it. It used to be Elaine. But now it’s Lavender Blue.”

Travis’s eyes widen. “Lavender
Blue
?”

I shrug.

“I don’t know where you get your ideas, Mom.”

“I called her references, Travis. She’s very quiet. Keeps to herself—she’ll be no trouble. She used to live on a farm in Indiana and now she’s a student at Boston University.”

“She’s going to live in the basement?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t she care?”

“Why? It’s nice in the basement. It’s not like a
basement
basement. There’s carpeting. She has her own bathroom. And there’s room for everything she needs.”

“She must be weird to want to live in the basement.”

“She’s a student, honey. You don’t mind living in those kinds of places when you’re a student.”

“Huh.
I’m
not going to when I’m a student.”

“Well, maybe not. But she is. And I hope you’ll give her a chance. Look how much you like Lydia.”

“Fine, but her name isn’t Lavender
Blue
.”

“I’m sure you can just call her . . . Lavender.”

He shakes his head and sighs, but then, with a look of pleasant expectation, heads for the refrigerator.

The phone rings and I answer it, watching Travis pull the lid off a plastic container. Cold spaghetti. His favorite.

“So! How you like?” the voice asks.

“Mr. Lee!” And then, since I have been warned by the employment agency not to have customers call me directly, “How did you get my number?”

“Phone book! Only three ‘Morrow’! You number three! How you like job?”

“Well, it was . . . fine. It was just fine.”

“You like, I give you full-time. Just between you, me.”

“Oh, well, thank you. But I think I’ll just do the week. I can’t really commit, you know. To full-time.”

“Oh,” he says, disappointed. And then, “Okay! But you come whole week, then! Every day!”

“Yes, I will.”

“Who was that?” Travis asks, when I hang up.

“Mr. Lee. The boss from where I worked today. He wanted to hire me full-time.”

“Wow,” Travis says, with an honest admiration that makes me want to weep. “The boss called you the first day?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” I say. “It is.”