So Much for My Happy Ending (7 page)

The last time, I had been six, young enough to think that my mother's then Crystal Gale-length hair made her look like Rapunzel rather than some hippy freak. I remember Bobe was wearing dark trousers and one of her many polyester blouses buttoned up to her neck, her silver hair pulled into a little bundle that rested at the base of her skull. Howie the cat and I were sitting on the beige carpet, drenched in sunlight coming in from the sliding glass doors of Bobe's modest apartment. We watched as she paced back and forth, wringing her hands like a character in one of those Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. She was almost yelling. It had scared me to death. Mom was always screaming, but until then I had never heard Bobe even project to what would qualify as an “outside voice.”

“Arrested! It's not bad enough that you should hitchhike, that you take up with all kinds of strange men? Now you get yourself arrested? Is this what I raised you for?”

My mom was sitting on the La-Z-Boy making a show of being exasperated. “It was a protest, Mother.”

“A protest! You call taking your clothes off and prancing around in front of a police officer a protest?”

“It's a nude beach, Mom! I don't care if it's on the books as being one or not, they have no right to force their puritanical value system on the rest of us. I was taking a stand. You should try it sometime.”

“Now you want me to take my clothes off, too? Listen, you have a daughter now—it's not right that a mother should make such a spectacle.”

“It's called living Mother! L.I.V.I.N.G.” Mom pushed the footrest down and sprung to her feet. “You put so much time and effort into becoming invisible you've forgotten how to live! Or maybe you never knew. Tell me, Mom, when's the last time you cut loose? When have you ever let yourself get wild and have a little fun?”

“Bobe can be wild,” I said, somehow feeling that it would be up to me to point out their small strip of common ground. “She has a tattoo just like you! Show her your tattoo, Bobe. Show her the numbers on the inside of your wrist.”

Whenever I hear the term
deafening silence
I think of that moment. It was like everything in the world just died for an instant. My bobe stood completely still, and my mother, despite the red rouge that she was wearing, seemed to lose her color. Then without warning, Bobe turned on her heel and walked into her room, slamming the door behind her. My mother pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose before walking to the bedroom door and suspending a fist in the air in preparation to knock. She didn't.

I abandoned Howie and pulled on my mother's skirt. “Did she not want me to see it? But I think tattoos are neat, Mommy! Even if hers doesn't have any color.”

My mother stared at me like I was some kind of exotic pet that she was a little squeamish about—it was a look I had become used to. “Get your coat, April, it's time to go.”

It was a year before I figured out what those numbers meant and another year before I worked up the nerve to ask Bobe about it. I learned that she had spent most of the war in hiding with her younger siblings. When the war was in the last stretch, and the camps the most brutal, she was captured by the Nazis. I didn't ask for any more details. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know what they did to her or in what manner her brother and baby sister were murdered. For that matter I never wanted to hear about the details of the car crash that had killed my grandfather twelve years before I was born. I didn't want to face the fact that the only person who had ever been protective of me had never really been able to protect anyone at all.

I
tried to spend the remainder of my shift performing tasks that necessitated my being in the back room. It was the only way to hide the fact that I was barely keeping it together. I wrote up two of the three promotions that I would have to turn in during the coming weeks; I managed to e-mail the buyers a wish list of items that I thought would sell well in my department and which items I would be willing to give up; I wrote and rewrote the following month's schedule. But as much as I didn't want to admit it, I was duty bound to venture onto the sales floor occasionally.
I can do this. How hard can it be to get through one day?
I took a deep breath and walked through the door that separated my dark, windowless office from the artificially lit world of Dawson's.

“Excuse me, but when Sally gets back could you tell her that nothing worked?”

I turned to see a middle-aged woman with platinum-blond hair and an outfit that probably cost more than my car looking at me through blue contact lenses. “I had her go to the shoe department to pick out four or five pairs that matched the outfits I tried, but I've changed my mind. I left everything in the dressing room,” she added needlessly; women like her never even bothered to rehang what they had tried on, let alone take it out of the room. “Oh, and Snuckums here had a little accident.” She lifted up her Chihuahua, safely ensconced in the woman's oversize Gucci bag.

I grimaced at the thought of it taking a piss inside her purse. “Do you need some tissues or something?”

“God no, he didn't do anything in my purse. He went poo-poo in your fitting room. Didn't you, Snuckums? Didn't you go poo-poo in the fitting room? Yes, you did—yes—”

That was it. I had absolutely had it. I turned my back on the dog and her bitch and stormed out of the department, avoiding Laura's questioning gaze. I didn't stop until I got to Liz's office. The door was cracked open and I knocked, then pushed it open without waiting to be invited.

She was wearing a sky-blue suit over her white silk-ribbed tee (the Savoir-Faire department's item of the day). She offered me a vague smile and waved me to a seat. “Were we meeting today?”

“Liz,” I sobbed, falling into a chair, “I know I'm going to have some time off in less than a month, but I've logged in one hundred and forty-five hours over the last two weeks, and I just can't do it. I have to have an assistant.”

Liz calmly pulled open a file drawer at the bottom of her desk and started flipping through filing tabs. “I have to admit I was nervous when you said you were taking a full two weeks off for your wedding and honeymoon, but I'm really happy about the dedication you've shown recently,” she chirped. “I always knew you had that Dawson's spirit.”

Now, if Tad had come back at me with something like that I would have assumed that he wasn't listening. However, the statement from Liz was dripping with not-so-hidden meaning. It was my fault for taking the time off to begin with so if I wanted to be perceived as a team player I needed to shut up and put out.

I was trying to come up with a diplomatic way to tell her to go fuck herself, when she pulled out a thick folder labeled Sassy. “You know you have to have over four million in annual sales in order to qualify for an assistant. So let's set up a game plan that will help us reach that figure by the end of next year, okay?”

“Liz, the gross annual sales figure for my department last year was four point eight.”

“Seriously?” She cocked her head to the side before locating the sheet listing last year's figures. “Hey, your right! So why don't you have an assistant? You know it really isn't a good idea to try to manage that kind of volume on your own, April. You could be missing growth opportunities.”

My eyes rested on the letter opener lying on her desk. How many times would you have to stab someone with one of those before they bled to death. Eighty, ninety…

“April?”

“What? Oh, right,” I said, shaking myself out of one of the most fulfilling fantasies of my life. “Does this mean you'll be telling HR that I have the go-ahead to hire an assistant?”

“Of course, April, you can always count on me.”

In what alternative universe? I managed a tight smile and left the office. The hell with all of them; housekeeping could deal with the dog crap, I was going home. I collected my things from my office, rambled off some instructions to the remaining crew and took off. It only took me three minutes to get to the metro station and I almost kissed the J train when it arrived. I found an empty seat and as the train sprang back into motion I closed my eyes to better savor the budding sensation of calm.

I was only one stop away from the Castro when I realized I was on the wrong train. I was headed toward an apartment I no longer lived in. Now it would take me an extra half hour to get home. I sucked. I got out at my old stop for lack of a better alternative. There was no way I was going to get back on a bus or any other form of public transit before consuming a very strong alcoholic beverage. At least I was in the Castro, so I could go to a bar by myself and know that none of the men there were going to harass me.

I climbed the subway stairs that took me to street level and made a beeline to the Castro's version of a dive bar, which basically meant that none of the cocktails was served with umbrellas. There was a handful of men scattered throughout the establishment nursing their drinks and watching the male figure-skating competition that was being shown on the TV screens conveniently located in every corner. I went straight to the bar and ordered a Manhattan. I didn't really like Manhattans but the name sounded so sophisticated and I needed a little of that after my latest Alzheimer's moment. I welcomed the foul taste and the burning sensation the alcohol offered as it worked its way down to my liver. It took me a moment to realize that someone was watching me. I could feel it. I scanned the bar until my eyes rested on Jeremiah. He was sitting at the other end of the bar and he raised his pilsner in greeting before walking over to where I was sitting.

“I thought that was you,” he said. He put his drink down next to mine.

I twisted in my seat to take in his attire—Doc Martens, black jeans and the same motorcycle jacket he'd been wearing on the previous occasion I'd seen him. “Jeremiah, don't tell me I lost my bet.”

“I dunno, what's the bet?”

“I bet Caleb that you were straight, but here you are, wearing leather in a gay bar.”

He laughed and pulled up a stool. “You won the bet. I came to the Castro to go shopping, and I can't shop while fully sober.”

“That is the weakest cover story I've ever heard. What were you planning on buying? Chaps?”

Jerimiah shook his head, causing his brown hair to swing around his face. “No cover-up. A couple of male friends of mine are having a…um…an alternative wedding, and I figured that the Castro would be the place to buy the gift.”

I wrinkled my brow as he finished his beer and motioned for the bartender to bring him another. “What exactly are you planning on getting them?”

“Dunno, a rainbow flag or somethin'.”

“Oh God, please don't.”

“Why, you got something against rainbows?”

“No, just tasteless gifts.”

“Hey, I'm a guy. I don't know shit about buying wedding presents.” He grabbed my hand and held it up in the air, his thumb pressed into the center of my palm. “You're getting married,” he said, using his free hand to point to my ring. “What kind of presents do you want?”

I yanked my soon-to-be-married hand from his grasp and swallowed some whiskey. “Forks.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want lots and lots of forks. Have you ever noticed that the forks are the first utensils to get dirty? You could have a drawerful of spoons and butter knives, and all your forks will be sitting in the sink waiting to be washed. If they registered for forks, you should definitely buy them.”

“I don't think they registered at all.”

“Then you're going to have to be a little more creative.” I twisted myself a little more in his direction.

“Maybe a slotted spoon?”

I giggled and took another sip. It always amazes me how much more powerful liquor is when you're tired and hungry. “You really are clueless, aren't you?”

“Maybe, but I got a cute ass. At least that's what that blond guy sitting in the corner told me a few minutes ago.”

I laughed again. I hadn't seen Jeremiah since that time at the diner, although I had thought of him periodically. He was like one of those case studies I wrote reports on in psychology classes.

Jeremiah leaned in a little closer. “Tell you what, why don't you help me out. Come to a few shops with me and you pick out the gift. That way I won't make a jackass of myself.”

“I hardly think that's appropriate,” I said while checking out the redhead blonde who was checking out Jeremiah. “I don't even know these people.”

“I promise not to put your name on the card.”

“I meant I don't know what they like.”

“Well…I know they like guys.”

“You're kidding.” I slammed my hand on the bar for emphasis. “You're telling me that your two male friends who are marrying each other are gay? And here I thought they were just looking for an excuse to wear white!”

Jeremiah chuckled and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You're on fire today. Does that mean you're having a really good day or the opposite?”

“My mother's a heartless bitch and I work for the Evil Barbie Queen.”

“So ‘really bad' it is. What's your mom done to piss you off?”

“She's not coming to my wedding. She has other plans.”

“No fucking way.” Jeremiah shook his head and leaned his forearms on the bar. “That shit's messed up.”

“Oh yeah.” I slammed the rest of my drink and waved my empty glass at the bartender.

“My parents would like nothing better than for me to do something normal like get hitched. My dad's one of those guys who tries to live through his son. He's a blue-collar dude who hurt his back while doin' some handyman shit. Now my mom has to support him because he doesn't have any skills that don't involve manual labor. So he wanted me to have some white-collar accounting job. Man, when I told him I was ditching the accounting to start a band he seriously freaked out. Now he has this idea in his head that all I need is a good woman, some chick who will straighten me out and get me to a desk job.”

Did I ask for this information? I ran my finger around the rim of my newly filled glass.

“Hey, but if you're feeling down that's all the more reason to come shopping with me. Shopping always cheers chicks up.”

I made a small noise of disgust. “That is such a stereotype.”

Worse, I was stereotypical. I
did
want to go shopping. Even though I rarely shopped the Castro when I was a neighborhood resident, I missed the stores now that they were so much farther out of my way. “I really need more information. What do your friends do?”

“My friend's a DJ and his, um…”

“Domestic partner?”

“Right, his domestic partner's a property manager.”

I shook my head. “I don't think that helps me.” I chewed gently on my bottom lip. “How did they meet?”

“In a photography class. They're both really into taking pictures.”

I slapped the side of his arm. “I know the perfect thing!” I stuck a few bills under my glass, grabbed his sleeve and dragged him out of the bar and across the street to a New and Used Bookstore. “It has to still be here,” I murmured as I scanned the display tables. “It's always here.”

“What's always—”

“That!” I pointed proudly at the coffee-table book that I had salivated over every time I came to browse. “A book of photographs by Annie Leibovitz. It's contemporary, unique and it speaks to a shared interest. It's the perfect wedding gift.”

Jeremiah flipped through the pages. “Jesus, these are great.”

“Of course they're great. Do you think I would get all excited if the book was filled with crap?” I pressed my lips together self-consciously. My language had deteriorated in the short time I'd spent with Jeremiah.

Jeremiah didn't seem to notice. “I don't know you well enough to be able to gauge what gets you excited.”

“You really are obscene, aren't you?”

“Hey, we're just friends, so it's all good.”

We were friends? When had that happened?

He turned the book over and blinked at the price tag. “This book is thirty-three bucks.”

“That book is a work of art. Stop being a miser and buy it already.”

Jeremiah made a noise of distaste but he tucked the book under his arm and brought it to the cash register. I stood behind him and looked longingly at the Swiss chocolates that they had featured on the counter.