Such a Pretty Face (6 page)

“No, I don’t, but neither do I want to wear clothes that don’t fit, Eileen.” It was as if I’d told her she was uglier than Frankenstein. Her face grew mottled, her eyes narrowing into slits. Lately I had noticed how mean her eyes are. I glanced away.

“Here we are.” Phyllis beckoned us over with a wide grin, then threw out her arms. “Right here. This is your section.”

If horns had blasted, followed by a sweet trill of violins, and a ba-bong-bong on a huge drum, I would not have been surprised. I’d entered paradise. I admired the mannequins. The racks. All filled with finery and fluff and skirts with ruffles and pants with pizzazz and—

“I would look okay wearing these clothes?” I had to confirm it.
Had to
.

“Absolutely!” She tilted her head, quizzically. “Oh, I understand. You’ve recently lost weight, haven’t you?”

Eileen giggled. “She took the shortcut out. Bought into society’s twisted vision about how a woman has to be thin to be valuable, threw out her life savings, didn’t have a penny to her name, then saved all her money
a second time
to have another operation to cut off the loose skin and risked her life, all so she could be thin—”

“Yes, I have lost weight.”

The saleswoman studied Eileen for a second and then her mouth opened, a slight bit, and she nodded, as if to herself. She understood the situation, I knew it. She smiled at me. “Congratulations!”

Eileen snorted again. “Ask her how much weight she’s lost, why don’t you?”

“It’s none of my business,” Phyllis said, a slight edge to her voice.

“She’s lost 170 pounds,” Eileen said, as if I’d committed the crime of kidnapping. “She took the cheater’s way out, if you know what I mean.”

Phyllis stared at Eileen for long seconds, then, as if in dismissal, she turned toward me, a hand under my elbow, her back to Eileen. “Now, dear, what can I help you find?”

“Everything.”

“A makeover then?” She was delighted. I couldn’t blame her. She was probably on commission.

“Yes, you could say that.” I could feel Eileen’s seething anger.

“Rather a start-over,” Eileen said, her diamond bracelets flashing. “She has no fashion sense and—”

“Let’s go on over here and pull some jeans off the rack, shall we?” Phyllis grabbed my arm. As we were walking away, she said to Eileen, who started to follow, “There’s a chair by the dressing room where you can rest. We’ll meet you there in a minute.”

She hustled me off. I didn’t even dare sneak a peek back, I was so shocked. Someone had handled Eileen. Not me, but someone else, and she was off my back.

I almost skipped. I could hear the flute music trilling, tra-la-la. Phyllis and I dumped one outfit after another into our arms.

“Too tight,” Eileen barked as I came out of the dressing room to show her and Phyllis the jeans I was wearing.

“Perfect fit,” Phyllis said at the same time. “You look fantastic!” Eileen glowered at her.

“Do I?” Did I? There were violins and a cello!

“If you want every part of your butt to be outlined for men’s consumption, you do,” Eileen said. “Take my word for it. Those are too tight.”

Phyllis turned to Eileen. “This is the style. It’s the way women wear them now—”

“Not me.”

“Well, of course not,” Phyllis blurted out. I knew she regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. “I’m sorry—”

“Forget it,” Eileen snapped, crossing her arms, after thumping her $1,000 purse on the floor. “I get it.”

There was a silence, and then, “All right.” Phyllis turned back to me and smiled.

I was stunned. Usually when Eileen was offended, people stumbled all over themselves trying to apologize. Her anger was a living thing, intimidating, controlling. They would say they were sorry once, twice, three times. She never budged, only glowered. I should know.

This woman, this Phyllis, moved on. She said she was sorry, Eileen didn’t accept it, and she let it go.

Whoa.

“Now, take off the shirt you’re wearing and put on the red shirt with the criss-cross bodice we picked out. It’ll be beautiful.”

I skedaddled back into the dressing room. I hadn’t worn red since I was a kid, even though it was absolutely my most favorite color. I stripped off the dowdy blue T-shirt I had on and slipped on the clingy red shirt with a scooped neckline. I didn’t turn around until I had adjusted the neckline.

My mouth dropped when I saw myself in the mirror, the flute music now a full blast orchestra.

I loved it! The shirt clung to my curves and the material felt so gentle, so…so sexy!

I fluffed my hair out. Dowdy. Maybe I’d get it cut, too.

I braced myself for Eileen’s reaction but couldn’t wait to show Phyllis.

Their reactions were as I imagined.

Phyllis said, “That is fabulous, absolutely fabulous!”

Eileen let out a shriek-groan and said, “Slutty Mrs. Tomisson! Here she comes!”

Tra-la-la!

In the end I bought jeans, skirts, slacks, six dressy shirts in all colors and styles, two belts, and two jackets—one was denim, the other khaki corduroy. I had not dared to buy the red dress. I couldn’t. Too daring. Where would I wear it, anyhow?

Eileen and I were both silent for the first ten minutes as I drove her home.

“Stevie,” she sighed.

I braced myself.

“Can I be honest with you, honey?” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “We’re best friends, right? We’ve always been there for each other.”

I knew what was coming. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, not to ruin the glow I had.

“You’ve spent a fortune.”

“I needed clothes, Eileen. All of my clothes hang off of me.” I’d gotten paid last Friday. After I paid my mortgage, bills, and medical loan, I would have $15 for food for two weeks, plus what was in my pantry. How many ways could I eat spaghetti?

And you know what,
I didn’t care!

Spaghetti, here I come!

Eileen smiled at the pathetic person that I was. “Those clothes aren’t flattering, Stevie. I’m sorry to tell you that, I am. Phyllis is on commission and you bought whatever she told you. You could have bought them for a fraction at Goodwill. You don’t make enough. You’ve lost some weight, now you think you can wear anything. It’s not true, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to be a frump anymore, Eileen,” I said weakly.

“You don’t want to be a frump anymore? What? You’re saying I’m a frump? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what? That I’m fat and dull compared to you? I get it, Stevie, you’re better than me now. Thinner. Prettier. And I’m still obese. Did you need to point that out? You can wear jeans, you can wear red, you need a belt. I’m sick of this. You’re going to dump me, aren’t you, because you’re thin and I’m not. I see it coming.”

“I am not going to do that….” It was weak, I knew it. But I wouldn’t drop her for her weight. I would drop her for her mouth.

Eileen went on and on, and I stopped protesting, stopped apologizing, shut down.

Why did I stay friends with her? Obligation? Guilt? Loyalty? Do I feel sorry for her? Is it okay to dump a friend? If it is, how do you do that?

My delight over the clothes was dimmed to almost nothing by the time I dropped Eileen off. Maybe she was right. Maybe the clothes were too clingy, too young, too too.

By the time I arrived home I was so relieved to see my emerald green house with the burgundy door and white picket fence I almost cried.

I put the bags in the back of my closet and pulled on my sweats and a T-shirt.

That night I flipped through a stack of gardening books and magazines by my nightstand, then worked on the sketches for my garden before turning out my light when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I knew what to do with most of the garden, but I had a corner filled with weeds that was stumping me.

As usual, as soon as I snuggled down, sighed, and told myself to go to sleep, I was wide awake.

Insomnia is a plague. It tiptoes after you and then when it’s dark it snaps its jaws over your sleep and flings it around, teeth clamped down hard.

I watched the clock.

I started worrying about work, money, my medical debt, and what would I do if I lost my job, had no money, couldn’t pay my medical debt, and ended up living in a shed? Sheds are cold! What would I do if something happened to Polly, Lance, or Aunt Janet? What if I lost my mind and started collecting cats? What if I had another heart attack on my walk, lost control of my bowels, and Jake found me in a mess?

I gave up after an hour. My hands shook as I turned on the light and studied my gardening magazines again. I drank milk. Finally, about two in the morning, I fell asleep. I woke up after I saw Sunshine riding a horse away from me. She was headed for the bridge. She turned her head, panicked, screamed my name, but I couldn’t catch her because my feet were stuck in red paint. I saw my grandparents’ faces across a field of corn. They were melting. All their features seeping to the ground, only their white hair left and their cowboy hats, then Sunshine melted, too, and I was alone. The horse kept galloping across the bridge, then jumped over it and turned into a black, frothing cloud.

I sat straight up in bed, struggling to breathe.

Sunshine wanted something, I knew that. I have tried not to think about her very much these last decades, or about my grandparents, because it hurts so much I think I’ll die of the pain of it, but in the last eighteen months, Sunshine keeps coming back, again and again, and I don’t understand what she’s trying to tell me. I wiped my face with trembling hands. The tears are coming more and more since I lost all this weight.

I briefly toyed with the idea that I was losing my mind, that I would soon be wearing a floppy yellow hat, but I shut that thought down. I got up, went to the bathroom, and drank a glass of water. My eyes automatically went to the mirror, and I shuddered.

She was there.

Portland, Oregon

“T
hank you for your orders. It will be a pleasure to serve you and your guests this evening, Mr. Barrett,” the waiter said, deferential. He was suited up in black and white.

“Thank you,” Lance said. “Thank you so much.”

Lance is a grateful person. He says he is so grateful he lived through his childhood and so grateful that he doesn’t have to see Herbert every day that each day is a gift that must be enjoyed, “with love and friendship.”

Lance also has very expensive tastes in dining and insists on treating me and Polly to dinner all the time. We were at the Portland Que, one of the fanciest restaurants in Portland, the type of restaurant where the food arrives on your plate as if it is art. Edible art.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Barrett,” the waiter said. He nodded and smiled at me and Polly. We smiled back. The candles flickered over the white tablecloth and shiny silverware.

Lance was a regular customer, so the owner,
under no circumstances,
was going to protest that Lance had brought two of his blow-up dolls with their plasticky smiles to dinner and placed them in chairs around our table.

Fiona Butterfly was lovely in her purple bathing suit with gold butterflies flitting across it.

Katerina was also splendid. She was a naked doll, so, for modesty’s sake, Lance had draped her with a gold sari. Already two people had made comments and Lance had handed out his Lucky Ladies business card. One man almost slobbered over Fiona Butterfly. His wife yanked him away.

“I think we should talk about your parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary party,” I said as I slipped a spoonful of strawberry sorbet into my mouth, which was supposed to “clean my palate.”

“Even thinking about talking about Mom and Dad’s fortieth makes me want to blow in a sack,” Polly said, breathing hard, her mouth in an O. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to plan it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to be a part of this crime.”

“But we have to, Polly,” I said. “It’s coming up.”

“Dad should plan it,” Lance said, his face darkening. “Nothing we do is going to be right.”

“That’s true. He’ll hate the whole thing.” Polly put her white cloth napkin over her face and breathed deep. “All will be wrong. All done poorly. Putridly. Such a disappointment his kids are to him—it’s his wife’s fault, her family is crazy.”

I felt my usual pangs of pain.

“He wants us to do it so he can tell the state of Oregon what a fantastic dad he is. See here, Portland, my kids gave me my anniversary party.”

I finished my sorbet and put my spoon down. My hands were starting to shake. See what the mention of one boorish, testicle-trouncing man can do to sane people?

“I’m going to bring my blow-up girls to the party,” Lance announced.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Oh, stop,” Polly wheezed. “Let me get my hyperventilation under control before you throw something jack-crazy at me. I’m picturing all these naked blow-up dolls with cushy boobs sitting at the head table with Mom and Dad.”

“I’m going to do it. Good advertising.” He reached out a hand and patted Katerina. She almost fell off the chair. I caught her by the hip and propped her back up, ignoring the pointed stares of the three well-dressed, snobby women behind me.

“Plus I need the comfort they give me,” Lance said. “Good comfort.”

“Are the invitations ready to go?” I asked. The party was months out, but Herbert wanted everything shipshape.

Polly didn’t answer.

“That was your job, Polly Wants a Cracker,” Lance said, real gentle and sweet.

Polly balled up the napkin in her hands and rocked back and forth. Her hair was up in a ponytail, the auburn curls cascading down in red and gold. She was wearing an overly large, white T-shirt; a flowing red, cottony shirt down to her knees; and jeans. She was trying to cover up. I felt sick for her.

“You did do the invitations, didn’t you?” I asked.

Polly whimpered and breathed into her napkin.

The waiter came by and discreetly took my and Lance’s sorbet cups, but not Polly’s. She hadn’t eaten hers.

“The invitations aren’t ready, are they, honey?” Lance asked.

Polly whimpered again.

“You haven’t even started them, have you?” I asked.

She threw her napkin down.

There was an electric silence, and then I said, “I’m going to take that as a no.”

Polly threw both hands in the air, shook them, stomped her feet under the table, and said, in a pitchy voice, “I don’t think they should have the party. There’s nothing to celebrate, and I don’t want to be a part of this lie. I hate that Mom married Dad. I hate that she’s still married to him. I see this as forty years of Mom being stuck with Dad. She probably would have had more freedom in prison with a girlfriend named Maude. And a penchant for handcuffs.”

No one moved except for Fiona Butterfly, who fell off her chair. Our waiter scurried on over and put her right back up, then patted her on the shoulder.

“Poor Mom,” Lance said. “Oh, oh, oh. Poor Mom.”

“Poor Mom? Yes, poor Mom, but I’ve got ticked off issues, too,” Polly said, wriggling, agitated. “I’m mad that I spent my whole childhood trying to protect her from Dad, watching Dad attack her, belittle her, mock her, and she didn’t do anything. That wasn’t exactly a healthy environment for us to grow up in. He wouldn’t let her drive, wouldn’t let the mail be delivered to the house, buttoned her up tight with those staid blouses, and she put up with it because she’s weak.
Weak!
For our sakes, she should have left him so we would be protected, but she couldn’t summon up the strength to do it.” She threw her napkin in the air. “She was
weak!
”

“Polly,” Lance said, broken. “Mom’s an alcoholic. I know she doesn’t drink now, but she did then, and it rattled her poor mind to mush. Dad’s abuse controlled her. She was like a bunny in the jaws of a tiger. In everything he said to her, in every action, he showed her that he thought she was stupid, incapable, incompetent, uneducated, beneath him. She listened to that for years and years, poor Mom. Decades. She was freakin’ brainwashed and she didn’t have anyone to turn to, no parents, no sister—” His voice cracked and he picked up Fiona Butterfly and put her on his lap. For good comfort.

“I know, I know,” Polly moaned. “She’s a wreck.” She twisted her hands. “I’m a wreck.”

“I’m a wreck, too,” I said. “I’ve got visions, nightmares, flashbacks, and they keep getting worse.”

“And I can’t talk to women,” Lance said. “I can’t even open my mouth around them because Dad told me so many times I’d be a terrible husband, that I was weak, ineffectual, unmanly, dumb, and wouldn’t amount to anything but a stupid jock. I’ve only had two girlfriends in my life and they both broke up with me because I couldn’t speak around them. I’m a disgrace to myself.”

The waiters came with our salads. The lettuce was artfully arranged, like a 3D painting, dressing drizzled on the lettuce and then curlicued on the plate. The croutons formed a straight line. The blow-up girls did not get salads.

Polly fanned her face to get more air. She had been complaining about heart palpitations lately.

We were silent for a minute, then Lance reached out his huge hand and covered both of hers, Fiona Butterfly leaning with him.

“You do know that you’re coming close to totally crashing, don’t you, honey?” Lance asked.

“No, I’m not.” Polly shifted in her seat.

“Polly, you are.” I reached my hand out and put it over Lance’s. Polly not being well made me feel so sick. “You can’t live like this. You can’t continue to carry a bag tucked under your bra, you hyperventilate, you can’t breathe, you never sleep, you’re not eating. You’re so stickly thin.”

“I’m fine, Stevie, back off. You, too, Lance,” she snapped. “But I love you.”

“You’re way too thin,” Lance said, his voice hoarse. Fiona Butterfly wobbled in his lap. “I worry about you all the time, and sometimes I get so worried I have to go and lie down and knit. I knit for two hours straight on Sunday from the worry. I made you a hat, Stevie.”

“Thank you, Lance.” Yes, Lance knits. Learned it from some other guy named Timor on his pro football team. Timor actually owns a giant knitting store now with an order catalog and everything. Lance is “in love” with his designs. Every year he makes me and Polly at least two matching hats and scarves. He’s quite talented. We wear them all the time in winter.

“Well, quit worrying, you overgrown wimp. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

The waiter came with three types of bread and two types of butter. The blow-up girls did not seem hungry.

“Now, this lady.” He picked Fiona Butterfly up. “This lady’s got curves. You need ’em. You need ’em here”—he pointed to the doll’s boobs—“and here.” He pointed helpfully to the doll’s ass, spinning her so Polly got a close-up view of said ass. “You need more of that, honey. More bottom.”

“I don’t need more bottom,” she said. She dropped her head in her hands.

“Women should have meat on their bones, curves. They feel better with curves, too. Without curves, there’s nothing to grip in bed,” Lance said. “Not that I know much in that department…not much at all….”

Fiona Butterfly tipped toward me, and I pushed her back up. I ignored the pointed stares of the snobby women again.

“I’m not going to talk about this,” Polly said, panting a bit. She put her hand on her heart. She does that to calm herself down. Then she said, “It’s okay, heart, calm down. Everything’s okay.”

Me and Lance didn’t say anything, awash in our miserable worry, so Polly said, “Tell us about your rock party, Lance.”

“Well, dang, Polly, I don’t want to talk about it, I want to talk about you and getting yourself some boob fat and bottom fat and—”

“Lance!” she said.

“Okay, fine.” He hugged Fiona Butterfly close, then put her back in her seat. “You two are coming to Lance’s Lucky Ladies Hard Rock Party the night after the anniversary party, right? It’s out at the McMannis Brothers’ property. I rented the whole place. It’s gonna be a rock concert. I got a band that plays eighties music and everything. Oregon beer, Oregon berries, Oregon chefs. Everybody has to come dressed up as their favorite eighties rocker or they can’t get in the door. It’s gonna be awesome.” He put a hand on Katerina’s shoulder. Katerina knocked over his water glass. In seconds, two waiters were there mopping it up. More water appeared immediately.

“The ladies are gonna be the stars, but if you two don’t come—” He paused, cleared his throat. “If you two don’t come…” He got all teary-eyed. “The party will be ruined for me.
Ruined.
All for nothing. Please tell me you’ll be there.”

“I’ll be there, Lance,” I said. “For sure.”

“Me, too. Lance, I wouldn’t miss it,” Polly said.

“Promise me,” he said.

“Lance, my legs would have to be detached from my body before I would miss your rock party for the ladies,” I said.

Polly breathed into her white napkin again, the candlelight casting a shadow on her face. “Me, too, brother. I’m already planning what head-banging rocker I’m going to dress as.”

Lance’s face got all red, and he blinked rapidly. “I love you two.” He sniffed, wiped his eyes. “You’re always there for me, always have been. Even when we were young and Dad was so mean, so mean, so mean, hurting my feelings, my soul, the deepest part of myself. It’s always been us three, us three till the end.”

Oh, we are such babies. At the same time, me and Lance and Polly all burst into tears.

It sent our waiters scurrying right on over, panicky. “May we help you? What is it? Is it the dressing? The breads? How about some more wine?”

Being in a family is like living inside a tornado. Sometimes you’re spun around, sometimes you’re spit outside the tornado all by yourself, and sometimes you’re able to join hands with someone inside of it and wait the whole darn thing out.

Me, Lance, and Polly held hands. Fiona Butterfly fell on her head. Katerina fell backwards. The waiters picked them right back up, then brought our meals, which were not food but art disguised as food.

Neither Fiona Butterfly nor Katerina seemed hungry.

When I bought my house I knew two things: One, I didn’t have much money, and two, I would have to do almost everything myself.

My thought?

Big breath, and then, from out of nowhere I heard myself say,
I can do it.

Joseph, my uncle’s kind, compassionate long-time landscaper and handyman, had taught me how to use every saw and tool under the sun, and I’d spent hours with him, as had Lance and Polly. We could build about anything, except an ark. (We would need Noah for that.)

I ripped up the 1970s brown and yellow linoleum and moldy carpets and replaced them with old-growth timber salvaged from a turn-of-the-century home that had been torn down (free). I tore out the brown cabinets in the kitchen and hauled in an antique, slightly dented armoire to hold pots, pans, griddles, etc. It had so much personality I named it Tally ($12). I cleaned up another armoire (Tally II) with no doors to work as a pantry ($40). I then put in floor-to-ceiling open shelving, painted bright white on one full wall to hold my mismatched collection of dishes, colorful glasses, and linens.

I love old, interesting furniture that looks like it could speak in four languages and tell secrets. My kitchen island is a mechanics work table complete with tons of drawers that I bought at a country antique sale ($52). I repainted it green and spray painted the knobs gold. I heard through a neighbor that a friend was taking out her huge butcher block island counter for a new kitchen. I brought my saw, walked off with the block, and fastened it onto the mechanics work table.

I stripped the old cabinets in my bathroom and repainted them green, had a plumber install a claw-foot tub I got from a hotel that was being demolished ($25), then slapped up silver corrugated metal. (Free from a construction site. Manager said he’d pay me to take it.) It’s modern wallpaper, I think.

I use a barn door I bought for $1 at a country garage sale for my kitchen table. I painted it blue, and sawhorses (also free) act as a base. A one-hundred-year-old church pew in my living room sits across a red couch I had hauled in from a flea market sale (no fleas, $12).