The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted (29 page)

The man smiles, revealing two deep dimples. “Four hundred. That’s sterling silver. Those charms are exquisitely crafted. It’s worth even more. But I see how much you like it, so . . . It’s a hundred dollars.”

“I’ll take it,” Rita says, handing him her credit card, and when the man starts to wrap the bracelet up, Rita tells him not to, she’d like to wear it.

When the man hands her the charge slip to sign, he says something.

“Pardon?” Rita asks.

The man looks up, and Rita sees that his eyes are wet.

“It was my wife’s,” he says. “I can’t look at it anymore. I wanted someone else to love it for her. So thank you.”

Rita touches his hand. “I’ve been widowed for some time now, but it still seems like yesterday. I think I know how you feel.”

The man nods, then says, “I’m Howard Bernstein.

Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?”

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Oh, God. “Thank you,” she says gently, “but I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

“I’m not offended. I ask any woman who comes in here and is breathing if she’d like to have dinner with me—

I don’t like to eat alone. I hope
that
doesn’t offend
you.
”

“Not at all. Listen, thanks again for the bracelet. Looks like your wife liked to gamble!”

“Did she ever.”

“Well, I’m off to Vegas! This very afternoon.”

“Put a quarter in a slot machine that’s in the middle of a row and has cherries painted on it,” the man says. “You’ll win big.” He stares intently at her. “You think I’m joking, but it’s true. I know these things. Kind of psychic.”

“I hope you’re right!” Rita waves good-bye and rushes down the street, her shopping bags bumping into her knees, her hips. Tonight, she’ll be sleeping in a pyramid after she’s heard Wayne Newton sing. She wonders how many people in the audience will be seeing him with no sense of irony at all. She hopes most of the audience absolutely adores him. To tell the truth, she does, but she would never admit it. Thank God that what happens there . . .

At the airport, Rita sits at the gate looking at her charm bracelet. It’s astonishing, all that’s on here. She counts the charms: there are thirty-six of them. Some she might have selected if she’d put the thing together herself: a VW Bee-tle, she used to have one of those. The four heads on Mount Rushmore, she’s been there. The astrological sign for a Cancer, she’s a Cancer, too! Other things don’t fit her at all: a typewriter, a pagoda, a man leading a donkey, Casa Loma in Toronto, but she likes the mystery of not knowing 226

t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d what they meant to the woman who bought them. Someone’s whole life, hanging on her arm.

A handsome older man sitting across from her has been checking her out for some time. Now he speaks. “Going to Las Vegas?”

“I am.”

“Been there before?”

“Many years ago.”

“Ah.” The man smiles, an oily kind of smile, as if he’s in on some joke she’s not privy to, and she decides she doesn’t like him. But then she decides to give him a break—he’s just trying to make conversation, trying to pass the time. “It’s built up a
lot
more now,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sure. You’ve been there?”

“Millions of times. Where are you staying?”

What’s your Social Security number?
she wants to ask him. Oh, why is she being so nasty? If a woman asked her this question, she’d answer readily. Then they’d chat about hotels, and maybe she’d get some tips.

“I don’t know the name of it,” Rita says. “The place that looks like a pyramid.”

“I know the one you mean. I’ve heard it’s nice.”

“Where are you staying?” she asks.

“Not sure yet,” he says, and then points to her bracelet.

“That’s quite a collection of charms you’ve got there.”

Rita wonders if he’s being purposefully evasive about his hotel, if he thinks she’s trying to pick him up. She’s vaguely insulted, the man knows nothing about her. And then it comes to her how delicious this is, that the man knows nothing about her. She fingers her bracelet and says, “Yes, I’ve had it for many years.”

“Is that a pair of dice I see on there?” The man leans forward, then looks up into her face. “I’m Red Henley, by
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the way. Used to have red hair. Lost the color but kept the name.”

“I’m Cherise Langley,” she says, and offers her hand.

“Pretty name,” he says, and moves into the seat next to her. Then, his eyebrows raised, he asks, “Okay if I sit here?”

“Of course.” She fingers her bracelet nervously.
Cherise
Langley!
That’s what she used call her paper doll!

“So, you go on cruises a lot?” Red asks.

She stares blankly at him—she
never
has—and he points to the cruise ship charm. “Oh!” she says. “Yes, I went. Long time ago. I bought that charm on board, in the gift shop.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Oh, just . . . you know. Europe.”

He nods. “Are you crazy about Paris, like most Americans?”

“I like Paris quite a lot.”

He leans back in his chair, and says,
“Ah, Paree. La Pont
des Arts, Ile de la Cité, au fond la Cathédrale Notre-Dame.”

Then, to his credit, Rita thinks, he blushes.

An announcement comes over the speaker; their flight has been delayed. Only half an hour, they’re saying, but who can trust them? She and Red sigh together, then laugh at the same time, too.

“There’s a bar two gates down,” he says. “Would you like to go and get a drink? Or some coffee or something?”

“I
would
like a drink,” she says, and they wheel their bags into the tiny bar. Red orders a scotch, and Rita says,

“I’ll have a Manhattan,” and there you have it, her trip has begun.

“So where do you live?” Red asks, and Rita tells him she has a loft over by the university.

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“I’m in St. Paul,” he tells her. “Got a real nice condo on Grand Avenue.”

“Oh, that’s a great area,” Rita says. “A lot of nice stores and restaurants.”

“Good walking street,” Red says. “I go up Crocus Hill to the cathedral every day. I love that place. I’m not religious—just appreciate it for art’s sake. When I was a kid, I used to wish I could be locked up in it overnight.”

“Why?” Rita asks.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. The candles, the mystery. I never felt like I got enough of the place, plus I wanted to see it all alone. I’ve always been kind of a loner, I never got married or anything. How about you, you married?”

“Divorced,” she says.

“Kids?”

“Just one.”

“Grandkids?”

“One on the way, actually. Three more months.” Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely, she can’t wait to have grandchildren.

Once it occurred to her that the reason she’d like it is that it would be a relief not to have to compete with Ben, but then she felt terrible thinking that, felt terrible that he would never see his grandchildren, nor they him. He always said that he wanted to read his grandchildren
Uncle Wiggley.

Red studies her face. “You don’t look like a grandma.”

“Oh, sure I do; grandmas don’t look like grandmas anymore.”

“More’s the pity,” Red says, and picks up his coat to make room for another woman who sits beside him. She’s about their age, quite pretty, and apparently finds Red attractive. She smiles at him, pulls a cigarette from her bag, and says, “Light my fire?”

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“You can’t smoke in here,” Red says, and turns his attention back to Rita. He rolls his eyes, and Rita smiles into her drink. Which is almost gone.

“Would you like anything else?” Red asks, and she says no, she thinks she’ll go back; maybe they’re boarding.

“Hope springs eternal,” Red says. He pays the bill, then walks back to the gate area with her. Now the departure time has disappeared from the board altogether, and just as they are about to sit down, here comes the dreaded announcement: “Well, folks . . .”

Three hours later, Rita’s section gets called, and she makes her way to her seat. She’s had some dinner with Red, she’s told him she loves to ski (she detests it) and that as a little girl she had wanted to move to Montana and be a cowgirl.

This is true, actually, and when it slipped out she had the odd feeling of doing wrong by telling the truth.

Red’s section came after hers, so when Rita boarded, they said good-bye and shook hands. Red said maybe they could share a cab into the city and Rita said maybe so.

The flight is light; it looks like Rita is going to have no one next to her. She can sit by the aisle or the window. This seems such a luxury to her, given the way airline travel has changed from people getting dressed up to people wearing what amount to pajamas and being crammed on board like the cattle who ride in those awful slatted trucks you see on the highway. Rita must dissociate when she sees those trucks, those bawling, white-faced cows, their big eyes full of terror, or sorrow, or both. That’s what flying is like now, cattle cars. Even first class has an air of weariness these days—no more gay mimosas on the morning flights, complete with flowers. No more pretty, smiling flight atten-

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t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d dants wearing tasteful makeup and simple jewelry, their hair in neat upsweeps.

Window first, she decides; later, she’ll switch to the aisle. She doesn’t like to sit on the aisle when they bring those carts through; once, her elbow got banged and the flight attendant acted like it was Rita’s fault, didn’t even apologize. She puts her purse under the seat, leans back against the headrest, and closes her eyes.

“Cherise,” she hears. Then, more insistently, “Cherise!”

She opens her eyes, remembering that she is Cherise, and looks for Red. He’s a few rows up, waving at her. She waves back, smiling, then closes her eyes again. She doesn’t want him to move and sit beside her; lying is peculiarly exhausting. She wants to go to sleep, so she can stay up late tonight.

She wants to find the slot machine with the cherries, and when she wins big, she wants to set aside at least a couple hundred dollars, which she will use to buy more things from Howard Bernstein’s store.

She is awakened by turbulence severe enough that many passengers cry out. Rita grips the arms of her seat and holds on. She’s not afraid, she is never afraid of turbulence. She feels confident that she will not die in a plane crash, she doesn’t know why, but she is absolutely sure of this. The woman across the aisle from her is white-knuckled; the man with her looks angry and in fact begins to quietly swear. Rita looks for Red. There is the back of his head; he’s holding perfectly still. Funny how you can tell from behind when a person is afraid. She gets a strange notion. She tears a strip of paper from
Hemi-spheres
magazine and makes a spitball out of it. Then she throws it at Red, and it bounces off him. He puts his hand to his head and turns around. She holds up her hand and flutters her fingers. He smiles. She gives him the thumbs-

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up and he returns the gesture.
Don’t be afraid,
she has said, and he has understood her. She likes that. The plane bucks again, the captain makes the usual announcement about searching for calmer air, and soon Rita is nodding off again.

“Cherise?”

She awakens to see Red sitting beside her, smiling. She straightens up and tries to secretly wipe her mouth off: much to her horror, she sometimes drools when she drifts off on airplanes. “Some ride, huh?” Red says. “I was a little nervous, I don’t mind telling you. Until you fired that spitball at me.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“No, it helped! Little humor in the midst of terror, that’s a good thing.”

“It seems so,” Rita says. When Sally Wall got breast cancer and told her best friend, Annie, about the diagnosis, Annie said, “Well, don’t buy any green bananas,” and Sally loved it; she said it was such a relief from all the doom and gloom.

“You don’t mind if I sit here for a while, do you?” Red asks.

She does, actually, but not enough to say so.

“I can go back to my seat, if you want to sleep some more.”

“That’s okay.” She pushes back the sides of her hair, remembers that it’s permed. She has a perm and she’s on the way to Las Vegas. She’s Cherise Langley.

“You know,” Red says, “I have to confess something to you.”

“Oh?”

He’s married. He’s gay. He’s just out of jail.

“Yeah. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

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Jail. White-collar crime. Bookkeeping.

He looks away to say, “You know those ads for Las Vegas where the girl keeps giving herself a different name?”