The Queen of Bad Decisions (4 page)

The book store was in an old building. Instead of one, large open space the store was a series of rooms, some of them branching off of others like the architectural equivalent of ivy vine. Most of the rooms held different collections of books, but Mary had set aside one to be a conference or meeting room. Several book clubs used the space and now the classes would be held there. A cool evening breeze drifted through an open window as Daisy arranged the refreshments on a table at the back of the room. It would get warm again once the room was full of students. She unlocked the second window and shimmied it open. The old windows were stubborn, but she had waged many battles with them and knew just how to get them open. A woman with an unruly poof of neon red hair was unpacking stamps and paint brushes from a vinyl bag. She smiled at Daisy. Her green rhinestone nose stud sparkled. “Thank you. I couldn’t get that one open. You must be Daisy, my esteemed assistant for the evening. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I’ve heard so much about you?
Red flag alert. The only things she knew about the other woman were that she made altered book art and her name was Anita. Daisy glanced at Mary, who was doing a magnificent job of arranging napkins and ignoring the dirty look directed at her. It seemed that her boss’s scheme was in full motion, but she was still stumbling around in the dark trying to fit together all of the pieces. She stepped forward and tried to smile nicely, despite the annoyance whirring in her mind. “I am Daisy. It’s nice to meet you. What can I help with?”

Anita handed her a shoe box overflowing with colorful paper scraps. “Could you scatter these down the middle of the tables, so everyone can see what is available?”

Women began filtering into the room as Daisy played the part of a paper fairy, sprinkling bits of paper and ephemera over the tables as instructed by Anita. Some of the students actually squealed when they saw all of the adornments. After shepherding all of the students into the room Mary took attendance and disappeared.

The next two hours were a blur. Daisy fetched supplies, helped thread needles and offered opinions on color schemes and rubber stamp options. She and Anita fell into an easy rhythm as they helped the students alter the small, paperback books that Mary had provided. Each book was different and they were all stunningly beautiful, even though none of the class participants admitted to ever making an altered book before that evening. Ribbons, bits of lace, scraps of paper and cardstock tags peeked out from the pages of the books. They were literally bursting with creativity.

After class, as Daisy rolled up bits of lace, Anita slipped next to her. She handed Daisy a small, hard-covered book. A ball of yarn with a pair of knitting needles stuck into it was stamped in pink ink on the cover. “Thank you for helping me.”

“It’s beautiful, but you don’t need to give me anything. Mary is paying me for my time this evening.”

Anita shook her head. “You worked hard tonight and did a great job. I appreciate the help. Artists helping other artists is a wonderful thing.”

Daisy flipped through the book. The pages were folded and stitched together with purple embroidery floss to form pockets. Tea-dyed tags with handwritten inspirational quotes were slipped into the pockets. The book was made by a true, creative artist. “I’m not a real artist like you. I just knit.”

“When was the last time you followed a pattern?”

“I don’t follow patterns. I just make things up as I go.”

“So you make one-of-a-kind wearable art.” Anita dug around in one of her colorful canvas bags that were painted with wide swaths of color. She pulled out a sheet of paper and gestured for Daisy to sit down at the conference table. “Mary told me you are looking for a place to live. I just moved into a studio at an artists’ colony in Bartonville. After spending the evening with you, I’m pretty sure you would love it there too. The place is full of interesting, creative people. Plus, there is a gallery so residents can sell their work without ever leaving home.”

“An artists’ colony? I don’t belong in a place like that. My knitting is nothing like what you do.”

The plot of the evening had finally been revealed. Should she be angry at or grateful for Mary’s meddling? Yes, she wanted to get out of her parents’ apartment, but live in an artists’ colony? She had learned to knit in an after-school program when she was in elementary school. Now the knitting had turned into a way to make some extra money by selling the things she made to co-workers and friends. Buying old sweaters at thrift stores and then unraveling them was a cheap way to get yarn. There was no art involved in what she did.

Anita took off the scarf that was wound around her neck. It was the one Mary had bought a few days earlier. “The only difference between this scarf and a necklace is the material.” She slid the paper toward Daisy. “This is an application to apply for residency at the colony. Since you need to find a new place to live, what harm can there be in applying? I’ll even help you put a portfolio together, if you don’t have one, to show to the residency board.”

A breeze caught the shopping bag. It spun and bounced off Daisy’s thigh while the noose made from the handles tightened around her palm. The bag was stuffed full of sweaters that Mary had given her, so a bit of pain didn’t matter. Many of the items would come apart into short bits and pieces of yarn, since they were made of machine knit panels that were sewn together. The knee-length, cream-colored sweater that made up most of the weight in the bag wouldn’t be that way, though. It was handmade, sometime in the 1980’s judging by the boxy shoulder pads, so it would produce yards and yards of unbroken yarn. She skipped a few steps, all of the extra exercise she could stand in the sweltering heat, savoring the potential that Mary’s gift contained. Everybody at the book shop knew that Daisy recycled old sweaters and afghans. Many of her co-workers bought scarves and hats from her, but they also brought in their cast-off sweaters for her to unravel and reuse. The generosity made her feel warm and fuzzy, but also a bit embarrassed, like a homeless person accepting the leftovers from a stranger’s meal at an expensive restaurant. The fact that these sweaters didn’t look like anything Mary would ever have worn at any time in her life made Daisy suspicious. Her boss hadn’t stopped talking about the opportunity to get into the artists’ colony. More than likely she bought the sweaters at a garage sale or thrift store, hoping that Daisy would use them to make more things to present to the board when she applied. If she ever submitted the application.

Daisy stopped and held her arm out to let the twisted bag handles unwind. A beat-up pickup sat in the lot of a vacant restaurant on the corner. A mine field of dents dimpled its chalky, faded red paint. The vehicle wasn’t pretty, but a rainbow-colored flood of vegetables spilled out of the bed of the truck and onto several rickety card tables set up near the sidewalk. An old woman wearing overalls and a straw cowboy hat sat on a molded plastic lawn chair next to the tables. Daisy stopped to examine the offerings. The prices, handwritten on scraps of paper bags and taped to the table, where unbelievably cheap. Much less expensive and obviously fresher than the market she had shopped at when she lived with Gary on the other side of town.

Daisy surveyed the mounds of red peppers, both sweet and hot, along with plump tomatoes and deep green leaf lettuce. She calculated what she would need to make a few side dishes to add to her mother’s dinner offerings. A way to say thank you for letting her sleep on the couch. The rest of the family needed to eat more veggies anyway. Her dad was a staunch meat and potatoes man, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t broaden his culinary horizons a bit. She set her bags on the sidewalk and began selecting vegetables, carefully keeping tab of how much each cost. Eating dinner with her family was saving money, but she still needed to squirrel away as much as possible so she could move out soon. The old woman pulled a crumpled, plastic grocery bag from a stash stuffed into an old tissue box sitting on the ground near her chair. “How are you, young lady?” she asked as she handed it to Daisy. The old woman’s face was tanned to a leathery brown. Deep creases and wrinkles made her look like one of the dried apple head dolls that Daisy had made once when she was in elementary school.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Doing good. Can’t beat this sunshine and I’m about ready to pack up and head for home.” She nodded at a large, black dog that was curled up in the shade under the back bumper of the truck. Daisy hadn’t noticed the creature, but it intently watched her. “Cleveland is ready to go home, too. It’s almost time for his dinner.”

Daisy dropped a jalapeno pepper into the bag, on top of the fat tomato and deep, green zucchini she had already picked out. She added a small, purple onion that seemed to glow in the late afternoon sunshine, then slid in a bundle of carrots and said, “I’ll take these, please.”

The woman peeked in the bag. “That’ll be four dollars.”

As Daisy pulled a five-dollar bill out of her wallet the woman dropped two more tomatoes, another jalapeno and a sweet, red pepper into the bag. Daisy shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have enough money for those things.”

The woman tied the handles of the bag together and set it on the table. She plucked the money out of Daisy’s fingers and rummaged in a pocket for the change. “Don’t worry about it. They’re on the house. I’d rather see you use them than pack them up and haul ‘em back to my place.” She handed a dollar bill back. “Have a good evening.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” More kindness that she was uncomfortable with, but equally uncomfortable refusing. Daisy wedged the lumpy bag into a corner of her tote. The canvas bag was big and pumpkin orange, but she loved it. There was enough space for books, a knitting project, her dress shoes and an insulated lunch bag with room to spare. The thing was bulky and cumbersome, but it fit her needs and had only cost a quarter at a yard sale. She waved to the farmer as she waited for the crosswalk signal. She’d be able to make spicy sauteed zucchini and glazed carrots for her parents. Her stomach growled. Was she hungry or was it upset from being the recipient of another charitable act?

The scent of fried onions still lingered in the apartment the next morning when her parents’ bedroom door creaked open at 4 a.m. Daisy rolled over to face the back of the couch. She just couldn’t go to bed as early as her parents. It seemed to be biologically impossible. She was losing sleep every night, but no matter how tired she got she couldn’t fall asleep before midnight. The middle of the night wake-up calls from her brother sneaking in and her mother getting up for work were killing her. She was drinking so much coffee at the book store she needed to buy a bag of ground coffee for Mary to make up for all that she was using.

Daisy kept her eyes closed when she heard her mother emerge from the bathroom and head to the kitchen. She was going to turn the overhead light on. The fixture was positioned perfectly to torture Daisy with its harsh fluorescent assault. A laser blast, right in the eyes, five days a week. Keeping her eyes pasted shut was less painful. Besides, she already knew what she would see. Her mother wearing a white half-slip and sensible, cotton bra. She always came out to get a glass of orange juice and bowl of corn flakes, dressed in her underwear. When Daisy asked why she did that, she said it was to make sure the body lotion had soaked in before she put on the waitress uniform. The scent of roses from the moisturizer drifted behind her like an infatuated ghost. A sneeze producing specter that often left Daisy’s nose itchy for hours afterward. In another hour her dad would emerge from the bedroom and make his coffee wearing only his tightie whities before heading to the bathroom to shower and get dressed. After that he would bang around making his version of breakfast. The meal usually ended up smelling like the dumpster behind a pizza place. She didn’t ask his reason for walking around half-naked. He probably wouldn’t have one anyway. Watching a hunky boyfriend wander around in his underwear would be exciting. Seeing her parents do it was creepy and disturbing.

As soon as her father slammed the front door shut behind himself that morning, a high-pitched giggle floated down the hallway. Bobby’s girlfriend, Tina. The couple had slithered into the apartment after midnight, scaring the crap out of Daisy in the process, since she had just fallen asleep. Her dream of shopping in a fancy yarn shop while Bradley Cooper held her basket was interrupted by the horny, drunken couple. Now a rhythmic thumping echoed through the apartment accompanied by moaning and mumbling. More sleep wasn’t in the cards for the day even though it wasn’t even 7 a.m. and she didn’t have to be to work for another three hours. She pulled a wrinkled t-shirt out of one of the garbage bags that was still acting as her closet and stomped to the bathroom. Thankfully the whining exhaust fan drowned out the x-rated soundtrack emitting from her brother’s room.

She emerged from the shower when the temperature of the water started to drop, but left the faucet running. She dried her hair, got dressed and applied makeup accompanied by the soothing sound of gurgling water. A cloud of cold mist greeted her when she pulled open the shower curtain to shut off the water. As she gathered her dirty clothes, she mapped out the rest of the morning. She would get off the bus one stop early and buy a couple hot, fresh doughnuts from the little bakery that looked like it had been around forever. Then she could eat her greasy, sugar-coated breakfast in the peace and quiet of the book store’s break room. Anything was better than staying in the apartment with Bobby and his main squeeze.

Daisy opened the bathroom door and sucked in a breath. Bobby stood in his bedroom doorway across the hall, naked and scowling at her. A tattoo of a rattlesnake coiled on his belly and curled toward his neck. Tina was stretched out on the bed behind him, sound asleep again. She looked like an emaciated mummy without her wrappings. “Get the hell out of here. We want to take a shower,” he said.