The night before my aunt died, I dreamed I was in Atlanta at her bedside. “Aunt Edith,” I said stroking her hand.
No response.
“Aunt Edith, it’s Sue.”
No response.
“Aunt Edith, you loved me, remember?”
Instantly, she sprang to life. Her eyes unglazed and looking straight at me, she said, “I hated you.”
Even in my sleep, I had to laugh.
The next morning, I was called with confirmation of the news. Within a few hours, I had boarded an airplane and landed in the lushness of late spring in the South. Confetti blossoms of crepe myrtle dotted the avenues. Sunlight splayed the canopy over Aunt Edith’s grave.
In attendance were three generations of slim, good-looking brunettes, wearing fashionable black suits. Mother was the most stylish in a dark silk sheath, a triple strand of large pearls, her head wrapped in point d’esprit. She sat amicably beside her nephew Malcolm in front of Edith’s casket (despite their history of death threats and animosity).
After the interment, we meandered up the hill to the family plot bought by Morris Abelman for his daughters and their husbands. Sadly, Edith had to be buried elsewhere since the second wife of her deceased ex-husband (a blond convert from Mississippi and twenty-five years his junior) now had legal claim to the grave.
“Edith should have taken my space,” mother cackled, pointing to the empty slot beside my father. “She was always trying to throw him into bed. Here, they could have slept together for eternity.”
From the cemetery, we convened at mother’s large Peachtree Street apartment where for several hours, we passed around the family photo albums, laughing and weeping over the fate of the bloodline.
A week after Edith’s death, mother received a call from a stranger who had read the obituary in the newspaper.
The woman introduced herself as the daughter of Narcissus. Narcissus, long dead herself, had worked for my grandparents’ household from 1923 to 1939. “Miss Marguerite?”
Mother must have smiled with pleasure. She had not been addressed with subservience in years.
“My mother loved Miss Marguerite and Miss Edith like her own,” the daughter said.
Next to the phone rested a framed sepia portrait of the two young sisters in their organdy pinafores and barbershop bobs. They were lovely, pristine children with no clue of the desertion, suicide, and mental illness that would eventually dog them. On the contrary, they exuded the privilege of their birth and Narcissus’ careful grooming.
“But she could never decide which one she loved more.”
Psychic Shopper
Does the hook snare the fish? Or the fish swim up and grab the hook? Peter and I used to sit for hours with rod and bait, our legs dangling over the pier, sipping beer, waiting for something to happen. Most of the time, nothing did. But that didn’t matter. We were looking for an excuse to do nothing and preferred if it had a name. Fishing is the best apology ever invented.
If I have an hour, not long enough for a walk but enough time to lose myself, I visit the local discount department store. There’s no effort to make anything look attractive, and items are often one-of-a-kind. I prefer this ocean of discards and seconds to the tidiness of conventional retailers. Suspended in a meditative state, I scan the sad polyesterscape until I spot something lively, something made from natural fiber. I check the size (mine) and price (almost nothing): a DKNY linen skirt, a merino wool sweater, a pair of Italian leather sandals.
After trolling the clothes, I wander down aisles stuffed with towels, kitchen gadgets, and crockery. I pick up a few gifts: an oddball vase or a bib for a baby who hasn’t been born. Like fishing, absent-minded shopping requires no concentration. It carries no expectations. It’s an experience of detachment.
My cousin, Peggy, possesses rare telepathic instincts about clothing, confirmed by a holiday office party in 1999. The week before the occasion, she pictured exactly what she would wear (brown velveteen slacks and harlequin silk blouse). She drove to the discount department store. Voila! They were there, waiting as she imagined: her size, good quality, and affordable. She tested other items. On demand, a trench coat, summer loafers, and chiffon dress materialized. Dross to gold. Thought bubble to blazer.
Peggy consulted a friend with a small, successful home business. Together, they made a list of what she would need to launch Psychic Shopper.
The same day that Peggy posted her flyers on utility poles, she got her first call.
“Psychic Shopper!” We had already spent an hour practicing her inflection.
“The stain won’t come out!” a panicked woman cried. She had spilled coffee on the brocade suit she intended to wear to her son’s wedding.
Peggy was calm and reassuring, speaking in a tone that invited confidence. “I’ll need your age, weight, coloring, and height.”
As Jackie Germaine replied, the picture of a tall, heavyset woman emerged: dark skin, shoulder-length dyed red hair, fifty-two years old, size 16.
“I see it,” Peggy spoke from a trance. “Elegant but not dull, formal but not staid. I’ll get back to you before Tuesday.”
Three observations related to shopping:
• Size is rarely accurate (varies by manufacturer and style)
• Three is the maximum number the brain’s shopping hemisphere can process
• Comfort (emotional & physical) for women over 40 (unless they’re delusional) is the most persuasive factor
After they hung up, Peggy closed her eyes and let Jackie’s body drift around. “Blue,” she concluded. The following day, she brought home the possibilities: a navy, cotton lace suit, a turquoise sheath with a bolero jacket, and a rayon evening gown in divine Carolina blue.
When Jackie arrived, she overflowed with gratitude. She chose the evening gown and insisted that Psychic Shopper come to the reception.
“Gold,” Peggy recommended. “Gold shoes, gold purse, gold pin. You’ll look like King Tut’s mother.”
The next call was tough. Helen Wallace was a bitch who needed (yesterday) a casual Hawaiian wardrobe for a weekend conference.
“I don’t have time to shit,” Helen shared.
Hawaii? Alaska? Peggy wasn’t phased. At discount stores, the merchandise never coincided with seasons.
“Thirty-six, 5’6”, 122, 34B, 9N, high-waist, flat ass, light ash brown,” Helen said, “No bikini, I got stretch marks.”
It was not easy to bond with Helen’s cause. However, one’s best work is not always fueled by inspiration. By noon, Peggy had assembled two wrap-around skirts (white duck and red check), three sleeveless Ts, a high-cut Speedo tank, a rayon fish-print sundress, black patent slides, burgundy sarong, and a short silk nightie (in case she seduced a conferee).
Helen Wallace rifled through the clothes, rejected the nightgown, paid the fee, and left without a word of thanks.
Peggy’s phone rang steadily. Most of her customers were women at the end of their wits and schedules, but men called, too.
Additional observations related to shopping:
• Never trust a man to describe a woman accurately
• Men’s impressions are generally vague
• Men and women never agree on what’s attractive
• If men had their way, a woman would never cut her hair or wear loose pants
After six weeks, Peggy was running in the red. She would have continued to build the business if it hadn’t been for Millie Stern.
“I got a date Saturday night with Mr. Right,” Millie confided to Peggy. Already, that sounded wrong.
“Do you know where he’s taking you, Millie?”
“I’m taking him,” she roared. “I call him ‘last chance.’ I got two tickets for a cruise on the San Francisco Bay. They got music, champagne, they got everything. It’s my birthday.”
“Congratulations. Age and weight?”
“Ninety-one and ninety-one!” Millie laughed hysterically. “My grandchildren call me ‘the incredible shrinki
ng Millie.’ My coloring ain’t good. I can’t describe it. Oatmeal, maybe. Before you see the color, you see the pores and moles. My hair ain’t good either. Almost all of it come out. But I got a real human hair chestnut wig. Now, I need a dress, something with zip.”
“I’m sure I can find something comfortable,” Peggy said.
“Forget comfort, I’m wearing mules. They kill me, but I can dance in anything. My legs still got something going.”
Peggy pictured it perfectly: size 2 – 4 (petite), milk chocolate silk or synthetic with three-quarter trumpet sleeves, hemmed at the knee, and a scoop neck. She even envisioned Millie Stern, dancing to a cruise trio that only played The Beatles. When the tempo picked up, Mr. Right wanted to sit down.
“Last dance, last chance!” Millie laughed gaily.
Like a hyena, Mr. Right thought.
At the end of the evening, the pleasure yacht chugged back to the pier. Along the Embarcadero, the Royal palms swayed in time to the music. The ship’s hull tapped the dock as Millie clutched her brown pleated bodice and sank to the deck. Mr. Right was not so agile. He couldn’t bend over, but he shouted effectively. It was no use. Millie Stern was dead.
Peggy called Millie back. “Maybe one of your daughters can help you,” she said.
“They dress like bags,” Millie complained.
“Something came up.” Peggy said firmly. There was no way she was shopping for a shroud.
All week, she checked the obituaries, but Millie Stern’s did not appear until the following Sunday. The Chronicle featured an article on the life and times of Mildred Gross Stern who died on a Bay cruise.
Miss Gross had been a member of the Isadorables, Isadora Duncan’s famous dance troupe. She settled in San Francisco during World War II and married art dealer, Stanley Stern. She is survived by two daughters, five grandchildren, and a French bulldog, Diagliev. Her original costume wardrobe will be donated to the Isadora Duncan archive.
One day, Millie’s grandchildren would recall her liveliness and remember she died dancing in her nineties. “On a blind date,” they would marvel.
That afternoon, Peggy removed the flyers from the telephone poles. She disconnected her number. She notified her regulars that she had lost her touch.
Malled
“Are you going to wear the right clothes?” That was my daughter on the phone with her father, discussing a back-to-school shopping excursion to a suburban mall. The question was actually an admonishment, identical to the questions exasperated women have asked him all his life. “Are you going to wear the right clothes?” Meaning, “Are you going to look presentable?” Implying, “Are you going to do what I want?”
Eavesdropping from the kitchen, I could picture them perfectly. Sarah would have a pencil line (the color of dried blood) drawn around her lips, her hair matted, her nose ring dangling defiantly, and the tattooed bracelet of stars around her wrist exposed. Her skirt would either be too short or her cargo pants too low, down to her hips so that both navel, navel ring, and boxer underwear showed. (I could have reasonably asked if she planned to look presentable.)
As for Peter, any effort he made would go a long way. He’s a handsome man and from working outdoors, always tan. A stranger once asked if he recognized Peter from Princeton. The man was surprised to learn Peter never went to college. “It doesn’t matter,” the stranger said. “You look like you went to Princeton.”
Peter was only twenty when I met him. At forty, he’s still beautiful. But more than the charm of his appearance, I fell for his humor and earnestness. He’s still funny and earnest, but he suffers from an acute time-management problem. His second ex-wife is in town (from Denmark) with their son and her depressed teenage brother. They’re staying in Peter’s small apartment, along with his live-in girlfriend. The girlfriend and ex-wife have already been at it. Both of them confiding their complaints to me.
As a result of the commotion, Sarah has been squeezed into a tiny corner of her father’s attention span. Counting the little boy, teenage ex-brother-in-law, girlfriend, and ex-wife, there are too many to fit in Peter’s truck.
I was home from work when they took off. Despite Sarah’s dictum, Peter had not washed his truck. However, his face and hands were scrubbed. He wore a freshly laundered (un-ironed) Oxford-cloth shirt, a pair of beaten Sperry Topsiders, and Madras shorts.
“Please don’t make your father buy you another pair of $100 sneakers.” I said, exercising my grudge against shoe companies.
In the early evening, Sarah returned victorious. There were shopping bags of oversized jeans, tidbit skirts, cropped tops, identical to the clothes already hanging in her closet. Sarah modeled every item, gurgling with enthusiasm while I smiled with approval, wondering if the clothes mattered nearly as much as the man in her life doing exactly what she wanted.
* * *
Allison was flopped on the floor next to Sarah in typical attire: skimpy tops and giant jeans, their bare feet propped on the window sill to dry their toenails. Nearby was Sarah’s DJ equipment: amplifiers, turntables, headphones, and dozens of old LPs. The girls were learning to scratch.
Leah lay on Sarah’s bed, the collar of her blouse framing her sweet, docile face and dreads. Last month, she tried to commit suicide by gobbling all the prescription medicines in her house. Someone happened to telephone, interrupting Leah’s last act. After answering, she told the caller what she had done. As a result, her stomach was pumped, her life saved.
A modeling agency was courting Allison. Although not a raving beauty, it was easy to see her potential. Allison looked good in anything.
“What about your modeling?” I asked her.
“The portfolio costs too much. Mom doesn’t have the money.” (After twenty-five years of data entry, her mother was laid off with a carpal tunnel disability.) “She wants to start a plant business.” Allison added spitefully, “She’s out of her mind.”
“With your big backyard, a greenhouse makes sense,” I remarked.
Allison had no interest in greenhouses. She didn’t want the burden of paying her mother’s bills. She wanted to be a fashion model and drive around in a new car.
“Mom lets Maggie live in our house for free. Maggie takes in laundry. Maggie uses our washing machine. She runs up our water bill and doesn’t pay a cent. Mom should kick her out or make her pay.”
“Maybe, she can take out a second mortgage to start the plant business.”
“Mom’s on drugs,” Allison said bluntly. “When she raves about flowers, she’s totally incoherent.” The girl’s smooth expression collapsed. “She already borrowed $40,000 on the house to bail Jimmy out of jail.”
I had met Jimmy, the mother’s boyfriend. “Doesn’t he have a job?” I whispered, trying to disguise my nosiness.
“He hasn’t worked since he got out. She was in jail, too.” Allison turned to Sarah, “You didn’t tell your mom?”
Of course, she didn’t! Sarah didn’t tell me anything.
“Our house was under surveillance for months, then the FBI showed up. You didn’t tell your mom?” Allison repeated, “They stripped us. They put us on the floor. They stuck guns on our heads. They thought Jimmy was making meth in the basement.”
They didn’t find drugs. They never convicted Jimmy. But apparently, things had not improved.
“I can tell when he’s on drugs,” Allison said conclusively. “He’s mean. He and mom fight all the time.” She wanted her mother to kick out Jimmy and Maggie.
I examined Allison’s porcelain face. When we first met, she was too thin. She wore too much make-up. She never looked me in the eye. I didn’t like her, but eventually we grew close. She let me know whenever she read a book or got a good grade. We discussed school assignments and her various maladies. Allison’s colorless skin and fainting spells suggested anemia, but the family didn’t believe in doctors.
Leah curled into the pillows, consoled by the sensational stories of her friends. She never met her father, her last boyfriend abused her, an
d her best friend killed himself playing Russian roulette.
At sixteen, the girls appeared unfazed by the destruction around them. They ran back and forth across town, rich kids and poor, and the degree of damage was the same. In our old apartment, Sarah and I used to share a bedroom. She said, “Sleeping with my mother was ‘ghetto.’” For me, it was a way to keep her safe. I couldn’t keep her anymore.
* * *
“Sarah Breen’s mother?” the police officer asked.
“You’re kidding,” I said. It was after midnight.
Sarah’s last arrest (six months ago) was for loitering in a park past curfew. The police meted out four weeks of punishment. Saturday and Sunday, they had to scrub graffiti off walls their friends had put there in the first place. Every kid had been drinking except Sarah. They all got the same punishment, but after my reasoning with the police, they cut Sarah’s days in half. (That reduced her hard feelings from two years ago when she and her friends got busted for shoplifting at Great America, and I forced her into community service).
This past summer, things improved. Communication was open again. As I defined the rules, Sarah increasingly complied. The new school year had started well. She had committed herself to good study habits and participation in family activities. The police call was a blow.
“Does your daughter know Michelle Samuels?” the officer asked. “Michelle left her parents a suicide note, promising to kill herself by four o’clock this afternoon.”
Alarm was replaced by faint amusement. Michelle’s family made weekly calls to the police. Her father, an orthopedic surgeon, called me, too, usually to report that our girls were consorting with gangs. Or that Sarah had been dropped at his house by a dark boy in a late model car. “Who can afford a new car except a drug dealer?” he asked me.
My Life in Clothes Page 8
