The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  They both sniffled a bit; then Dottie asked, “What’ve you been up to?”

  “I’m teaching at the Museum of Modern Art here.”

  Dottie raised her eyebrows. “I could never do that. Kids or adults?”

  “Both.”

  “Are you still doing art? Do you have gallery representation?”

  “Yes, Gallery Noir. I had a solo show there a while ago.”

  “I wish I’d been there.” Dottie paused. “I miss you. Will you come visit soon? I’ll pay your way.”

  Anne thought of all the times she’d been in New York with Sergio and tempted to call Dottie, but her feelings had been too hurt.

  “This isn’t the best time for me to travel.” She raised her shirt and moved the phone to show Dottie her belly.

  “What, what are you showing me?”

  “I’m going to have a baby girl.”

  “You’re preggers? Did you get married without me?”

  “Not married.”

  “Who’s the father?”

  “Sergio. Remember him? I met him at your art show.”

  “I know him. Just saw him the other night.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “At a gallery opening.”

  “Did you talk to him?” Anne asked.

  “No, he was with some woman.”

  Anne felt a twinge in her chest. Ridiculous. She had no right to be angry or jealous.

  “What did she look like?”

  Dottie hesitated. “Gorgeous. She had a great body and short, dark hair. But not as gorgeous as you.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m so gorgeous.” Anne moved the phone to her stomach again.

  “I’m sure she’s just a friend. When are you due?”

  “Mid-January.”

  “Are you moving home to your mom?”

  “No!”

  “How are you going to do it alone? Why don’t I come help you take care of her? I’ve been thinking of moving anyway.”

  “You have? That would be fantastic.” Anne wasn’t sure that was such a good idea.

  “Yes, we could be roomies again.”

  Maybe that was the answer to the day care conundrum. Dottie could move in and help with the baby. They could get an apartment together, just like old times.

  41

  Still working on the patio seven weeks into the residency, the longest seven weeks of her life, Anne patted the stag on the head. “Morning, Freddy. I hope you had a good night’s rest.”

  She lifted the tarps off her art supplies, but fog had seeped into everything. At first, she’d tried to carry the materials inside and out after each session, but it required too much energy. She had needed five staff members to help her carry Freddy out here.

  Karl hadn’t arrived yet. This was no surprise. Often he was late, and some days he didn’t show up at all. At least she could get started in peace—or what passed as peace, given her location. Traffic whizzed by, and a helicopter flew overhead. She huddled in her oversize sweater and sweatpants and began mixing thinset. At least the weather would keep it moist, and there was a power source out here. So much for the stress-free life Lori had recommended.

  The project wasn’t as far along as she had thought it would be. No museum guests had found their way to the patio, let alone participated in the artmaking. On the two days it had stormed, she hadn’t been able to work outside at all.

  Her Saturday kiddos met her here for their class. She posted the rules and consequences and warned them that on the second consequence, they wouldn’t get to participate in the project at all.

  She had the students line up on the ground. The twins took turns breaking dishes and tiles in paper bags and dumped the shards into boxes. That kept them out of trouble. Penny, as her assistant, carried the boxes to each student as they picked a piece. One at a time, each child spread thinset with a spatula, like icing a cupcake, on their piece and adhered it to the dear deer.

  She had the smaller kids place their pieces on Freddy’s hooves and the taller ones, on the head. They did a pretty good job, but when they were finished, she sometimes had to take off one or two, lather them up again, and stick them back on to make sure they’d stay.

  Alone now, she’d better do the underside while she still could get down on the concrete. She slithered as best she could under the deer, slathered thinset on a piece of broken tile, and stuck it underneath. She knew all spaces should be covered in a professional manner, even if they weren’t visible. She’d saved the six-point antlers for last. It would be tedious work because they’d need such small pieces.

  The music cranked up from inside, and the chain saw too. Darn it all. She hadn’t closed the sliding door. She put on a few more pieces, until she couldn’t take it anymore and rolled out from under the deer. Getting up off the ground was hard, so she crawled to the door, reached up, closed it, and returned to the deer.

  A few minutes later, the door opened.

  “Anne, what are you doing out here?” Mr. Willingsby bent down to see her.

  She scooted out and tried to stand.

  “Here, let me help you.” He reached for her.

  She put out her right hand, covered in thinset, gave him her left hand, and let him guide her up.

  “It’s too noisy in there, and sawdust gets stuck in everything.”

  She gestured through the sliding glass door at Karl going at it inside.

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to be the one outside?”

  She shrugged and resisted the urge to complain. In the glass door, her frizzy hair resembled a tumbleweed and she wished she had on something more presentable, but none of her clothes were comfortable anymore.

  “I’ve been out of town. How long has this been going on?” Mr. Willingsby asked.

  “Seven weeks, since the start.”

  He sighed. “Let me see what you’re working on.”

  “This is Freddy.” She patted the stag’s head.

  Mr. Willingsby imitated her enthusiastically. “Hi, Freddy. I suppose you’re named after Fredricka.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t even make that connection. I hope she’s not offended. She came by the other day, but she didn’t say anything.”

  “It’s perfect. I’m sure she’s flattered.”

  “Do you want to put some tesserae on him?” Anne asked.

  “What?”

  “Tesserae are pieces of a mosaic. It’s one of our young-artist vocabulary words.”

  “Sure.” He took the box of shards she handed him.

  “Pick one.”

  He chose a blue-and-white one. Anne buttered it with thinset, and he stuck it to Freddy’s back.

  “That sure felt good.” He put on a few more pieces.

  She gave him a Handi Wipe. He cleaned his hands and glanced again at Karl working in the studio.

  “You’re doing a great job, considering the circumstances.” Mr. Willingsby shook his head and left.

  A week later, Karl began being nicer to her. He made sure the patio door was closed before he revved up his chain saw, and he kept the music lower. One afternoon when rain was predicted, he even helped her tarp the deer and her art supplies. He hadn’t said anything, but maybe he’d noticed her baby bump and realized she was pregnant.

  A week later, he had skipped several days of work in a row. Not that Anne had missed his noisy presence, but she did start to worry. It was time to inform Priscilla about the baby anyway, so Anne wandered down to her office.

  How odd. Mr. Willingsby sat at Priscilla’s desk, studying the computer. The printer churned out pages.

  Anne knocked on the doorjamb. “Where’s Priscilla?”

  Mr. Willingsby looked up at Anne and waved her in. “Take a seat.”

  She slid into a chair.

  “Priscilla has taken a leave of absence.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is Karl okay? He hasn’t been in for a few days.”

  “I know.” Mr. Willingsby put his
fingers in a triangle under his chin.

  Anne waited for him to go on.

  “Is he sick?”

  “No.”

  “Did he take a vacation?”

  “Not really.” Mr. Willingsby shook his head.

  She didn’t want to sound nosy but couldn’t help herself. “Where is he, then?”

  “It’s a personnel matter that I can’t discuss.” Mr. Willingsby’s eyes returned to the computer screen.

  Anne sat back in the chair and stared at him.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “When will he return?”

  “Let’s just say you can move into the studio space now.”

  “Whoa!” She resisted the urge to do a fist pump. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to work outside all this time.”

  “It’s been rough.”

  “For the time being, you’ll report directly to me.”

  “I’m pregnant,” Anne blurted out.

  “I know.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I’ve known since the first day I met you at the interview.”

  “Don’t worry—the residency will be over before the baby comes.”

  “I’m not worried.” He had such a kind smile. “Let me know if you need help moving your things inside.”

  “Thanks.”

  Anne grabbed her backpack, hurried outside, and dialed Fay. “Oh my God. Something crazy is going on at the museum.”

  “What?”

  Anne relayed to Fay her conversation with Mr. Willingsby.

  “Blimey.”

  “You haven’t heard anything?” Anne asked.

  “Not yet. You know me, though—I’ll ask around and get the scoop.”

  “I have no doubt.” Anne couldn’t wait to find out what was happening.

  42

  Darn it all.” She tried to pull on her favorite sweats, but she couldn’t even get them up over her belly. A shift with a baggy sweater over it would have to do.

  Neither her sneakers nor her wingtips would go on over her swollen feet, either. They were bigger and uglier than ever. No way could she even get into her silver shoes. When Sergio saw her engorged feet, he’d really tease her about them. She decided to just get it over with, so she texted him a photo. She slid on flip-flops and studied her ensemble, if you could call it that, in the mirror. At least as an artist she could get away with dressing funkily for work, but this was absurd.

  On her computer, she scrolled in search of maternity clothes. There were so many cute styles. The boho floral top was to die for; she clicked through. Yowza—$300. She could probably wear it even after the baby was born. No, no. She needed to conserve her finances now more than ever.

  After work, even if she didn’t have much energy, she had to go thrifting. It would be a challenge to shop without being lured into buying a found object. Since she’d decided to keep the baby, she’d promised not to buy any more art materials. She needed to make way for her daughter in her life, physically and financially, and anything else for the museum, she had to pay for out of her own pocket.

  She climbed onto her daybed, picked up her journal, and composed an affirmation: I will not buy any more found objects.

  She crossed it out. She needed to write it in a positive way, without the word “not.” She tried again: I will choose not to pick up . . .

  No. She crossed that out also.

  I will keep my hands off found objects while in the thrift shop.

  She rewrote it on an index card, slipped it into her backpack, and raced off to work.

  She still hadn’t heard anything about what had happened to Priscilla and Karl. At this point, she didn’t care, because having the entire studio to produce in had been heavenly. Museum guests had been coming in and having fun adding pieces to Freddy, and he was getting covered all over.

  By the time work was over, her back and swollen feet hurt. She ordered a Lyft, removed her affirmation card, and read it silently, over and over.

  I will keep my hands off found objects while in the thrift shop.

  The Lyft dropped her off in front of her favorite thrift shop, Rescued Relics. Anne stepped inside and paused to get her bearings. Even though she hadn’t been there for ages, they still hadn’t fixed the blinking fluorescent lights.

  The shop was stuffed with toys, household goods, and clothes. It was the same store where she’d bought Sylvia’s black velvet coat. Was that only five years ago?

  How much Anne’s life had changed since then. Her art career had taken off, she’d been to Europe, she’d even fallen in love for real, and she felt more confident about herself. And now she was having a baby.

  The same clerk with the beehive hairdo sat behind the counter, working on an earring display and snapping her gum. “Hi, doll.”

  “Do you have maternity clothes?” Anne asked.

  The clerk eyed her. “Not separated. Try women’s large, or even the men’s.” She pointed toward the back of the shop.

  Even though Anne wasn’t going to get much, she grabbed a basket anyway and started down the aisle. She’d promised Sergio she wouldn’t buy anything used for the baby, but that knit hat shaped like a daisy with the yellow sweater to match was adorable. Anne tossed them both in the basket. She’d wash them several times, and Sergio would never know the difference.

  As she passed the knickknack shelf, she kept her eyes focused forward, repeating, I will keep my hands off found objects.

  Her peripheral vision caught a ceramic cowgirl, but Anne walked right by. See, she could obey her affirmation.

  In the back of the shop she flipped through the size XXL tops. An oriole orange one seemed big enough. She pulled it out and held it up to her in a mirror. The ghastly color clashed with her auburn hair. She laughed at a hideous black-and-white butterfly smock with pearls sewn on that reminded her of something Moira from the hilarious TV series Schitt’s Creek would wear. A humongous black velour top caught Anne’s eye. Black made you look smaller. She pulled off her sweater, took the velour from the hanger, and tried it on. She swam in it, but she’d be able to wear it for the rest of her pregnancy, and it would be cozy to do her art in forever.

  In men’s shirts, she picked out a few that would work for her: a chambray dress shirt, a Pendleton plaid, and even a floral Robert Graham, like the guy on Modern Family wore. The shirts were all plenty big. She could just roll up the sleeves. No need to try them on. She tossed them in the basket.

  She saved the worst for last. Solid black would be best. She found a pair of sweatpants with an elastic drawstring. That would be convenient.

  Pushing the basket past the knickknack shelf, she made it safely to the checkout counter and got in line behind three people ahead of her. Waiting her turn, she spun a hat rack display of scarves.

  “Well, I’ll be.” She reached for a green feather boa, the exact color of the corset. She threw it around her neck. How serendipitous. Would she ever get to wear that outfit again? It would take forever to lose her baby weight.

  The woman in front of her dumped coins from a paper bag onto the counter’s glass top. The beehived clerk helped count them into stacks and plunked the woman’s toaster into the sack.

  A baggie of watches under the counter caught Anne’s eye. The bag even had a red sale dot on it, which meant 50 percent off. She bent down to take a closer look. She loved to put watches in her mosaics. People didn’t wear watches much anymore; they just checked their cell phones. Maybe used watches would be easier to come by.

  “Would you like to take a look?” The clerk snapped her gum and slid the baggie onto the counter.

  “Thirty dollars is a bit high.” Anne leaned over and tried to see the watches.

  The clerk opened it for her and dumped the watches on a tray. “Go ahead and pick out the ones you want. We’ll make a deal.”

  “I’d better not.” I will keep my hands off found objects.

  “Come on. Choose at least one.”
>
  It wouldn’t hurt just to look. Anne riffled through the tray—sports, white rhinestone, some with broken bands, some that appeared brand-new.

  “No way.” She picked up one with a yellow Tweety bird on the face and pink numbers. This was too perfect. She would wear it when she drove her Karmann Ghia.

  “I’ll take this one.” Wishing she could have bought the whole kit and caboodle, she strapped the watch onto her wrist and piled the rest of her choices onto the counter.

  When she arrived back at her apartment, Mrs. Landenheim stepped into the foyer with the black-and-white kitty in her arms.

  Anne hid the bag behind her and stroked the kitten’s soft back. “You’ve sure grown since last time I saw you.” She didn’t want nosy Mrs. Landenheim going through her purchases. Since she wouldn’t let Anne have a dog, she certainly wouldn’t be happy about a baby living in the apartments.

  Even though it was early evening, Mrs. Landenheim still had her curlers in. “Isn’t Zorra the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  Sounded like a burlesque dancer. “Zorra?”

  “It’s feminine for Zorro.”

  “Clever.”

  Thai wound around Anne’s ankles and mewed loudly.

  “Okay, I’ll give you some love too.” Anne crouched carefully, almost tipped over, and patted the Siamese. Thai snarled and skittered away.

  “Did you hear Val’s moving?” Mrs. Landenheim asked.

  “No. I’m sorry.” Anne stood back up. She would miss his nightly warm-ups floating up to her from the apartment below before he left for his performance in Beach Blanket Babylon.

  “Don’t be. He got a part in a TV series.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “Crazy Ex-Boyfriend. He’s playing the boyfriend.”

  Anne hoped someone else artsy would move in. Maybe Dottie could rent it if she really did come out. But housing costs had increased so much, only a techie could probably afford to live here now. Maybe Mrs. Landenheim would give Dottie a break on the rent.

  “Ray Ray is taking me to Vegas for a few days soon.”

  “For an Elvis wedding?”

  “Maybe.” Mrs. Landenheim raised her eyebrows. “Would you feed the cats for me?”

  “Sure.” It would be good practice for a baby.