Afraid of what the “Supermax” styling device might mean for my already jacked-up hair, I used the provided shower cap and enjoyed a decent shower minus a hit off the bottle of Body on Tap. I began to wonder how in the hell I could create the same look I had arrived with yesterday. The best approach, I calculated, was to double the normal amount of every item in the case. It was a recipe for a potent cocktail: Half a can of Miss Breck, six dollops of Cover Girl Clean Makeup, twelve puffs of Coty Airspun Powder, seven strokes of Maybelline Ultra Frost blue eye shadow, seventeen dashes of Coty Nature’s Blush, three fingerfuls of Yardley Pot o’Gloss Super Tinted Lip Gloss and eleven tip-touches of Charlie perfume.
Next, I swished the golden Listerine and filled a small Dixie cup from the dispenser on the wall with water and downed four Bufferin. Checking my look in the mirror, I teased my hair, resprayed it with Miss B and then topped the entire package off with a slather of the Kissing Potion lip gloss. Though it definitely wasn’t good, it wasn’t too bad either.
Returning to the bedroom, I looked through the suitcase for something to wear. First, I pulled out a pointy-cup bra with several extra straps. I think it was supposed to be sexy, but to me it was just confusing and borderline dangerous. Next I found a jade-green nylon pantsuit. Slipping it on, I admired the drawstring neckline, the generous elastic waistband with a tie belt and the flared pants. The best part was that there were no snaps on my crotch. My crotch had been set free.
It was a breezy look. Very breezy. I opted not to tuck the flowing top into the pants—there seemed to be an option—and then completed the look by tying the cord on both the blouse and the pants. I guessed I could pull these in case of emergency and all my clothes would suddenly come off. This could be helpful if I caught on fire, a definite possibility given the silk-like Qiana nylon fabric advertised on the tag, apparently not a natural fiber.
Dipping back into the case, I pulled out golden-heeled t-strap sandals, the least offensive item I’d discovered thus far and something that could almost be stylish back in 2014. Almost. Balled up in the toe of each shoe was something altogether different, a pair of knee highs. The shade was smoky, giving my foot and lower leg an almost charred effect. I think I could’ve gotten away with parking in a handicapped spot with these on— that is, if there were handicapped parking spots in 1978.
Wait! Where is that notebook? I bolted across the room to the far window where my brown blazer was flung across a powder-blue wicker chair painted the same color as the walls. If not for the pink paisley cushion you wouldn’t have even known it was there. I wondered if it too had been peed on. Digging into one of the pockets, I was relieved to find the notebook and pen.
Turning to the next open page I wrote, “When did handicapped parking spots start? What is Qiana? Isn’t it an ancient grain? Do they still make it? Can you still buy knee highs? Can you put Dippity-do on dry hair?”
Flipping back, I realized my most recent entry was from last night, after everyone had freaked out about that guy’s miniature tape recorder. Sitting down carefully on the chair, I didn’t want to ruin my breezy look, I wrote, “Facebook: Professor Plum and Mr. Golden Sausage. Can you still call for the time and date?” Then I skipped a few lines and scribbled, “SHOULD I STOP DRINKING?”
Closing the notebook, I sat back in the chair and reflected just long enough to know this wasn’t the time, or the place, to rethink or overthink anything. To be fair, there may never be a right time. But if I was a betting woman, and I wasn’t, and I was, this would all spill out late one evening on Julia’s couch. I would have told myself, on the twelve-hour plane ride across the Atlantic, that I wasn’t going to tell her, and then later one night, when all the talking was done, and I was going to bed, because it was midnight, I would “just mention it”… for two hours. She would listen patiently and dissect each bit of it with me, carefully and methodically and yes, the best part is it would be done lovingly.
I should send her a card, or a million bucks, or my left arm.
Back in the case, I found the jewelry that was apparently meant to compliment my wrinkle-free extravaganza, a jade green and gold necklace and bracelet.
I looked as if I was ready to whip up a Swanson’s Hungry-Man Salisbury Steak TV dinner, rush off to a sale at Kmart or be ready for date night down at the Steak and Ale. It was a look that transcended the time of day, the time of year and the time of the month. This flexibility worked well for me, because I had no idea where the final eight hours of my delusion would lead me.
Chapter Eighteen
MR. AND MRS. COFFEE
Descending the stairs, I stopped briefly on the second floor. The mess from yesterday’s epic Gong Show performance was still scattered across the room. Tambourines lay silent on the bumper pool table, polyester outfits flung across the old couch, the record player, lid up, still plugged-in on the far wall.
I took a moment to look out the window facing the front of the house. The November sun was now blasting through every crevice of the neighborhood, a fresh dew still blanketing every visible surface. As much as everything on this journey had seemed draped in a surreal haze, this, nature, was spot on.
It was then I noticed the rattan roll-up shade, hanging solidly at the top of the antique window frame. It had threads of green, gold and brown woven in among flexible wooden slats. The construction was illogical. Even when fully unfurled, there would have been numerous gaps for the light to peek through. Despite how fashionable it looked, it would never achieve its functional intent of keeping sun out of the room. I guessed it was all about being pleasing to the eye rather than providing actual coverage. It was a lot like the macramé tube top I had seen in my suitcase, only the glaring sun wouldn’t be near as offensive as my boobs oozing out of the elastic.
Down the next half-flight of stairs and then another, I landed back in the entryway and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. Mom was stationed at the stove, her back turned to me. As I came across the room, she managed a weak, “Good morning.”
Dad was sitting directly in front of her at the breakfast room table with the Houston Post spread out in front of him. “Well good morning, cousin!” he said. “Let me get you a cup of coffee!” He literally leapt out of his chair, past Mom and toward the Mr. Coffee machine on the red countertop next to the harvest-gold refrigerator.
Opening one of the dark-wood cabinets, he pulled out a floral mug and filled it with the nectar of what looked to be, according to the open can sitting nearby, Sanka. He didn’t ask if I wanted cream or sugar, but instead brought the cup directly to me, presenting it like the Jewel of the Nile.
“Thanks very much,” I said.
Behind him, Mom had turned from the stove and was glaring directly into his back. “No, Dick,” she almost whispered, but didn’t, “I don’t need anything. I’m fine …” Turning back to the pan, she worked the eggs over almost violently. As I followed Dad back through to the breakfast room, I was smart enough not to ask Mom if she needed my help. First, she didn’t really want my help to start with, I got that, and had this been my kitchen, I would have felt the same way. Secondly, she would have been even more pissed than she already was if someone spoke to her directly. And that would have been the case even if I was just trying to be courteous.
This was a time for silence. Well, almost.
“He’s never, in fourteen damn years of marriage, made coffee for anybody …” I could hear her mumble from behind me. It was a departure from her earlier guardedness. She was either more comfortable with me being in the house, or she had stopped caring what I thought. “He may have made it for his parents, but never for me, or anyone else. Fool. Fool. Fool. I married a fool.”
Though it was awkward, standing next to my beaming dad while in front of my pissed-off mom, all of us magically the same age, all of us in man-made fabrics—I got where she was coming from. Men act differently in front of “other” people than they do in front of the “regular” crowd. They do stuff, by virtue of having a penis, I
guess, that can surprise you, or enrage you, or make you so happy you don’t think you can even go on. It’s a good thing that people with a vagina are so consistent, so much so that the regulars in one’s life can count on them as a beacon of light—providing an even, metered and calming presence, never wavering from one situation to the next. Yeah, men sucked. Totally.
I could see Kim and Rick from around the corner in the laundry room. She was “teaching” him how to spell with colorful magnetic letters attached to the front of the washing machine. Kim was authoritative, mesmerizing a dutiful Rick as he sat cross-legged, wearing a white plastic helmet with green plastic goggles. She banged on about which letters were vowels and that one day he’d be able to spell complex words like “cheese” and “marker.” She explained that this, his future in academia, would have been easier to illustrate had she been provided with more than one plastic letter E in her teaching kit. She was a genius.
Amy, who was apparently beyond Kim’s educational reach, was talking to herself on the back porch. Sitting on one of the many benches, she was having a pretend conversation that required a certain amount of physical activity. Every once in a while, she would jump up and make a hand or leg flourish. As far as I could tell, she couldn’t even manage to respect imaginary people’s personal space, getting all up in their business even in pretend. Finally, after literally dashing around the entire deck three or four times, like a chicken wing had been attached to a string and she was trying to catch it, she rushed down the steps closest to the driveway. Thankfully, she was temporarily out of sight. I had no words.
Did she think that nobody was watching and was simply letting her imagination run wild? I could have lived with that. Or, instead, I wondered if she had seen Dad and me watching through the French doors in the breakfast room and amped up her performance accordingly, making it seem “natural” even though it wasn’t. The thought alarmed me, and fascinated me, and if I was going to be honest—which I wouldn’t in public but apparently would in a book I wanted everyone to read—I knew it said a lot about who I was. It was who I was.
Breakfast was ready. Dad did his part to get the kids reassembled as Mom delivered the food to the table. She was wearing what can only be called a coat of many colors, harkening either a Bible story or a Dolly Parton song. It was a zip-up velour housecoat or robe, richly adorned with jewel tones running in a dramatic north-to-south pattern. Each color was separated by a black divider, adding boldness to morning time.
Dad had on a maroon-and-blue velour robe, covering what I knew were the shorty button-up, collared pajamas he always wore. As far as I knew, he still wore the exact same outfit back in the future. I will say—in complete confidence—that his legs were far different than the ones he sported in 2014. He had manly legs here, young manly legs. They were impressive and attractive. Funny how I had never noticed that my dad was an attractive guy, a man that other people, girl people, would have thought was handsome.
Much to my surprise and delight—begging the question of why I kept being surprised and delighted by what was only normal, everyday stuff—everybody sat down in their traditional places around the family table. This was the site of virtually every meal, the highlight being the dinners we shared almost every evening after Dad got home from work. My little family in the future rarely ate at the table. We tried to, but we couldn’t seem to all be on the same page timing-wise, and when we did, we usually gathered in front of the television. I knew this was probably a huge parental error, but in all honesty, it was me who liked eating in front of the TV more than my husband or even our boys did.
The table was antique, dark oak, with lion’s feet. Overhead was a giant ceiling fan that most certainly didn’t come from the Home Depot, Lowe’s or Wayfair.com. No, this rare beauty had been yanked out of an old bank somewhere and had huge gum-drop-shaped shade that was decorated with strands of iridescent glass pearls. The tan wallpaper had baskets brimming with fruits of the harvest and bouquets of fall flowers.
Facing the back porch, the left wall was reserved for the family trophy case, a heavy piece with glass shelves and brass, cage-like accents. This tribute to family excellence sat directly across the room from a built-in desk featuring a gleaming, yellow push-button phone, hardwired into the wall. Above the desk were built-in bookshelves with everything from popsicle-stick picture frames to a small glass Coke bottle covered in eggshells sprayed with gold paint. That objet d’art was my creation. I knew if I flipped it over, careful not to disturb the questionably sanitary egg flakes, I would find my crudely written name on the bottom. I had made it in the second grade.
I remembered how, when I brought it home, Mom had said she was so proud of it. I had carefully wrapped it in a paper towel and put it in my blue-plaid satchel, riding my bike home with special care. I had beamed with pride as Mom admired it, saying all the right things, placing it in a prominent place on the shelf. It was impossible not to connect with both my mom’s place in this memory and that of the little girl I had once been, and figuratively and actually—in this impossible scheme—still was. I understood the pride and often unsaid deep love and appreciation felt on both sides of the equation. Why was it that I couldn’t stay permanently connected to that part of the story, the warm, yummy part? I definitely was hooked in to the good stuff sometimes, while at other times I absolutely was not. Was it even a choice?
We always sat in the same places: Dad at the head of the table, facing the doors to the deck; Rick and Mom to his right, in front of the desk; Kim directly across from him, facing the kitchen; and then I—in my truncated form—to his left, in front of the trophies.
Since the table was oval, the only available spot for the adult me was next to my former self, Little Amy. As expected, she was nothing short of ecstatic with the seating arrangements. I’m not going to lie, at this point I didn’t mind sitting next to her, as I had begun to notice that she may have been—despite the hyperness and bug eyes—the one of the five I felt the most comfortable with.
Bowing our heads, we chanted together, “God is good, God is great, let us thank Him for our food.” I didn’t know if anyone had picked up on how well I remembered that part of the ritual, but if they did, they probably just assumed that this was the prayer that all of suburbia repeated before launching into their peas garnished with cubes of cheddar cheese or hamburger patties smothered in cream of mushroom soup.
The dinner plates mirrored the wallpaper in a way I hadn’t noticed heretofore—browns, greens and golds used in yet another flowery harvest theme. The glasses, juice-sized and being used for their actual purpose, were gold and decorated, again, with flowers and vines. And what did we stay hydrated with the day after Thanksgiving, secretly hungover, desperately needing to push the liquids? TANG, of course.
Though the food was plentiful, there wasn’t enough to go around for seconds, which struck me as odd, because portion sizes where I came from dictated enough for, at minimum, one more heaping helping. Perhaps this was why my thighs seemed less flabby, and my middle less generous and tire-like.
Looking around the table while lifting forkfuls of the hard-scrambled eggs—Mom didn’t make fluffy eggs like her mother, Granny, did—I watched as Dad tried to direct the conversation to mature topics. “Now, kids,” he said, “can each of you tell us something interesting that’s happening at school?”
“Well,” Amy said with a twinkle in her eye, “somebody had an accident, in their blue-plastic chair, when we were watching a filmstrip about the nine planets … and it leaked all over the floor!”
“Amy!” Dad said. “That’s not an appropriate topic for the table.”
Despite his rebuff, the story had its intended effect on Kim and Rick, who were now giggling while they pretended like they were eating their toast. This pleased Amy greatly; she was literally shaking with delight.
This was precisely the kind of mealtime shenanigans I remembered. Dad normally appreciated our ridiculous behavior, or at least put up with it, but this, the family meal
, was different. It was sacred ground, used, apparently, for maturity training. But he was dealing with some characters here, people who would grow into forty-something-year-olds who would still laugh, out loud, when someone said tallywacker, or God forbid, penis.
Dad’s technique to shut down what was escalating into a frenzy was fascinating—he simply relegated control of the floor to Kim, knowing that we would all listen to her, each for our own reasons, or pay the price. This pleased the younger version of her as much, or more, than last night’s touchdown run had delighted both versions of me.
After Kim regaled us with her knowledge on the subject of cursive writing and the TV show Eight is Enough, the conversation turned to what we might do during the remaining hours of my visit. In my mom’s mind I’m sure it was a matter of, “Holy crap, what are we going to do with this freaking lady for the next eight hours?” While to my dad it would be more like, “Oh crap, we only have eight hours remaining with her …”
“Why don’t we take cousin Amy to the brand-new Greens-point Mall,” Dad said.
“The MALL!” Kim screeched. “We can go to the MALL?”
Though this was part of Kim’s dream sequence, I knew that the mall, especially the day after Thanksgiving, even in 1978, wasn’t Mom’s idea of a wonderful day out. I assumed she agreed simply because it meant we didn’t have to sit here and look at each other for the rest of the day. She had a point, really.
With a plan in place, everyone was sent forth to drape themselves in their finery, that is except for Mom, because somebody had to clean all this mess up. Since I was already decked out in my man-made fabrics, I stayed behind to help. The good news was, her angst toward me, the guest, had seemed to dissipate. We had semi-bonded last night, at least the parts that people could or would want to remember.
You Cannot Mess This Up Page 18
