by Karen Karbo
“Oh, great.” Mouse knew this would happen. Mimi and her mouth.
“I had to tell her. She’d think it was weird if I was making potato salad Saturday morning.”
“You don’t think Tony will? This is great.”
“He’s a guy,” said Mimi.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” said Carole.
“’Morning, ladies.” Tony was going golfing with Auntie Barb. He was wearing madras slacks and yellow socks. He sat at the kitchen table and put on his shoes. “What’s on today’s agenda?”
“Shopping,” said Mouse. “Bride business, nothing you’d be interested in.”
“We’re going lingerie shopping,” giggled Mimi. She turned from the sink, potato peeler still in hand, and struck a cover girl pose, arching her foot, plumping her hair. Mouse noticed she wore athletic shoes and sweatsocks. She looked like she was dressed for something more rigorous than trying on garter belts.
“Then we thought we’d go for a hike or something,” said Mouse. She stood behind Tony, massaged his shoulders. She tried to conjure up a facial expression that would say to Mimi, “Look at how you’re dressed! He’ll know something’s up, even if he’s a guy. Just go along with this!” Of course, no facial expression can say this.
“A hike?” said Mimi. “When?”
“Now that sounds my speed. Perhaps when I’m back from golf.”
“We can’t believe you’re playing golf with the Wicked Witch of the Northwest,” said Mimi.
“She’s not so bad, bit crusty perhaps. Got a nice swing.” He stood, smoothed down the legs of his pants. “I like those – what are they – everything’s connected.” He ran his forefingers along one of Mouse’s sides, then kissed her on the temple. “Get one of those.”
“Merry Widows,” said Carole.
Mouse stared at the chair legs. Inability to make eye contact is the universal sign of lying, she thought. Look at him! She couldn’t. She radiated guilt like heat from an electric blanket on high.
SINS WAS IN Brentwood. Like most shops in Los Angeles, no one would miss it should it go out of business or collapse in an earthquake. Mouse marveled at this. Laundromats closed their doors. Hardware stores, gas stations, shoe repair shops disappeared, even in the short time she had been back. What stayed were places that sold only belts, or fancy wine and cheese. Mouse despaired that this was beginning to seem normal.
Ivan and Eliot were already there when Mouse and Mimi arrived. Ivan twirled his thin ponytail with his forefinger as he wandered from one end of the store to the other. Eliot crouched in a corner, hands buried in a black changing bag. He was loading the camera magazine with film. “Here we are in the trenches,” he said gaily when he saw Mouse walk in.
“Hmm,” said Mouse. She still held the pole against him.
Sins was long and narrow. A basketball player could stand in the middle and touch both walls. There was deep, white wool carpeting, a white marble counter, gold fixtures. White silk robes and satin slippers awaited each customer in her dressing room. Mouse could count the few gowns and teddies on display on delicate gold hangers. Everything else was secreted away. Champagne and paper-thin imported cookies stood on a small marble table, waiting to satisfy appetites whipped up by shimmying, tugging, snapping, unsnapping, and choosing.
Sins was the most promising of the four locations Ivan and Mouse had scouted. It was chosen, by mutual consent, because of its name, outrageous prices, operating room coziness, and, according to Mimi, because it stocked all the hot designer underwear. Movie stars shopped there, as well as middle-class brides spending beyond their means. Personally, Mouse didn’t care where they shot: she could get a bra and a pair of panties at Sears. What did concern her was that Dani Lynx, the overly effusive owner of Sins, was charging them a hefty hourly rate to shoot on her premises. Mouse had never paid for a location in her life. Ivan said in Los Angeles everyone pays for everything.
“Isn’t this great?” said Mimi, inhaling deeply. She felt like a confirmed city-dweller who’d escaped to the country for the day. She pulled out the camera she brought for production stills. These giants of documentary filmmaking hadn’t even thought of that. “I love film. What’s that saying in that Truffaut film? ‘I’d give up a man for a movie but I’d never give up a movie for a man.’ That’s pretty much how I feel.”
“What’s that?” Mouse asked, horrified by the sight of Mimi’s camera.
“Production stills,” said Mimi. “Say cheeseburger.”
“We don’t need production stills,” said Mouse. “This isn’t the yearbook.” She could just imagine a packet of photos accidentally left by Mimi for Tony to find.
“Stills are useful in marketing,” said Ivan.
“I know,” said Mouse. “I know, it’s just –”
“You’re nervous,” said Mimi. “It’s okay. All brides are nervous. You should have seen how –”
“– I am not nervous.”
Ivan introduced Dani, an aging blond with a fierce dark mustache waxed to an inch of a serious dermatological condition. Mouse was beginning to recognize a man-made nose: Dani’s was small and elegant, but her nostrils were mismatched. One was perfectly round, the other oval.
“So this is it?” asked Dani. She watched while Eliot heaved the camera onto his shoulder.
“Checking focus,” said Eliot. He peered through the viewfinder.
There were no lights, only a small fill mounted on top of the camera, powered by a battery belt worn ammunition-belt style around Eliot’s wide middle. People like Dani were always disappointed with the jerry-built quality of documentary film production. They expected the glamour of gigantic semitrucks rumbling outside, director’s chairs, tables groaning with food for an army-size crew.
Mouse drifted over to a rack displaying an unidentifiable item in black lace that looked as though it’d be tight on a flagpole.
“That’s our French stretch-lace body stocking, honey. Nylon mesh, with a nice cotton-lined open panel. Madonna has one in every color. You will probably want one in white. Brides always want white.”
“An open panel?” Mouse imagined experts discussing politics on television.
“It means it’s crotchless,” said Mimi. “She lived in Africa for sixteen years,” she added by way of explanation.
“Oh!” said Dani, alarmed.
“I knew what it meant,” said Mouse.
“They have a lot of crotchless French-lace body stockings in Nairobi, huh?” Mimi winked at Dani.
“You didn’t know?” said Mouse. “The Kikuyu invented them.”
“All right, ladies,” said Ivan. “I would like to explain how I work. I will not interfere, except to ask a few questions of the bride. You are to forget that I am here. It will be awkward at first. Don’t let that bother you. You will get used to it. Anyone can get used to anything.”
He knelt down on one knee on the white carpet, slid the thick raggedy strap of the Nagra on his shoulder, clipped the headphones onto his ears, fiddled with a few knobs on the recorder, checking levels. Mouse, Mimi, and Dani were wired with small cordless mikes clipped inside their shirts.
Mouse had worked with cordless mikes only once before. People forgot they were wearing them. The camera could be off, but the sound was still rolling. The subject of the movie she’d worked on had been a beer drinker with a bladder the size of a pistachio. They had hundreds of feet of audiotape of him in the WC.
Sins was meat-locker cold. The air conditioning purred even in January. Mouse watched Ivan with the tape recorder, struck with a kind of vertigo.
Ivan. All the times she’d imagined him doing this or something like it. Statistics could be compiled. Over the last sixteen years, X number of hours spent sleeping, X eating, X spent imagining making a movie with Ivan. They’d done their small 8mm movies together. She had never expected to see him again. Now here it was, something big. Or bigger. A form of dream come true. There should be satisfaction. She had imagined this with Ivan, but had done it with Tony.
She watched while Ivan knelt down, flipped on the recorder, checked the levels. It was simple, as ordinary as the stroke of a shoulder before a kiss. The Nagra weighed forty pounds. Lifting it required care. Backs were thrown out, shoulders dislocated. Ivan slipped on the strap, stood up. Mouse had watched Tony do this a million times. Tony, in baggy khaki shorts, the machinery working inside his knobby freckled knees, as he stood. Where was Tony? What had happened to Stanley? Who was living in their concrete house in Nairobi? She rolled her lips inside her mouth and bit them, hard. She could not afford a bout of nostalgia.
“I want something plain, thirty-two C, beige,” she said.
“Buff,” said Dani. “Are you sure you don’t want white? It’s been my experience that a bride likes to be white inside and out.”
“Buff,” said Mouse.
“She’s practical,” said Mimi.
“Let’s go,” said Ivan. He was too cool to say action. Eliot eased around on the heels of his flip-flops. He filmed a few feet of Ivan, the hoop box taped to the strap of the Nagra. The hoop box flashed a red dot of light and laid down a melodic “hoop” on the sound track. It was the electronic equivalent of a slate.
Dani disappeared in the back, falling twice off her sling-back pumps into the deep carpet. Even though she was not impressed by the production, she was nervous, acting like a saleswoman playing a saleswoman.
“That’s not all you’re going to get, is it?” said Mimi, a hysterical edge to her voice. “What about a body brief? You’ve got to have something sexy, you know, for your wedding night.”
“We’ve lived together for four years,” said Mouse.
“It’s your wedding night,” said Mimi.
“Do you wish you hadn’t lived together?” asked Ivan.
“No, why would I wish that?”
Ivan was silent. The camera whirred. She thought she saw Eliot smirk beneath his mustache.
Dani returned with a dozen buff bras. She lined them up, a row of satiny beige sea anemones marching down the gleaming counter two by two. Mouse held one up by the straps. She was surprised to find she wasn’t embarrassed; she had no problem pretending this was not underwear. It bothered her that Ivan also seemed to have no problem pretending this was not underwear. He stood with his arms crossed, the headphones down around his neck.
“This one’s good,” she said. She reached inside her purse for her wallet.
“You’ve got to try it on,” said Mimi. “I can’t believe you’re not going to try it on.”
“Maybe you’d like to go with more décolletage. This one has a little padding, a front closure.”
“I don’t need any padding.”
“What about a Merry Widow? Tony, the groom, wants –”
“Has your fiancé asked you to get something special?” asked Ivan.
“I have a saucy little Merry Widow in point d’esprit stretch lace with detachable garters. I think it’ll suit you, honey.”
Mouse tried not to roll her eyes.
“Why are you rolling your eyes?”
“Ivan, this is ridiculous.
“Shopping for things for your wedding or –”
“– it comes in aubergine, champagne, and ebony –”
“– the questions! I thought we talked about this. Just let the camera roll, for God’s sake.”
“The camera is rolling. As co-producer you should be concerned that we’re wasting film.”
“Listen,” said Eliot, “if ya don’t mind me putting in my two cents. We’re tryin to establish your character through your reactions to the intimate apparel, okay? They’re like visual correlatives for the way you think of marriage. It also says a lot about the virgin/whore duality in contemporary relationships.”
“What?”
“That’s what I was going to suggest,” said Mimi, smiling at Eliot. She waved a hanger with a few strands of red and black lace floating from its arms. “Come on, Mouse. It’s your wedding. Be daring. I’ll try on one, too. Ivan loved the one I had for our wedding. Remember, you –”
“CUT!” said Mouse.
“Tulip-shaped cups, also slightly padded. Did I tell you it came in ecru, too?” said Dani.
“Don’t cut it,” said Ivan.
“I think it might be confusing for the audience to have Mimi addressing you offscreen,” said Mouse.
“I used to be married to that one,” said Mimi, flapping her hand at Ivan. “It was the mistake of my life, but we did go to the Virgin Islands Club Med for our honeymoon.”
“Does your sister’s failed marriage make you nervous?” asked Ivan, calmly pressing on.
“If you want to go with a body brief instead, I do have something with a little underwire support and a high-cut bottom. It’s a nice floral stretch lace that goes under anything. Some women prefer a body brief if they’re going to go with thigh-high stockings.”
“You can see why I divorced him,” said Mimi. “I’d like the tulip Merry Widow. In red.”
Mouse knew if Ivan had his way the camera would follow them right into the dressing room. This was out of the question. This documentary was about a wedding, not the tyranny of lingerie. Mouse and Mimi both agreed that there was nothing to be gained by showing Mouse hobbling around nude and knock-kneed, boobs flapping mightily, trying to tug the body brief up over her hips without ripping it. Sound was one thing. Mouse and Mimi would be happy to remove their tiny cordless mikes from their shirts and reclip them on a lacy strap. But the camera, no.
Ivan was left standing in the hallway, the camera trained on the closed dressing room door, listening. Dani stood behind him, wringing her hands.
Although she would never admit it, Mouse had never understood lingerie. Naturally, The Pink Fiend had accused her of being a freak. Women were supposed to love lingerie, even though it cost a small fortune, made you feel self-conscious, was generally uncomfortable, and never looked as alluring on you as it did on an airbrushed model, which, in turn, made you more self-conscious and, ultimately, miserable. At least this is what Mouse had deduced. Most of the time she never wore underwear. When she did, she went in for standard white cotton. She wore bras you could buy in a box at the drugstore.
Mouse stood in front of the mirror, modeling a black stretch-lace body brief, her hands on her hips. In the center was a diamond-shaped sheer mesh insert. The cups were also sheer, adroitly trimmed with more black lace to hide the main attractions. The legs were cut high, setting off the hollow sides of Mouse’s thin haunches, still tan from a stint of nude sunbathing in Malindi. She fussed with her hair, ran her hands down her stomach and over her hips. Yes, it cost a fortune, but, Mouse thought, I have a fortune. She jutted out her hip experimentally. “This is ridiculous,” she said.
“Do you need another color or size?” asked Dani though the door.
“What is ridiculous?” asked Ivan.
“She looks incredible,” said Mimi. She stood behind Mouse in her red Merry Widow, staring at Mouse.
“Really?” said Mouse.
“You have just the bod for this kind of stuff. I’m thin, but wide.” She turned sideways and sucked in her stomach. “I’m just too feminine for this time in history. I should have been born when Renoir was around. Plus, I have all these moles. I used to think they were freckles.”
“Does it offend your feminist sensibility?” asked Ivan. “Do you feel as though you are a turkey dressed for Thanksgiving? A calf fatted for the slaughter?”
“All of those,” said Mouse, rolling her eyes at Mimi.
“I told you he was nuts,” Mimi whispered.
“Speak up, girls. Even though you’re miked you need to speak up,” said Ivan.
“She said you were nuts,” said Mouse.
Mimi pinched her arm. Silence from the other side of the door. Mimi and Mouse giggled into their hands.
They tried on everything the obsequious Dani brought them. Bustiers and fluted tap pants and lace camibras, silk gowns and satin teddies. They wore their little slippers and asked for a tray of
champagne and cookies.
Mouse tried on the saucy little aubergine spandex Merry Widow with string bikini and stretch stockings. “I look like a whore,” said Mouse, not unhappily.
“Of course you look like a whore. That’s the whole point. I wish I looked like a whore. I look like one of those saloon girls from the Wild West. All I need is a hat with a big feather in it.”
Mouse wondered how she ever got the impression these things were uncomfortable. Everything was soft and stretchy and smelled rich. She looked at her stained and faded jeans abandoned on the chintz-covered Hepplewhite chair in the corner and thought they should be picked up with a large set of tongs and taken immediately out to the dumpster in the alley. Suddenly she felt foolish. The concept of lingerie was against everything she believed in, yet here she was enjoying herself.
On impulse she threw open the dressing room door. “Why not?” she thought, momentarily forgetting that showing Tony footage of her traipsing around in a saucy aubergine Merry Widow and string bikini in front of Ivan’s camera was not likely to win him over to the cause.
Mimi clamped her arms over herself. “What are you doing?” she shrieked.
“What the well-dressed bride is wearing this year,” said Mouse. She glided up and down the short hallway that led from the dressing rooms, elbow crooked, palm up, hips swinging. “Here we have Mouse FitzHenry modeling a delightful Merry Widow by…” She lifted up her arm to look at the label.
“Giuseppe of Firenze,” said Dani Lynx. “It looks fabulous.”
“Giuseppe of Firenze. Notice the delicate panel of French lace and the delicate underwire…”
“Hubba-hubba.” Eliot chewed on his mustache, training the camera on Mouse as though he was covering an event of world significance.
“Well,” Mouse said, stopping before Ivan. “Whaddya think?”
“CUT,” he said.
“What are you doing? I thought you wanted to film in the dressing room –”
“– I ask the questions,” he said. “You do not address me. I am not here.”
“I thought I was the co-producer.”
“When you are on-camera, you are the subject.”
