When We Were Friends

by Tina Seskis

  19

  Cleveland

  As Larry Johnson’s priest friend had sadly proved as uncharitable as everyone else, much to Renée’s disgust, and all other ideas as yet having come to nothing, Renée and Sissy still hadn’t found anywhere to live. This meant they had to keep forking out for the motel whilst trying to sell enough books to pay for it at the same time. It was depressing. Every day a heat haze seemed to hover over the endless suburbs, hang around the houses, glinting a keep-out warning, or so it seemed to Renée, and it all felt so hopeless she wished that she and Sissy had the money to just give up and fly home. This afternoon she was tired and overwrought from another fruitless day of selling, and she almost burst into tears when she found Sissy already waiting for her at the spot where they’d agreed to meet, even though she herself was half an hour early. Sissy was loitering on the corner, looking like an overgrown boy scout with her short hair and baggy khaki shorts and Dr Marten shoes. She was leaning into the shadow of the last house on the street, and it had a long, wide front veranda, on which stood a huge wooden swing seat with faded blue and white striped cushions that Renée would have been tempted to go and sit on if she’d been the one waiting – no-one seemed to be in, plus the temperature must have hit one hundred degrees in the sun – but Sissy hadn’t, of course.

  ‘Well?’ said Sissy. She looked pale. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Oh great,’ said Renée. ‘I had I don’t know how many people slam the door in my face, and I nearly sold a book.’ She grinned. She never had been one to show emotion, it was like she thought it was a weakness. ‘What about you?’

  Sissy looked vaguely ashamed.

  ‘Oh, Sissy! You didn’t even do it, did you?’

  ‘Oh, Renée, I couldn’t. I tried, honest … but … but I didn’t feel well. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Renée. She knew how traumatic Sissy was finding everything. Maybe she’d feel better once they had somewhere to live. Renée dropped down onto the edge of the kerb and leaned her elbows on her knees and put her chin in her hands. She sighed.

  ‘So what are we going to do about finding a place to live?’ Sissy said. ‘Unless we start making some money we can’t afford the motel any longer.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Renée. ‘But I can’t think about it now, I need to get something to drink first – and some paracetamol, this heat is killing me.’ She stood up and took Sissy’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here and go and get a Coke. I think they do free refills at Pizza Hut.’ Sissy nodded, and despite her legs feeling hot and useless she forced them to work, and the two friends trudged together down the sun-stricken street, their bags heavy on their shoulders, their feet dragging listlessly, in the direction of the mall.

  Although Renée assumed that most Americans in the service industry were only super-friendly because it was the culture to say, ‘Have a nice day,’ the young woman in the drugstore was smiley and pretty in that rare way that was completely genuine. Her badge informed them that not only was she happy to help (with Panadol, as it turned out) but that her name was Nancy, and she even asked them where they were from – and it was a relief to Renée that someone was interested in her at last, that instead of having to force herself onto others she was able to have a nice chat about what she was doing here in Cleveland, without the conversation containing a currency. Sissy stood quietly as Renée described – nonchalantly deadpan – the book company’s despotic training regime, the group exercises straight after breakfast (‘Put down the bag, knock on the door, kick the dog,’ and so on, complete with matching actions), the hateful motivational mantras, whilst Nancy looked increasingly horrified. But it was when Renée got to the part about having nowhere to live – the expectation that they’d go round knocking on people’s doors begging to be taken in, the fact they’d used up all their money on motels – that Nancy became outraged.

  ‘That is just so terrible,’ she said. ‘You poor girls! So what are you going to do now? Where are you staying tonight?’

  ‘Oh, we’re in the motel tonight,’ said Renée. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  Sissy and Renée looked at each other. Sissy’s bottom lip started trembling again.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something,’ said Renée at last, flashing an unconvincing grin. ‘Or there’s always the park. At least we won’t be cold.’ She tried to laugh.

  Nancy looked indecisive for a moment. ‘Are you in a hurry?’ she said. ‘Can you wait a while? I think I have an idea.’ She walked around the shelves of drugs immediately behind the serving counter, towards the area where they made up the prescriptions, and soon they could see her talking quietly on the phone. Sissy looked at Renée, but Renée didn’t dare look back, she didn’t want to get her hopes up.

  When Nancy returned, her eyes were sparkling. ‘I’ve just spoken to my husband,’ she said. ‘He’s a real-estate agent. He’s got a big old house on his books that’s been on the market forever. He said you can have that for the summer. It’s unfurnished, but apparently it’s huge. It would probably fit all of you.’

  Sissy started prattling. ‘Oh no, really, you don’t have to do that. But are you sure? Oh my goodness, that is just too kind, how can we ever thank you?’ She looked like she might cry at last, but didn’t.

  Renée, always the more practical of the two, took over. ‘That sounds great,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much … but, er, how much would your husband want us to pay each week?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Nancy. ‘Nothing at all. We would be glad to help.’

  Renée took a while to answer. ‘But why would you do that?’ she asked. ‘Why are you being so kind?’

  Nancy smiled. ‘That’s how these things work,’ she said. ‘I know, ’cause my little brother did a similar programme a few years back. And my husband wouldn’t do it unless it wasn’t a problem.’

  As Sissy gabbled her thanks and started on about gas and water bills, mowing the lawn, etcetera, Renée felt the tightness ease from behind her ears, just a little, and although she had no idea if it was the done thing in these parts, she would have hugged Nancy there and then, if only the counter hadn’t been in the way.

  As time wore on, Renée and Sissy settled into life in Cleveland. The house Nancy’s husband had lent them had indeed proved large enough to accommodate the whole team, although the area manager wasn’t at all happy for the boys and girls to live together, saying it went strictly against Tyler’s company protocol (which was purely in place to protect against potential distractions from the holy grail of encyclopaedia selling, from what Renée could tell). But Renée had put her foot down on behalf of the boys, and the area manager had eventually capitulated, and at least it diluted the effects of having the deeply annoying Melissa living with them, as Melissa, being the only other girl in the team, had of course been granted immediate entry.

  Although the house itself was well past its best, it was passable – neutral colours, serviceable kitchen and bathrooms – except for the fact that it had no furniture, not one piece. The booksellers ate standing up in the kitchen, and in the living room they lounged around on the floor, like in a refugee camp, until someone bought a blow-up sofa in fluorescent pink and they took it in turns to sit in that, although it was horribly sweaty, until Melissa inevitably popped it.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, now Renée had got over the traumas of the first week, she’d also perfected the fine art of bookselling. She’d discovered that she had a natural talent for speaking to people, for worming her way into their houses, for selling them mediocre reference books that their children would barely use. She honed her patter of, ‘Is that your attack dog?’ when confronted by a chihuahua or anything small enough to obviously not be, along with her introduction of, ‘Hi, I’m Renée, I’m Lady Di’s cousin,’ followed by a laugh and a joke that, OK, no she wasn’t really, but she absolutely was all the way from England, and she’d driven the whole way here (just kidding!), and she was so excited to be doing t
his great project helping all the local kids in the neighbourhood, and she’d had such fun with the Jordans’ kids next door, and she was sure that little Johnny and Susie would love the programme too, and anyway, did they have a place to sit down? And at that very point she would break the smiley eye contact and move forward to pick up her erstwhile-hidden book bag, and the momentum would propel her towards the front door, and before anyone could quite work out what was happening she would be over the threshold and standing in the hallway, and then nice Mrs Smith or Jones or Adams would be leading her into their dining room or kitchen (after all they couldn’t leave her just standing there making the place look untidy, could they?), and she would sit down at the table and then the kids would sit too, looking super-excited at what this pretty, fun girl with the pink bangs and weird accent was going to take out of her interesting-looking bag. It worked almost every time, once she’d got the hang of it. But it was when she pulled her masterstroke of explaining how she was going to ask the children a question that if they got right would WIN them a set of books, completely FREE, that the kids would be on the edge of their seats, frothing with excitement, and the mom would look a bit guarded, suspicious now, and her smile would fade a little (oh no, it must be a con after all) that Renée would say, ‘OK, kids, all you have to do is tell me the names of every single American president, and by the way I need them in the exact order.’ At this point the kids would giggle and say, ‘Shucks,’ and the mom would look relieved that it wasn’t a sting after all, and then Renée would flick straight to the correct page and there they’d be, every last American president from George Washington right through to Ronald Reagan (now isn’t that a terrific book) – and the kids would be nodding and Mrs Smith would be beaming, and then they’d talk a little more about the section for math (minus the s of course), and the great science chapter, and maybe the geography one too; and once they were all nodding and smiling all of the time, Renée would very casually pick up her pen and say, ‘So this is Rockland Avenue, right?’ and Mrs Smith would smile and say yes, that’s right, and so then Renée would nod, ‘And you’re number forty-eight, aren’t you?’ and Mrs Smith would agree, yes they were, and Renée would confirm, ‘And it’s Mrs Smith, isn’t it,’ and of course that was correct as well, so Renée would continue, ‘OK, so it’s Tyler’s Schoolbooks Volumes One and Two,’ not as a question, more as a statement of fact; after all yes, they were Tyler’s Schoolbooks Volumes One and Two, and she’d go right ahead and fill that in on her pad too. Next she’d say, ‘And shall we add the dictionary, it’s so comprehensive it’s the only one you’ll ever need,’ and again there would be no question mark in the statement, just an assumption that the dictionary would indeed be a welcome addition to the Smith family household, and at exactly that moment Renée would look up and smile reassuringly, before confirming, ‘So all three together will be just one hundred and seventeen dollars, and all I need you to do is sign right here,’ and Mrs Smith would finally acknowledge to herself, although of course she’d known all along, that she was being handed an order form, and she would take the pen that Renée would proffer and sign it, she didn’t want to be rude – and besides they were all having such fun – and everyone would be happy, sort of. And still Renée would carry on, absolutely word-perfect these days: ‘Now the way it works, Mrs Smith, is that I’m taking orders in the area over the next couple of weeks, and then I’ll come back and see you, Susie and Johnny (big smile), and I will deliver your books to you personally at the end of the summer – isn’t that great, we’ll get to hang out together again. So what I’ll do for now is take a deposit, shall we say fifty per cent? No cash? That’s fine, a cheque is great,’ and Mrs Smith would say OK and go find her chequebook, and Renée would leave soon afterwards with enough money to more than cover the wholesale price the company would charge her for the books; and every Sunday the area manager would drop by to take her deposits off her (minus just enough cash for her to live on for the week) so that she wouldn’t be tempted to blow her takings, on self-indulgent nights out, for example, and anyway she was far too tired for those, but instead would be sure to have enough dollars in her company account at the end of the summer to be able to afford to pay for the books she’d promised to deliver to her customers. She’d get to keep any of the remaining funds in her account, of course, plus all the balances she’d collect on delivery of the books, and that would constitute her profit. It was genius how it all worked, how the bookselling company didn’t need to risk one single teeny cent on a single one of their students, and yet still made millions.

  Renée had become so expert in her bookselling technique that on a good day she often succeeded in sealing the deal at the point she first handed the pen over, but there were some less suggestible people who would be confident enough to object, perhaps say that they were sorry but they couldn’t afford them. Renée wouldn’t mind though, she was prepared, and she’d smile and say: ‘Ah yes, times are tight, aren’t they, Mrs Hughes? But what price can you put on a child’s education? (Pause.) You know, Mrs Smith next door was worried about the cost too, at first, but when she found out that the Joneses at number thirty-eight had got them for their kids she really felt she couldn’t let her own children down by putting them at a disadvantage at school … Hmm, makes you think, doesn’t it … ? (Pause.) So anyway, Mrs Hughes, all I need you to do is sign right here.’ And most people would, after that onslaught. And even if someone did have the mettle to protest yet further, Renée was ready with a perfect guilt-inducing answer to every possible objection, until finally her poor victim would run out of steam and succumb.

  Renée grew to so despise the manipulation, the negative energy required for bookselling, that eventually she developed a phobia of the first front door of the day, apparently a quite common phenomenon in the direct-selling business. The strength of the phobia seemed to be directly proportional to how well the previous day’s selling had gone, as though she loathed being successful and couldn’t bear to inflict herself and her educational fucking books on any more undeserving people for another single minute. Every morning she and Sissy would drive to their allocated area in the beaten-up old car they’d rented off the area manager, and Renée would come over all clammy and faint, and she’d stare with terror at the front yards she’d have to walk through and the houses she’d have to enter, and she’d think of the conversations she’d have to have and the dollars she’d have to take from the people who didn’t want to give them to her and often couldn’t afford anyway, and she would feel the tears prick obstinately behind her eyes, and it was as if she couldn’t move, to even open the car door. Sissy would try not to influence her, would just sit there patiently – after all, her tree in the park, the one she’d resigned herself to spending her days under, writing letters to Nigel or scribbling stories and poems to pass the time, would wait for her. Eventually Renée would either get it together and get out of the car, and Sissy would drive off before Renée had time to change her mind, or else Renée’s eyes would overflow with misery and self-loathing, and she would really, really want her mum, although she hadn’t seen her since she was a teenager, and besides Simone never had been much of a mother to her anyway. At that point, when Sissy knew it wasn’t going to be one of Renée’s good days, she would put the car into gear and drive them up to the main road where they could sit in Pizza Hut and drink iced Coke all day, until the air conditioning became unbearable; but even that didn’t matter, as Sissy had learned to keep a couple of cardigans in the car for those kinds of days.

  Monday had started off as one of Renée’s better mornings, maybe not from an emotional wellbeing point of view, but at least as far as selling books was concerned. She had sold two sets of students’ handbooks and one cookery book by midday, and had succeeded in largely not thinking, in simply fixing her brain to automatic for most of the time. She’d had just one real failure, at the first door as it happened, which had been opened by a waif-like woman with two scrawny little girls hanging off her legs, wearing
matching Barbie pyjamas and peanut butter round their mouths. (The woman had been very nice but alas unbending in her refusal, her kids wouldn’t be in school for another two years, she’d said, it might have all changed by then, and Renée had replied with a cheeky smile that trigonometry hadn’t changed for thousands of years, but the woman’s responses had been equally smart and she wouldn’t let her in.)

  Renée wasted no time wavering at the doors once she was fully into her stride – knocking, waving, entering, selling – and it had all been working beautifully so far. But right now she was sat in the kitchen of a man who’d said his wife was out at the mall with the kids, and she didn’t quite know why but she didn’t believe him. He’d seemed so friendly at first, but as soon as she’d made it inside she’d realised there was no evidence of him having any children at all: no scrawled pictures on the fridge, or scuffed sneakers by the front door, no toys lying around – and she’d begun to wonder whether there was even a wife. She just didn’t like the feel of him somehow, plus it was so much harder to do her patter without there being kids to play off. And so although at first she’d been smiley and flirty like she usually was with the dads, she felt that he was looking at her a little too keenly as she described the comprehensiveness of the books’ content and how it exactly matched the school curriculum, and she was sure he was smiling at her funny, almost like he was in pain – and now he was leaning so far towards her she could smell his stale coffee breath, and his grin had become quite twisted and weird. At the point Renée stoically moved into the order form part of her routine (once she was in full swing she was a true professional) the man grabbed her wrist instead of the pen that she’d offered him, and although he was laughing like he was only joking it hurt her, and as he pulled her to her feet she tried to escape, shake his hand off her wrist, but this seemed to annoy him – and before she knew what had even happened she was down on the cold, hard floor and he was on top of her, straddling her, and his strong, rough hands were fixed around her neck.