My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  His steady smile, the one he could generate even during a gallstone, held its own against the display in front of him. I stood still, with my hands clasped at my lower back, and let him look. His smile couldn’t hide the fear that flashed in his eyes, though. And soon enough that dependable smile faded.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  I’d imagined, Leah, you look amazing. But then I realized that was asking too much of him, so then I’d imagined, Leah, I’ve never seen you wear something like this before. But I like it. Again, that was probably giving him a lot of credit in the spontaneity category, so my mind had settled for Leah, I’m . . . speechless.

  But he wasn’t speechless. And What’s going on? hadn’t crossed my mind as a possibility, so I didn’t have a ready response.

  “I did say this was the department party, didn’t I?” He was staring at my shoes. And frowning.

  “Yes.” I couldn’t help but notice how my bright, flashy pink didn’t go very well with the dull gray ensemble he called a suit. Even his tie was gray.

  I felt the splotching begin. The dress had a fairly high neckline, but that would do no good once the splotches crawled up my neck. They always started at my chest and defied gravity in a most impressive way. Soon enough my ears would be matching my dress.

  “It said semiformal.” I did my best to gather my composure as I waited for him to get into the Volvo. This was a semiformal dress. This was perfectly acceptable. It wasn’t like I was wearing a snowsuit.

  Edward opened the driver’s side door and got in. He didn’t look at me. He just started the car, looked in his rearview mirror before pulling out, and off we went.

  Five minutes of complete silence were interrupted by Edward’s asking, “Did you print out those directions?”

  I pulled the paper out of my new silver clutch, which matched my shoes perfectly, but who was going to notice?

  He tried to drive and read at the same time. Then he said, “Why didn’t you use MapPoint?”

  “I like MapQuest.”

  “I told you Microsoft MapPoint is better.” He studied the map at a stoplight. “Why is it taking us through all the construction? MapPoint is more accurate.”

  “The construction went up this week, Edward.”

  Edward’s eyes cut to me, then to my dress, then back to the paper. He slowed down as a construction worker pointed in the direction of a detour. Edward’s sigh could’ve defogged a window.

  “What’s the hurry? It’s a party. It’s not like you’re late for a lecture.”

  His eyebrows popped up. Edward was surprised. A minor miracle.

  “You know I always use MapPoint.”

  “Why not change things up a bit every now and then?”

  Edward looked at me, then looked back at the road, swerving in order not to hit the curb. I grabbed the door handle, but that’s not why my heart was beating fast. Edward and I were having an argument. A real, live argument. It was our first. In our two and a half years of dating, it was our first.

  “That’s sort of the theme of the night, isn’t it?” he asked, his attention back on my dress. “What kind of statement are you trying to make with that dress?”

  “I’m not wearing it to make a statement. I’m wearing it for you.”

  “Me?” He laughed. “That’s funny.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  I felt tears in my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. “Because I feel beautiful in it.”

  Edward didn’t respond. Of course not. This was all in my head—a dramatic buildup in an unstable evening with an undetermined climax. And I wasn’t sure what I wanted—him to tell me that I looked horrible or to say nothing at all. The nothing at all was ripping my heart out. But a real-life argument was as far-fetched as my imagination.

  After weaving through the backstreets of a neighborhood and finding the correct street again, we arrived at the home of Dr. Glyndell, the department chair and Edward’s idol. Dr. Glyndell and his wife, Margaret, had purchased this colonial-style home last year, and this was the first time we’d visited. As we parked, I marveled at its beauty. It was a dream home for sure.

  Edward hardly seemed to notice. He was standing outside the car now, adjusting his tie and messing with something on his shirt. My fingers reached for the door handle to get out, but then something stopped me and my fingers slid back down onto my lap. My shaking fingers, I should add.

  I waited. It seemed like an hour, but it was merely a few seconds before Edward realized I wasn’t standing beside him. He peered into the car, I suppose to see if I was really still sitting there. I was. I looked at him and tried to smile. I didn’t have one of those gallstone smiles, mind you. I was known to have trouble smiling even when happy. I most likely looked like one of those sock puppets who, though grinning with full teeth, still manages to look creepy.

  Finally he walked around to my side and opened the door. I stepped out and he closed the door.

  “This is a beautiful house,” I said.

  He looked up and mumbled something. We walked together toward the front door, and as my heels clicked against the white, manicured concrete, I knew what a terrible mistake I’d made. This evening was going to rank right up there with the stomach flu. What was I thinking? Why did I do this to myself? I could’ve worn black and functioned as I normally do at these events. My throat swelled with regret. I wanted to cling to Edward for support, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t want to be standing by me tonight.

  The door opened, and Margaret Glyndell greeted us. Her eyes flicked over my dress immediately, yet she only said, “Welcome, Edward! Hello, Leah. I’m so glad to have you both to our new home!” She ushered us in. “We’re out back. The weather is so lovely, and we have the gardens and pool. Come with me.”

  She guided us outdoors to a large deck surrounded by a perfectly groomed lawn and flowers that released the most amazing fragrance. Small, quaint candles were lit around the deck and the gardens, and the pool reflected their light. Several tables of food and drinks offered a nice selection—or diversion, whatever the case may be.

  “Mrs. Glyndell, it’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Please, call me Margaret. And thank you.” She smiled. At me. Like the dress didn’t matter. I held my head a little higher. “Please, help yourself to some refreshments. Most everyone is here, I think. Geoff is down there somewhere, talking about who knows what. Probably gravity. You know how he is about gravity.”

  Edward laughed and headed toward the crowd of his peers. I followed along behind him, but when I noticed he was a few paces in front of me, I decided to head off toward the drinks. I wasn’t even sure he would care. In fact, he would probably be relieved not to have to acknowledge my presence.

  At the drink table I noticed Andrea, the wife of Beau, a former professor at Boston University and now a post-doctoral student at Stanford. She was wearing a red pantsuit. I was never so glad to see red in my life. I thought if we stood next to each other we might look like a Valentine’s Day card, but I didn’t care.

  Andrea noticed me approach. “Hi, Leah. My goodness, that dress is fabulous.”

  I looked down as if it were the last thing on my mind. “You think so?”

  “I’ve never seen you wear pink. It’s a good color for you.”

  “It’s not too fancy for this occasion?”

  “Too fancy? No way. Did you see Margaret’s sequins?”

  I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy worrying about my own outfit. I glanced up toward the house, and sure enough, there she stood, reflecting light like a disco ball.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in an actual dress.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “When?”

  “At Professor Jones’s funeral.”

  She thought for a moment. “That’s right. The black number.”

  I nodded and glanced around. I was the only one in pink, but not the only one in color. And I realized I did
n’t stand out as much as I’d imagined.

  Andrea was holding two drinks in her hand. “You coming?” She nodded toward the crowd where her husband and Edward were.

  “In a bit.” I smiled and pretended to be interested in what drink I would choose. I strolled alongside the table, listening to the professors talk and laugh and crack jokes most people would never understand.

  From what I could tell, the group was talking about chess, which was no surprise since Dr. Glyndell was a big chess fanatic. Rumor had it that he owned more than a hundred different chessboards (another reason for Edward to look up to him) and that he once claimed to be playing the ghost of his great-grandfather. Somehow, because he could discuss string theory with such casualness, that particular personality flaw (his fondness for ghosts) was dismissed. I once teased with Edward that Dr. Glyndell was one proton away from being Bobby Fischer’s strange half brother. Edward had looked like I’d personally insulted him.

  The slight breeze carried the voices and laughter toward me, and I could hear Edward’s distinguished lilt, the one he used only in the presence of colleagues and students. “Thought that leads nowhere, mathematics that add up to nothing, art without an end product, architecture without substance.” Another professor said, “That’s Zweig from The Royal Game.”

  That’s what they liked to do. Quote and be quoted. Edward had a photographic memory, so he often stunned the crowd by his ability to quote nearly everything he’d read. It was an endearing trait, especially when he quoted my work. Sometimes when we’d be in a heavy discussion about philosophy or religion or something of that nature, he would defend his position by quoting one of my plays. It always made me laugh. How could I argue against myself?

  I ladled myself a glass of what looked like freshly squeezed pink lemonade and decided to walk through the gardens. I wasn’t sure Edward had missed me yet. He didn’t seem to care anyway. Every time I looked his way, I felt myself wanting to cry, and what better place for a pink standout like myself to hide than in the flower gardens?

  I followed a cobbled pathway a few yards out and wandered around, smelling each type of flower and wondering how many groundskeepers were needed to maintain all this. I didn’t have to think long, because soon what appeared to be a groundskeeper came walking toward me.

  “Hi,” he said. He wore jeans, a denim shirt, and near-perfect features.

  “Hi. I was just admiring the flowers.”

  “Are you part of the party?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked in that direction and then back at me. Then he smiled. My heart fluttered. I begged myself not to splotch. “Do you keep the gardens?”

  He held out his hand. “I’m Robby. Geoff and Margaret’s son.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, and shook his hand. “Not about being their son. About thinking you were the groundskeeper.”

  “No need to apologize. And it is a sad story, really, being Dr. Glyndell’s son. I don’t play chess, after all.” He laughed. If this man had any more charm about him, he’d be a bracelet. “Who are you?”

  “Leah. Townsend.”

  “Nice to meet you. And you’re here with . . . ?”

  “Edward Crowse. Dr. Edward Crowse.”

  “Is there anyone here without a doctorate?”

  “Me.”

  “Me too.” He smiled. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a playwright.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. What do you do?”

  “I’m a landscaper.” He swept his hand over the tulips.

  “You did this?”

  “Some of it. The landscaping was here when my parents bought the house, but it was in need of a lot of attention. I spent most of last year getting it together.” He looked at me, and the look said a lot of things, the least of which was that he approved of my dress.

  I flattened my hand against the side of it, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles, and sipped my lemonade. I was blushing. Not splotching. Real-life blushing.

  “Leah?”

  I turned to find Edward walking toward us. Robby cleared his throat and took a step away from me.

  “Hi,” I said. Edward gave me and then Robby equally polite smiles. “Have you met the Glyndells’ son Robby before?”

  They shook hands. “I think I’ve met you before,” Edward said.

  “Robby is a landscaper. I was just admiring his work.” I looked at the flowers for something to do other than stare at these two men staring at each other.

  “I thought you’d gone to fetch us some drinks,” Edward said, glancing at the drink in my hand.

  “It’s serve yourself tonight,” Robby said, startling me as much as Edward. Robby admired me one more time with a stare that defied Edward’s presence, then excused himself and started toward the house. Edward was watching Robby like a science experiment that had just stood up and walked away.

  Edward then turned to me. “I wasn’t implying you should get us drinks. I just thought that’s what you went to do.”

  His defensiveness was nothing short of satisfying, but instead of relishing the moment, I said, “I know. I didn’t take it that way.”

  “Good.” He chewed his lip. “So do you want to join me up there?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think Dr. Glyndell’s going to show us some pictures of his trip to Egypt.”

  “Are you sure the glare from my dress won’t be too distracting?”

  Edward flopped his head to the side. “Is that what this is all about? Your dress? I didn’t say enough about your dress?”

  “You didn’t say anything about my dress.”

  He glanced behind him, as if to see whether anyone was in earshot. “It’s different, okay? You’re usually not this loud.”

  Loud. Now, that was an unusual description for a man who would be able to prove mathematically that colors do not have sound. He looked at my dress again, as if trying his best to give it a second chance. He gave his mouth a good rubbing. He threw out his hands like a few gestures might help him find a simple word like nice.

  “Look,” I said, breaking the silence, “I’m sorry, okay? I got a little carried away. I was with Elisabeth, and we went shopping, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I see now that it wasn’t. I’ve embarrassed you.”

  A smile returned to his lips and he took my hands. “You don’t need any of this fancy stuff, okay? That’s not who you are. You’re Leah Townsend, not Julia Roberts.”

  “I know.” I returned his smile and let him lead me toward the others. The tension was gone, and everything returned to normal. At least outwardly. I walked beside him now, and as we entered the house through the French doors off the patio, I mumbled, “Right. For tonight only, I’ll answer to Miss Cotton Candy.” But I don’t think he heard me.

  Chapter 4

  [Shocked, she opens the envelope.]

  Ireally need more zest. You’re putting too much of yourself in me. This isn’t an autobiography, okay? And don’t get me wrong. You have some really good zingers, some one-liners that could knock a person on their back if they ever made it past that roadblock called your tongue. But I’m not you. I’m Jodie Bellarusa, and I have no problem with my tongue. You’re going to have to let me soar. Stop reining me in.

  Jodie was right. I was inhibiting her. She was sassy, strong, and satisfied without a man. I stared at the cursor on my screen. It blinked monotonously, as if tracking the time ticking away this morning as I struggled to write.

  My play didn’t have a title yet. Titling was not my gift. But if I was honest, my play also seemed to lack direction, and even a theme. All I knew was that I had this fabulous character named Jodie Bellarusa who thought she was ready to make her public appearance on the stage. I had to remind her she was barely ready to make her appearance on the white page.

  Jodie had been around for about three years. She first appeared the night an actor named James stood me up. I’d sat in a little café for an hour after our scheduled date, belie
ving that he would come. I kept feeding myself all the excuses I wanted to hear, from the idea that we got our times mixed up to the hopeful possibility that he was in a horrible car crash on the way to see me and was in a hospital somewhere unconscious and unaware that he’d never arrived.

  Suddenly this woman appeared. It wasn’t kooky, like she was sitting across from me as a ghost. It was all in my head. Maybe that sounds kooky too. Anyway, she was the one that talked me out of the whole thing. She explained that there was no misunderstanding and no tragic accident. He just didn’t come.

  I named her after the waiter, Jodie, a guy who seemed genuinely distraught as each minute ticked by. He bought me a drink and told me the guy was an idiot. And Bellarusa came from the name of the café.

  Jodie Bellarusa was born that day. She hasn’t left me alone since, and last year she became a little headstrong, wanting an entire story built around her.

  Writing a story with Jodie at the center wasn’t hard. She was an easy character to develop. She was a die-hard antiromantic who was certain love would never be for her. She turned off the guys she met, challenging them to break down the thick wall of sarcasm she’d built around herself. They all failed. But she had yet to meet Timothy, the handsome dentist who lived next door.

  I could admit that, yes, Jodie was the anti-Leah. We were polar opposites, but she didn’t represent everything I wanted to be. That would make for a very boring character. Jodie was full of flaws and drama, and I was banking on her to be my Next Big Thing.

  But unlike most days, this Monday morning brought nothing new and extraordinary to the page. In fact, the entire story seemed to have stalled out. I couldn’t type a thing, and so Jodie sat mid-sentence, her mouth hanging wide open as she quipped to her friend, “I couldn’t be happier that . . .” This was where it all stopped. Poor Jodie was suspended between happiness and complete failure. It was up to me to fill in the blank.