by Bryce, Megan
Delia nodded. Thirty-six. The big 4-0 was staring them in the face. That big bitch of a 4-0 with one front tooth missing, a homemade shank in her left hand, her right hand beckoning you into the utilitarian shower behind her.
The thing was you couldn’t get away from her. She was coming. She was coming and she was going to enjoy it.
And maybe it was possible for you to enjoy it as well but from here it didn’t seem likely. Or even healthy.
Justine’s head came back up and she flung her arms into the air. “I only have four years left! Four years to find someone I like enough, who likes me enough, then to move in together, then get married, then pop two kids out. Four years.”
Delia motioned to the bartender. “We’re going to need another one over here.”
She pulled Justine’s arms back down and rubbed soothingly. “Do you like him enough?”
“I don’t know! Do I? Or am I settling? Am I getting desperate? Oh, God. He can smell it. I’m getting desperate and he can smell it and it’s freaking him out.”
Justine was freaking Delia out so that was entirely possible.
But friends did not say that out loud. Ever.
Friends said, “Oh, please. Like any man is sophisticated enough for that. All they think about is food and sex. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe that was the weirdness.”
Delia glared at the man sitting two stools down staring wide-eyed at Justine and flicked her fingers at him to look away.
Justine turned in her seat toward Delia. “You think the weirdness is he’s hungry? That’s the best you can come up with?”
“I’m just saying. You have no idea what the weirdness is. But he’s a man. My guess is low blood sugar. Or blue balls. You know how grumpy they get when they’re backed up.”
That finally made Justine laugh and she closed her eyes.
Delia said, “He’s been busy, right? Too busy to make some snuggly time with you?”
Justine sighed. “Yes.”
“So either he’s cheating on you–”
Justine’s eyes popped open and Delia said, “In which case I will hold him down and you will wield the knife. Or he’s just busy and cranky. In which case you will bring him an extra-large pizza and make sure you’re not wearing underwear when you do it.”
Justine thought about it while she gulped down her beer.
Delia ate the peanuts. They were free.
Justine put her glass down and nodded. “Yes. That sounds like a plan.”
She slid off the stool and nodded again. “That sounds like a pretty good plan. I’ll take a pizza to his office, and he’d better be there alone and hungry.”
Delia said, “Right now?”
Justine nodded and Delia eyed her, mentally calculating how drunk she could be after two beers.
Seemed like just drunk enough. “Want me to come with you?”
“No. You okay to get back home?”
“I know the way. Call me if you need to make bail. I can actually pay it now.”
Justine gripped Delia’s hands. “Do you think he’s cheating on me?”
“I have no idea. Do you think he is?”
Justine closed her eyes, holding tight. She finally shook her head. “No. He’s just being weird.”
“Ask him about it. After the pizza.”
Justine sighed. “That’s a good plan, too.”
“Why is it good plans are never fun?”
“Good plans are usually work.”
“That’s why I’ve never had one. Going with the flow is a lot less work.”
Delia watched Justine leave and grabbed another handful of peanuts. She nursed her beer until the bar filled up and the bartender started sending her dirty looks, and then she left, huddling in her coat against the light wind, and hoping Justine was warm inside with Paul. Hoping the weirdness wasn’t the end.
Justine wanted it all. She always had. Wanted a house with two kids playing in the front yard, a husband mowing the lawn. Wanted to be inside typing with one hand and baking cookies with the other.
Delia wished with all her heart that Justine would get it. She just wasn’t sure it existed, that it could exist. But if it did, Justine would get it. Hopefully.
Delia didn’t want a lawn and she’d already had a husband.
She hated typing and couldn’t bake.
But she knew what she wanted now. She wanted enough.
Her mom and G.K. Chesterton would say there were two ways to get enough. Make more or want less.
She’d wanted less for a long time now. She was starting to think it was time to make more.
And that’s why she would paint Mr. Chipper’s ceiling and not get fired.
She would not get fired.
Two
The scary efficient secretary held her hand up when she saw Delia the next day and said, “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Delia sat and twiddled her thumbs. She watched people walking back and forth, talking on their phones, tapping on their tablets. She was just starting to think about picking up the Harvard Business Review, she was that bored, when the woman nodded at her.
“You can go in now.”
Delia breathed in and told herself she would not get fired. She was thinking about making a plan sometime in the near future and getting fired wouldn’t help with that. She’d never made a plan before but she was pretty sure getting fired was never on it.
Mr. Chipper was sitting behind his desk, typing, and she went straight for her booties, pulling them on and looking up for wet spots.
He said, “Er, painter?”
She turned her head. “Excuse me?”
“Your name, please.”
“Delia.”
He didn’t say anything and she said, “Woodson?”
“Ms. Woodson, these are for you.”
He held out a small plastic box to her and she looked at it. He’d gotten her something?
She started smiling a little stupidly and she walked over, reaching for them. “What is this?”
“Earplugs. For when I need to make a call I don’t want you to hear.”
The warm feeling that had begun to spread through her body turned to ice. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I think these will make both of us more comfortable.”
She stared at him, dead-eyed. “Yes, I feel much more comfortable now. Thank you ever so much.”
He raised one perfectly curved eyebrow. “Sarcasm?”
She raised one bright red eyebrow in reply and turned away. She shoved the little box into her pocket.
She would use the earplugs.
Because his voice made her think of crackling fires, hot cocoa, and snuggling under the blankets. Everything warm and good when the world was cold and harsh.
And his words made her want to stab him with a dull knife.
She pushed him out of her mind, trying to pretend he didn’t exist, wasn’t sitting over there typing and being beautiful.
She dragged one end of the scaffolding a foot towards the eastern window, then grabbed the other end and dragged it a foot. Back and forth, back and forth. It would take a few minutes until it was positioned where she wanted it.
Mr. Chipper watched her with wide eyes and she said, “I’m stronger than I look.”
“Should I call someone to help you?”
That made her laugh and she shook her head. “No. Don’t call someone.”
Oh, what it must be like to be rich. To have so much done for you that your first thought was to call someone.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. She held up her hand to stop him. “I can do it.”
“Obviously. Will it get done faster if I help?”
She didn’t want to agree with him so she didn’t say anything, just moved one end as far as she could. He grabbed the other side and moved it.
Her side, his side, her side, his side.
They got it positioned just right and Delia pushed out a thank you between tight lips.
He no
dded and walked back to his desk.
She spread out another cloth to protect the carpet from paint, filled her palette, and climbed up the ladder to the top of the scaffolding. It was positioned as close to the ceiling as they could get it and she crawled in, flipping to her back carefully.
She lay there, pushing herself into the boards, waiting for her stomach to stop rolling.
She wiggled a little bit, seeing how sturdy and balanced the scaffolding was. When it didn’t budge, she let out a long breath.
She would get used to being this high. She would. In a week it wouldn’t even faze her to be up here.
But right now, her lizard brain was screaming at her that she did not belong up here.
God, ceilings. Stupid, high ceilings.
She loaded her brush, using her right hand. She was left-handed, and while she wasn’t exactly ambidextrous, she could use both hands to paint. Broad strokes with her right hand, details with her left. It lengthened how long she could paint without cramping, although she still needed to take short breaks to rest and stretch.
She turned on the hourly chime of her watch to remind her. When she painted, she lost track of time. Even when she was painting stupid clouds on a stupid ceiling.
Not even half an hour later, Mr. Chipper said, “Ms. Woodson? The earplugs, please.”
He couldn’t see her so she raised her lips in a sneer, growling silently at the cloud she’d just painted.
She rolled the earplugs up, stuffing them into her ears, and when they were set she waved her hand over the side of the scaffolding and yelled, “We’re good to go, Master.”
She smiled and gave the cloud some sharp white teeth.
Ten minutes later, her stomach was roiling and her head was spinning.
She yanked the earplugs out. “Oh, God. I don’t think I can wear these.”
She grabbed the edges of the scaffolding, gripping tight, and swallowed hard.
“Ms. Woodson?”
“I can’t hear with them in. I don’t feel like I’m balanced. This room’s not moving, is it?”
“No.”
“Oh, good.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth until the room stopped spinning.
She opened her eyes gingerly, and when the clouds stayed where she’d painted them, she turned slowly to her stomach and crawled to the ladder.
She resisted the urge to kiss the ground when she made it all the way down.
Mr. Chipper said, “Are you acrophobic?”
“No. Just need to take a little break. Stretch.”
For some reason he didn’t believe her. “You’re afraid of heights and you’re painting a ceiling?”
“No. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m just not used to being up there. I’ll get used to it.”
He rubbed his forehead and she two-timed it out of his office and down to the bathroom.
She splashed cold water on her face and patted the back of her neck with a wet paper towel.
What was her plan again? To paint a ceiling and not get fired?
She was doing a great job so far.
She did a few stretches, shook her hands out, and when she’d stopped fear-sweating she slowly walked back down the hall.
She walked right past his secretary without stopping and opened the door.
He didn’t look up and she walked over to him, dropping the earplugs on his totally empty desk. No clutter, no pictures. Nothing.
She said, “I swear to God, I won’t tell anyone whatever boring thing you talk about in here. If I do I know you’ll take everything I own, everything I have ever owned, everything I will ever own.”
He looked up. “I will, Ms. Woodson. I will take everything.”
She nodded, and this time she didn’t think good luck when she agreed. She didn’t think she had nothing for him to take in the first place.
She would have enough and it would start in this room. And not him or her mouth or a high ceiling would stop her.
She looked up at the scaffolding. She looked up at the ceiling.
And then, she climbed back up.
Delia picked dinner up, and even if it was frozen dinners and bagged salad, she was at least able to pay for it. Had been happy to pay for it.
Justine looked in the grocery bag and said, “I’ll have to teach you how to boil water.”
“Why? These noodles are already cooked. All I have to do is press start on the microwave.”
“How did you grow up in a commune and never learn to cook?”
Delia pressed start on the microwave. “I was too busy painting. There were lots of people who could cook and did. I never had to learn.”
“Just when I forget how strange you are, I’m reminded. I imagine you wandering between huts, every woman treating you like their own child.”
It wasn’t too far off. She’d had a peaceful, zombie-like childhood. Everyone blissed out, the children running around doing whatever they wanted. As far from Justine’s structured piano-lesson, ballet-class childhood as you could get.
Delia said, “I don’t know how we ever became friends.”
“You learned I could cook and latched on.”
Delia chuckled. “That was probably it.”
Although it was more like Delia had seen someone with passion, with purpose, and had followed the fire. She was like a moth, attracted to the flicker of life. Eighteen years later and she was still flapping around, following Justine’s brightly-lit path.
They sat at the counter, Justine insisting they eat on plates instead of out of the plastic.
Delia ate a mouthful of salad and said, “You came home late last night.”
Justine smiled. “He was hungry.”
“Good. Is the weirdness gone?”
“For now.” Justine sighed down at her plate. “But I’m getting desperate. It will come back. How do I stop it from coming back?”
“Not want it.”
“But I do. I want a home, a family. I want to come home and not be lonely.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
Justine narrowed her eyes. “You want it, too. Why can’t I smell your desperation?”
Delia held her hands palm up. “The universe will provide.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You don’t even believe it.”
Delia half-believed it. It was buried so deep that she knew she could never dig it all out. “Maybe I just don’t want it as bad as you do. Maybe I just don’t think I can do anything about getting it.”
“I know you’re wrong. I can do something about it.”
Delia watched Justine attack her noodles, watched with wide eyes. Then she said, “No.”
Delia pointed her finger in Justine’s face. “No. I know what you’re thinking and no. That’s not a plan. That’s a Hail Mary. That’s a last ditch effort. That’s desperate.”
Justine angled her head away and said softly, “It would be easy. So easy.”
“Justine!”
“Haven’t you ever wanted something so bad that you would do anything to get it? Anything?”
“Is he the one?”
Justine closed her eyes, her voice laced with fear and sorrow. “I don’t know!”
“If you do this, he won’t be.”
“I can’t start over, Delia. There’s no time. I’ve been in Boston for nearly a year now and have finally met someone who I might like enough who might like me enough. Another year before we move in together, two years before we get married. If it’s not him, then tack on another year before I find another someone I might like enough who might like me enough.”
“God, Justine. You need to quit planning it out. This is something that you just can’t control. You’re not in charge of it.”
“But it’s my life. I can have anything I want if I can just figure out how to make it work.”
Delia shook her head. “No. You can put yourself out there. You can work toward what you want but you can’t make it happen.”
Justine turned toward her. “I can make it happen. If I’m willing to pay the price.”
“And you’re willing to give up letting it happen on its own? Willing to give up knowing that even if you hadn’t trapped him, he would want everything with you? That would be hard to live with.”
“And when do you think it’s going to happen on its own? I lived in San Francisco for seventeen years and never made it to the move-in stage.”
“Yes, but this is Boston. Maybe the men are different here.” Delia cocked her head and thought about it. “In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that the men are different here. Give Paul a chance. Give yourself a chance at having everything.”
“I can wait as long as there’s no weirdness again.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
When Justine shook her head, Delia said, “I don’t know what it is you want. What you think you’re missing. Marriage is nothing. It means absolutely nothing when you are not with the right person. And if he’s the right person, you could ask him about it.”
“I don’t want to know what the weirdness was. Because what if it’s something I can’t fix?”
“You can give me a lot of advice that I would take. Because you have a brain on your shoulders and fire inside you to get what you want. But take it from someone who knows. No empty apartment, no solitary Friday night, is anywhere near as lonely as when you are alone when you’re with your husband.”
Justine took her hand and held it. “I don’t want you to be right about this.”
“It does not happen often but in this, I am.” Delia patted her hand. “I think Paul could be the one. The right one, the one you’ll fight to make it work with. Not because you’re running out of time but because you’re better together.”
Justine took her hand back and picked up her fork. “Maybe.”
“Move toward your goal, Justine. Ask him to move in with you. Or give him a key. I’ll move on out and you two can nest together and find out if you’re lovebirds.”
“You can’t move out. Where would you go?”
“I’ll rent a room. Know anybody with an empty bedroom?”
Justine laughed. “No. You can stay here as long as you need.”
“I need a bedroom. You need your couch back.”
Justine shook her head and Delia said, “Yes. Because you’re going to go ask Paul to move in with you. How much do you think. . . Never mind, I remembered who I was talking about. His apartment probably costs three times as much as it needs to.”
