Going For Broke

by Nina Howard

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning, Victoria stood in front of her closet wearing Bud’s bathrobe. Lately she didn’t feel so comfortable walking around naked. Funny what 15 pounds will do for your confidence, even when you’re alone. She stared at her closet, willing something to jump out as a possible contender. She had tried in vain to find something that fit, but it just wasn’t going to happen. It was too depressing to try anything on anymore. She could only take so much humiliation. She thought about going back to her mother’s closet, however that was worse than stuffing herself into her own clothes. They fit, but they were horrible. They made her skin itch.

  So she pulled Bud’s sweatpants on and decided to go shopping. She hadn’t bought anything new in ages. She deserved it. A girl can only scrimp for so long. She knew that Nieman Marcus was out of the question. Not only was it out of her price range, it was out of her cycling range as well. With no other means of transportation, Victoria was still limited to riding her mother’s bike around town.

  She rode up to town where they predictably had a similar yet different selection of women’s clothing stores. She walked through the doors into a miniature J. Crew. It was about a quarter of the size of one you would find at a mall (not that she had ever been to a mall since high school) and probably did six times the business. The place was packed. With middle school girls and middle-aged mothers. Victoria would never bought her own clothes at J. Crew. Way too pedestrian. Then again, if it was good enough for Michelle Obama, it might be good enough for her. Victoria walked around the store, reluctant to commit to clothing she would see on every other person in town. She lifted up the sleeve of a kind of cute cropped jacket and sputtered. $249? Suddenly the idea of J. Crew was too high end for her pancaked pocketbook.

  She poked her nose into the J. McLaughlin. Did everyone have a “J” in front of their names in this town? Preppier, if possible, than J. Crew, Victoria took a cursory walk around the store. They were selling shirt dresses that looked like something her mother would have worn in 1974. Again, she took a quick peek at the price tag. $325. She was interrupted by a teenage sales girl that appeared from nowhere. She looked adorable - fresh-faced, sporting a darling headband over her shiny brown hair, a properly preppy J. outfit and the stench of a freshly-smoked cigarette. Why do women insist on smoking? It killed even the best outfits. She fled the store before the Marlboro girl had a chance to get a “Can I help you?” out of her smoky mouth.

  Finally, she wandered into the Gap. She was almost broke, but wasn’t this where the poor people shopped? She walked into the store, immediately bored with the racks of khakis and jeans and stacks of scratchy T-shirts. No wonder America was so drably dressed.

  A bright red cotton sweater caught Victoria’s eye. She pulled it on over her University of Illinois t-shirt, and could barely get the sweater on. It had to be the bulky T-shirt she was wearing today. She put it back and tried a Medium. Better, barely. There was no way in Hell she was going to even touch anything with the word ‘Large’ on it. Lucky for her, Bud was a small man and the sweatpants and shirts she had been stealing from him for the past few weeks were size Medium. She modeled it in the mirror, thinking it was marginally better than what was in her mother’s closet. The color was good, and she needed a little brightness in her life right now. Her life was feeling a little too black and taupe. At least she could augment with clothing. She was just about to take it to the counter, then quickly checked the price tag, something she wasn’t accustomed to doing. $49.95? For this piece of shit sweater? She had been watching her little stash of cash quickly deplete, and wasn’t ready to drop fifty bucks on something she was sure was made in China. By blind children.

  She put the sweater back and walked to the sale rack. If she was going to buy crap, she might as well get it on sale. She half-heartedly browsed the rack, thinking that everything was on sale because nobody with any taste would want it. She saw a spaghetti strap baby-doll shirt in XL. Honestly, she thought, there are certain clothing styles that should never even be manufactured in anything beyond a size 4. She held up a T-shirt with a faux-ripped neckline and faded animal print. At any price, it would be too expensive. Depressed, she left the store empty-handed. A first for Victoria Vernon.

  She walked down the street into the store next door, looking for her fix. She knew immediately when she entered the store that it was both exactly what she was looking for and far too expensive for her. There were four or five racks of clothing, each with about ten items apiece on them. It was a basic rule of shopping: The less inventory displayed, the more expensive the items. From the looks of things, she couldn’t even afford to look. Everything looked like fresh merchandise - she could smell it like a vampire who gets a whiff of fresh blood. She couldn’t hold back, she had to just look. The feel of the clothing was exquisite. She closed her eyes and reveled in it for a minute.

  An impossibly-thin woman came out from behind a midnight blue velvet curtain, presumably from the back of the store where the rest of the inventory was kept. She looked like she lived in New York. For a minute, Victoria thought this is where they hide all the fashionable women in town - right behind that blue curtain. No smoker here. She smelled as good as the clothes felt. Now it was she who looked Victoria up and down expertly. Victoria had to give her props on style. It was clear that her appraisal of Victoria was harsh. Victoria couldn’t really blame her, as she would have given the same look had she come upon such a drab soul.

  “Yes?” the willowy woman asked Victoria. As in “Yes, what is your frumpy ass doing in my fabulous store?”

  She thought of something the young, skinny, rich Victoria Vernon would say to such a bitchy sales girl. She had nothing. The old, chubby, poor Victoria froze. Then she bolted, without saying a word. Thank the Lord she wasn’t in New York. This was bad enough. Heart racing, she almost ran down the street so fast, she almost missed them. There, in the window of the Tenaqua Thrift Shoppe, which, in a ironic juxtaposition, was across from their old apartment above the Chicken Shack. Even in high school, Victoria could never bring herself to shop there. Today, in the dingy window of the thrift store she spied a pair of Ferragamo flats sitting all alone, like they knew they were too good to intermingle with the rest of the junk there. Beautiful, shiny beacons calling to her! I’ll save you, Victoria thought.

  She went into the store and stopped. It smelled like someone’s grandmother’s house and looked worse. There were stacks of plates and glasses, children’s books, bicycles, old televisions, and racks and racks of clothes. It looked more like a storeroom than a store. Apparently someone had tried to create various ‘departments’, as all the antique electronics were on one shelf, and the sporting goods section, which consisted of a pair of ski boots so old that they had laces on them, a Suzanne Sommers Thighmaster and a basketball hoop without a net. She glanced at the mountain of clothes piled on an old card table and wondered what category they would fall into.

  Normally she would have hightailed it out of there, but things were hardly normal for Victoria anymore. If there was even one single pair of Ferragamos in here, who knew what else was hiding in the stacks of castoffs?

  She went to the desk and asked to see the shoes in the window. The clerk at the desk looked to be about 110 years old, and moved about as fast. He never spoke to her, just nodded and started to lock up the cash register so he could leave his post to get Victoria her shoes. By the time he emerged from behind the counter, Victoria had already jumped into the window display to pick up her treasure. She almost knocked him down on her way out, shoes in hand.

  She inspected the shoes. They were about six seasons old, with barely any wear. Black patent leather flats with the signature Ferragamo grosgrain ribbon and medallion. Basic, though a timeless classic. The turned the shoes over to look at the price. $19.00. Seriously? They looked brand new! She tried them on. They were at least a half size too small, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She jammed her foot in them like Cinderella’s stepsister.

&nb
sp; “Those look a little snug there,” the clerk said. Oh, now you can talk?

  She put them on the counter and told the clerk, “I’ll take them! Do you have any more like them?”

  The clerk was now busy trying to unlock the register and didn’t look up. “Shoes are on the wall,” his voice was almost a whisper. He didn’t look up.

  “No, do you have any more Ferragamos?” she asked, almost desperate.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s everything we’ve got.” Thanks for the help, buddy.

  Victoria spent the next half hour combing the racks in the store. She found a Trina Turk blouse tucked in between two ratty Old Navy T-shirts. She could understand giving away an Old Navy T-shirt (but never could really understand purchasing one), though a perfectly lovely Trina Turk blouse? She took a sniff and wrinkled her nose. It could use a trip to the dry cleaner. Another fabulous find: A pair of black Chaiken pants that must have been at least eight seasons old. They were old, yet still a classic. They were missing a button, and it looked like the waistband had put under some real pressure. They probably were someone’s ‘skinny‘ pants, no longer a viable option for the previous owner. Lord, she thought, some women never knew when it was time to move up to the next size. The pants, blouse and beautiful, beautiful shoes all for under the $50 she was going to spend at the Gap on a piece of crap. Not bad for a morning’s work. She was quite proud of herself as she put her flimsy white plastic bag of treasure into the basket on the bike and headed home.

  When she arrived back at the Brewster’s, Mike’s truck was there waiting for her. He was standing next to it, talking on the phone. Who could he be talking to? Victoria thought. His boss? His girlfriend? He never said that he wasn’t married, or if he had someone at all. The thought bothered her though it bothered her more that she cared at all. He hung up hastily as she approached.

  “Am I going to have to get a bike?” he asked. She looked beautiful, not a stitch of makeup, fresh from her ride.

  “You couldn’t keep up with me,” she answered. She was in such a good mood from her shopping expedition, even Mike couldn’t ruin her day.

  “Oh, I have some hidden talents as well.”

  “You’re just all about mystery, aren’t you?”

  “I am a professional, after all. What’s in the bag?”

  “You’re FBI. Don’t you already know?”

  “I’m FBI, not CIA.”

  “You’re hilarious,” she deadpanned.

  “So I’ve been told. Let’s see there. White plastic bag, no logo. Walking the dog? Or robbing a bank?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  He playfully tried to grab the bag from her. She quickly pulled it away from him and scolded him. “Get a warrant.”

  “Oh come on. I promise not to put it in my report.” Oops. That’s one way to kill a flirty conversation.

  “Your report?” she asked, all playfulness gone.

  He tried to make it seem like it was no big deal. “They need to know what I’m doing here every day.”

  It was this reminder of what exactly he was doing here that was the problem. Victoria quickly got her edge back. “Tell them you’re wasting your time.”

  ###

  Saturday morning Victoria laid in bed inspecting her mother’s dubious selection of window treatments. How could someone put up eyelet valences with a straight face? Those with the half-shutters made her feel like she was in Laura Ingall Wilder’s room. The Holly Hobby sheets didn’t help. Man, they were scratchy. Posey had gotten up early, presumably to eat junk and watch more junk. Victoria was just happy she didn’t have to get out of bed.

  Parker came into her room tentatively, afraid to wake her. She had been known to be just a tiny bit crabby in the morning. Lumi had more than once had dodged Victoria’s alarm clock that had been hurled at her from across the room. Trip always made it a point to be up and out before Victoria even opened her eyes. Even on vacation.

  Victoria rolled over and smiled at Parker. He really was one handsome boy. He looked like he could be in a Ralph Lauren ad, with his side-swept bangs and piercing blue eyes. Trip’s eyes. Oh well, she thought, the MIA bastard was good for something.

  “Hey there,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep.

  “Mom?” Parker stepped into the room.

  Victoria scooted over as far as she could in the twin bed and patted a spot for Parker to sit. “What’s up?”

  “Well, they’re having tryouts this afternoon, and I want to go,” he said, staring at the floor.

  “For the play? Wasn’t that last week?” Victoria asked.

  “No, for baseball. All the guys are doing it.” Parker perked up, ready to sell his idea.

  “Baseball?” He might as well have said bullfighting.

  “Yeah, it’s a house league and you play games against other towns. You get a uniform and everything. Matt G. , Will K., and Jack B. are all doing it!”

  Why people couldn’t come up with original names for their children, Victoria just couldn’t figure out. Thank God Parker wasn’t sentenced to be ‘Parker V.” for the rest of his school career.

  “Mom, please?” Parker’s hands were folded next to his chest.

  “Honey, you don’t play baseball,” Victoria pointed out. The closest Parker had ever come to a bat or ball was in box seats at Yankee Stadium, or when Alex Rodriguez came to school on Sports Day.

  Parker visibly deflated. “I know.”

  I can’t give him much these days, Victoria thought, but I can give him this! “I’m sure Bud plays baseball - he can help you,” she said. “Your hand-to-eye coordination is fantastic. You did win the last squash tournament!”

  Parker brightened up. “Oh mom - you’re the best! I’ll go get Bud!” He ran out of the room.

  Well done, she thought. She was able to give her child just what he wanted and didn’t even have to leave her bed.

  She shuffled into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, and Bud was at the table reading the paper.

  “Good morning, Bud!” she said, a little too brightly.

  “Parker already got to me,” he said.

  “Oh, Bud, thanks for helping him. I really appreciate it,” she sat down at the table opposite him.

  “Vicky, I wish I could. I really do. I threw my back out bowling last February and the doctor says I have to really watch it.” He lifted up his shirt to display a back brace that Victoria had no idea was there. “I can’t even tie my shoes. Why don’t you get him out there?”

  Seriously, Victoria thought, Bud had lost his mind.

  “Come on, you’ve played baseball before.”

  “In gym class, under duress,” she protested.

  “Well, if it’s not that important...” Bud said, going back to his paper.

  Damn! Who knew Bud had the guilt card, too? She thought only her mother knew how to play that one. Yes, she technically knew how to play baseball, and yes, she probably could teach him enough to keep him from embarrassing herself. Really, baseball?

  “We don’t even have a mitt or a ball,” Victoria was looking for any excuse.

  Bud jumped out of his chair, much too spry for a man with a debilitating bowling injury. “I’ve got a box in the basement - just you wait right there,” and he was off.

  Victoria sat alone at the table, feeling like Bud had just played her like a pro.

  ###

  Bud had been able to outfit Victoria and Parker not only with mitts and balls, also with baseball hats, and plastic bases. Mother and son looked quite professional in the back yard, until one saw Victoria throw the ball to Parker.

  “Mom!” Parker moaned as Victoria ball missed Parker by a mile and almost hit the family room windows. “Don’t throw it so hard.”

  Victoria hustled across the yard to pick up her errant ball. A-Rod deserved every million he mad, Victoria thought. Huffing, she went back to the “pitcher’s mound” Bud had set up for them. She tossed the ball underhand, and it landed with a thump about two feet in fro
nt of Parker.

  “Mom!” he complained. “This is never going to work! I’m never going to make the team.”

  Never one to back down from a challenge, Victoria went back to the mound, adjusted her hat, and threw with all her heart. The ball veered far past Parker and headed toward the back fence. A hand came up from behind the fence and easily grabbed the ball.

  The gate opened, and Mike walked in with the ball in his hand. “Watch where you’re throwing. You could hurt someone,” he said with a smile.

  Victoria panicked. It was one thing for him to follow her, but she didn’t want Parker to know that they were being watched by the FBI.

  Mike tossed the ball directly into Parker’s mitt. Parker caught it and smiled a triumphant smile.

  “Nice catch,” Mike said to Parker. “Mrs. Vernon, you are a woman of hidden talents,” he said to Victoria.

  Parker whispered loudly to Victoria, so loudly that Mike could hear. “Who’s that guy?”

  Mike didn’t miss a beat. “Exterminator.”

  “What’s a nuclear, Mom?” Parker asked.

  “Exterminator. The bug man,” Victoria said, challenging Mike with her gaze.

  “Bug man?” Parker asked. He still didn’t get it.

  “I get rid of nasty little bugs and critters. Vermin.” Mike didn’t back down.

  Parker stood with the ball in his mitt, looking between his mother and the man. Victoria walked over next to Parker and put her arm around him protectively.

  “Parker, this is Mr. Towner,” she said, with no offer of explanation. “Mr. Towner, this is my son Parker.”

  Mike held up his hands like a mitt. “Toss me that ball!” he told Parker.

  Not knowing what to do, Parker threw the ball to Mike. Mike exaggerated the velocity at which the ball hit his hands. “Man, you’ve got some arm there!”

  He tossed the ball back. Before she knew that it was happening, Mike and Parker were playing a rather successful game of catch. At least more successful than the game she had just been playing. Mike took off his jacket and was really getting into it.

  “Hey, Vernon!” he called to Victoria, “pass me that mitt.”