Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  inal last name endlessly amusing—or what bruisers the men were

  here. He made his SUV look like a Matchbox car. “Hop in,” he said.

  Magnolia hoisted herself into the backseat, where a rosy Polartec

  swaddled baby slept sweetly in a car seat.

  “That’s our youngest, Bjorn,” Misty said. “We’re picking up the

  big ones on the way to your hotel. Be there in a jiff.”

  “No rush, guys,” Magnolia said. “And thanks for meeting me. I

  can’t believe I’m here.”

  “Say what?” Bucky asked.

  “Excuse me?” Magnolia said.

  “Ya, you’re right, Misty,” he said. “She did get herself a New York

  accent.”

  “Don’t be a dork, Bucky,” Misty said. “She has not.” Misty paused. “Well, maybe a little. Like that woman on The Nanny reruns.” Magnolia, used to being complimented on her all-American dic

  tion, faked a laugh and looked out the window. It was only 3:45 in the afternoon but the northern light was rapidly fading. As Bucky drove

  on the crunchy, snow-packed streets, Misty delivered a voice-over.

  “See that house”—she pointed to a tidy split level surrounded by

  a few, bare trees. “That’s where Scott and Jen live now.” Magnolia

  guessed she was supposed to remember who they were. “And that one

  over there”—a vinyl-sided ranch already heavily illuminated for

  Christmas—“was Tom and Deb’s, but he hooked up with Cynthia.

  Deb’s a lesbian now. Moved to the Twin Cities.” Misty raised her eye

  brows in mock shock.

  Just as Magnolia began to try to imagine what life might have been

  like had she never left Fargo—would she be with Tom, assuming she

  could recall who he was? would she own a set of jumper cables and

  know what to do with them?—Bucky and Misty stopped in front of a

  school whose playground had been flooded with water that had frozen

  to create a skating rink. The jolt awoke the baby, who started to wail.

  In one fluid motion, Misty exited the SUV’s front passenger door,

  popped around and opened the back door, unbuckled the car seat, and

  plopped the startled child in Magnolia’s lap, saying “We’ll be back in

  two shakes—mind the baby, okay?”

  The chunky little boy took one look at Magnolia and cried at twice

  the volume. She tried to bounce him on her lap—that’s what mom

  mies did—but he felt heavier than Biggie, and her jerks succeeded

  only in making tears stream down his little chapped face. The child

  pulled off one red mitten, tossed it on the floor, and shrieked even

  louder. This roused the sleeping dog, who leaped over the seat and

  began to slobber on Magnolia’s mink and pant hotly in her face. She

  could see the dog’s breath in the chilly car.

  “What’s your name again?” Magnolia asked the unhappy infant. Lorne? Porn? “Bjorn!” Had Misty named her child for that Swedish tennis champ with the scraggly hair and headband? When they were both thirteen, she dimly remembered his face on a cover of Time plastered to her friend’s bedroom wall. Or was Bjorn the cool ethnic

  name here, the Upper Midwest equivalent of Jaden or Aiden?

  She stared out the window, which was getting fogged. Where were

  Bucky and Misty? The doors opened. Three apple-cheeked cherubs carrying ice skates

  crowded into the seat behind Magnolia, a blur of primary-colored

  jackets, pom-pom hats, and boots.

  “I’m Brittany,” said a mini Misty. “These are the twins, Brett and

  Brendan.”

  “Meet Mrs. Goldfarb, kids,” Bucky said.

  “Hello Mrs. Goldfarb,” Brittany said in a singsong that matched

  her parents.

  “Actually, that’s my mother—you can call me Magnolia.”

  “That’s a dumb name.”

  “Company manners, Brittany,” Misty said, not unkindly, to her

  daughter. “Maggie can call herself whatever she wants.”

  She turned around to face Magnolia as she continued their tour—

  the coffee bar where Siegel’s Menswear used to be, the sewage treat

  ment plant, the nonexistent landscaping. And in less than five

  minutes, they were pulling up to her hotel. “You’re going to love it

  here at the Donaldson—just like South Beach,” Misty said.

  I’ll be the judge of that, Magnolia thought.

  “Pick you up for supper at seven,” Misty shouted out the window

  as the SUV huffed around the corner.

  The last time she’d been in Fargo—twelve years earlier, before

  her parents abandoned the state for tennis in nonstop 70-degree

  sunshine—this hotel had been a flophouse. Now, from what Magnolia

  could tell, the whole town was getting subversively trendy. Loft condos

  had sprouted up where pawnshops used to be. A patisserie stood next to

  a tractor factory rehabbed into a sleek, postmodern office building that

  appeared to be furnished by Design Within Reach. Where were the

  endless freight trains whose cars she’d counted as a child, trains that

  dissected Fargo four times a day and made traffic—such as it was—

  come to a standstill? Magnolia hadn’t seen a one. And had all the lumpy,

  polyester people of her memory migrated, perhaps to South Dakota?

  At the Donaldson, a bellman opened the door to a suite twice the

  size of Magnolia’s first New York studio apartment. The walls were

  decorator white and the carpeting, sisal. “Is that a hot tub?” Magnolia asked the bellman, pointing to what

  looked like a small lap pool.

  “Ya, you betcha,” he said. “Welcome to the HoDo.”

  She wondered whether its water would freeze like the skating rink.

  As soon as he had left, she jacked up the thermostat to eighty degrees

  and kept her coat on as she unpacked. Maybe she would cancel Misty.

  HBO on the gigantic, flat-screened TV; a run-through of tomorrow’s

  speech; and room service sounded like a fine night. She studied the

  menu, which promised “artisanal twists on classic regional favorites.”

  What might they be? In the Goldfarb home, artisanal food was kugel,

  brisket, pastrami and rye bread—imported from Winnipeg or Min

  neapolis—and the occasional Sara Lee coffee cake. Here, who knew?

  Lutefisk? Jell-O martinis? Perhaps she’d drop in at the bar and check

  out the R&B band. Or the poetry reading. Really, her stay was going to

  be better than Disney World, and all for $144 a night.

  The telephone rang. She hoped it was Misty, canceling.

  “Maggie?” asked a nervous, high-pitched voice.

  It couldn’t be.

  “I read about your speech tomorrow in the Forun,” he said. “Welcome home.”

  “Tyler! Or do I have to call you Pastor Peterson now?”

  “You heard I got ordained?”

  “Did you have a choice?”

  “Ya, it’s kind of a family business.” When they grew up, Tyler’s

  dad herded the flock of Fargo’s largest Lutheran church, of which

  there were as many as Forest Gump had shrimp dishes. All of his

  older brothers had become ministers. “So, anyway, I was wonder

  ing …”

  “Yes, Tyler?”

  “If you could meet me? I’m in the bar downstairs.”

  Would Tyler wear a minister’s collar? Carry a bible? Say grace? Magnolia threaded her way through the dark, crowded hotel lounge, searching for the dirty-blond hair that used
to hang over her high

  school boyfriend’s eyes. Next to several men in orange, deer-hunting

  clothing, a group of shrill college girls dominated one end of the

  smoky bar, their male counterparts circling them like the chorus of a

  Bollywood movie. Magnolia turned in the opposite direction, where

  a few couples were sipping margaritas and chomping tortilla chips.

  No Tyler.

  Maybe he wasn’t going to show. Worse, maybe it had been a joke

  instigated by Bucky, who would roar through the door, slapping his

  beefy thigh and shouting, “Got ya, Goldfarb. Still got the hots for

  Tyler Peterson, huh?” She sat at a table and waited, crossing her arms

  against her breasts. Even with a layer of silk long johns under her

  jeans and a thick cashmere turtleneck, Magnolia wondered how she

  had ever survived here in Iglooville.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. In place of the Tyler she remem

  bered stood a serious man with wire-rimmed glasses and a blue knit

  ski hat. She could easily picture him at a desk in a bank, granting a

  loan to a customer in a John Deere cap. He stared at her and didn’t

  seem able to speak. Nor could she.

  “Maggie,” he said, after what felt like minutes. “I like your hair

  long.” He brushed away her bangs, and as his hand grazed her cheek,

  she shivered—this time not from the cold—and pulled him close,

  breathing in the clean scent of skin she’d know anywhere.

  “Aw, heck, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, as they sat down

  together. He pulled off his hat; his hair had turned brown. Magnolia

  blinked away her tears.

  “It’s just so great to be home.” She lied. The truth was, if she

  wanted to go to a Starbucks or a Gap, she could find dozens at home in

  Manhattan, with the same caramel macchiatos and boot-cut jeans.

  Nothing about Fargo felt remotely like the sweetly unadorned town of

  her memory. Nothing except Tyler Peterson. As he settled into his

  chair, she could picture him on the bench in his football uniform,

  turning shyly to look for her in the bleachers.

  “I don’t suppose you want the local specialty, a prairie fire—tequila and Tabasco?” Tyler said, as he smiled for the first time and ordered

  them a pitcher of beer. “Tell me about your life in New York.”

  “Magazine editor. Two wheaten terriers. Good friends. Not a lot to

  tell,” she said. Not a lot she wanted to tell. She didn’t know how to edit

  the caption for her life in a way that wouldn’t give Tyler the opportu

  nity to denounce her as an urban sinner. Divorcee, workaholic, child

  less woman, big spender. “You?”

  “Church in a town where the tallest building is the grain elevator,” he

  said, looking at his hands. “Wife, two kids, small house, big mortgage.”

  “Circle back to that wife part.”

  “Jody’s the sunniest girl I ever met.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Magnolia said, thinking no one was ever going

  to call her sunny. “Tell me everything.”

  “She’s a preacher’s kid, too; knows the drill; makes a mean ham

  burger hot dish, teaches bible camp, can sew a Halloween costume

  that fits over a parka,” he said, looking Magnolia straight in the eye

  for the first time. “But nothing’s perfect.”

  The hue and cry of married men on the make, she thought, then

  squashed the idea. Don’t flatter yourself, Magnolia. Tyler is probably

  here to save your soul. “I guess it’s the not-perfect part that keeps your

  business alive,” she said.

  “Secret of my success—people don’t show up on Sunday for my

  sermons.”

  “Pictures?” Magnolia asked.

  Tyler reached into the pocket of his corduroys, pulled out a canvas

  wallet, and opened it to a shot of two young teenagers—a pudgy,

  sunburned girl and a boy who looked remarkably like the Tyler who

  had sat next to her in geometry class twenty years earlier. They

  were standing in front of an RV. “We took this last summer at

  Yellowstone,” he said proudly.

  “They’re so old,” Magnolia stammered. She had prepared herself

  for babies.

  “We sort of had to get married,” he said and laughed again, this

  time nervously, absentmindedly rubbing his bare ring finger. “Tyler Peterson, are you blushing? It’s not like you were a virgin.”

  As soon as Magnolia said it she wondered if she shouldn’t take down

  the smart-ass tone a notch. When she last knew this man, he did not

  have an ironic bone in his damn good body.

  “My wife reads your magazine,” he said. “She’s been following

  your career.”

  “My brilliant career?” Magnolia said, bristling at the “wife” word. “So I guess you know that Bebe Blake runs the show now.”

  “Jody figured that out. Watches Bebe every day,” he said. “I don’t

  get that woman. Can you explain her to me?”

  “I doubt it,” Magnolia said. But the look on Tyler’s face showed he

  expected an answer.

  “Hot-and-cold-running ego. But just when you really start hating

  her, she does something decent. Then, when you let yourself like her,

  she ignores you completely.”

  “Why do you submit yourself to that?” he asked.

  “Well …” Magnolia said. It was an utterly reasonable question,

  but she wasn’t quite ready for pastoral counseling. Because even a not

  great job is better than men, who never fail to disappoint? Because she

  was afraid that living in a place as regular as Fargo would be an

  e-ticket to hell?

  “Maggie Goldfarb, are you blushing?” Tyler asked. He filled their

  glasses for the second time, put his hand on top of hers and slowly

  moved his palm toward her wrist. She felt warm everywhere, as if

  they’d both stripped and were breathing heavily under the universe’s

  most luxurious duvet. “Soft,” he said, as he moved his fingers toward

  her arm.

  Soft, she repeated to herself. She time-traveled to their first date,

  when they’d French-kissed for hours in the back of the Fargo Theatre

  and she confirmed firsthand the definition of the term “orgasm.”

  Tyler continued to stroke her wrist until he reached her watch.

  Magnolia jolted back to reality. “Jesus, Tyler,” she said. “Oh, Christ,

  sorry I said ‘Jesus.’ What time is it?” She yanked her arm away and

  quickly stood. “Bucky is picking me up in five minutes.” “That fool who hawks cars on Channel Four?” he asked, not sound

  ing one bit like the Reverend-anything.

  “Don’t act like you don’t remember Bucky,” she said. “You were

  on the same football team.” Is he jealous, she wondered? And are

  they both insane? “It’s not a date—it’s supper. Misty Knight is the one

  who invited me to speak tomorrow.” Why was she explaining this to

  Tyler?

  “But when will I see you?” he said as he stood up to help her into

  her coat.

  “Tyler, get a grip …” she said, but this time she didn’t finish her

  sentence because he leaped forward and kissed her. His tongue tasted

  like slow dancing, like high-octane teenage hormones, like midnight

  skinny-dipping at Pelican Lake.

  She pulled
herself away, ran out the door and into the street.

  Magnolia had expected Saturday’s event to be the equivalent of a lunchtime facial. It turned into a heart-lung transplant. Starting

  at 8:30, seventy journalists from Montana, the Dakotas, and western

  Minnesota assembled to praise and dissect one another in a drone of

  panel discussions. Only at 2:30, after the last cup of weak black coffee

  following pale chicken and limp broccoli bathed in hollandaise, did

  Misty approach the podium for Magnolia’s introduction.

  “I remember her as Maggie Goldfarb, my coeditor on the South

  High newspaper, but to all of you she’s the famous New York magazine editor, the former editor in chief of Lady and now an editor with Bebe Blake on Bebe. Let’s give it up for Magnolia Gold, Fargo girl made good!” Magnolia wondered if Misty, the former cheerleading

  captain, would finish with the splits.

  Applause carried Magnolia to the front of the auditorium. She

  looked out at the sea of faces attached to Lands’ End work clothes.

  Embarrassed to think of her Manhattan colleagues seeing her feted

  like a rock star, she waved for the crowd to stop clapping and signaled

  a tech wonk to begin her how-a-magazine-gets-made lecture. When Magnolia read that public speaking was many people’s worst

  fear, she never got it. Put her in front of a microphone and a trained

  monkey took over. Where this creature came from—complete with

  stand-up comic timing—she never knew, and she could rarely sum

  mon her on command. Today the audience laughed and clapped at all

  the right places, and, in thirty minutes that felt to her like five, her

  presentation was already done.

  “Questions?” she asked.

  “What do you pay celebrities to be on the cover?” asked a Missoula

  court reporter.

  “Absolutely nothing,” Magnolia said. “No money changes hands.” Just a lot of tsuris, she thought, plus hairsplitting negotiations over locations, photographers, writers, stylists, hair and makeup crew, and

  photo retouching.

  “Your edit doesn’t begin until page 102,” complained a food editor

  from Bismarck. “Why are there this many ads?”

  “Without advertising, cover prices for magazines would be so high

  no one would buy them,” Magnolia said, although every reader bitched

  about the same thing. “Newsstand sales are only a small part of the