by Jackie Rose
“I hope it fits, Evelyn. It’s too late to find another one.” She gave me crap about losing too much weight, but secretly, she was ecstatic about it.
“I’m 132 pounds, Mom. It better fit.”
She spread a sheet out onto the floor (Martha Stewart Weddings, Spring: “Avoiding Dress Disasters”) and gently removed the dress from its bag. I stepped into the gown and pulled it up smoothly. No snagging on the hips, this time.
“Do it up! Do it up!” I said. This was it, I could feel it.
“Hold on a second,” she said, fluffing out the skirt. “Are your boobs properly adjusted?”
“Come on already!”
“Okay, sweetie. Here goes…” And just like that, she zipped it up and stepped back.
“Oh my,” she gasped. “Evelyn—you’re breathtaking.”
I turned to face the full-length mirror.
It didn’t look at all like me. Was that little waist mine? And those collarbones? Where had my breasts gone? Instead of pride and relief, I felt the vague stirrings of panic and fear.
Mom was getting a little teary-eyed. “I can’t believe you actually did it, dear. I didn’t think you could, but you did,” she said. “When I saw it in the bag, it didn’t look like much, to be honest with you. Very plain. But you were right—it’s much prettier than the one at Sternfeld’s. Much more elegant. You look like a princess. And that’s how a girl should feel on her wedding day.”
How would she know?
“Are you sure it looks okay?” I asked shakily. Maybe it was because I was having a bad-hair day, but I didn’t feel much like a bride. It felt more like Halloween. I looked good, thin; the mirror told me at least that. But I felt strange.
“Don’t fish for compliments, Evelyn. It’s not attractive. You know it looks more than just okay. You look like a model. Try on the shoes and the veil.”
I put the shoes on. They were a little higher than what I normally wear—okay, a lot higher.
“Try walking,” she said. “I’ll call the seamstress and tell her we’re ready to come for the alterations now. It’s just the right size, so don’t you dare lose a single pound more…”
The phone rang and she darted off into the kitchen. I strayed off the sheet and tried walking around the room a little. My feet were already killing me. I suddenly just wanted The Dress back in the closet where it belonged. I took it off and lay down on the bed and tried to imagine how Bruce would react when he saw me in it for the first time. Then I imagined what Jade would say if he saw me in it. Then I realized that was just plain wrong, so I went back to thinking about Bruce. Maybe he would be so overcome by emotion that he’d fall to his knees right then and there. Or maybe he wouldn’t even notice. I could wear a potato sack, he’d still think I looked beautiful. I knew that was a good thing. No, a great thing—but for some reason, it still annoyed me at that moment.
A strange sound was coming from the kitchen, distracting me. It took a second or two for me to realize that it was Mom’s muffled giggles. I ventured into the living room so that I could hear better.
“Oh, you really shouldn’t say such things,” she said.
Who the hell could she be talking to?
“Albert, I’m fifty-one. You can’t say things like that to a fifty-one-year-old woman.”
Albert?
“No—don’t stop. I was only kidding. Of course I don’t mind.” More giggles. It was revolting. “Oh, Albert, stop it.”
But the hilarious Albert would not be stopped, and Mom cackled like a hyena. Enough was enough. I snuck up behind her.
“Mom,” I said loudly. “Who’s that?”
She jumped up from the chair and slammed the receiver down.
“Oh dear,” she said sadly, looking at it. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Who’s Albert?”
“You heard?”
“Yes I heard, this apartment only has four rooms. Who’s Albert?”
The phone rang. She looked at it.
“Pick it up,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Yes, yes. Fine. I’ll pick it up,” she said. I’d never seen her so frazzled. “Hello?”
Poor Albert. Probably thought she was really mad at him.
“Sorry about that, Albert. But I’ll have to call you back, Evelyn’s here. Fine, I’ll see you then. ’Bye for now.”
She looked at me guiltily. “Now, I don’t want you to get upset about this….”
“Do you have a boyfriend? That wouldn’t bother me. Why do you think that would bother me? I’d be happy for you.” I said it and meant it, but it somehow felt a bit like a lie.
“Good,” she said, and exhaled slowly. “Because I do. Ha! I have a boyfriend!”
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to find Mom a date for the wedding, so this was very good news. Shocking, but good.
“So, who is he?” I asked, and sat down.
“He’s divorced.”
“That’s all you can think to say about this guy? He must be very interesting.”
“I don’t mind that he’s divorced. But I thought you should know.”
“Thanks for telling me. It’ll take some time for me to get used to the idea since you know how seriously I uphold the tenets of the Church.”
“He’s Italian,” she explained.
“Thank God.”
“His name is Albert Casella, and he sells computers.”
At least he had a job. “Where did you meet him?”
“On the Internet.”
“But you don’t have a computer,” I reminded her.
“I let Claire fix me up. It started off that I just wanted to get her off my back. She found him on a…what do you call that…a Web site? A Web site where Italian mothers fix up their children. She gave him my number. I was mad at first, and I just wanted to get rid of him and tell Claire that I’d tried so now she could leave me alone, but we got along so well. We had so much to talk about. Can you imagine? And he lives right here in Bensonhurst, just off 18th Avenue, and he knows Mary Manardi. Remember her? She was my old boss at the DMV before she retired. Can you believe what a small world it is? Anyway, we still keep in touch from time to time, so I called her right away and asked about this guy Albert, and she said he’s been friends with her son Freddie for many years, and that he always seemed like a nice person. And she knows his mother, too, from church.”
I don’t think I’d ever heard Mom say so many words in a row without complaining. She was definitely giddy. “Well, at least that’s a character reference,” I offered.
“Exactly, so I called him back and told him that he checked out fine, and so we went to a movie a couple of weeks ago and then out for dinner.”
“A movie? But you never go to the movies.” She hadn’t been to a movie in years.
“Have you seen the new one with Brad Pitt? It’s excellent.”
“Mom, stop it. You’re freaking me out.”
“So we’ve been on three dates since then, and we’re going out tomorrow night, too. He’s taking me to see Rent.”
I shook my head gravely. “How do you know he’s not some freak that wants to swindle you out of your pension or sell you termite insurance?” There were plenty of debonair lunatics roaming the country, preying on needy old women (Harper’s Bazaar, January: “The Socialite and the Bigamist: A Tawdry Tale of Lust, Lies and a Leveraged Buyout Scam”).
“For heaven’s sake, Evelyn. Give me a little credit. I’m not so vain that I can’t see the forest for the trees. He’s fifty-seven years old, and he’s losing his hair. He’s not some handsome young con artist like on one of those TV shows. I think he wants what I want—a little companionship, someone to have a good time with. That’s all.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, Mom,” I told her. “You deserve it.”
What else was there to say?
The thought of Mom having a social life was bizarre. For days, I couldn’t get the image of her and this Albert out of my head, which was frustrating
because I had no idea what he looked like. With the right light, Mom was still a very attractive woman, and she deserved more than some fat, old, bald guy. Bruce and I would go and meet him, I resolved. I’m sure Mom wanted our approval anyway. She was probably scared to death that we wouldn’t like him or something. But we’d have to keep an open mind. This was probably her last chance.
That weekend, I had the overwhelming urge to clean out my closet for the first time in two years. It was stuffed with hideous and large things I would never be wearing again, which only served to remind me of my formerly enormous self and which were taking valuable space away from items which deserved to be there.
“What are you doing?” Bruce asked as I sat on the floor, surrounded by shoe boxes and old purses.
“What does it look like?”
“Cleaning?”
“Give the man a prize,” I said.
“So the pack rat admits defeat,” he smiled.
“I’m making a fresh start. Out with the old and in with the new,” I told him.
“That’s great. Hey—can I have that boa? The drama department could use it for the spring play. We’re doing Cage Aux Folles.”
“No. I’m saving it for Halloween. Isn’t that production a little risque for ten-year-olds?”
“Not really. They see it more as a mildly amusing contemporary farce. And it lets them show off their French. Besides, it could’ve been worse—they’re deconstructing the relationship between homosexuality, violence and religious ritual within the plays of Jean Genet in their Language Arts class, so Cage Aux Folles is really a much safer choice, all things considered.”
“Of course it is.” Whatever.
I reached far into the depths of the closet and began pulling out anything I hadn’t worn in two months. “Pass me that garbage bag, please,” I said.
“You’re getting rid of all that? You used to love that pinstripe suit. You said it was the only thing that made you look skinny.”
“It’s a size twelve,” I spat, and shoved it deep into the bottom of the bag.
He flopped down on the bed and made himself comfortable. “And what about those jeans? You don’t want those anymore?”
“They have an elastic waist, Bruce. Would you mind leaving me alone?”
“It’s just that I find this sad. I don’t know why. Don’t you? Even a little bit?”
“I find it exhilarating. If I never see any of these things again, it’ll be too soon. Big and stretchy are now officially banished from my wardrobe. If you have a problem with that, why don’t you put on a few pounds and see what it feels like.”
“Well, don’t throw anything out,” he said, getting up. “We’ll bring it all to the goodwill bin tomorrow.”
Why bother? I thought. People poor enough to wear some stranger’s old clothes aren’t supposed to be fat. But I knew better than to say something like that out loud in front of Bruce. If it were Morgan or Theo, maybe. But not Bruce. “Why bother?” I said instead. “These clothes are so disgusting, nobody would want them. I’d rather see them on fire in the city dump. Or at least let homeless people burn them in those metal garbage cans to keep warm. That’s what we should do. Donate them as fuel for the homeless this winter.”
“Ah,” Bruce said, his hand over his heart. “The spirit of charity is alive and well in our very own Evelyn Mays.”
After he left the room, I pulled out the pinstripe suit. I did use to love it—a charcoal-gray Ralph Lauren that I got for practically nothing at a great sample sale two years ago. On days when I felt like a real cow, it was the only thing that made feel remotely human again. Maybe I could keep it and turn it into a lampshade or a pillowcase or something.
Yeah right.
I shoved it back into the bag. There was really no sense in hanging on to it—I would never wear it again. But like an old friend, it was still sad to see it go.
14
The perfect moment I’d been waiting for to ask Pruscilla about my raise never came, so I figured I’d have to take whatever chance I could get. Of course, I knew that the chances of her saying yes, even under the best of circumstances, would be slim to none, but it couldn’t hurt to ask. After a few days of chickening out, I finally approached her. Not coincidentally, it was also the same morning I got my first-ever threatening letter from a collection agency, reminding me that I had not remitted my minimum Visa payment in three months, and that if I didn’t fork over some cash soon, they were going to break my legs. Thank God Bruce didn’t see it—he was on a trip to Pittsburgh to talk to some kid who knew pi to the 2500th decimal, whatever that means.
Pruscilla, ungodly freak that she is, is always happiest on Monday mornings, so I figured the timing couldn’t be better. Not surprisingly, she was already buried under a pile of paperwork. She’d probably been in since five.
“Do you have a minute?” I asked her sweetly. It was 8:26, according to my watch—I was early, and that had to be good for a few brownie points.
“Sure, Evie. Come on in. Did you have a nice weekend?” Hmm…friendly. So far, my plan was working.
“Actually, no. Bruce was out of town and I spent the weekend trying to fix our overflowing toilet.” It was an absolute lie, but a lie for the greater good.
“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” she mumbled, already disinterested.
“It wasn’t. But we can’t afford a plumber. Which brings me to the reason I wanted to talk to you.” No sense in beating around the bush.
She looked up from her papers.
“I know I went through a rough spot in the fall when you were away, and there’s really no excuse. Suffice it to say that you were right about being newly engaged and how hard it would be for me to concentrate.”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Anyway, I think I’ve really turned things around since then. And call me crazy, but I think you’ve noticed. Haven’t you? I also think you know by now how much I treasure working here, and how much I love the people I work with. This job means a lot to me.” I was careful not to lay it on too thick.
I gave her a moment to respond, but she didn’t say anything. So I continued.
“I wanted to take a moment to thank you, both for giving me a second chance, and for being my mentor. If you knew how many times a day I ask myself, ‘how would Pruscilla do this?’…well, I don’t want to embarrass you.”
If that wasn’t good for a spontaneous offer, then I don’t know what was.
“To be honest, I’d rather not have to ask you this outright, because I’m like you in the sense that I think talking about money is crass and should be avoided whenever possible…”
“I don’t mind talking about money,” she said, shaking her head. I could sense she wasn’t taking the bait. “But there’s a time and place for it. The problem comes when people don’t respect that.”
An inauspicious beginning, perhaps, but when she heard the reason why I needed the raise so desperately, I hoped she would see things my way. Besides—the risk was definitely worth the reward. A raise would be a whole lot simpler than cutting back on shopping. “Well, I’ll just come out and say it, then. I’d like a raise. I know I had one less than a year ago, but that was only $1800 more…”
“Your raise was in exact accordance with the KW pay scale for all employees of your position and level of experience,” she interrupted. “Anything more than that has to be earned.”
“I know, and since I figured I came through my probation period with flying colors…”
“I wouldn’t say flying colors. It’s more like you squeaked by without making any grievous errors.”
“That, too, and I also tried really hard to improve my whole attitude. I take my job much more seriously now, thanks to you, and I give it my all. It’s just that if you knew what’s going on in my life right now….”
“Evelyn, employees are raised once a year, after their evaluations,” she said shrilly. “The only exception to this would be if a manager feels that someone has go
ne above and beyond what is expected of her, and has displayed outstanding initiative and personal involvement. That type of commitment is usually rewarded with a promotion, which, in turn, leads to more money. Do you understand?”
For a split second, I thought she might mean she wanted to promote me. But then I came to my senses.
“In your case,” she continued, “showing up five or ten minutes late compared to thirty or forty minutes late is not what I’d call outstanding initiative. Nor is figuring out new ways to make paper-clip sculptures, romancing yourself in the bathroom mirror every half hour, or delegating absolutely everything you do to the interns.”
“Aren’t they here to learn?”
“Heaven help us if they learn anything from you,” she said, as if I weren’t even in the room.
“I have no choice but to assume you’re saying no, then?” I asked, all hope fading.
She slammed her palms down on the desk and stood up. “Not only am I saying no, I’m considering rolling back your salary to what it was when you started here. You certainly haven’t accepted any more responsibility since then, and some of your mistakes have cost the company a lot of money.”
“I’ve never made a mistake like that,” I pointed out.
“Every time you screw up it costs us time. Time for me or you or someone else to fix things. And if you think I’ve forgotten about all that confusion last May regarding the egregious overpayment of your friend the photographer, whose dreadful overexposures virtually ruined our fall flyers… Oh, Evelyn, the prospect of remembering every one of your accidents and misunderstandings and ‘but-it-wasn’t-my-fault-Pruscillas’ makes me wonder what’s wrong with me that I’ve put up with it for so long. The fact that you could come in here and have the gall to ask for a raise right now shows me that you put your own interests above Kendra White’s and that the only reason you show up every day is for the paycheck,” she finished triumphantly.
