Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  Sinking down into the sofa cushions, I unfold the last note. At first glance, I don’t match the slanted cursive with writing that I should know. “Mari, In case I do not tell you this more than a dozen times, tonight is spectacular and you, my dear, are divine in that dress. All my love and admiration, Tess.”

  It’s sweet. But it’s not…

  I realize that I was hoping to have word from him. Mine enemy.

  Just as I am about to revisit the disappointment from days in that overstuffed lobby chair twenty years ago, I see my handkerchief through the slit in the box.

  The handkerchief that I forgot to get back from Beau.

  Though I am sad he did not feel comfortable returning it to me in person, it does provide me with a chance to thank him for his thoughtfulness. I reach in and grab the embroidered, wrinkled fabric. I take care of people every day. But when I stood on tiptoe and blotted his tie, I realized, for the first time, how great it could be to take care of one special person.

  Lifting the handkerchief to my nose, I inhale the scent of his cologne. I smooth out the wrinkles and know this square piece of fabric won’t be washed for a while. This is a bit pathetic, but I am learning to be honest with myself. As I press down and eliminate the creases, I see a bit of blue. Slowly, I unfold the white cotton and discover a message scrawled in crayon just for me.

  “When you are ready for our second dance, call me. 602-555-4325—Beau. P.S. I got this idea from Haley. Watch out for her!”

  I outline his phone number over and over until my fingertips store it in memory. Could this new life I have been forced into include the courage to call a guy like Beau? Angelica wouldn’t hesitate for a second…unless she liked the guy. Is that what will keep me from dialing this number? I hold a blatant invitation in my hands and still assume he is merely being courteous.

  Before the night is over and exhaustion consumes me, I have written Beau’s number down in five different places, just in case I lose the handkerchief, or toss the address book, or crash my hard drive (known to happen), or forget where the yellow piece of legal pad paper is tucked in my Bible. But it is while I am engraving the ten digits into my toaster that it hits me…I don’t want to risk losing this number because, for the first time, I might be willing to risk my pride for a boy.

  Correction, this boy.

  For five years I have built up such a defense to the name Beau that I shudder when the name comes to mind. Anything I have done, from organizing bingo tournaments to teaching residents how to knit, has been compared to his abilities. And I never measure up. How could I ever feel anything except small and useless in his presence?

  Yet I did feel something else. I felt safe and strong and able to express myself around him. This perfect person who set the bar so ridiculously high for my glamourless job did not come across as judgmental even when I stood pouting.

  While getting ready for bed, I notice my briefcase has fallen over during one of Elmo’s pursuits of imaginary bugs. I’m restuffing the leather with random notes, a crossword puzzle, issues of Lucky, Self, and Contemporary Woman from my recent effort to understand my age group, and then I see what I have forgotten all about.

  Beau’s file.

  His face comes to mind instantly. And because of our encounter, my possession of this personnel file is even more invasive and wrong and—let’s face it—incredibly lucky. Without calling him, without swallowing my pride, I can get to know Beau. I clap to turn on my bedside lamp, and for the next hour my thoughts are all of him. I read every review (all excellent), every recipe (Rae wasn’t kidding; the guy did win local cook-offs), every comment submitted by residents and coworkers (he’s a god). By the time I have read it all, I am more relieved than disappointed. I didn’t really want to find dirt on him.

  Not now.

  But just so I can make peace with this picture-perfect file, I add one small blemish. On his last review I add the notation, “Seems too good to be true. Someone should look into this further.”

  Before I drift off, a question enters my mind. If I have faced the enemy, and he has kind eyes and a squeaky-clean record and doesn’t seem to be an enemy at all…who have I really been battling all these years at Golden Horizons?

  Taking Chances

  Do you believe in plagues?” I ask at a volume loud enough to be heard over the yells and shouts of pre-Easter shoppers. (I have yet to hear a hosanna among them.)

  “Like locusts?” Caitlin runs her fingers over the latest fabric combinations. “This is sad.” She looks with disappointment at the department store’s version of a display.

  “More like…lousy luck, date drought, faith famine…contemporary plagues.”

  “Oh, what’s this one?” Caitlin points to the speakers overhead.

  “I dunno,” I say, an unwilling participant.

  “Sure you do. Name it,” Caitlin chirps.

  I listen to a few beats of the song. “Muskrat Love.”

  She listens for a bit and nods overzealously. “Incredible. And no, I don’t think you are experiencing personal, contemporary plagues, if that is what you are getting at.”

  “Maybe not full-fledged biblical plagues, but perhaps these days God serves up plaguettes. Mini-disasters to remind us of his power.”

  She rolls her eyes at my twisted thinking. “I can explain your date drought plaguette, as you call it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Do I want to know?”

  “You are picky. Holding out for something great. You, Mari, have had dates lately and you just aren’t interested.” She says this while trying on a hat of purple fake fur. “Whereas I have not had a date in nearly two years. If anyone has been infested by plagues, it is me.”

  “Correction. One date. What is your plaguette?” I don’t tell her about Beau. Not yet. Besides, I probably ruined a perfectly good chance at a real date. I wish I knew if he put the handkerchief in the box before or after my childish outburst.

  “Mary Margaret is trying to take credit for the outfit I created for you. Can you believe it?” She adjusts her revised apron look self-consciously. Two aprons tied together create a skirt and a third apron tied in the back over a turtleneck. It reminds me of a baby’s bib, but I know she is hoping the apron look made locally famous by the Kevin Milano photo will be noticed out in public.

  “I’ll vouch for you. Just tell me how. I’d love to take on Mary Margaret.” I pantomime rolling up my sleeves for a fight.

  “I don’t suppose you will have any more photo ops? As great as that caption was, I’m afraid I’ll need a second chance.”

  I examine the combination she has just pulled from nearby shelves and racks: a striped blouse, pencil skirt, and a pair of Doc Martens. She is discreetly draping them over the display figure closest to her while watching for the salesclerk. “You’ll get your chance; I just know it.”

  “Miss! Miss, can I help you?” a salesgirl comes from behind the counter and approaches us as fast as her white boots can carry her. Blond, sleek hair is rolled in giant, old-fashioned rollers. I think she and Caitlin should get along, but they eye each other with distrust and disapproval. However, there is a moment just before the woman’s lip curls like Lisa Presley’s that I see something that resembles respect for Caitlin’s impromptu display.

  “No, just looking. Thank you.” Caitlin waves and we rush out the door.

  “Let’s just go home. If we put together a noteworthy outfit for my date with Jace, it should be easier to plan clothing for Sadie’s event.” I desperately want to cut this afternoon short so I can look at those ten digits and consider the possibility of making a call.

  “Practical, but shortsighted. What if this weekend presents you with an opportunity and you are not dressed for it? I’ve seen your closet, and you definitely at least need a stellar pair of shoes. Ah,” she shoots at my forthcoming argument. “I’m right. We need to go two blocks and take a left.”

  I play the reluctant child who insists on immediate gratification while shopping. We stop at an ice cream stand
and a corner coffee kiosk before arriving at the store, Best Foot Forward. “That’s so Angelica,” I say when I see the stiletto-logo adorned door.

  “Well, they do carry her overly promoted brands, but they also include a lot of unknown, fabulous labels.”

  “No, that’s Angelica. Look.” I nod my fudge-dipped cone toward the woman just passing through the doors.

  “Stick with me. She’ll lead you toward a shoe purely for the name. Just watch. Down the cone or toss it.”

  “No fair,” I whine. My nap time is approaching quickly. As we enter the very chic narrow store filled with well-lit glass shelves, I mimic Angus’ greeting. “Angel!”

  This must be Angelica’s code name within her inner circle because she turns around with an air of popularity and known-ness. But when her eyes take in two old friends, she puts on a more casual countenance. The one she uses for everyday intimidation purposes.

  “Looks like we all need shoes for the stargazer party.” Caitlin decides to start us all off on the same foot, so to speak.

  “Need, want…all the same when it comes to shoes.” Angelica’s eyes brighten with purpose as she looks down at my raggedy pair of Converse sneakers. “I’d say it’s a blessing I am here.” With authority she turns to the saleswoman and beckons her by name. “Lucinda, let’s start with these, and these, and where is the April release from Manolo?” She grabs various styles by their skinny straps and dangles them in front of Lucinda’s permanent smile.

  I shouldn’t be surprised to find that Angelica knows the store date for shoe arrivals the way I know the dates for new Muzak compilations and books on aging.

  Caitlin stabs me in the side with her sunglasses to be sure I am noticing Angelica’s gorilla label tactics. I hold my hands up, submitting to whatever unfolds and not taking any responsibility.

  “Lucinda, is it? Nice to meet you. I’m Caitlin and this is Mari. Could you bring out Revel Yell’s new four-inch heel?” She positions herself between Angelica and the woman in charge. “And if you have any of last year’s divine black leather boots from GaGa, bring those with you too. The ones with the tassel wrap, not the buckle. Thank you.”

  Two can play this game, apparently.

  I sit down on a large scoop of a chair that resembles a guitar pick more than a piece of furniture. Such comfort. They can fight over my feet, but my rear belongs to this goofy chair. Lucinda snaps her fingers and I start to rise, thinking I am not worthy to sit here. Her command brings out two assistants. One to take our size and style requests, and one to serve sparkling cider and petits fours while we wait.

  Nobody told me snacks were involved. “We should have my next intervention here.” I lick pink frosting from my finger and am ignored. Caitlin and Angelica are facing off, peering into tissue paper and sleek boxes to accept or reject offerings from the back room. My unsolicited comments and shoe opinions are clearly irrelevant to today’s outcome.

  Half a dozen petits fours later, Lucinda is looking haggard, whereas Angelica and Caitlin seem energized as they near a consensus. Torn between two cults of fashion, I’m the disheveled recruit they would all love to shape, dress, and use to bring others into the fold.

  Assistant one clears a path from the back room to my feet. And as she bows down and removes my sneakers, Angelica and Caitlin stand on either side of her like the little shoulder-perching devil and angel that appear in dream sequences about temptation. They both are grinning widely. Could it be that the shoe will fit and I will be transformed into some version of myself that pleases both?

  Breath is held all about me as I watch a pair of lavender shoes emerge from the rubble. The heel is considerable, but the trim is a very delicate, an iridescent weave of fabric so fine that at first I think it is merely a shaft of light from Lucinda’s diamond ring reflecting off of the satin. This thread winds the length of the shoe, from the heel to the very tip of a slim band of satin where the most intricate, understated fabric flower adorns my big toe.

  I am captivated but don’t want to give in too easily. “I’m afraid of heights.” I take a few steps and then tell my group of observers about a speech I gave in seventh grade against the Chinese practice of binding women’s feet. Seems my generation has introduced its own version of social status through podiatry pain.

  “You get used to it, believe me. And the downward slant makes you look like you have somewhere to go,” Caitlin responds while Angelica likely wonders how on earth we all remain friends.

  “Oh, hey…that could work for me.”

  “Shall I wrap these up for you?” Lucinda moves so quickly I almost don’t notice the price tag. It is the extra zero that catches my eye.

  Now I hold my breath. “This is not practical. Maybe if I had not blown my only chance at Majestic Vista…and lost my job…”

  My two friends are delighted with their selection. They have crossed the great divide for the sake of shoes and friendship and will not accept no for an answer.

  Caitlin repeats her view of dressing for opportunity and Angelica could not be more agreeable. “Yes, you must. I just wish you had a date to see these shoes.”

  The smile sneaks up on me.

  Angelica notices. “Really? Do tell.” She strings this out with great amusement.

  I tell them about Beau, the party, and the handkerchief…but nothing of engraving the number on my toaster. Still, they understand the seriousness of my interest.

  Angelica hands the shoe box to Lucinda and places her hand on top as if taking an oath. “That’s it then. You absolutely must. She’ll take these.”

  Caitlin is equally thrilled. “Wear them for confidence when you call Beau and ask him to Sadie’s event. The timing is too perfect.”

  I protest while downing the last of the cider straight from the bottle. “But will these really be in season ever again?”

  Caitlin has the answer to this. “Taking chances, Mari, is always in season.”

  I look at their faces, which are so often scrunched in opposition to the other’s viewpoint. But today their best foot forward is in a common direction.

  As I hand Lucinda my zero-balance credit card I am telling myself, “I must take this chance.” I’m not a shopper at heart, but today I am buying wholeheartedly into this ideology about life and fashion…and other important things.

  Suddenly, I have a fantastic desire to make toast.

  Stars and Stripes Forever

  I wait as though Beau is not going to show up. I have told myself to not put on my new shoes until he knocks at the door so that I don’t appear overly ready. I pace, my stomach aches, and I check the television schedule again to see if there is something worth canceling date number two for, or that will be a consolation prize if I am stood up. All I have to do is look at Beau’s personnel file to know he is a stand-up guy rather than a standing-up guy.

  Elmo senses my anxiety and hides beneath my couch where he is howling a personal sonnet of fret. I try to coax him out with canned cat food, but he is determined to stay put until I leave, taking my nervous energy with me.

  The bell rings. I do a Rae mule impersonation in front of my mirror before opening the door. A big bouquet of flowers is extended at eye level. Lily petals tickle my nose and I sneeze.

  “Sorry about that, Mari.” Beau removes the flowers from my breathing path and points the blooms toward the floor. “I didn’t know you were…”

  “No, I’m not! At all. I love flowers,” I shout and grab the colorful bundle from his clutches so he’ll feel good about his gentlemanly efforts. “Look, no sneezing.” I wave the flowers in front of my nose at a respectable distance as he steps into my three by five entryway.

  By now I have most of my vases back from Yvette. All except for two because Zane, it turns out, is quite an old-fashioned romantic.

  My former enemy now sits on the edge of my couch and takes in the limited space of my dwelling. “Nice. I really love your style, Mari.” I like that he likes using my name. It sounds nice gliding toward me on his deep voic
e. “You seem really calm. I’m more nervous than I thought I would be.”

  I glance over at the toaster and laugh at my obsessive nature. If he only knew. “I avoided caffeine for two days so I would come across this way.” I confess the most acceptable part of my strange behavior and slip on my divine new shoes. At the door, I reach for my coat and Beau moves toward me to help me angle the sleeves to my arms. I had seriously considered wearing one of Tess’ mink stoles, but I figured a gathering of plant and nature lovers was not the place to strut my animal exploitation attire.

  “Are your friends meeting us there?” He asks with nothing better to ask.

  “Yes. I’m so glad you will have a chance to meet them in one setting. I hope it won’t feel like overload for a first…” I don’t want to say the word in case he would choose different terminology to describe this encounter.

  “Second date.” Beau raises two piano playing fingers to correct me.

  I smile inside and out.

  I step out the door first, which is awkward because I have to double back and lock the door with my key. Standing face-to-face on the narrow step, I squeeze past him as he steps back as best he can. This motion actually juts his knee into my thigh and propels me forward with pain.

  I have been humiliated in the fanciest resort in town. This is nothing.

  The lapel of his jacket is now sticky from my lip gloss, and I am beginning to suspect that we will be the couple the normal or just-shy-of-normal couples look at for comfort. We each turn to face opposite directions, he toward the descending stairs and freedom, me toward the door, the solitude of my apartment, and Old Mari behavior.

  Click. I turn the lock, refusing to let my past ways interfere with tonight’s potential for a good second date.

  Sadie looks like a model. The perfect hostess, she greets us graciously as we walk through a small covered courtyard and into the outdoor fairyland. She raises her eyebrows at me when Beau steps forward to take a small lantern from a large bamboo basket. I nod and scan the vicinity for her significant other.