About Face (13 page)

“Yeah, spooky,” Ruth said. Thank goodness, she thought. It wasn't that she wanted David to be unhappy, but she was glad he was experiencing some upset, that the thought of ending the career he'd loved for years wasn't like rolling out of bed. Made her feel a little less crazy.

“Why don't you tell me about your day?” he said. “Wallowing of a different sort, just for distraction.”

She ran through her day as they finished their tea, went upstairs, and went to bed. She let him put two of the worry-dolls under his pillow. She kept four.

CHAPTER 13

In Shopping Veritas

 

 

IT WAS UNUSUALLY WARM, and Ruth finally chose light gray slacks with a short-sleeved green knit top. No scarf, no jewelry. Not too suburban, but also not too hippy-dippy as if she were imitating Vivian. She gulped her coffee while returning two phone calls, then took out some frozen chops to defrost for dinner. She checked to see if the lettuce was still good or if she needed to get more on her way home. Thank goodness it was all right; one less chore to remember to do. She rushed out the door.

Forty-five minutes later, Vivian emerged from the depths of the subway exit at 17
^th
Street, red-faced, short of breath, hair and eyes wild. She stood out from the crowd because of her loud voice and louder Hawaiian shirt, whose reds, yellows and purples argued with each other over who got to be the boss.

Ruth wished she'd worn something less goody-two-shoes. She looked at her watch; eighteen minutes late, even though the meeting place was a ten-minute subway ride from Vivian's place, while she herself had managed to get there on time from Jersey.

Vivian said, “It was hard getting out of the house. Fifteen minutes doesn't count as late, though, does it? Carlos needed to run his latest crusade past me for feedback and when I made a few suggestions, which was what he'd asked me for in the first place, no sugar-coating or anything, exactly the way he gives it to other people, he got all defensive and upset, so that became a whole big thing. Then—”

“No problem, I just got here.”

“So where are we going? And can I afford it? I told you about my budget, right? Carlos is upset enough, without my spending a lot, and even if he weren't upset—”

“Down girl. Relax. I heard everything you said, you can trust me.”

Vivian shook her head and exhaled loudly. “I'll try.” She kissed Ruth's cheek then grabbed her arm and whistled “We Shall Overcome” as they walked north in lock-step, arm-in-arm, just as they had done hundreds of times before, long ago, in a village far from New York.

Three old women with beseeching eyes and empty tin cans sat on a bench. Vivian took a few coins out of her pocket and gave it to one of them. The recipient smiled, enlarging the view of her few discolored teeth.

“Only one?”

“She was the ugliest.”

“Still give preference to the ugly?” Ruth said.

“They still need it, don't they? Everyone's still drawn to pretty people, aren't they? It was true in the village and it's still true. And it still stinks.”

“I thought we'd go to Loehmann's first because—”

“I'll tell you what; when I see an ugly person's support group, I'll know my little affirmative action isn't necessary. But there never will be, and you know why? Because no one wants to be a member. It's lookism, plain and simple. Hey, you work for a cosmetics company, you know what I'm talking about. Why don't you do something like makeup that makes everyone ugly so the people who are naturally ugly won't feel bad?”

“All I said was—”

“I can't remember the last time I was at Loehmann's, probably it was when my mother took me to buy a dress for my junior high school graduation. I remember it perfectly. Pale pink dotted swiss, capped sleeves. I must have looked like a tuna sandwich. Thank God there are no pictures. Also I remember that dressing room.”

They walked past the easy chairs where men—mostly older, mostly reading the newspaper—waited until called upon for their wisdom.

“Yes, Doris, it's pretty.”

“No, it doesn't make you look fat.”

“I like the red one better.”

They passed the casual wear department, with oceans of minimally-varied jeans and T-shirts, continued on past the jewelry, purses, and hats, to the back of the store, to the racks of “evening wear.”

Vivian put her head down and squared her shoulders as if she were gathering her courage for hard labor. She strode to the size sixteen section and went through the offerings at a manic pace. The hangers clicked as if they were angry. Ruth stood off to the side and watched silently as Vivian quickly rejected the first fifteen choices at warp speed, then looked up and saw Ruth watching her.

“‘Evening wear' is a category I have no experience with. ‘Late afternoon' is the dressiest I ever get. Or maybe ‘Afternoon milk and cookies.'”

Ruth was about to suggest a second look at the rejected gray pants suit four hangers back when Vivian said, “Look, Ruthie, you go look at stuff yourself and I'll look at stuff myself, and then we'll do show and tell.”

“But it's really better to decide about each piece together.” This was going to be tougher than she thought. Vivian was really wired. Wired and weird. “That way—”

“Nope, too methodical. Can't do it that way. You go down that aisle, I'll go down this one and then we can meet in the middle. Believe me,” she said as she rolled her eyes, “I can live with the life-shattering possibility that there just might be one perfect outfit here somewhere and we might miss it if we're not together, God forbid.”

She remembered that this was exactly how Vivian used to make her feel—half of her wanting to slink home, the other half wanting to smack her. She reminded herself that Vivian was a compassionate oxymoron, caring deeply about humanity but less so about individual bits of humanity. “I just thought the whole point was that you wanted my help.”

“Sorry, try not to be offended, Ruthie, I do appreciate your help; this shopping must be making me a little loony.”

Ruth looked up and waited for the rest of the explanation she thought she was entitled to.

“First of all, this whole idea of dressing up for Ida is wacky to begin with and is becoming an issue between Carlos and me and he's getting nutty about how I'm choosing her over him.” She closed her eyes and shook her head like a wet dog.

“I've never gone shopping with a girlfriend, I hardly go shopping at all, shopping is not something I do, I have no experience with this, so consider my behavior the behavior of a beginner, okay? I just don't know how to do something that I don't really know how to do. If you know what I mean. I'm kind of a mess; bear with me.”

“No problem.”

They split up and spent the next fifteen minutes wending their way towards each other from opposite sides of the “evening wear” racks. Ruth rated each garment according to her checklist of criteria. Budget. Not too self-consciously dress-up. Vivian's size, and what would flatter or at least downplay it.

Vivian, more intuitive and more negative, covered ground faster than Ruth. When they met, like two tunnel-diggers who wind up face-to-face, Ruth had ten hangers over her arm to Vivian's two. At their summit meeting, they saw they'd both chosen the same black pants suit, so eliminated one. Vivian then rejected five of Ruth's choices. “Too Republican. We're down from twelve to six. Let's go face the music.”

The try-on room's monitor must have been selected by the same central casting agency that used to hire the matrons in the movie theaters, the ones who made the kids take their feet off the seat in front of them. With her slightly humped back and her sensible shoes, she enforced the “five garments per person” rule as if she were dispensing divine justice.

The huge room had mirrored walls and a community of overhead fans. Each woman had the illusion of having her own territory by virtue of two hooks about eighteen inches apart, while, in truth, everyone undressed, dressed, and preened in front of their neighbors. It was a lesson in the infinite varieties of female anatomy and the uselessness of modesty.

They chose two adjacent spaces far from the entrance. Vivian was on Ruth's right, and had the temporary luxury of an empty space on her other side, so she could spread out a bit. They hung their garments on their respective hooks to maintain the charade that they had each selected three.

Vivian started with the electric blue dress that was a second cousin of the flowing robe she'd worn to the concert where they'd encountered each other in the bathroom. Ruth wondered if Vivian had selected it because she actually liked it or as a strategic move, to stake out an extreme taste-baseline from which she'd only budge so much. It was hideous, really. Its shapelessness would usually be camouflage for a large woman, but the color overruled any softening effect. It looked like a huge neon sign.

“I don't know nuthin' 'bout evenin' wear,” Vivian said, “but I sure think it looks like a tablecloth. I know Miss Scarlett looked great in a curtain, but somehow I don't think this works for me.”

Ruth tried to hide her relief. “I agree.”

Vivian slipped the dress off, let it fall to the floor, and side-stepped out of it, like a snake shedding its skin as it continued its thrust forward. She looked through her hangers to choose what would be next. Ruth picked up the blue tent and put it back on its hanger.

“Excuse me?” A woman in bra and thong undies had walked over from the other side of the room, seeming unconcerned about the amounts of her body that couldn't fit into those two small pieces of cloth. Ruth didn't know whether to avert her eyes from her overflowing body or her skewed teeth.

She asked if they'd be taking the blue dress and, if not, could she try it? As Ruth gave it to her quickly before she changed her mind, the woman handed over one of her own rejects. “Here, take this in exchange? Then our numbers will be the same as when we walked in and we won't get in trouble with the Wicked Witch of the West? When we leave?”

Vivian tried the black pants suit with her own riotous Hawaiian shirt. She stepped back from the mirror, arranged her hair, put her hands at her sides, widened her eyes, and thinned her lips together, pushing them out for the “moue” look that full-length mirrors seem to demand. She tugged on the bottom of the jacket to make it longer.

“Vivian, stop fussing, stand still.”

“Yes, mommy.”

“What do you think?”

“I have a little trouble with it being black, which is what ninety percent of the women at the costume party—excuse me, I mean concert—will be wearing. And I wish the jacket were longer.”

“The shorter jacket is actually what makes it nice. Otherwise it would just be a pair of black pants and a black jacket. You could wear it to work.”

“Maybe
you
could wear it to work.”

“What I mean is, this cute little jacket gives it enough style to be dressy. You look great in black. And you'll be able to get a lot of use out of it. Certainly the pants.”

“Let me tell you about these pants.” She pulled at the pants' legs and pushed the waistband lower. “This is why I started sewing my own clothes. Pants aren't made for women like me. They're made for anorexics. These pants feel like they're trying to get in my pants. I know you're thinner than me, but you're not one of those stick-figure girls. Don't the seams ride up into your crotch and drive you crazy? How do you sit for more than fifteen minutes?”

“It's true. And it's not just what you said about the crotch. It's also the growing waist and—”

“—and getting the waistband to fit means that when you sit down, it slides up to your armpits.”

The little old lady to the left of Ruth's space took a step towards them, with her carefully coiffed white hair, a spot of red on each cheek, and stockings with seams. She said, in a conspiratorial tone of voice, “The suit looks very nice on you, dear, but I know what you mean about the pants being uncomfortable. It's the price of being a woman, I guess.”

Vivian smiled sweetly. “Screw that. But thanks.” The little old lady went back to her stall, cheeks a little redder than before.

“If this suit turns out to be the best of the lot, I'd open up the crotch seam and put in a little insert, what tailors call a gusset and I call a crotch-patch. It's a little roomier, and there's no central seam to be so insistent. It takes the pressure off the waistband, too, when you sit down.”

She took her own pants off the hook and showed Ruth the crotch. “See, that's how I make all my pants. I don't understand why everyone doesn't.”

“But it would be hard to find matching fabric, wouldn't it?”

“Exactly how many people would be in a position to see the contrast between the crotch-patch and the rest?”

“Good point.”

Vivian stepped out of the pants, leaving them on the floor, then set the jacket on top of them. Ruth reached down and scooped them up. She looked for their hangers among the tangle on the hooks and, like a hot flash, resentment overtook her. Why did Vivian expect her to pick up after her?

“Vivian,” she imagined calling over to the chubby woman who used to be her best friend, “I'm not here to be your maid.”

“Who said you were?” Vivian would probably say.

“So hang up your own discards.”

It would feel so good to say it that way, giving herself over to it, like eating whipped cream from a spoon. Like Carlos?