American Housewife (6 page)

Aretha’s the glassy-eyed woman scooping Bethany’s store-bought potato salad into her hand. She came to Book Club through Marjorie, who makes her sales targets every quarter because Aretha—to escape her kids—spends an inordinate amount of time shopping at Talbots.

Aretha’s fertility specialist hit it out of the park. Twins: two sets, two years apart.

Aretha’s fertility specialist also happens to be her husband. He’s got the highest insemination success rate in the country, but Marjorie won’t go near him. Neither will the ladies on the red sofa. The ladies on the gray sofa will resort to using him only if their acupuncture and herbal immersion tanks fail. At the hospital, Bethany says Aretha’s husband’s nickname is Dr. Uh-Oh. He’ll get you pregnant, but far too often messes up the details.

For example: Aretha’s ten-year-olds have her blue eyes and their father’s curly hair, but one is a screamer and the other has to wear a football helmet 24/7 because in order to communicate he has to shake his head like a bottle of Snapple. If you look directly at either one of them, they’ll charge you like lions on the Serengeti. If you look directly at Aretha’s eight-year-olds, they too will take it as an act of aggression, but plot your comeuppance for when you least expect it. Once, they slipped crushed Ritalin into my Pinot. They’re lurkers. Always mushrooming up amid living room furniture like clammy ottomans. At Aretha’s, Book Club resembles a bunch of actresses playing blind, affixing our lines of sight on distant spots and groping for crudité. But it’s so hard not to look at her eight-year-olds, because Dr. Uh-Oh’s slapdash juggling of vials made them unmistakably Hispanic.

As a courtesy, Bethany diagnosed Aretha’s eight-year-olds as borderline psychotic. Jane calls them “a handful.”

Two handfuls? Oh Aretha, how you manage to keep your sense of humor I do not know!

Oh, yes I do, dear. Dr. Uh-Oh keeps Aretha highly medicated. You know the saying: happy wife, happy life? Dr. Uh-Oh’s mantra is: you asked for it, muddle through. Like the majority of his patients, Aretha gave birth in her forties. She defied God’s will, she shouldn’t complain.

Aretha likes Book Club to read Southern Gothics because in them children like hers fall easily by the wayside. In Southern Gothics, there is no difference between a slow reader and a serial killer. There are no spectrums, learning or otherwise. If a boy “ain’t right,” he’s institutionalized. Or some sense is slapped into him. Or he’s confined to a room or a shed or a silo. Or he’s allowed to wander down to the swamp to poke a gator with a stick. In Southern Gothics, disease weeds out the weak. One bout of dysentery, and it’s poo-poo to you!

You must try one of my bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, dear.

Delores, bring us the platter of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, please and thank you!

Dip it in the spicy sauce, dear. The secret ingredient is mayonnaise.

In addition to being an amazing cook, I read everything. And I have the time to do so because I don’t have children. I’m fortunate enough to have found a husband who agrees with me that not having children means that the two of us can have nothing but fun. And, to me, fun is Book Club.

Honestly, there is nothing I will not do to be the very best hostess.

If you agree to join Book Club, Jane will let you live in one of her empty rooms, perhaps the one next to the terrarium, and she will pay off every cent of your debt. Under Bethany’s watchful eye, Dr. Uh-Oh will perform your first insemination, for which Jane will pay you handsomely. And I mean, George Clooney handsomely.

You’ll surrogate Marjorie’s baby first because she’s suffered the most losses. Then Bethany’s, because by that point she’ll be ready to embrace the fact that having it all can be just a couple of things and one of those things doesn’t have to be birthed the old-fashioned way. The ladies on the red sofa will draw straws to decide who uses you next. The ladies on the gray sofa will play rock-paper-scissors. And then—only if you are physically able, my dear—Aretha would appreciate a do-over.

I will be in charge of blackmailing her husband.

Oh, don’t look so surprised, dear. Win, lose, or jars, we’ll never reject you like that ex-husband of yours.

Delores knows this from firsthand experience. Her mother swore Delores was as fertile as a Duggar, so we took her into our fold with great expectations, but we all know how that turned out. A twisted uterus can’t catch.

You, dear, I have a feeling, will be better than gift bags.

So what do you say? I have an extra Talbots bunny brooch that would love to curl up on your shoulder. I’ve got my laminating machine and hole-punch ready to tassel your bookmark. Have you thought of a Book Club name? Do try and stay away from mine, Mary Beth. Don’t pick Mary Alice or Eliza
beth.
May I make a suggestion?

With that crooked smile, you look like a Hadley.

T
he Fitter is mine. Myrtle Babcock can get her flabby pancake tits out of his face. He’s sizing her up in her ill-fitting turtleneck that’s off-white and thin because it’s been through the wash too many times. Her “nude” athletic bra shows through like she’s smuggling ferrets. Here’s what, sister: every woman needs underwire, and when you stuff two pounds of downed rounds into A-cups, beige ain’t invisible.

The Fitter doesn’t touch her. He shakes his head no when she offers to lift her top.

I say, “This ain’t Mardi Gras, Myrtle.”

The Fitter waves his hand for me to be quiet. He leans forward in his recliner.

My husband, the Fitter, looks like every other middle-aged man in this small Georgia town. Somehow skinny and fat. Always in khakis with a nice enough smile. He talks like everybody else. He says, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir.” He mows his own lawn. He passes the collection plate at church. If you saw him at the gas station, you wouldn’t do more than say hello. But you’d be missing out. The Fitter is a wonder.

Like some men are born with an ear for music or a brain for math, the Fitter was born with an appraiser’s eye. Before he could crawl, he knew that square pegs belonged in square holes. In preschool, he packed his backpack so that it sat like a nut in a shell inside his cubby. A Little Leaguer, he worked his catcher’s mitt so that the ball stuck every time that he caught it. His mother had him stuff all her deviled eggs.

When the Fitter turned twelve, his father let him in on the family secret: his grandfather was a fitter; his great-grandfather was a fitter. The Fitter’s own father had bowed out of the business because he blushed like a fire hydrant. That and he would have taken over the family trade in the 1970s when bras were historically at their least popular. The Fitter’s father drove him to Atlanta and walked him through Macy’s bra department. The Fitter was shorter than the racks. Padding grazed his cheeks and salesladies raised their eyebrows, but he never turned red. He listened to his father talk about bras like they were nests in the woods. Every nest fits a couple. All couples are to be respected and admired from afar. No two pairs are exactly the same.

A female security guard was called to escort the Fitter and his father out of the bra department, and on their way out, the Fitter plucked a Playtex 18 Hour Original from a rack and offered it to her. They were still kicked out of Macy’s, but the guard later tried on the bra. Salesladies peered over the dressing room door, clutched the measuring tapes that draped their necks like ropes of pearls, and marveled. In the course of two minutes the woman had transformed from Lurch Addams to Jane Russell.

Word spread. An urban legend was born. There’s this kid who’s part good old boy, part miracle worker. When the Fitter turned eighteen, he opened his doors for business. Cars backed up the highway like there was a new mall.

The Fitter is what you call pilgrimage-worthy. He sees you, he sells to you, and you leave with your breasts and your spirits soaring higher than kites. A good bra is fine, but a great bra is life changing. It gives you the confidence of a homecoming queen. It’s a tiara for your ta-tas. Rich women from big cities—as big as New York City—gather up their book clubs and fly Delta to Atlanta and charter limos to drive them down Highway 85 to a lake road to our porch. Myrtle is a local, on the saggy side of forty, and I know what it’s taken for her to finally knock on our door.

Myrtle arches her back, offering her sad state of affairs like a teller offers bags of cash in a bank heist.

The Fitter waves his hand.

I say, “That means back up, Myrtle. Stand like you normally stand.” I think: Like you’ve been waiting in line for an hour at the 7-Eleven and now the Slurpee machine’s broke.

The Fitter says, “34C.”

Myrtle says, “No!”

“Yes,” says the Fitter.

To me he says, “Pull her three styles: a full-coverage, a plunging neckline, and a balcony. None beige. Get her the Gilligan’s Island special: the hardworking girl next door, Marie Jo, and her fancy friend, Chantelle. Pull her the one that means ‘royal subjects’ in Norwegian—the pink one with the tulips on the straps. Show this nice lady that there’s life after Maidenform.”

Myrtle squeals and claps her hands. Her breasts flap like empty pantyhose legs. She follows me down the hall of our house to the dressing room, our master bath.

Before I shut the door on her, I say, “Don’t get any funny ideas.”

She says, “What on earth are you implying?”

I say, “That right there: those airs. It has all been done, Myrtle. Love notes in the medicine cabinet, panties under his brown towel. Just last week, those women from down at the YWCA showed up in their two-pieces and ran through our sprinklers. But he married me and he married me a long time ago. As long as I draw breath, nobody—including you—is getting the Fitter.”

Myrtle huffs and plops down on the toilet.

I leave her and go to our bedroom walk-in closet.

It is a forest of bras. The Fitter orders them from London. He orders them from France. He orders them from anywhere you might see someone’s underpants. All those mini-hangers you see in department stores? The Fitter had pencil-wide closet rods custom-built for them. There are fifteen rows running floor to ceiling, covering three walls. Rods for the most gargantuan of what can only be referred to as
brassieres
run across the ceiling. The cups are as menacing as cauldrons of boiling oil.

I squat to comb the rack of C cups at my knees.

My equilibrium is shot because of what those women from down at the hospital have been putting me through, but I catch my balance and surf the carpet. I’m a good employee. I’m the only employee and I want to keep it that way. So I’ll pull Myrtle the best, what the Fitter has asked me to pull: specifically the pink princess bra with tulips that costs $125. But that will be the cheapest by far. Marie Jo and Chantelle run from $88 up and I’ll choose the
up.
I’ll make Myrtle pay for her flirting with her entire Kroger’s two-week paycheck. I come out with three bras totaling $443.

The Fitter sits on the edge of our bed.

Myrtle is hanging her head and shoulders out from behind the bathroom door, telling him how much she likes the kimono she’s wearing. The kimono is a genuine kimono ordered all the way from Japan. The Fitter has six. All silk. All colors you don’t see anywhere in these parts. The Fitter likes his customers to have a taste of the exotic. His theory is: if a woman is treated well, she’ll spend money like she’s treated that well all the time. The kimono Myrtle is wearing is covered in cranes and hibiscus. It’s the same one I wore when the Fitter’s first wife fitted me.

Myrtle is braless. I had no idea her breasts could descend any farther with her bra off, but by God, they most certainly can. Her nipples peek out from behind the door like eavesdroppers.

The Fitter waves his hand.

I say, “Myrtle, in with you. He’s ready. Let’s go.”

Myrtle shuffles backward into the bathroom.

Her turtleneck is slung across my vanity table. My guess is that she’s tucked the bra she came in with into her purse. I imagine a loose Lifesaver adhering to the nylon. Women never think to hang their things on the fancy peg where they took the kimono. I shut the door in disgust and hang the bras on the towel rack. Myrtle tolerates my curtness because she’s heard tell of what will happen now that we’re alone.

From the bedroom, the Fitter says, “Start with the basic.”

I take the full-coverage off the hanger and unhook the triple clips. The bra is black with a baby blue satin ribbon between the cups. I hold the straps with my hands in the ten-and-two position.

Myrtle drops the kimono to land in a puddle at her bare feet. There is no reason she should have taken off her jeans, socks, and shoes. It’s a fitting, not a pelvic exam. When I pick up the kimono, I see she’s painted her toes. Had them painted, more likely. No one can do a French pedicure right on her own feet. A French pedicure is an investment. A French pedicure is what some women get to go on their honeymoons. When the Fitter and I went on our honeymoon, I had my toenails painted red. Red is what good wives wear. French pedicures make your toes look like fingers. You look grabby. French pedicures are for man thieves.

I say, “Who did your toes, Myrtle? That maroon-headed know-it-all down at the blow-out shop you call a mother?”

Myrtle says, “Barbara sends her love.”

“Barbara doesn’t know me.”

Barbara is the manicurist where I get my wig fixed. I’ve had to wear that wig for a good part of a year now, and I’ve learned that if I don’t get it washed and styled once a week, the top of my head looks like something has crawled up on it, had a seizure, and died. No matter what time I make an appointment, from opening to close, Barbara is ever present at her nail station, gossiping at a volume loud enough to carry over three hair dryers while she dunks hands of all ages into paraffin wax. When my wig comes off, Barbara and her customers practice the Southern Lady art of staring without overtly staring. But I can feel their eyes like hot-from-the-dryer fabric softener sheets stuck to my clothes. They each cling to the hope that one of them will take my place.

Because the Fitter is richer than any man they’ve ever met. And he’s humbler. He has one truck, one fishing boat, and one house. And he’s devoted. He has one shop and one wife. Barbara and her customers want the regular beauty parlor appointments that being that wife afford me. Except Barbara wants this for her daughter.

Now that she’s sent Myrtle here, I must look worse than I think.

I don’t like Barbara. And I don’t like her daughter because I don’t trust any woman who calls her mother by her first name.

Myrtle says, “Don’t leave me hanging.”

I can’t help myself: I say, “Good one.”

I present the bra like a straitjacket, and Myrtle slips her arms through the straps.

And then my hands are on her breasts. That’s just the way it is. I don’t think about whom I’m handling, I just handle her. I scoop. I pour. I pack. I hook. I adjust straps. Not too tight, but tight enough to leave a mark. I’m fast. I get Myrtle locked and loaded before she can blink.

The Fitter says, “Well?”

Myrtle looks in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She pivots. She gapes. Her breasts sit above her rib cage.

“Oh, thank you!” she cries to him. “Thank you, thank you!”

The Fitter says, “Hop.”

Myrtle looks to me and I nod. I hate it when they hop. When they hop, every woman is a sixteen-year-old girl. Myrtle hops and for the first time in a long, long time her breasts don’t
boing
like Slinkies.

“Oh!” she cries.

The Fitter says, “See there.”

“Oh, I do! Thank you! I do I do I do!”

Myrtle will not shut up about what the Fitter has done for her because women love men who excel at their craft. More so, they love men who are faithful. And what’s more faithful than a married fitter who doesn’t touch, much less
look
at another woman’s breasts?

The Fitter is quiet. He lets Myrtle’s gratitude warm our once hothouse of a home. Without me hawking over him, I know he lets himself smile. He knows Myrtle is so in awe of her transformation that she’ll reach for her reflection in the mirror on her side of the door. If she’s crazy bold, she’ll reach for the knob. There is a chance I won’t stop her.

But, I do.

I whisper, “Careful, Myrtle. The Fitter don’t cheat.”

He didn’t call
me
until his first wife, his high school girlfriend, ran away with the falsies distributor. Since then he won’t stock falsies. Won’t even look at one: cotton/polyester blend or bags of saline. He swears he loves me the way I am now after my surgery, but I ache for what I had. Why his first wife couldn’t have fallen in love with the nipple tape guy is beyond me.

The Fitter calls, “Next.”

I choose the balcony bra. It’s lavender-and-gold stretch lace with aerodynamic support. It’s meant to hike your breasts up like corsets used to do. You get all of the
oomph
with none of the
ouch.
We in the business call it the Cleavage Maker.

I bend Myrtle over at the waist and drop her breasts into the demi cups like muffin batter. When she rises, those muffins are baked. Myrtle marvels and pats the tops.

The Fitter says, “I don’t hear anything.”

Myrtle opens her mouth, but catches sight of my face.

I know my color’s gone. The side effects from my “aggressive” treatment grab me out of nowhere and make me want to barf.

I reach out for the toilet, but it’s Myrtle’s arm I catch on the way to the floor.

Myrtle rests my back against the bathtub. She calls out, “The bra’s fine.”

“Fine?” says the Fitter. “I’ve never heard just fine.”

“It’s beautiful,” calls Myrtle. She runs cold faucet water over a washcloth. “Magic.” She tips my head between my knees and lays the cool cloth on the back of my neck. She calls, “I’ve never felt more like a woman.”

She winces at her faux pas. She looks at me like,
Oops. My bad.

I wave one of the Fitter’s waves. This one means,
Forget it.

The Fitter is a man of few words, but the ones he speaks outside of day-to-day dealings are all compliments. When I came for my first fitting, he had his first wife pull a 36DD with modesty padding because he said I had a body meant for tight sweaters. When we married, he filled my dresser with cashmere crewnecks because he said I deserved to wear nice things. In bed, he’s said it’s my giggling that drives him wild. At work, he’s said I’m tireless, a model, and great with customers.

But none of this is true anymore.

Sweaters swallow me. Insomnia drives me to spend nights on the couch. I won’t deserve Employee of the Year this year—Myrtle can attest to that.

I say to her, “I wasn’t always this jealous.”

She says, “You’re right to be jealous.”

“Goddammit.” I pull off the washcloth. I wring it like I’ve wanted to wring so many customers’ necks. I throw the washcloth into a corner.

Myrtle fishes an open Lifesaver roll from her purse. She frowns as she pulls it out because the green one is—as I predicted—stuck to her Old Yeller of a bra. She offers me the orange at the top of the roll.