Garlic and Sapphires (23 page)

Most little girls, I think, grow up with the instinctive understanding that we have the power to direct the way the world sees us. It is why fashion has such a powerful pull. But until the moment that Carol met Brenda, this had never been a conscious consideration. “And what
does
she wear?” I asked now.

“Vintage,” said Carol. “Definitely vintage. Brenda likes bold, old clothing. Japanese kimonos, cocktail dresses from the twenties, those great old shoes with platforms. Bright, bright colors. And I think she wears glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Yes,” said Carol firmly, “she definitely wears glasses. Big ones with colorful frames. She's not one of those people who wears rimless glasses, hoping nobody will notice that they're sitting on her nose. Dorothy Parker didn't have her in mind when she wrote the poem.”

Shirley was beaming. “I wish,” she said fervently, “that you were here to talk to all my customers. These poor women come in with no hair on their heads, and they have such a great opportunity to remake themselves. It's their chance to try on new personalities. But what do they want? To look as much like their old selves as possible.”

“Of course they do!” cried Carol with such heat that I suddenly remembered that AIDS had claimed her daughter. “When people are ill they need to be reminded that they're no different than they used to be, just because they're sick. They need to know that they're the same people they always were.”

Shirley saw that she had stepped into quicksand. “You're right,” she said, hurriedly extricating herself, “of course you're right. I don't push. But I keep thinking it's a wasted opportunity.” Sighing heavily, she walked around the counter, back to her own side.

“No wonder she loves working with you,” said Carol when we were back on the street. “You're her dream come true, a living testimonial to the power of her product.” She stared at the wig on my head and asked, “Do you ever go back to show her what you look like in full regalia?”

“No,” I said.

“This whole thing embarrasses you, doesn't it?” she asked.

“A little,” I admitted. “When it's just a costume and I don't get into character, I feel like such a fraud that I'm afraid someone's going to come along, pull the wig off my head, and cry, ‘Aha!' But getting into character can be eerie. It makes me feel sort of schizophrenic, like my thoughts are mine, but not mine. And people react to me in a whole different way, as if I really were someone else.”

“You're lucky,” she said. “Most of us would love to be someone else, at least part of the time. C'mon, let's go finish Brenda. I know a terrific vintage store on Thompson Street. The owner is nuts, but she has great stuff.”

Michael's Resale, where I usually shopped, was a musty upstairs store on Madison Avenue with a sad, slightly apologetic air. The clerks were older women who seemed to look down on their customers, and they always made me feel like a pitiful specimen trying to pass for rich.

But here we were assaulted by the thump of rock music the minute we walked into the store, and surrounded by a happy swirl of noise and color. A woman stood in the center of the room, so laden with costume jewelry that she looked like a Christmas tree, and when she spotted me she called out, “You're a 1264.” Going to a rack, she began collecting garments. “You're in luck,” she said as her arms filled. “Twelve-sixty-four just dropped off a new consignment. Take a look.”

Then she squinted at Carol and said, “You might be an 823. A little conservative, but just your size with a very rich husband. The guy's a dope; he buys her clothes but doesn't give her spending money. So what does she do? She buys two of everything and brings me one to sell. That way she always has money in her pocket and I always have plenty of merch. I wish the world had more dopes like him.”

She extracted an old Chinese silk coat from the rack; it was soft beige with printed flowers dancing down the front. She held out the beautifully worn silk and said, “Twelve-sixty-four. Can you see yourself in this?”

“That's exactly what I had in mind!” cried Carol as I reached to touch the coat. It was soft, and as I stroked the cloth it changed color, going from beige to mauve as it rippled in the light.

“She has a taste for the exotic,” said the proprietress. “See if it fits.” She looked at Carol and started pulling suits from the rack. “Eight-twenty-three, just look at these labels! Armani. Jill Sander. Dior.”

“We're not here for me,” said Carol.

“Suit yourself,” said the proprietress. Slightly miffed, she turned to help a skinny dark-haired girl zip up a Pucci skirt. “It's dripping with character!” she whispered huskily.

The girl spun happily, twirling so that the bright turquoise cloth flew out in a circle from her waist.

“Aren't you glad,” the proprietress asked her, “that you don't have to deal with shiny newness?” She seemed to mean it, to think of the original owners as garment-tamers whose main purpose in life was breaking in clothing to make her customers comfortable.

I shrugged into the coat. It was much too big, but so soft and beautiful, the color changing as I moved, that I began putting on layer after layer beneath it. Watching, the proprietress softened. “Do you wear orange?” she asked suddenly. “Some redheads don't, but I have a long orange tunic, silk, that would look fabulous with that coat. And some green silk capris. You'd be a knockout.”

On anyone else the outfit would have looked brazen; on Brenda it just looked whimsical. “I knew it!” said the proprietress. “Don't you look fabulous? Do you like it? How does it feel?” She had a sudden inspiration and fumbled at her blouse, removing one of the ornaments. Handing me a huge brooch covered in rhinestones, she said, “Try this. Pin it right at the throat.”

I took the thing, which was heavy in my hand, and did as I was told. It was gaudy and very silly and it looked remarkably right. The proprietress grinned. “Twelve-sixty-four called that her Sparkle Plenty Pin. Now I want you to try these shoes.”

They were green suede platforms, the heels much higher than anything I'd ever worn, and they made Brenda look ten feet tall. She resembled me in no way that I could discern, but I liked this large woman with her messy hair and friendly face.

“Got any glasses?” asked Carol.

“Big bowl over there,” replied the woman, pointing. Carol rummaged around. “These!” she suddenly shouted triumphantly, waving some curved green frames in the air. “Put them on.” I hooked the glasses over my ears and looked in the mirror; the lenses were tinted a subtle gray, obscuring the last vestige of Ruth.

“Lipstick!” said Carol. “You need lipstick.”

“I never wear it,” I said. “I mean, not normally.”

Carol made an annoyed little sound; she didn't either. “Here,” said the proprietress, holding a tube in her outstretched hand. Carol grabbed it, turned, and painted on a generous red mouth, completely ignoring where my own lips ended.

It was just the right touch; the transformation was complete. Brenda was cozy and crumpled and she looked so warm-hearted that I wanted to get to know her. What would she be like?

“Don't forget about 823!” the proprietress shouted to Carol as we walked out the door. “She'd be perfect for you. Most of her clothes still have the original tags!”

 

 

 

 

 

I
wore my new clothes home, wondering if anyone would recognize me. Gene would be the first test; instead of using my key, I rang the door-bell. When he pulled the heavy glass door open I waited for his great, friendly laugh.

It didn't come. He just stood staring, open-mouthed, looking at me so frankly that I tugged at my wig, thinking I must look ridiculous. Then I saw that his expression was goofy, unlike any I had ever seen him wear. He was acting as if I were a gift, a surprise package that had been unexpectedly delivered to his door. He actually bowed a little from the waist. “Come in, come in,” he said, motioning me forward. I walked in and he followed so closely that he was practically stepping on my heels.

“And which of our lucky tenants have you come to visit?” he asked. I began to laugh and he said, “Am I funny?” giving me the dazed look of a love-struck kid. “All visitors here have to be announced,” he continued gently. “Who shall I call? Who should I say is here?”

“Michael Singer,” I said. I found that I was using my radio voice, which is lower and slower than my normal one. “Please tell him it's Brenda Rose.”

“Certainly, Miss Rose,” he said, going to the phone. It was nice of him to play along like this, I thought, hoping that Michael would do the same when presented with this unfamiliar name.

Apparently he did, because Gene was motioning me into the elevator. He never took his eyes off me as we ascended to the tenth floor, and I could feel him ferreting out the little bits of Ruth beneath the disguise. He jerked the elevator when it stopped, which surprised me—Gene was the smoothest driver in the building. He laughed a little, embarrassed, as the elevator rocked to a halt. And as he pulled the gate open he said, “First door to the right,” in a very soft voice. And in an even softer one he added, “I'll be looking forward to the pleasure of taking you downstairs again” in tones of utter sincerity.

Disconcerted, I waited until the elevator door had closed. But when the gate had clanged shut and the elevator was chugging its way back to earth, I pushed open the door and peeked in. Michael and Nicky were standing at the end of the hallway, and when Nicky saw me he came running, joyfully calling, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” as he leapt into my arms like an exuberant puppy.

“Who are you?” he asked, fingering the red wig.

“Brenda,” I said. “Do you like her?”

He leaned back and gave me a critical stare. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “You look like a very nice person.”

“And what do you think?” I asked Michael, a little embarrassed.

“Nice,” he said. He stared at me for another minute and added, “I don't think you're exactly my type, but I'd be happy to go out to eat with you.”

“Can we, Mommy?” asked Nick. He put on his most pleading smile, looking from Michael to me and back again. “Daddy, can we take Brenda out to eat? Can we take her out right now?”

“Not tonight,” I said. “I'm going to cook dinner.”

“Please, please, please,” Nicky begged. “Please can we go to the chop chop place?”

Michael cocked an amused eye at me, waiting for my reaction. “Your secret would be safe with us,” he said under his breath. “No one would know it was you at the chop chop place. And Brenda looks like she might enjoy it.”

“The chop chop place” was Nicky's name for his favorite restaurant, Benihana, an establishment no self-respecting restaurant critic would set foot in. It was a marketing strategy disguised as a restaurant, and while I couldn't help admiring the way the owners maximized real estate and minimized labor, it depressed me. I hated the food and its assembly-line quality, and I hated the way they rushed you through your meal.

These sensible thoughts sped through my mind, buzzing like bees. Then they had flown past, disappeared, along with the thought of the chicken I'd been intending to roast, and Brenda was smiling her big red smile and saying in her soft, warm voice, “Benihana is an excellent idea. A perfect idea. How smart of you to think of it. Let's go get dressed for dinner!”

 

 

 

 

 

W
here's your mom?” Gene asked Nicky when we got into the elevator. I had a sudden pang; Nicky had gone along with Miriam, and now I was asking him to do it again. It seemed like a lot to ask of a kid.

But my son didn't blink. “She had to go somewhere for her job,” he said, as if pretending I was someone else was the most natural thing in the world. “She can't come with us tonight,” he added helpfully, and I understood that to him these costumes were nothing but a very fun game.

“Well, you're lucky to be going out with Miss Rose,” said Gene, giving me the goofy look he had worn when he first saw me at the door. “I bet you like redheads as much as I do.”

Nicky frowned. “Her hair's not red,” he said. “It's like that metal stuff.”

“Copper,” said Gene. “It's called copper. You're right. But I think it's the most beautiful color hair can be. I've always been a sucker for redheads.”

“Not me,” said Nicky loyally. “I like brown hair like Mommy has.” Gene ruffled his hair. “You're a good kid,” he said. “I'll be sure to tell your mother what you said.”

I looked to see if he was serious. I couldn't tell. Nicky giggled, and looking down I saw sheer delight on his face. Why not? For once he knew more than a grown-up. When we reached the ground floor Gene leapt out of the elevator and scurried down the hall like a big, benevolent turtle. “You folks have a beautiful evening,” he said, pulling the door open for us. Nicky giggled again.

 

 

 

 

 

P
eople smiled at us on the street, as if we were the most adorable family, and I found myself smiling back, looking people right in the eye. My mouth felt big and loose and generous, and the shoes made me feel tall and powerful. I found that I was striding forward, leaning into the wind like one of those gaudy carved figures on the prow of a boat. It made me feel a little lightheaded and utterly optimistic.

There was a line at Benihana. Michael winced. “I know you hate lines,” I heard myself saying in Brenda's low, slow voice, “so why don't you go for a walk around the block? Nicky and I don't mind waiting, do we, hon?”