If You Could See What I See (14 page)

“No. I will not be calling them. Say I am unavailable.”

“Meggie, you can’t. You have to take advantage of this.”

“No, I don’t. I’m leaving the press to Tory. She had a penis made, do you get that? This is now exclusively hers. I suppose everyone here knows? Obviously by your maniacal grin that’s a dumb question, isn’t it?” I needed my morning beer for my nerves. Perhaps I would pour my morning beer over my head.

“Impressively dumb, but yes! In fact we’re constructing a penis in the middle of the production floor using Styrofoam to celebrate the uptick in sales. Get it, uptick? I made a joke. We’re rising. Get that joke, too? Didn’t you see our art?” She clapped her hands. “In honor of our reuse and recycling policy, we’re wrapping bras we messed up around it. It’s a brassiere penis.”

“You’ve made a penis?”

“Sure have. With bras around it. The Petrelli sisters were extremely innovative.” She tapped her temple. “They knew exactly what to do to make it look realistic. Eric carved the Styrofoam. We like it. Makes us laugh. Maybe we should take a photo of the Styrofoam penis and send it to the news outlets?”

“No. Oh, please. No.”

I limped to the windows overlooking the production floor and pressed my forehead to the glass. Yep. There it was.

Ho ho ho.

The Petrelli sisters, Lance, Eric, Maritza, the Latrouelle sisters, and a bunch of the other rebels waved at me. Ho ho ho. Aren’t they funny? I pushed my hair off my forehead, with both hands, the pain pinging around my cranium.

“Kalani’s calling in a few minutes via Skype, Meggie, so turn on your computer and look at her smiling face and hear about her gas problems and black magic.”

“No, nope.” I grabbed my beer out of the mini refrigerator. “Not her. Not now. No way.”

“You should talk to her. They’re having problems with the Valentine line.”

“Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

“I think I’ll get Cupid to shoot me.”

“She’s calling in now, I can hear Skype.”

Lacey burst into my office, her red curls boinging about. No matter what she does, that red hair saves her. She always looks stylish and cute.

“Oh, save me! Save me! Have you seen YouTube?” She then went pale, leaned over, and rushed down the hall to the bathroom.

What would Grandma say?

It would be head banging, that was for sure.

 

“Hello, Kalani.”

She beamed, waved both hands. “Ah, there you are, Meeegie! Good to see you!”

“You too. How are you?” As soon as the words “how are you” were out of my mouth I wanted to pound my head on my desk, split it open, and, with blood dripping down my face, excuse myself. I was in for a long report.

“Oh, I good and I bad.”

“What’s wrong?” I wanted her to tell me about the Valentine line. I wanted to talk about the output, the materials, shipping . . . But first I had to be nice so I didn’t hurt her feelings. One time she thought I was abrupt with her. She shut down Skype, didn’t talk to me for two weeks, and told Tory I was a “mean blond mermaid.”

“What wrong, what wrong?” Kalani wrung her hands. “You know I still cursed. That woman witch married to brother. First she give me rash, now I smell bad smells in the air. She do it to me.”

“Your brother’s wife made you smell bad smells in the air?”

“Ya. She do something to my nose. At my mother house last weekend, she touch my nose and now I smell bad smells. Yuck. I curse her. She curse me. My curse work. Her noodles too wet at dinner. I tell her. Your noodles too wet.”

“I bet she didn’t like that. Can we talk about the Valentine—”

“She so mad I say noodles too wet, she say bad words and leave kitchen. I do whole dinner myself.” She threw up her arms in frustration.

“I’m sorry, so—”

“And also that man my boyfriend he tell me I marry him, I say no and we have the big fight. I say you bang bang me, you know that word, Meeegie, bang bang?”

“Yes.” Oh, I sure knew that word today.

“But I no want other husband. I had husband. He bad, you know, move my nose wrong place on face—”

“Yes, I know and—”

“But boyfriend he bring ring. And he bring the flower. And he beg and cry but I say no. Tory say, you know Tory?”

“Yes, I believe I know who Tory is.” A tall, wood penis soaring into the sky floated to mind.

“She say you be the boss of your life, Kalani. I stay free woman. New word: freedom!” Kalani put her fists in the air in victory. “I say liberty. You know that word, liberty?”

“Yes I do.” I gave in. “Would you be happier married to your boyfriend?”

“Ah, no. Then he try boss me around, tell me I his maid, I learn that from Tory, too. I no work all day then come home and be maid to husband. He tell me I no maid to him, he cook dinner, he shop food, but I say no. Hurt my heart, though, Meeegie, I tell you.”

“I’m sorry, Kalani.”

“Yeah. Me too.” She brushed a tear off her cheek. “How you? You got boyfriend now?”

I thought of last night. “No. Definitely no boyfriend.”

“Good thing. You have boyfriend, they beg you marry you say no and then you hurt heart.”

We chatted more, and I heard about her sister’s neighbor who has warts on her “left butt,” and her mother who is battling with burps. I was finally able to angle her over to the problems she was having with the Valentine line.

Bras are tricky to make. You’d think we’d have it all down to a science, but things go wrong all the time. For example, bras have about twenty-five to thirty different pieces to them. Cup, wire, the wire channel to cover the wire, the pad, the fastenings, the rings and slides that have to be attached correctly on the straps, the back panel, etc. Also, bras are sewn within millimeters and there is no room for error. Colors can run, colors can bleed, colors may not match where they should, it’s endless. All for a bra.

“Tell me, Kalani, what’s going wrong?”

“Going wrong in factory? Oh yes. That. That. Okay, Meeegie. I tell you.” She smiled brighter. “You see. We have small problem. Two small problem. See this pad?”

She held up a pad that would be in a bra. “Too small. Not right. We start over.”

I groaned.

“Oh, Meeegie. No worry! Also one more problem. See, when we put mold on for cup, color slides. Different colors each cup. You see?” She smiled even brighter and held up two bra cups. They were different shades of red. She bopped up and down as if in celebration.

“That won’t work, Kalani.”

“Ya! I know, I know! Teeny one more problem. See this bra lining that too thin?” She pulled her shirt off and her bra off—one of ours, of course—and put the lining over her small boob. “I put bra lining over my boobie and my nipple poke out still. That not good. See nipple?”

“Yes, I see your nipple. No, that isn’t good. You have to fix that.” The lining is important, especially if there’s not padding. You have to have enough lining in the bra so women’s nipples aren’t coming first through the door, to put it crudely.

I put my fingers to my temples.
Bang, bang, bang.
I grabbed my beer.

“That all. Small problems, Meeegie. Oh yeah. One more problem.” She poked one finger down toward her crotch. “I got itchies in the ya ya place today. I think too hot here. I put ice on me at lunch break.”

“Sorry, Kalani.” I was going to die. “Sorry about the itchies.”

“Ya, but hey! Good news, too! I see that Tory on YouTube this morning. You know that Tory?” I assured her, yet again, that I knew Tory.

“That tall, you know,
doo de doo de da da,
what funny. La la funny. You American women. You take that revenge. You get back at the bad men. I like it. Tory, she say you take revenge when man bad. And she did, she did! I proud of you, Meeegie! I show all the ladies here! That our Meeegie and Tory and Laceeey, I say! They like women on the Jersey show!” She put her fists back in the air. “Liberty!”

I groaned.

“Freedom!”

 

“We have to milk this one,” Tory said, her zebra-striped heels tapping into my office, Lacey following her, clutching her stomach. “I’ve already invited the media here. Want to talk to the media with me, Meggie, Lacey?”

“No,” I said. I brushed a hand through my hair. Had hardly brushed it this morning. Note to self: Stay out of sight until all media are gone.

Lacey’s face lit up. “Can I?”

“Yep. Get in there with me. There is nothing we could have done to raise sales like this, and I wasn’t even thinking of that when I hired Lola. My horoscope was correct: I got a surprise.”

Tory held a press conference at twelve o’clock on the production floor, Lacey standing next to her, all our employees behind her, next to their Styrofoam artwork covered in colorful bras, negligees, and panties.

Tory said, “My husband and I are estranged, but I thought we were working things out. When he went to a French restaurant with that . . . slu . . . stup . . . wh . . . that
woman
who should not be wearing red as it’s not her color, and she had a boob job, I’m just saying, on a date, it hurt. All women know that hurt, don’t they?”

Our employees dutifully shouted, “Yes!”

“I wanted him to know how I felt, and I said it in a way that he won’t forget.”

Laughter.

“It’s still my house, and if I want modern phallic artwork in my front yard, I’ll put it there.”

Our employees cheered.

At the end of the questions, Tory held up several see-through, pink and black lacy negligees with ribbons. “Want to be a woman who stands up to life? Who plays hard and lives hard and loves hard? Do it in our negligees!” She wiggled her hips.

We sold out of those three almost immediately.

The press loved it, the online newspapers ran with it, the talk shows called for interviews, and the YouTube video continued to be quite popular.

And our sales.

Way, way up. As Tory predicted.

Tory had bought us some time.

I laughed out loud, then grabbed my head with both hands.

 

Abigail Chen thrust open the door to my office an hour after the press conference. “Incoming torpedo, ladies,” she panted, eyes wide in fear. “And she’s not happy. Up and at ’em!”

Tory, Lacey, and I jumped up.

I heard the
tap tap tap
of Grandma’s heels.

I heard her swearing.

“Hello, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Abigail said. “Nice to see you . . .”

“There is nothing nice about today,” she said. “No calls, no interruptions.”

Grandma swept in, resplendent in a shiny lavender dress. The baubles: diamonds. Hair: a perfect chignon.

She slammed the door so hard, I think the whole building shook.

“What
the hell
is going on?”

I didn’t speak.

Lacey didn’t speak.

Tory didn’t speak.

We knew not to. Let her rant,
then
speak, unless she has invoked her scorched earth policy of shredding us, then leaving the room in a flurry of fury.

“I am trying to have one,
one,
relaxing day, and I hear laughing in the employee room of Midah’s Spa and Salon. Midah had completed my hot rock massage and I am lying with cucumbers over my damn eyes, and there’s
laughing,
then I hear your name, Tory”—she stabbed her manicured fingernail at Tory—“and I hear the name of our company, and I ask Midah what’s going on.”

Grandma, now and then, would take a day off to get her hair and nails done and get a massage. She did not like vacationing—“too boring”—and she didn’t like relaxing. “What on God’s green earth am I supposed to do while I’m relaxing? Relaxing makes me irritated.” But she did like the occasional spa trip. I think it helped with the painful fairies plaguing her back.

“And Midah says, ‘It’s nothing, Mrs. O’Rourke. How about a mimosa?’ ” Grandma mimicked Midah’s high-pitched voice. “And I say, ‘Do not lie to me, young woman. What is it?’ She brings me a computer and I see a wood penis in Tory’s front yard.”

“Yes, Grandma, I—” Tory started, then shut her mouth. In the face of Grandma’s fury, everyone stands down.

“You what? What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t know it would end up on YouTube. How could I know that? It was only for that weasel, cross-eyed, dusty old Scotty!”

“Blah, blah, blah! You should have predicted it would wind up on YouTube,” Grandma said, those green Irish eyes snapping, her brogue thickening. “Especially when they were filming you. Did you lose your mind?”

“It’s been amazing advertising,” I said.

“We’re all over the Internet,” Lacey said. “It’s already increasing sales, raising our profile. The press was here—”

“This is not what I wanted for this company!”

“But Tory’s brash act adds to our mystique, our brand, who we are,” I said. “We’re not only bras and lingerie, we’re fighting women, fun and daring, we don’t take any crap from men—”

“Oh, hush up,” Grandma said.

Tory wrung her hands. Grandma’s the only one who can make her nervous. “I didn’t know—”

“You don’t know a lot, Tory,” Grandma said. I saw Tory’s face start to crumple.

“That was too harsh, Grandma,” Lacey said.

“I agree,” I said. “Tory does know a lot. She’s an excellent designer, she knows a zillion people in the business, she has hundreds of contacts—”

“Hell’s bells, close your mouths!” Grandma said. “Tory, you know nothing about
love
. Nothing.”

That stilled all of our mouths as quickly as if they’d been crammed with hell’s bells.

Grandma stalked over to Tory. “Will this increase sales? Yes. Is it the image I want for my company? No, it’s not. I feel like my hair is on fire I’m so mad, but that is beside the point, you ridiculous, wood-carving she-devil. What you need to think about is Scotty.”