Open House (15 page)

24

“H
ELLO,
M
RS
.
G
IBBONS
?” I
SAY
.

“Yes?” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line is guardedly suspicious.

“This is Mrs.
Morrow,
” I say, as I’ve been instructed (“ ‘Mrs.’ makes them trust you more. Use Mrs. even if you’re Miss, any questions about that?”). Then, turning to my script, I say, “I’m calling from the customer
service
desk at
Supersave
.”

This is not true. I am calling from First Rate Home Delivery Food Service. For the last four days, I’ve been working as a telephone solicitor, sitting in a blue folding chair at a kind of Formica counter, in a row of other solicitors. There are five booths on each side of the small room, but only three solicitors are here today, as has been true every other day that I’ve been here. A thick piece of perforated particle board separates the booths from each other. I’ve spent a fair amount of time looking thorough the holes at pieces of the person beside me, a busty older woman with blue rhinestone glasses who wears pleated skirts, sheer ruffled blouses, and an excess of a perfume I think might be Youth Dew. She reminds me of a kindergarten teacher turned hooker.

The woman seems to dislike me for reasons I have not been able to discover, yet insists on taking the booth beside me every day. So I peer through the holes at her while I wait for people to answer their phones, looking for some kind of evidence as to why the woman feels the way she does. So far I’ve figured out nothing except that the woman has an ear-wax problem, which probably accounts for the many times a day she practically screams, “Pardon me? Can you speak up? I think there’s something wrong with your phone!”

The other full-time solicitor is a skinny, gray-haired man who smells like beer and hovers hunch-shouldered over his phone, as though it is a lover he has backed into the corner for a kiss. Every day thus far, he has worn a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and shiny, navy blue pants, belted too high. Periodically, he coughs for a good long while, finishing with a spectacular hawking of phlegm into a handkerchief that he then stuffs back into his pocket.

The office is located over a dry cleaners, and I can hear the muted sounds of the workers below talking to each other in Spanish, and laughing. I’m jealous of them. I’m not having any fun at all. I’ve been in that dry cleaners, never knowing that this office was above it, much less that I’d someday be working in it. It’s a very pleasant dry cleaners, clean and bright, flowering plants in pretty, woven baskets on the counter, tastefully framed reproductions on the wall. Here, the sunlight pushes in through filthy windows onto a cracked linoleum floor. There is a stained coffee urn in the corner, a half-dead corn plant next to it.

“Now, you recently entered a
contest
to win a
free
side of
beef,
is that right?” I ask my customer.

“Yes?”

“Well, the
drawing
for that prize will be held next week,” I say.

“Ohhhhh,” the woman says. “I thought I won!”

“No, the
drawing
for that prize will be held next week. But I’d
also
like to tell you, Mrs. Gibbons, that
First Rate Home Delivery
Food Service
is offering a
free, week’s
supply of
vegetables
for allowing our salesman to
visit
you in your
home
. He will explain how you can save
time
and
money
by having frozen food
delivered
to you. Now, the reason for
my
call is to determine the
best time
for our salesman to
call
.”

Silence.

“Mrs. Gibbons?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering when would be the
best time
for our salesman to
call
?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The woman sighs. “I don’t know. I guess seven-thirty, something like that.”

“Seven-thirty this evening?”

“I guess.”

“Fine!” I say. “And you live at
311
Walnut Street?”

“Yes,” the woman says, and then, lower, “Oh boy, my husband’s going to kill me.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, my husband’s going to kill me. He don’t like salesmen.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yeah, especially when they come to your house. You know.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“But you say I get a free week’s supply of vegetables?”

“Yes, you do.” I’m getting nervous now. There is no script for this.

“What kind of vegetables?”

“I think . . . Actually, it’s just some frozen vegetables. Three boxes. Corn, green beans, and something else. I think maybe lima beans.”

“That don’t sound like a week to me.”

“Well, they’re big boxes.”

“Plus I don’t like lima beans.”

“I don’t either,” I say. “But I hear they’re good in some kinds of soup.”

“Well, is it Green Giant or anything?”

“No. It’s actually First Rate brand.”

“Is that good?”

“I haven’t really, you know, tasted them,” I say. “I’ve only seen the boxes. They look nice, though. There’s a picture of a cornfield on the corn box. It’s probably good.”

“Oh.” The woman breathes into the phone, then says, “
Thank
you, honey.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry—I was talking to my son. He just handed me something.” I hear the throaty babble of a very young child.

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Eighteen months.” I can hear the smile in the woman’s voice, and am suddenly in the woman’s kitchen with her, leaning against the counter, drinking coffee, and watching the boy. His hands are holding on to his mother’s pants leg. Graham-cracker crumbs are in the curls of his fine, bright hair. Bells are on his shoes.

“Into everything, huh?” I ask, remembering Travis as a toddler, sitting stunned-looking as I screamed and grabbed plant fertilizer away from him. He hadn’t yet eaten it, and I burst into tears of relief, which caused Travis to burst into tears as well. We consoled each other, me by holding him tightly, he by being not dead.

“Oh, you wouldn’t
believe
it,” the woman says. “He’s broke our toilet three times already, throwing things down it. Last time, we were flat out of money, couldn’t call a plumber for a week. We had to use the neighbor’s. You can imagine.”

“Oh, I can.”

“So anyway . . . you say your salesman will be here at seven-thirty?”

Oh yeah,
I think, and look down at my script.

“Yes, that’s right, seven-thirty.”

“Could I just ask you something?” the woman says.

“Sure.”

“Do I have to do this?”

“Well . . . No. Of course not.”

“Will I still be entered for the side of beef, though?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, so can you just, you know, take my name off your list or whatever? My husband would just kill me anyway.”

“Sure. That’s fine. Well, you have a good day, Mrs. Gibbons. And kiss that baby.”

I hang up the phone, tear the lead sheet up, throw it in the garbage. And then feel the presence of someone behind me. It is my supervisor, a balding, pit-faced man, somewhere in his late fifties, I think, who takes his job very seriously. “May I see you in my office, Ms. Morrow?” he asks.

I follow him into the tiny room. “Close the door, will you?” he says.

I sit at the edge of the chair in front of the man’s desk, fold my hands in my lap. He sits down heavily, puts his hands behind his head, leans back in his chair. He looks out the window for some time, then turns to me. “You’re fired, lady.”

“Oh, I know,” I say. “I don’t blame you a bit.”

“I mean, you don’t seem to
understand
this job.”

“I know. You’re right.” I pick up my purse.

“You call these people and have a little
chat
! You’re not here to chat. You’re here to read the
script,
get
leads
! You’ve gotten one lead in four days!”

“Uh . . . yes, that’s right.” I take a quick look at the door. He doesn’t have to talk so loudly. I’ll bet everyone can hear. They’ve probably even stopped work in the dry cleaners and are standing motionless, looking up at the ceiling.

“Look,” I say. “I know I’m really, really terrible at this. If I were you, I’d fire me, too.” I stand, smooth my skirt. Smile. “So! If you don’t mind, I’ll just—”

“I heard that on Tuesday you were recommending dentists to someone, Ms. Morrow.”

“Yes, well . . . That’s right. That did come up. With someone.” I realize now why Youth Dew sits next to me.

“What’s the problem, anyway? You seem like an intelligent woman. What’s so
difficult
about this job?”

I sit back down. “You want to know what’s difficult about it? It’s lying. It’s lying! I mean, I’m not calling from Supersave!”

“That’s where we got their number. Close enough.”

“And the people think they
have
to let the salesman come. I have to say
when
can he come, not
can
he come.”

“Because if you ask if he
can
come, they’ll say no.”

“Right,” I say, leaning forward. “And see? Why do this? Why not just be honest, say right out what it is that you’re offering. You know, you could just call people and describe your service over the phone honestly and see if they want to sign up. Over the phone! You wouldn’t even need salesmen to go out. You’d probably save a lot of money.”

The man sits up, folds his hands on his desk, and looks at me over the top of his glasses. Shakes his head. “Go home. I’ll pay you for today. But don’t come back tomorrow, all right?” He picks up a stack of papers, begins reading.

“Yes, well, all right. Thank you.”

He doesn’t even look up.

.    .    .

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, with everyone in the house asleep, I wrap myself in the quilt on the sofa and call King. “I got fired today,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah? From what?”

“I was doing telephone soliciting.”

“Where?”

“First Rate Foods.”

“Overdressed dowager and man with consumption?” King asks.

“Yes!”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Got fired myself.”

I uncurl my legs, sit up straight. “Really! Why?”

“Not enough leads.”

“Me, too!”

“There you go. Be proud! It’s good to get fired every now and then. It’s liberating. Gives you some time during the week to run errands.”

“But . . . I need to work.”

“The agency won’t care. They’ll give you more work.”

“They will?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Oh.”

Silence. And then, “Well . . . thanks, King.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hang up and lean back against the cushions, my shame transformed into satisfaction. It lies across my chest like a cat.

Maybe I’ll scramble some eggs. Reward myself.

25

“I
ADMIT IT
,” E
DWARD SAYS
. “I
N MANY WAYS
, I’
M A WALKING
cliché. But I’m very comfortable with that. I know my own self. I’m a good person and I have nothing to apologize for.” He is sitting at my kitchen table, handsomely dressed in tweed pants and a beautiful cream-colored shirt, one long leg crossed over the over, sipping coffee. He reminds me of a young Fred Astaire: a thin, narrow face, hair looking as though it will recede a bit farther if you turn your back. When Edward talked about knowing himself, he laid his hand over his heart. I like people who do that. I feel I can trust them.

“Well, King certainly speaks highly of you,” I say.

Edward rolls his eyes. “Is he a
doll
? I just love him. He’s really very handsome, you know. Under all that . . . sort of . . . flesh. Every time I cut his hair, I think, boy what a little weight loss would do.”

“He has lost some. Quite a bit, actually.”

“Yes, I
thought
so. But I’m talking about . . . I mean, can’t you just see him in a Gucci ad?”

I smile.

“Oh, I know,” Edward says, “I have a very good imagination. My mother used to get after me all the time for lying on my bed and dreaming up things instead of going outside to grow big and strong and heterosexual. She was sort of like Bette Davis: The Later Years, only she was like that all her years.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, she used to come in my room and scare my friend Martin Harris to death. I think we were in love with each other, but it was only fourth grade. She didn’t like him, of course—he took ballet, for one thing. She’d open the door and there would be her pop-out eyes and this really magnificent scowl. Red lipstick. She’d be holding a cigarette with her arm bent up, big chunky bracelet, and she’d take this incredibly deep drag and say”—here Edward lowered his voice—“ ‘What are you boys up to? Is this any way to spend a beautiful day?’ and then she’d exhale for about an hour and a half. So we’d go outside for a few minutes and then come back in and play dolls with our soldiers.” He shrugs. “But you had to like her, you know? I mean, I
liked
her.”

“Edward,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind my asking this. But why would you want to live here?”

“I don’t mind your asking. I like families. I don’t like living alone. And I don’t like living in . . . the Community. It’s just a little too intense.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, sure.”

Silence.

Well, fine, I’m dying to know, but if he doesn’t want to tell me . . .

“You could get back to me,” he says. “I know the idea is a bit unusual. I will tell you, though, I’m a very good roommate. I clean, I cook, I’m quiet. And I’m . . . entirely discreet. Plus I’ll cut your hair for free. I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, you could use some color, too.”

My hand flies to my hair. “Really? The gray?”

Edward nods solemnly.

“It’s really obvious?”

He nods vigorously.

“Well, I don’t mind it. I mean, it’s natural. It’s what happens, you know, when you get older.”

“Honey, you can have gray hair when you’re sixty. For now, you’re much too young and attractive. I’d use a dark brown base, then a little copper for highlights. It would make your eyes look greener.”

I nod, think for a moment. “Okay, I’ll let you know.”

Edward gathers up his coat, stands. “You can call me whenever you like. And I’ll understand if you can’t let me move in.”

“Oh, no. I mean, I’ll think about the hair color. You can move in on the first.”

He sits down again. “Really?” His happiness is so dear, so transparent. We sit for a moment, smiling shyly at each other. And then Edward says, “But don’t you think you should, you know, check me out? Call my references?”

Oh. I should probably do that. But why? What would he do, give me bad references? “No need,” I say.

Edward takes a folded paper from his man’s purse. “Well, here they are anyway. My former employer, the family I used to live with, a few customers.”

“Why are you moving out?” I ask. This seems like a good question, something someone responsible would ask. Perhaps I should ask him where he sees himself five years from now.

“They’re moving to Arkansas,” Edward says. “They asked me to come. Can you imagine?”

“Well . . .”

Edward wraps his elegant scarf around his neck, slides his coat on. “My sentiments, exactly.”

I watch out the window as he drives away. A little navy blue Toyota. Not a speck of dirt on it. Of course he can move in. Maybe I can borrow his clothes sometime. I head for the bathroom to stare into the mirror and imagine myself as a redhead, dressed smartly.

“Y
OU MEAN THAT
friend of King’s?” Travis asks later that afternoon, when he has returned from school. “That Edward?” He pulls a carton of milk from the refrigerator, then takes a drink out of it.

“What have I told you about that?” I say.

“What?”

“About drinking out of the carton?”

“Not to do it.” He puts it back on the shelf, closes the refrigerator door.

“So why do you do it?”

He shrugs, sits down at the kitchen table. “I forgot.”

“So anyway,” I say. “We’ve got another roommate!”

“What’s this guy do?”

What’s this guy do?
David’s influence.

“He’s a hairdresser.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I am not. He owns his own shop.”

Travis snorts. “Is he like,
gay
or something?”

“As a matter of fact, he is.”

Travis stops smiling, pushes away from the table.

“Where are you going?”

“My room.”

“Travis,” I call after him. “Come here for a minute.”

He turns, reluctantly.

“What’s the matter?”

“You’re getting really weird, Mom.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head, continues upstairs, slams the door to his room.

I push his chair back under the table.
Am
I getting weird? Well, who should live here? An accountant and his wife and his
1.4
children? I have to take who I can get. I open the door to the freezer, look to see what we can have for dinner. Chicken. Anything weird about that?

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
, Travis calls me to his room. I close his door, sit on his bed, and smile at him, sitting at his desk. Finally, “What’s up?” I ask.

“I want to live with Dad.”

Well, there it is.

“Okay?”

“Travis, what brought this on?”

“I don’t want to live here. There’s too many people.”

“Well, I have to have people living here in order to keep the house. You know that. Don’t you want to keep the house?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

He turns away, sorts through some papers, mumbles something.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“You don’t have good judgment.”

I laugh. “Who told you that? Dad? Did he say that?”

Travis shrugs.

“Listen, Travis. Didn’t you like Lydia?”

“Yeah, and she’s gone.”

“Well, it’s not my fault! She got married! But I picked her! That was my judgment that picked her!”

“I
know
! But you also got that crazy girl in the basement! She’s
crazy
!”

I sigh, lean back on my elbows. What to say? Perhaps the truth.

“Well, that
was
kind of a mistake. But she doesn’t hurt anyone. She’s quiet. Maybe we just need to give her some time.”

“I don’t want to stay here, Mom. I don’t want to
live
with you!”

There, in the center of my chest, a splitting feeling so strong I wonder if something really has split. “Travis—”

“Can I just live with Dad? Please?”

“He can’t take you, honey,” I say quietly. “He works too late. He can’t be there for you after school.”

“I don’t care.”

“But you can’t come home alone.”

“Yes, I can!”

“Travis, you’re eleven years old.”

“
Lots
of kids my age come home alone! Way
younger
kids! It’s no big deal. I don’t even
want
you to be here when I come home!”

“Oh. I see. Well, I didn’t know that, Travis.”

I really didn’t. I need to get away from him right now. I need to cry. I need to punch the too-wide surface of my bed. I need to lean out the window and scream, “Just
wait
a minute!”

“Could you tell me something, Travis? Is it because of the roommates we have here that you want to live with Dad?”

“Not only.”

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.” I go over to kiss the top of his head. “It’s okay.” And then, on feet that have no feeling, I walk to my bedroom, where I close the door quietly and sit on my bed until the sky darkens, and it is time to make dinner for my son and the crazy girl in the basement who is making us both crazy, too.