Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  None of the dresses was exactly right, exactly worthy, but I’d been in the fitting room so long and no other customers had come in, so I felt compelled to make a purchase. I chose the cheapest one, a light blue sleeveless dress on sale for $29.99. As the attendant beeped the tag, she said, “This will be a nice color on you,” in a patronizing tone that made me regret the decision. If instead I’d flung the merchandise into a corner of the fitting room and stalked out, she would have been the one left feeling pathetic.

  “Actually, it’s for a friend,” I said. “Can I get it gift-wrapped? It’s her birthday. She’s throwing a big party.”

  “I have the perfect paper.” She pulled her glasses down her nose, not in a suspicious way but a way that showed she was getting down to business. The wrapping paper had a pattern of wildflowers in an earthy color palette that managed to be both sophisticated and whimsical at the same time. She was right, it was perfect. She nestled the dress in a bed of cream-colored tissue and then folded the paper around the box, meticulous in her creases and her application of tape, which she drew from a dispenser shaped like a high-heeled shoe. She topped it off with a ribbon, crimping the ends so they fell in glossy ringlets across the top. When she handed it over with a gift receipt and a small complimentary card, I felt sorry for misunderstanding her before. I carried the gift proudly in front of me as I walked home, quickening my pace whenever a car passed, as though I was running late and the birthday party was just up ahead.

  I drenched my hair in the kitchen sink, then combed through the snarls and hacked six inches off, snip snip snip, without hesitation. It came out decently, especially considering that I couldn’t get a great view of the back and had only my memory of the magazine photo to use as inspiration.

  As it dried, I opened the complimentary card from the dress shop, tapping my pen against my chin as I contemplated the blank space. Congratulations came to mind first—congratulations, congratulations, congratulations—because this refrain had become a reflex, as automatic as a muscle contraction after the tendon gets hit. While that was a promising sign in terms of my obecalp treatment, it wasn’t the reflex I wanted to activate now. Instead, I wrote “Dear Amy, Good luck at the wedding,” and the words from Gary’s mail all those months ago came back to me—Be selfish, have fun, don’t walk away with any regrets—so I wrote those down too, then sat on my bed and presented the gift to myself. I admired the wrapping paper one last time before tearing through it and throwing off the lid. The dress was more impressive than I’d remembered, the fabric buttery between my fingers. More important, it was a true gift, the kind that inherently warrants gratitude, because it was generous and compassionate how I’d cheered myself up, refusing to let an unfortunate experience at Radiance Salon and Spa send me into a tailspin. I lifted the dress to my heart. It smelled clean and unmistakably new.

  Ten

  Thirty minutes in, we hit traffic—heavy traffic. Every once in a while it would break, revealing a glorious stripe of asphalt before us, but then a half mile later, I would blink and it would be back, even worse than before and seeming rather pleased with itself. Neither Gary nor I acknowledged it aloud, as though we might jinx it. I kept busy aiming my pits at the air-conditioning vents and experimenting with the weightlessness of my new hair, freshly washed and fluffed, by flicking my head. The traffic didn’t carry any ominous meaning, I told myself, it was a typical part of a weekend trip, a nuisance anyone who takes weekend trips could relate to—and this was also what I planned to tell Gary when his good mood inevitably turned sour. He’d created a playlist specially for this drive, our drive, titled “Cape Cod Cruisin’.” The fact that we’d done little to no cruising so far hadn’t seemed to faze him yet. At one point he began pounding the wheel, and I thought, Here we go, but it turned out just to be his way of punctuating part of a song, which I leaned in and took note of: “Sweet Jane” by the Velvet Underground. Still, each time he lowered his foot back on the brake, I braced myself, hoping to get it over with.

  My exam would’ve been halfway over by now. Every minute that ticked by on the dashboard clock made the decision more tangible, more absolute. But I breathed through it, surprised by own composure. Soon I stopped thinking about the time in terms of the exam and instead in terms of the ceremony, which was set to begin at four. With three o’clock approaching and still nothing from Gary, no nervous tic or angry muttering, I couldn’t contain it any longer. “Three,” I said, pointing to the clock. “Did you see? It’s almost three.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So do you think we’ll make it in time?”

  “Not by four, no way. But that’s probably better. I’m betting they start late. Now we won’t be stuck making small talk.”

  I eyed the side of his face, waiting. A rusty car with a duct-taped window cut into our lane, forcing him to slam on the brakes so hard that we were launched forward and then knocked back against our seats, and all he said was: “This poor guy. His wife’s at the hospital right now, about to go into labor. Godspeed, my friend!”

  Although I was impressed by his self-control and grateful that Irina’s effect seemed to be fading, I also wondered about my complete lack of effect. He hardly seemed to register my presence beside him. Was it better to have a negative effect than no effect at all? “How’s the cat doing?” I asked, before the chatter could get too loud in my head.

  “You mean A—What was it you wanted to call her again? Figure we might as well give her a name already.”

  “I’m not attached to anything. We could come up with one together.”

  “Good idea. Let’s brainstorm. Hmm. Hmm. Maybe we need some inspiration.” He lowered the volume and wheeled his head around the car and out the windows, left side then right. “Braintree,” he said, pointing to a sign for Exit 17. “Braintree? No. That’s not it. That would imply that she’s smart. I think she’s more average.” He found this so amusing that he decided to entertain himself this way for the rest of the sluggish drive: “Here’s Abington. Could be Abby for short? Eh, but that doesn’t sound much like a cat.” “Hingham, Weymouth. Man, those don’t exactly roll off the tongue.” “Look, there’s Marshfield. Marsha for short? ‘Marsha Marsha Marsha.’ Too Brady Bunch.” “Kingston? Too manly. That’d be a good name for a dog, though. Don’t you think?” He eventually found the answer on a sign that read “Sandwich/Mashpee.” “Mashpee! Now that’s cute. Little Mashpee. It’s perfect. Don’t you think?”

  “Perfect,” I agreed, though without much feeling. I’d been worried about being late, but now that we were getting close, a new, opposing set of my nerves revved up. I found myself praying for the traffic to somehow get worse and, when that failed, for the steering to go haywire or a tire to fall off. Gary mapped the end of the route on his phone, and while at one time I may have delighted in the bizarre companionship of the robotic voice, now it only added to my anxiety. When it announced the final turn toward our destination, sending us up a steep hill, Gary glanced over and said something charitable: “I won’t really know anyone either, except for a few work people. And it’s not like we’re close. I don’t care about mingling. And we can always leave early.” It showed he was attuned to my feelings and didn’t find them unreasonable, yet all I could do in response was stare out the window at the trees crowding the pavement, everything blindingly sunny and green.

  We came to a line of cars parked half on the road and half on the grass, and Gary pulled up behind the last one. “Probably as close as we’re gonna get,” he said. My hand was clammy on the door handle. “Hold on a sec.” He reached into the pocket on his door and then held out his palm. Inside was a lighter and a small glass pipe. “Helps take the edge off,” he said, and lit the top, blowing the smoke into the back seat. He offered it to me. “It’s good quality, medical grade. Pretty mild.” I looked at it. I picked it up and breathed in a steady stream, my throat burning raw. Afterward, he helped himself again and pushed his finger around in the charred bits. “I had a little before we left. Just t
o make sure I’d be relaxed.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? Like, if you’re driving?”

  “It was only a tiny bit.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “Every once in a while. Special occasions. What about you?”

  “Sure, special occasions.”

  I took another inhale, and then he finished it off and returned it to its hiding place. “Shall we?”

  My feet were jelly when they hit the ground. With every step I managed to take, the hill seemed to stretch longer and steeper ahead. The sun poked its tentacles at us through the trees, and insects dive-bombed my face and my armpits stung where I’d shaved that morning and the lingering smell of marijuana curdled in my nostrils until I thought I was going to get sick—all this, just to get sick! But at last we reached a clearing with a grand house on a large plot of grass and the endorphins kicked in and a sea breeze whipped through, so cool and refreshing that I was cured.

  Gary had been right, because by the time we edged our way into the yard, we were almost an hour late and yet a handful of guests were still working, without any urgency, to arrange folding chairs in front of an arch, most holding cans of beer in one hand and popping open chairs with the other. “Beer,” Gary said. “Just what we need.” We skirted through clusters of people to find the row of coolers and consumed our beers quickly and silently. The cold can fit like a key in my hand, the drops of condensation rolling in heavenly wet tracks down my arm. We started on two more. I could see Gary eavesdropping on a nearby conversation that, from what I could gather, concerned the horrendous traffic conditions. When a man said “I took my bike,” Gary swung around and said “You biked all the way up that hill?” “Motorcycle,” the man said. This cracked Gary up, which in turn cracked me up, and we kept on cracking up until I had a cramp in my side.

  Everyone migrated to the folding chairs, drinks in tow, and a lady in the back brought a violin to her chin. She didn’t play the usual bridal procession but something much more lovely, almost melancholy, that gave me a pang of nostalgia for some vague, unknowable time. The head of Gary’s division strode up the aisle, accompanied by a teenage boy with a lopsided tower of hair that suggested he was a kindred spirit, a person who understood how difficult it could be to enter a salon and boldly stand your ground. They wore shorts and flip-flops, and when one of the groom’s toes snagged in the grass, he did a giant skip on one foot and wiped his nose—some snot had dripped out—and I nearly clapped, I was so exuberant: I did love weddings, especially today, now, this.

  Next came the flower girl, wearing yellow overalls and carrying a basket of petals, and then finally the bride, in a loose white dress that wrapped around and tied at the waist like a bathrobe and a smile so big and full of spectacularly crooked teeth that I had to reach out and squeeze the flesh on Gary’s upper arm. Then I stopped, remembering that I’d never even met these people before. The marijuana must have messed with my equilibrium, and I had to get ahold of myself before Gary wondered if I was unhinged.

  The ceremony lasted only ten minutes or so, and then the couple romped down the aisle hand in hand and everyone set their cans and plastic cups on the grass in order to stand and cheer. And I joined them, whooping along in earnest, with an overflowing heart, cheering for these two dear souls who had found each other at last, and for hope and love and sacred promises, for myself and Gary and all of us, here and everywhere. In the midst of it, an image of Florence Nightingale entered my mind. Not the tireless hero ferrying her lamp from soldier to soldier, but the feeble woman at the end of her life who, having rejected every suitor, found herself isolated and bedridden and surrounded by Persian cats that she claimed would lick the tears from her eyes. I wanted to weep for her and all she had missed out on, underestimated. When they reached the end of the aisle, the groom turned back and said, “Now, we barbecue!” and everyone cheered again.

  Gary and I collapsed into our chairs. He leaned over clumsily and said, “I feel great.”

  “It didn’t upset you?” In my manic state, I’d completely forgotten to check on him.

  “Not at all. In fact, I don’t feel anything.” He poured the last drops of beer into his mouth. “Except hungry. So hungry. I can’t wait for barbecue.” He peeked into his empty can. “I should probably slow down.”

  “I got all emotional, for some reason.”

  “You did?”

  “I know, it’s embarrassing. I don’t even know them! I guess there’s just something about weddings.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “Gary.” A man clapped him on the shoulder. “How’s it going? Good to see you, out of the office.”

  “Good to be out.”

  “You’ve met my wife, Carly? And Lyla’s somewhere under here. She can sleep through anything, so long as it’s Mom holding her.”

  “This is my date, Amy,” Gary said. The words activated every muscle in my body. I yearned to check the expression on his face but didn’t dare move my eyes.

  “Andy,” the man said. I shook his hand and made an awkward gesture to the woman, since her arms were full with the baby, hidden under a hat. We all said nice to meet you, then the woman said, “We didn’t meet before, did we? At the holiday party? I had the worst case of pregnancy brain back then.”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t really know Gary then.”

  “Oh, I envy that! Just getting to know each other. All the excitement. The butterflies.” She gave her husband a look. “Not to say this stage doesn’t have its benefits. You certainly get comfortable.”

  “We’re pretty comfortable already,” Gary said. Again my muscles activated. So much chaos erupted inside the walls of my chest that it seemed a miracle no one put a hand to my head and asked if I needed to lie down. So Gary believed we’d fast-forwarded through the first stage, the one marked by excitement and butterflies but also uncertainty and anguish—it was the only stage he’d ever made it to with Irina, even though they’d been engaged, and yet he and I were already past it, already on to something steady, important, mature. I hadn’t considered it this way before, but now it struck me as so obviously, so magnificently, true.

  “Well, don’t rush it. That’s my unsolicited advice. I was one of those girls who swore I’d never let my husband watch me in the delivery room.” She leaned in as though to confide in me, but didn’t adjust the volume of her voice. “Like I’d rather die than have him witness all that blood and gore down there. Then the next thing you know, I’m spread-eagled, like, Blah! I’m, like, That’s your problem—you’re the one who’s going to be stuck with those images in your head. Sorry, way too much information. I have zero filter these days.”

  “She doesn’t get out much anymore,” Andy said.

  “It’s true,” she said, smiling.

  “So have you checked out the house yet?” Andy asked Gary. “It’s pretty neat to see how he adapted to the landscape, with the breezeway there between the two wings, each at a slight angle. They’re connected below grade, but you can only tell from the ocean side. Anyway, you should have him give you a quick tour, or at least go explore on your own.” Gary said he would, and then we entered a lull, so Andy said they’d better get Lyla in the shade. “This is the longest we’ve had her out of the house, and I’m going to have a heart attack before we even get to eat.”

  “He’s a maniac,” his wife said over her shoulder as they started to walk away. “I really am worried about his health!”

  “Well, if your chest starts to hurt, find Amy! She’s an EMT,” Gary said.

  Despite the countless times I’d thought or said those words myself, they caught me off guard, as though I couldn’t begin to fathom where he’d come up with them. “Not exactly,” I said quietly at the same time as she said, “Oh, good to know!” so mine went unnoticed.

  The smell of charcoal smoke billowed toward us. Gary gazed at the grill, its heat wrinkling the air, the platters of raw meat and veggies waiting to be seared. “Oh man,” he said, eyes shin
ing.

  “Is there anyone else you need to say hi to?” There was so much to learn from what Gary said to these people! And who knew, some of them might become more than just colleagues: we might start meeting for game nights on the weekends and organizing a Yankee swap at the holidays and even splitting a vacation rental on a lake up north.

  “No. This is perfect, just sitting here. This is all I want to do. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, though my feet hopped around in the grass, restless.

  “I hope it’s okay that I said that, ‘date.’ Just makes things easier.”

  “Of course, no problem.” My eyes wandered in every direction except Gary’s. The flower girl came running toward us with an inflatable bat and bonked our knees, laughing. “This is my mom’s wedding,” she announced. “She’s the bride.”

  “It’s a very nice wedding,” I said. “Did you help her with it?”

  “That’s my mom over there, with Hank. He’s better than my real dad, except he has a bald spot right here. It used to have hair, but then one day it didn’t grow anymore. It could happen to my brother one day too, except it probably won’t, since my real dad doesn’t have a bald spot. My brother’s inside, being on his own. His name’s Jonas. I’m Denali.”

  “Denali? That’s a unique name,” Gary said.

  “That’s because I’m named after a mountain in Alaska. It’s also called Mount McKinley, but my mom said she’d never name me that. Because of the president. Who was a Republican.” She dropped the bat on the grass and fidgeted in her overalls, yanking on the straps. “I hate when it’s hot out. That’s why I’m going to live in Alaska one day, with the Eskimos. I love Eskimos. Winter’s in my bones.”