Swim to Me

by Betsy Carter

  Weeki Wachee, she thought. I have a daughter who’s a mermaid at Weeki Wachee. And she’s good. Darn good. That strange Thelma woman with those goggle eyes kept telling me how talented my own daughter was, as if I couldn’t see for myself. Delores is growing up, when she’s not being an awful teenager. But she sure was sweet with Westie. I was a mother at her age. Now, here I am, in Boca Raton with a fashion magazine. Strange world.

  According to Avalon, fashion was serious business, maybe the number one business in America. It was about how people looked. No, about how people wanted to look. That’s what counted. Cool magazine told women who they could be. If they just worked a little harder at it, had more what-cha-ma-call-it? Oh, you know, self-esteem. Avalon said that the models in the magazines looked the way the readers wished they could look. Ha, fat chance that would ever happen. Of course they never told the readers that. They made it seem as if anyone who wanted could go out and spend one hundred dollars for a pair of sandals or wear those zillion-dollar see-through dresses. They called everything “a real pick-me-up”: cucumber facial masks, skin-tight blue jeans, eyebrow plucking. A real pick-me-up. Big business, this one, and here she was, plunked down right in the middle of it. Gail Walker has self-esteem, yessiree, that’s for sure. Otherwise, what would she be doing in a Boca Raton resort on the eve of one of the biggest CFAA conferences in the history of accessories?

  She opened her suitcase and started to spread her clothes out on the bed next to Westie. She was admiring her new green velvet bell-bottoms when the phone rang. She let it ring twice, so it didn’t sound as if she was eager for someone to call.

  “Hay-llo,” she sang, eyeing her reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door. “Ah, Avalon. How’s it going?” She stood up straight and sucked in her stomach.

  “Terrible,” said Avalon, her voice exhausted. Gail’s eyes widened with concern as Avalon continued: “Can you meet me in the lobby in a half hour? We’re having dinner with some advertisers. It was supposed to be the publisher and me, but her plane got delayed. The buyer is expecting more than just me. The editor will kill me if I screw this up. I know it’s asking a lot, but can you come? Are you up for that?” There was silence at both ends of the phone. Both were thinking different versions of the same thing. Gail had never met an advertiser. The only person Gail had ever spoken to at the magazine was Avalon. What would she say? Would she act appropriately? Would anyone believe that she worked there or would it quickly become obvious that she was the cleaning woman?

  “What about my son? What will I do with Westie?” asked Gail, trying to tamp down the anxiety in her voice.

  “Oh, don’t worry about him,” said Avalon. “The hotel has a babysitting service. I’ve already arranged for them to come pick him up in fifteen minutes. They’ll feed him dinner, hamburgers most likely. There’ll be some other kids.”

  Gail wasn’t sure about leaving Westie. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Having him go off with strangers.”

  “Oh silly,” said Avalon. “All the big hotels have babysitting services. They’re used to dealing with new kids. He’ll be fine, honest.”

  Avalon could be so thoughtful sometimes.

  “The people we’re having dinner with are from Timex,” Avalon continued. “They’ve been in the magazine for years. We’re seeing the account executive from the Atlanta agency and two of her creatives. So we need to work the conversation around timepieces as an essential accessory. Don’t worry. I hear this woman’s a real hoot. Just relax and have a good time. You’re a saint to do this. Okay, gotta get ready. See you in the lobby in a half hour.”

  Gail hung up the phone, pushed over her folded clothes, and sat down on the bed next to Westie. “I can’t do this,” she said aloud. At times like this, when she felt so utterly frightened and alone, she had to reach back into her history and remember other instances in her life when loneliness had echoed inside of her. After her mother died. After Roy left. After Delores left. The feeling that she couldn’t go on so overwhelmed her at those times, even thinking about it set bats loose in her stomach. She pulled her hair out of her face and studied the pretty clothes laid out on the bed. She would wear the velvet green pants that were left over from a New Year’s Eve fashion story. Nothing too gaudy—a white silk blouse from the same shoot and a pair of gold hoop earrings that one of the editors must have dropped under her desk.

  Getting dressed up always buoyed Gail’s mood. It made her feel more firmly in place. Westie would have fun playing with kids his age. He’d been around adults too much lately. She’d get through the dinner tonight. All she had to do was be natural. As Avalon said, all she had to do was relax and have a good time and not forget to mention timepieces. Everything would be fine. It made her smile to think that here she was, living proof of what a pick-me-up fashion could be. She hugged Westie, careful not to muss her hair. “Guess what, honey?” she said in as perky a voice as she could muster. “In a few minutes a nice lady from the hotel is going to pick you up and take you to play. It’ll be like being with Helene, only there will be other kids there. You’ll get to eat hamburgers and maybe even watch a movie. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  A ribbon of patchouli perfume floated under Westie’s nose. He tried to wave it away but patchouli stays put. He hugged Dorph and stuck his thumb in his mouth, something he did only when he needed to comfort himself.

  A half hour later, Gail walked into the hotel lobby, her brown platform heels clacking against the marble floor. There was Avalon, with her curly hair swept up on top of her head like a bushel of apples. She was wearing a pink and white checked strapless sheath. Gail had never seen Avalon outside the office. She looked entirely different: more beautiful, more confident, and taller. She was standing with a plump woman who looked to be in her late twenties. No one had teased hair in 1973, yet here was this young woman with a voluminous flip set in place by hairspray. She wore a magenta-colored miniskirt and a plunging, pink silk blouse and apparently gave no thought to how the outfit exposed her heavy thighs and pale bosom. She was already a hoot, and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

  Avalon put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Crystal Landy, I’d like you to meet my colleague, Gail Walker.”

  Crystal Landy stuck out her hand. “It is a real pleasure to meet you. I am such a fan of your magazine. Obviously, I am not one of your couture readers, but I get a kick out of what you folks in New York call style.” Her wire-thin bangles made the sound of loose change as she shook Gail’s hand.

  Having never come upon the word couture, Gail forced a smile as she shook Crystal’s hand and searched for the right thing to say. “Style is as style does,” she said, pleased to have passed that juncture.

  At dinner, Gail sat between Crystal and one of the young creatives named Jeremy. Jeremy seemed to have his mind and gaze fixed on something other than the three of them, so mostly, at first, Crystal talked. She said she’d grown up in Florida, up north in Gainesville. Her family was still there, but she rarely went home. “Gainesville isn’t big enough for both me and my mother.” She then turned to Gail and asked about her family.

  “Well, I have a daughter who’s seventeen and a little boy, nearly three,” Gail said. So far so good. She asked Crystal: “And you. Are you married? Do you have kids?” Crystal’s cheeks flushed and her expression turned somber. “I was engaged to be married. My fiancé got killed in Vietnam.”

  The table fell silent and Gail saw that Crystal didn’t know where to settle her eyes. Gail said the first thing that came into mind. “Your fiancé died a hero. My husband took off in the car nearly three years ago and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Not the most courageous man I’ve ever met.” Crystal recognized Gail’s generosity, and though she found her manner odd, she made it her business to include her in the conversation for the rest of the evening. “So,” she said, turning to Gail, “what accessory are you in?”

  Gail was prepared for this question. “Mostly I work in footwear, you know, sho
es, boots, sandals. But I also work with timepieces as they are an essential accessory.” Gail glimpsed the hunk of watch on Crystal’s left wrist. “I see that you are wearing a Rolodex. Now that’s a statement in itself, isn’t it?” she asked, pleased with herself, despite having confused the expensive watch with an address file.

  “I’ll say it is,” Crystal said, with a little laugh. “It certainly saves wear and tear on the phone book.”

  Gail laughed along, although she had no idea why.

  “And what’s your statement?” Crystal asked. “What are you wearing that most says who you are?”

  Gail did a mental inventory running from the platform shoes up to the hoop earrings. “I’d have to say that my biggest statement is about what I’m not wearing.” She thought about the wedding band that she’d long ago stashed away in her dresser drawer behind her underwear. She thought about the light blue cleaning-company uniform, its white collar and dark blue insignia over the right breast; her white lace-up shoes with their thick crepe soles; the garbage pail she dragged behind her like the scent of cheap perfume. She could feel herself disappearing.

  “Now my daughter, there’s a girl with a statement,” she said, brightening. “Every day she wears a mermaid’s tail. Honestly, I think by now she’s actually become a mermaid.”

  “That’s weird. Why does she wear a mermaid tail?” asked Crystal.

  Everyone at the table turned toward Gail.

  “She’s works at that place with the mermaid shows, Weeki Wachee.”

  “Holy cow, I saw them on TV,” said young Jeremy, as if someone had just shaken him awake. “Didn’t they do some spoof of The Godfather?”

  “Yes, it was last Christmas,” Avalon piped in. “They did a show called ‘The Merfather,’ and it was written about all over the place.”

  “My daughter had the starring role. She was Connie, Don Corleone’s daughter.”

  “Wait, I read about her,” said Crystal. “What’s her name again?”

  “Delores. Delores Taurus.”

  “Right,” said Crystal. “And the papers said something about how Delores Taurus swims with the fishes.”

  “Mermaids—wow!” said Jeremy. “They’re supposed to cause shipwrecks and floods, and cool stuff like that. They’re real seductresses.”

  “Can you imagine that?” said Crystal, raising one eyebrow and smiling at Gail.

  Avalon watched the two women talk. She saw how hard Gail was trying and that there was something about her that drew people out and made them comfortable around her. Maybe I could help her get a real job at the magazine, she thought. Crazier things have happened. After dinner, Avalon walked Gail back to her room. “You were great tonight,” she said. “Thank you so much. I owe you a big one.”

  Gail turned red and started to laugh. “Are you kidding? I got to see my daughter; I got to see Boca Raton. You don’t owe me a thing.”

  “I really do,” said Avalon. “You’re the only person at that place who’s ever been kind to me, much less helped me out. I owe you a lot.”

  Twenty-two

  How can the Marcie Breitman Learning Center help you to achieve your goals?

  No one had ever concerned themselves with Gail Walker’s goals before, and it made her heart skip to think that someone actually did now. The true answer was not something she wished to write on her application to the Marcie Breitman Learning Center, so instead of saying I want to be somebody and not always feel as if I am disappearing, she wrote: I want to learn the skills I need to become a professional.

  Out of desperation, she’d convinced herself that an opportunity like this only came around once. The magazine had agreed to pay two-thirds of the $450 tuition fee; those silver dollars would cover the rest. Avalon said she knew for a fact that there was an opening for the secretary to the marketing director at Cool, and that, with a degree from the Learning Center, Gail would be the perfect candidate.

  Gail tried to imagine it: a job where she didn’t have to stand on her feet all day; a job where she’d get paid enough to buy clothes and wear something other than her cheap uniform. She’d quit the supermarket job. She wouldn’t wake up each morning dreading the day ahead. She’d stop being an embarrassment to her daughter and herself. Delores had promised her that Thelma Foote would help with Westie. What an awful, severe woman she was, Gail thought, but she seemed efficient and responsible. Westie would be taken care of, that’s all that mattered. She judged herself a bad mother for thinking that it would be okay to send her three-year-old child away from home, but she could flip that argument and argue she was a good mother for wanting what was best for him. So yes, she told Delores that Westie could go with her to Weeki Wachee. She’d call Thelma Foote on Sunday, when the rates were cheaper, and make sure she thought it was okay. What was the big deal? He’d be outside all day, not cooped up in this stinking apartment. There’d be other kids around. And besides, this was only temporary. He’d come home as soon as she got her certificate.

  Delores knew enough not to wallow in her victory. Had her mother even suspected that this is what she had been dreaming about, she’d take it back fast, if only out of spite. So Delores spoke to her only of the practicalities: the clothes he’d bring, the airline ticket she’d buy. But alone with Lester, she pirouetted merrily around him. “I can’t believe it. Westie Walker is coming to Weeki Wachee.” She giggled. “Say that three times in a row: Westie Walker of Weeki Wachee.”

  Lester ran his hand over his cheek, pausing to let his fingers flutter over a new zit. “Uh, I don’t mean to be a downer,” he said, “but what are you going to do with Westie once you get him there? I mean, where will he sleep, and what’ll he do while you’re working?”

  She froze in place. “Well, Lester Pogoda, you certainly do know how to bust a gal’s bubble, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just that, you’re right,” she said, finishing his sentence. She’d thought about how wonderful it would be to have Westie at Weeki Wachee, but she had never fully considered the logistics of what would happen if he actually came. “I suppose he could sleep in the dorm with me. I’m sure Molly wouldn’t mind.”

  “What about the rest of them?” asked Lester.

  Delores pictured the other girls: how they walked around the dorm naked; how freely they talked about having their periods and the jokes they made about the bloodstains on the sheets. Even with Blonde Sheila gone pure, there was still plenty of talk at night about virginity, sexual intercourse, and blue balls, whatever they were. And what if it turned out that Blonde Sheila really was pregnant?

  Delores and Lester stared at each other, as if they were teetering on either end of the same thought: of course the dorm wasn’t the place for a little boy. But if not the dorm, where would he stay? Maybe the whole idea of bringing him down there was a little crazy to begin with.

  “Thelma,” she said. “I’ll call Thelma. She’ll know what to do.”

  Knowing that her mother would be reassured if she knew that Thelma was in on the plan, Delores had lied to her mother about Thelma’s willingness to help out. Now, as she waited for the long-distance operator to connect her, she could feel panic churning up her stomach

  Thelma picked up after the first ring. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Hey, it’s Delores.”

  “Oh, hey, how are you-all doing up there?” She sounded as if she was doing something else, which made Delores get to the point fast: “I’ve convinced my mother to let my little brother come live with me for a little while. So he’s coming back down with us. Thing is, I’m not sure exactly where he’ll sleep. You know, stuff like that.”

  Silence.

  Delores envisioned Thelma picking a thread off her windbreaker. She could feel her peevishness before she heard it.

  “Are you out of your mind, bringing a little kid down here? I’m running a business, not a day care center.”

  “Yes, but I thought that . . .”

&
nbsp; Thelma wasn’t listening. “Have you told Mr. Chatty about your brilliant idea?”

  “Who’s Mr. Chatty?”

  Thelma sounded embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just a little nickname I made up for your dad. Anyway, what does he think about all this?”

  “I haven’t told him yet.”

  “If you’re going to hold the Walker family reunion down here, don’t you think he ought to know?”

  “I wanted to talk to you first.” Delores sounded as if she might cry.

  “How do you envision this? What do you think the kid will do all day?”

  “He loves the water,” said Delores. “I’ll teach him how to swim. Who knows, maybe he’ll become the world’s youngest merman? That wouldn’t hurt business, would it?”

  “I’m sure there are laws against hiring three-year-olds.” Again a pause. “This is ridiculous. No, I can’t allow this. It’s out of the question.”

  Thelma slammed down the phone. Delores tried to hold back her tears.

  Lester shook his head. “She didn’t buy it, I guess.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Delores said, her voice trembling. “This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had.”

  “Call her back,” he said. “Tell her you need her help.”

  This time the phone rang three times. “Yes,” said Thelma.

  “Look, my mom is exhausted,” said Delores, still close to tears. “She can really use a break. Besides, I miss my brother. I don’t want to come back without him.”

  “Are you threatening me, young lady? Because if you are, it won’t wash with me.”

  Delores hadn’t meant it as a threat. “No, not at all, honest. Look, I really don’t know what I’m doing. I’m really scared. I know this sounds like a crazy idea; it’s just that Westie’s growing up so fast, I don’t want to miss any more of it.”