by Cathy Lamb
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.”
“Scotty?” Tory peeped out.
“Yes, Scotty. I’m sure all those computer geek nerds at his work know, so you’ve humiliated him professionally and personally. You are in love with Scotty—”
Tory whimpered.
“And you do this?”
Tory’s manicured hands flew to her face.
“How will this help you in your ultimate goal?” Grandma spread her hands out, diamond bracelets flashing.
“What ultimate goal?” Tory cried.
“Getting Scotty back.”
Tory moaned and bent her head. “Oh, Grandma! I was so mad that he took another woman to dinner, that it wasn’t me, that he’s moving on, that he hasn’t tried to get me back. My horoscope said that revenge would be mine. I saw it as a sign.”
“No, you didn’t. You don’t believe that horoscope crapola any more than I do.” Grandma stabbed the air with her finger. “Maybe you and your temper tantrums are too much for him anymore, Tory. Have you thought about that?”
“Yes, yes, I have. When he came home last night I saw his face. He was shocked to see all the police cars, the cameras, the reporters. He saw me and I waved and smiled. He was so relieved to see me, I saw it, and he sort of sagged. Maybe he thought I was hurt, that’s why the police were there. But then he saw the wood carving and his mouth dropped open and he looked at me, then at all the people around me, who were noticing him and advancing with their cameras and notebooks, and he turned and left. I tried to call him, but he’s not taking my calls . . .”
“You are a bull, Tory,” Grandma said. “It works in business, but it doesn’t in a marriage. Bulls don’t belong in the marriage bed. Scotty is a kind, smart, gentle soul, and you are a raving, difficult, temperamental woman. You are constantly testing him, constantly testing his love for you, throwing obscene fits to get his attention. Grow up, Tory. Coming home and being a loving wife is not setting aside your ambition, your womanhood, or your equality. It’s recognizing that Scotty, the man you love, needs attention and affection. He shouldn’t have to spend his entire evening calming you down about whatever imaginary conflict you’ve dreamed up.”
“I should move back into my house,” Tory said. “That’s what I should do. I should move back in and walk around naked, bake cakes naked . . .”
“You don’t cook,” Grandma said.
“I’ll learn. I’ll clean when I’m naked.”
“You don’t clean. You have a cleaning lady,” I said.
“I’ll pretend I’m cleaning.”
Grandma shook her finger at Tory. “You need to think love.” “Think love?”
“Yes. The only other man who loves
a woman as much as I see Scotty loving you is Matt. But Lacey knows he’s a gift and treats him like that.”
Lacey raised her eyebrows at me. Ah, praise!
“Stifle it, Lacey.” Grandma whipped around. “I could come after you for any number of things, including that maternity dress. It looks like a tent. And you, Meggie.” For a second she was at a loss for words. “I hate that outfit.” She turned back to Tory. “Seduce him. Date him. Woo him, you idiot. Sometimes you girls are so stupid I hardly know what to do. If I could buy you new brains, I would.”
Grandma turned and stomped out of the room. “You three,” she turned back, “and I didn’t think I would have to say this again, but you three stay out of trouble! I want no more penises on YouTube!”
She slammed the door. I swear that building shook again. She yelled down to the floor, “Get rid of that penis!”
Tory looked bereft. “Do you think I could turn the penis into a fountain?” I held her as the bravado and daring collapsed and she was left with what she had before the buzz saw even hit the wood: a broken heart.
Blake had been very cheery when he saw me standing on Tory and Scotty’s lawn.
“Good to see you, Meggie.” He was all dressed up in his police chief’s uniform.
“Ah. Yes. Hello. Good to see you, too.”
“I must say I’m surprised to find you here.”
“I feel the same, Blake.”
“But it’s made my night, how shall I put it?” He rocked back on his heels and smiled at me. “Special.”
“I’m glad I could be part of your special night.”
Two police officers came up to talk to him, and I quickly snuck away, trying to catch my breath. Blake was the police chief?
He walked back over to me in two minutes, standing right in front of me so I couldn’t weasel away.
“I see that you’re Portland’s police chief.”
“Yes. That I am. And you’re Meggie O’Rourke, CEO at Lace, Satin, and Baubles, a company owned by your grandmother, Regan O’Rourke. Your mother is the renowned . . . uh . . . therapist, Brianna O’Rourke, your sister, Lacey Rockaford, is the chief financial officer, and your sister, Tory O’Rourke, apparently the mastermind here of the artwork, is the design director.”
“Yes. Should I ask how you know?”
“You should. You told me your name and I looked you up.”
“It’s so simple these days, isn’t it?”
“But you didn’t look me up. My heart is crushed.”
“Aren’t you funny? No, I didn’t look you up. To be honest I forgot your last name.” He has such a friendly grin. It softens up what is otherwise a hard, square-jawed face.
“Meggie O’Rourke, this is an odd way to get to know each other better, but it’s been a fun evening.”
“Delightful. Pure delight.”
We both turned to the penis.
“It’s a fine wood carving,” he said, mock-impressed.
“Lola has mastered the chain saw and chisel, that’s clear. Will you be making any arrests?”
“Nope. As I understand it, it’s Tory’s house. It’ll probably be a code violation because you can’t have something like this . . . this . . .”—he waved an arm—“in front of your home, as it’s offensive to the neighbors. Although”—he studied Gladys, who was now posing on the other side of the penis with Tory and waving—“she doesn’t seem to mind, now that she knows there are no rocket-ship-building burglars. Anyhow, it looks like your sister and her husband have a few things to work out.”
“They do. Many things. Large and small. I hope they will.”
“Do you like the husband?”
“Yes. I do. Scotty’s a kind man. Definitely not a dick. I feel guilty for being here.”
“He’s home soon?”
“Yes. I don’t think tonight will be his best.”
“Probably not.”
He smiled at me.
I smiled back.
Other police officers came up to talk to him, his phone rang, and I moved away, but studied him surreptitiously. Like a spy, I suppose.
He was in charge. He was liked and respected by his officers. He spoke well, and he handled the situation.
I tried hard not to like him.
I talked to my mother that night from her hotel room. I could hear her knitting needles clicking. Click, click, click. I was eating chocolate ice cream and a banana. She’d visited the host of a well-known talk show today in New York. She talked about whispering. As in, whispering to your partner what you want him to do to you. She regaled the audience with her Seven Tips for Whispering Success.
“Tory is hurting so much, honey,” she said. “I’m going to call Scotty tomorrow.”
“And say what?”
“That I love him, that he is as sweet as a cinnamon roll. I’m almost finished with his hat. I want to keep things snug as a bug in a rug between Scotty and me so when he gets back together with Tory, all will be peachy between us.” She sighed. She regularly agonized over their separation. “Oh, my dear Tory, still hurting.”
We talked about Tory, then I asked, “What color is my hat this year?”
“I’m not telling you, as usual. You know it’s a surprise and I finish your hat, Tory’s and Lacey’s at the same time so you girls don’t get hurt feelings about who receives the first hat.”
My mother knits us a new hat and scarf each year. They’re unique, colorful, comfortable.
“How are you doing, my love?”
“I’m fine.” I scooped ice cream up with the banana.
“No, sweets. Tell me.” Click, click, click.
“Nightmares, flashbacks, odd sightings of him. Yesterday I thought I saw him running past the business and I ran outside to check on my hallucination. Rats and blood. Red. The usual.”
My mother is one of the only people I can be totally honest with. She questioned me further, kind, confidential. Whenever I talk to her, I feel better.
“I love you, sweetheart,” she told me before we hung up. “I can’t wait until this book tour ends. It is killing me to be away from you and your sisters. I want to be in my kitchen kneading breads with you girls.”
“I love you, too.”
“I hope you like the hat and scarf I made for you this year. It took me three trips to find the exact color of yarn I wanted to use for you. Both will complement those yummy chocolate brown eyes of yours and your golden hair.”
Click, click, click.
10
By the time we left India, Aaron and I were engaged. He bought me a ring with a red stone at a bazaar. I bought him a plain gold band.
We started working on another film together in Los Angeles about life as an illegal teenage immigrant, specifically about kids who were brought here from Mexico when they were three or four, how they felt American, went to American schools, and listened to American music but had no legal standing and their lives were left in absolute limbo.
I had been in and out of Portland, but Aaron didn’t want to live in Oregon, so we settled in L.A. Later I realized he simply didn’t want me near my family. Isolation was best.
I had brought him home for five days between films. The visit had not gone well.
My mother insisted that I make Christmas cookies with her, four different types: sugar, pinwheels, fudge mint, and divinity. Then we made decorative wreaths using pine cones and branches from outside.
She told me, “The domestic arts and crafts should be a part of every woman’s life. It brings serenity. In the depth of the serenity and peace we create today, your brain will accept that Aaron is a monstrous mistake.”
My grandma said, Irish brogue sharp, “Aaron’s head is filled with nuts because he is one. He’s too passionate about himself. Narcissistic. He has delusions of grandeur. This will end as poorly as an untreated bladder infection. You’ll wind up screaming.”
Lacey said, “I know you think that Matt is boring, but here’s what a ‘boring’ man like Matt gets you: constant and loyal
love. Friendship. Compassion. Someone to listen to all your phobias and oddities. Help with the kids. Laughter. Stability. A man to hug grandchildren with. I love Matt with all that I am. Aaron will never be around to hug grandchildren with you.”
Tory said, “There are two types of men: the type you screw and the type you marry. Aaron is the type of man you screw, not marry. Why are you hesitating here?”
Aaron did not contact his mother about our engagement because she was “dead to me. Dead by the time I was eight, spiritually, but her body wouldn’t leave the planet.”
I wouldn’t listen to my family. I was so in love with Aaron I could barely breathe. Now I know I was in lust with him. Overwhelming lust. Aaron was sex with feet. He was hot. He was wildly passionate and romantic with me. It is hard for a woman to think under that kind of onslaught. We were both film people: We wanted to show the world what was going on with people who were invisible to others, we wanted to show the injustices and unfairness, we wanted to give a voice to people who needed someone to hear them. We understood each other.
We eloped to Kalispell, Montana. I know, makes no sense. But he wanted to see Montana—“it calls to my manhood and my inner soul”—even though he’d never been there.
I bought a white wedding dress with spaghetti straps, a brocaded bodice, and a full skirt at Goodwill for sixty dollars. The hemline was a little stained, but I ignored it.
Aaron bought a black T-shirt with a rat on it and stood in front of the hired minister in that. It became his favorite T-shirt. After the “ceremony,” Aaron went off to get beer and I wandered out to a dock jutting into a lake by myself, in a wedding dress, and stuck my feet in the water. I remember looking at my reflection, stunned that I was now a wife.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
Clearly, I wasn’t thinking at all.
My body was doing the thinking.
In Montana Aaron got in touch with his manhood and his inner soul, and we returned home to Los Angeles and kept working. I would show my family they were wrong about him.
The bait and switch behavior started immediately after the honeymoon. Aaron became controlling and angry, frustrated, irritated. Morning, noon, and night I had to handle some new emotion, fear, or problem he was having. He raved and raged, his emotions pitching and diving.