by Cathy Lamb
“My way?”
“Yes.” I wanted to leap on his lap and hug him, though I was still scared about the leap. “Your way.”
“As in, we’re going to date, and be together, not just jump in and out of bed, and you’ll be open to falling in love with me if I’m extra nice and don’t burn the steaks?”
“Yes.” In love? In love? Ah, that sounded nice.
“What about your aversion to a committed relationship?”
The thought of a commitment still scared the bejeezus out of me, but when I smiled at Blake, friendly Blake, I said, “I’m gonna try. Give it my best shot, rah rah rah. I’ll be brave and invite you to take a few rendezvous with me.”
“Trying is good.” He smiled back, slow and sure. “And I’ll take the rendezvous.”
His arms wrapped around me, his warm lips meeting mine as if we’d rolled down this road of passion many times before. I cupped his face in my hands and we had a long and rockin’ kiss. I pulled him down on top of me on his leather couch, the snowflakes falling, the fire crackling.
Architecturally speaking, there was no better backdrop for our lingerie than the shoe factory across the street. The juxtaposition of lace, satin, and lingerie against the rougher edges of the building, the concrete, brick, exposed rafters, and the cavernous ceilings was bang-up perfect.
At the entrance, our handyman extraordinaire, Eric Luduvic, had created a twelve-foot-long sparkly bra made out of pink lights. Across the cups it said “Lace, Satin, and Baubles” in red. It was catchy, it was fun, and, as Lacey said, “tit-illating.”
Swaths of pink satin, white lace, and white lights hung from the factory ceiling. We also hung strawberries. Yes, enormous wood strawberries, painted red, rimmed with silver glitter and red lights, also by Eric.
At Hayden’s suggestion, we brought in trees and wrapped white lights around them, too. We had circular tables covered in white tablecloths, and in the center of each one we’d placed a two-foot-tall black-and-white photo of Grandma when she was sixteen and in the strawberry fields, looking tired and dirty but proud and strong, her hair windblown. The farmer’s wife took the shot.
Along the sides of the factory, we had current photos of Grandma, juxtaposed next to the weathered boarding house and tiny room she lived in while sewing nightgowns after picking strawberries all day. We had photos of the first small building she’d bought for the company, then the second factory, and finally the enormous pink and white building we now own.
The pink runway was lined with two-foot-tall glass candle-holders with three pink tea lights floating in each one, also Hayden’s idea. White chairs lined the runway four rows deep.
The music was loud and upbeat, thanks to Tory. We had decided to play music that made people want to dance. We were expecting hundreds of people. We’d given free tickets to the employees’ friends and family to pack the house, and I’d worked the phones and finally convinced a bunch of media people to be there. When I was stonewalled, I had my mother call. They said yes to her. Funny what a Southern belle/Irish elf sex therapist can do when she calls her contacts.
And the cakes, made by Leonard Tallchief?
Exquisite. Leonard said he was “up all night, worrying endlessly, for weeks, the anxiety tripping my anxiety! Which cakes would be most delectable? I changed my mind, changed it again, my brain numb and hyperventilating. Only the best for your grandma, the best for Regan O’Rourke, my angel. After a companywide tasting and meeting and vote, group meditation, and a call to my uncle, our tribe’s chief, who is also a phenomenal chef, I decided . . .”
He had made five huge cakes that can only be described as spectacular culinary art. One was a lacey red bra with huge cups, another was a pink negligee, the third cake was a white lace thong with purple bows, the fourth was a red and black bustier, and the fifth was orange and yellow flowered panties. We put bowls of strawberries between them.
Delicious.
In the back, behind the stage, where our “models” were getting ready, I should have been shaking.
I wasn’t shaking.
I was more focused than I think I’ve ever been.
“Here we go,” Lacey said.
“This works and we relaunch this company,” Tory said. “It fails and we start laying off people and hope we don’t have to sell Grandma along with the rest of the inventory.”
“Thank you for boiling it down to such grim news,” Lacey said.
“You’re welcome,” Tory said. “I don’t think anyone is going to want to buy Grandma, though. Rather cranky old lady.”
Backstage we had organized chaos. More chaos than organized, but our lineup of “models” was ready. Because they were in lingerie, and some, okay almost all of them, didn’t feel confident strutting around in their designs almost naked, we’d added lacy skirts, gauzy veils, creatively tied sashes, silky sarongs, fanciful hats, capes, butterfly wings, and one space alien outfit that opened to a striped nightshirt. The New York shows have fantabulous, out-of-this-world clothing, why couldn’t we?
“Hello, Grandma,” I said.
My grandma studied me, head to foot, noting my silky purple dress and high heels. “You don’t look like the cat dragged you in after rolling you down a hill.”
“Thank you.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. She pulled me close and whispered, “You look like a model, Meggie. Gorgeous. Most important, I see the light on in you again. Don’t ever let it extinguish again. Stay strong.”
She was resplendent in a floor-length blue velvet dress with a long train and her four strands of pearls. Her hair was up in her usual chignon, but she’d added two sparkling clips. My mother stood beside her in a black dress and fishnet tights, her red curls falling down her back.
“Hello, honey.” My mother kissed me, Lacey, and Tory, taking care not to bump their casts. “I am so proud of all of you. My lovely daughters! We’re all together, as a family. My heart is joyous.”
I was, once again, glad to be home. Win or lose tonight, the company saved or the company burned, I was grateful to be here with family. And I was grateful that Blake was in the audience. My Blake. Sweet Blake.
Minutes later Eric flickered the lights, turned off the dancing music, and invited our guests to take their seats lining the pink runway and floating candles. Behind the pink curtains we waited until everyone was settled and quiet, then we dimmed the lights, one spotlight on the front of the stage.
“That’s you, Grandma,” I said.
Grandma smiled at all of our employees backstage, most of whom were scared to death about their impending journeys down the catwalk. She said, “Thank you,” then paused and put two fingers to her lips, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. You are my life.” She blew them a kiss, which was completely uncharacteristic of our butt-kickin’ grandma.
She disappeared behind the pink curtains and I heard wild applause as she took the stage. Our employees applauded, too. I grabbed Tory’s hand. She squeezed back. “Here we go,” she said. “Let’s start dancing with the devil.”
“Welcome to the Lace, Satin, and Baubles Fashion Story,” my grandma boomed. “Welcome! Thank you for coming.”
Everyone clapped again and hooted. When they settled down, Grandma said, “We were going to have a fashion show, a typical fashion show, with tall, thin, unsmiling models who look famished. We were going to have them model our lingerie, our bras, our pajamas. But we’ve done that. We’ve all done that in this business. Repetitive. Boring. I hate boredom.”
They laughed.
“What we decided to do is show you who we are. To show you who is behind Lace, Satin, and Baubles. Who’s running the company, who does what, who designs our products, who works in sales, what family members work here together. We wanted you to know us. We wanted you to know why this business is my legacy. That’s why we are not calling this a fashion show. It’s the Lace, Satin and Baubles Fashion Story.
“Our employees designed their own lingerie. We asked them to create lingerie that reflected them an
d their lives. Some of it we’ll change, alter, and sell to you. Some of it is simply for fun. Tonight we have rebellious, thought-provoking, artistic, funny, and out-of-this-world lingerie. Our employees have been unbelievably brave.” She paused. “They are the ones who are going to model the lingerie for you.”
Whooee! The audience liked that.
“Sit back, relax, enjoy, and let’s embrace the night together!”
The audience cheered into the dark, there was a drumroll, and Maritza, her hand clinging to mine in that last second, stepped from behind the curtain and strutted down the pink runway to some toe-tapping music, the spotlight following her. She was in black lingerie; a gauzy, flowy, see-through black skirt; and four-foot-tall gold and silver butterfly wings.
The audience clapped and hooted. They loved those wings!
After Maritza owned that runway, hips swinging, she stopped and posed on the stage. The lights went off, as did the music.
A huge video screen above the stage showed Maritza talking about her escape from Mexico in an enclosed semitruck with her sisters and her late mother. No one moved when she talked about being raped, how she was allowed to stay in America, and how my grandma hired her and her sisters. When it was over, the spotlight again shone on Maritza and her butterfly wings.
Her standing ovation lasted three minutes. She cried. She waved. We cried backstage.
Grandma introduced Lance Turner next, who walked up and down the runway, shoulders back, wearing the army pajamas with the fuzzy pink trim and his army boots. His video about his service in Afghanistan was next and how he felt about the dead mother in her white bra, blood staining it as her children crawled over her body. Standing ovation, too. He had to come out to take another bow.
Following Lance was Melissa and her tattoo bra. Melissa somehow knew how to strut. She rocked that runway. On her video she talked honestly, and with wry humor, about her relationship struggles with her mother and the dragon tattoo she named Mother. She was followed by Candy in her flaming bustier, her anger issues and her funny tale of trying to find a date via the Internet.
Tato rode down the runway on his growling Harley to raucous cheering, wearing his nightgown, a biker dude, a black bandanna over his head, and dark glasses.
We sent the Latrouelle sisters out together. They wore matching nightgowns, and in their video they talked about the women in their family, their history, their ancestors. We showed Delia’s video, too, as she talked about her adopted children. I heard people sniffling over that one.
The Petrelli sisters strode down that runway, as if they’d done it a hundred times. Edna wore her nipple bra over a pink, shiny dress. She used her pointer fingers to bring people’s attention to it. Edith wore the Whip Brassiere in black leather and black leather pants. She cracked a whip in the air. Oh, how the audience adored the whipping. Estelle wore her fuzzy, pink pajamas with the gun pointed at the crotch. At one point she stood in the middle of the runway and shot off two cap guns—three times. The crowd loved that, too, leaping to their feet.
Their video about the mob, their nine-fingered father with a bullet in his shoulder, and his loving bread, made everyone laugh.
Hayden told me he was going to “faint like a dead bat,” but he made it down the runway in a silvery skirt and silver bra with swinging tassels. His video about being transgender initially brought dead silence, and I cringed. Lacey sucked in her breath. Turns out it took a second for people to absorb it—that was a boy who strutted down the runway? Again, thundering applause.
Our other employees—some with videos, some not, as that would take too long—followed.
Lacey wore a gold bra and gold skirt, gold boots, and a red cape. In her video she talked about the accident and how Tory saved her life and her baby’s life. She held up baby Victoria, with Hayden, Regan, Cassidy, and Matt behind her. When the video was over, she had Tory come out. Tory had not known she was going to be asked out onstage with Lacey.
Lacey flipped the red cape over to show a superhero logo and put the red cape around Tory’s shoulders. “You’re my superhero, Tory,” she cried as they had a long, emotional hug. My mother was in even worse emotional shape than me at that hug, her handkerchief soaked.
Tory walked barefoot onstage later in an innocent, pink lace nightgown holding her purple dinosaur and yellow lion. She stood quietly as her video ran where she talked about her shock and grief over losing her parents.
“The night after my parents died in the car wreck I was wearing a pink nightgown like this. I was five. My parents were gone. My whole life was gone. I didn’t even understand what death meant then. What heaven was. How could my parents not be coming back? But then Brianna O’Rourke came and hugged me, and I was invited to join the O’Rourke family. I became a granddaughter, daughter, and Lacey and Meggie’s sister. From utter ruin to a new family, and I love them.”
The video ended, and Tory took the pink nightgown off over her head, swung it around, and stood in front of Scotty in a black and red ribboned bustier, garters, fishnets, and high red heels. She leaned over and did a shimmy right in his face. We all laughed. The penis caper story was well known. “My name is Tory Martinez Stefanos O’Rourke,” she shouted into a microphone, “and I love my husband, Scotty.”
I wore a boring beige sheath dress. I walked up and down the runway barefoot. In my video I said that my husband had killed himself. I then talked about my year of wandering. I talked about the ranch in Montana, building churches in Mexico, the safe house for prostitutes in the Ukraine, and the orphanage in Russia. I talked about trying to bring color back into my life, and how that had been a struggle until I came home. When it was over I pulled apart the beige dress, which had been attached with Velcro. Underneath I was wearing a red lace negligee with a red lace skirt that fell to my knees, and red heels.
I deliberately turned toward Blake when I opened the dress like a flasher and smiled at him. He smiled back, and I saw the surprise, then the passion, and over it all, the love and friendship.
Grandma’s video was last, with her seated in her light pink office in her red suit and four strands of pearls. She had told my mother, Lacey, and Tory about her story two days before so, as Grandma said, “They wouldn’t get their panties in a twist on the night of The Fashion Story.”
Their panties got in a twist, anyhow. So did their minds. That kind of story twists you all up inside.
“My name is Regan O’Rourke. I am the founder and owner of Lace, Satin, and Baubles.” Up on the big-screen TV, Grandma told how she’d worked in the strawberry fields at sixteen, had one room in a boarding house, sewed nightgowns at night, fought poverty for years, and worked constantly to build the company. “Our company symbol is the strawberry so no one ever forgets where I came from.
“But the story before the story of Lace, Satin, and Baubles has been a secret. The only one I ever told was my late husband, Cecil O’Rourke, The Irishman. I told my daughter, and my granddaughters, and anyone else who dared ask, that I slid off the curve of a rainbow with a dancing leprechaun and flew to America on the back of an owl from Ireland.” She rolled her eyes impatiently. “I have decided, however, that I want to leave a truthful legacy. I want you to know that my early challenges were a part of my life, but I didn’t let them take over my life. I didn’t let them tell me who I had to be.
“My story starts in County Cork, Ireland. My parents’ names were Teagan and Lochlan MacNamara. I had a sister named Keela. We were poor. My father had been hurt in an accident and was in a wheelchair. Few people living here know poor the way that we knew poor. We had one meal a day for weeks at a time, and we ate an endless amount of potatoes. My sister and I often did not have shoes that fit. There were bugs and lice. We froze in the winter. My mother had two miscarriages, probably because her health was so deteriorated, and she lost a baby when he was seven weeks old.”
Her brogue soft but sure, Grandma talked about how she went down the road one day to help a neighbor with her vegetable garden with the pr
omise that the neighbor would give them vegetables to eat. “That’s when our house burned down. My mother, my father, my sister, gone. Burned to death. How? We had a fire going, and my guess is that sparks flew and my mother and sister could not get my father in his wheelchair out in time and refused to leave until it was too late.”
Grandma paused, closed her eyes, bent her head. We waited for her, stricken, in that dark, silent factory, our eyes glued to the video.
We waited.
Waited more until her head came up once again.
“I was fifteen years old and I had nothing.” Her voice cracked. “My grief overwhelmed me. I wanted to die and be with my family. Several people in my village made gravestones for my parents and sister, and we buried them in a corner of the local graveyard. I spent hours there, sometimes all day. The woman who had the vegetable garden took me in. I later learned why she spent so much time in that garden.” Grandma’s face hardened. “She was trying to avoid her husband, who liked to beat her.
“I became his new toy to rape and beat. When I fought off being raped, he beat me with his fists, and when he couldn’t break me, he whipped me. Not with a belt, but with a whip. One night he whipped me so hard, my wounds became infected. I was ill for three weeks. His wife tended to me. I thought I was dying. I saw my parents, I saw Keela, as if they were waiting for me, waiting to take me to heaven.
“When I could finally stand, I knew that I could no longer stay in their home, so I hitched a ride in the back of a truck filled with chickens and went to the docks on the ocean. I didn’t want to do what I did next, but I didn’t see a way out. I had no money. I had no food. I became . . .”
She paused, she struggled, sitting there in her red suit and ropes of pearls.
We waited in the dark, a heavy hush making that room absolutely silent.
Waited more.
“I became a prostitute.”
It was as if everyone inhaled at one time.
“Would you like to judge me on that? My parents and sister were dead. I had no job, no education, no skills except for sewing, which my mother had taught my sister and me to do. Her greatest hope in life was that one day we would become seamstresses. I had already been raped multiple times by a brutal man, and I thought I was nothing. You cannot imagine the degradation of being a prostitute, the danger, the disgust, the cloying and nauseating scents, the often vicious men. I hurt all the time, physically and mentally. Prostitution almost decimated me. One man, after another, after another. Rough, fat, skinny, angry. I saved every penny, only paying the doctor when I needed medication and care for the things that come with being a hopeless prostitute.