If strong emotions can linger on, I think, then so might desperate wishes.
8
“So I met this woman at the Carlisle,” Scotty said as he and Jim were having lunch on Monday, “and she’s stunning. She’s so hot I can’t believe she’s interested in me.”
“Really?” Jim asked, looking up from his soup with curiosity.
“Oh, yeah. Tight red leather miniskirt, legs like you wouldn’t believe, and she snuggles right up next to me at the bar, rubbing her calf against my leg. And let me tell you, the place is not crowded. I’m thinking, if we don’t get out of this place soon, she’s going to jump me right here on the bar stool.”
“So what happened?”
A sheepish look came over Scotty’s features. “Turns out she’s a hooker.”
Jim laughed.
“Hey, it’s not funny. I could’ve caught a disease or something, you know?”
“So you didn’t take her up on her… offer.”
“Get real. What about you?”
“No hookers for me, thanks all the same.”
“No, I mean with what’s-her-name, Brenda. Did you see her?”
Jim nodded. “She was different this time,” he said. “A little cooler, I guess.”
“What? Now she’s playing hard to get?”
“I don’t think that’s it. She just wasn’t all that up. I asked her if something was bothering her, but she just changed the subject. After the movie she perked up, though. We stopped for a drink at the Rusty Lion and she had me in stitches, talking about some of the weird people she met back when she was a reporter, but then when I took her home she was all withdrawn again.” Jim toyed with his spoon for a moment, slowly stirring his soup. “I’m not really sure what makes her tick. But I want to find out.”
“Well, good luck,” Scotty said. “But just before you get in too deep, I want you to think of two words: manic depressive.”
“Thanks a lot, pal.”
“Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”
Jim shrugged. “The only down side I see is that she smokes,” he said, and then returned to his soup.
9
Jim calls me on Tuesday night and he’s really sweet. Tells me he’s been thinking about me a lot and he wants to see me again. We talk for a while and I feel good—mostly because he can’t see me, I guess. After I get off the phone, I take a bath and then I look at myself in the mirror and wonder how he could possibly be interested in me.
I know what I see: a cow.
What’s he going to think when he sees me naked? What’s going to happen when he realizes what a fuck-up I am? He hasn’t said anything yet, but I don’t think he much cares for me smoking, and while he’s not stingy or anything, I get the feeling he’s careful with his money. What’s he going to think about my finances?
I’m such a mess. I can’t quit smoking, I can’t stick to a diet, I can’t stop spending money I don’t have. Where does it stop? I keep thinking, if I just lose some weight, everything’ll be okay. Except I never do, so I keep buying new clothes that I hope will make me look thinner, and makeup and whatever else I can spend money I haven’t got on to trick myself into thinking things’ll be different. I decide if I get out of debt, everything’ll be okay, but first I have to lose some weight. I think if I get a man in my life… it goes on and on in an endless downward spiral.
I’d give anything to be like Wendy or Jilly. Maybe if I had a wish…
But while I might be starting to believe in ghosts, I side with Wendy on the wish question. Hocus-pocus just doesn’t work. If I want to solve my problems, I’m going to have to do it by myself. And I can’t keep putting it off. I have to make some real changes—now, not when I feel like it, because if I wait until then, I’ll never do it.
First thing tomorrow I’m going to make an appointment with my bank manager. And I’ll start a serious diet.
10
“Frankly, Ms. Perry,” the manager of the Unity Trust said, “your finances are a mess.”
Brenda nodded. The nameplate on his desk read “Brent Cameron.” He’d given her That Look when she came into his office, the one that roved carelessly up her body before his gaze finally reached her face. Now he didn’t seem to be interested in her looks at all.
She’d been upset when he gave her the once-over; now she was upset because he’d obviously dismissed her. She knew just what he was thinking. Too fat.
“But I think we can help you,” he went on. “The first thing I want you to do is to destroy your credit cards—all of them.”
He gave her an expectant look.
“Um, did you want me to do that now?” Brenda asked.
“That might be best.”
He handed her a pair of scissors and one by one she clipped her credit cards in two—Visa, Mastercard, gas and department store cards. The only one she didn’t touch was her second Visa card.
“You can’t keep any of them, Ms. Perry.”
“This isn’t mine,” she explained. “It’s from work. I’ll hand it in to them when I get back.”
He nodded. “Fine. Now I know this isn’t going to be easy, but if we start with making a list of all your monthly requirements, then I think we can come up with a plan that will…”
The rest of the meeting went by in a blur. She got the loan. She also came out with a sheaf of paper which held her financial plan for the next three years. Every bit of her income was accounted for, down to the last penny. God, it was depressing. She was going to have to do all her shopping in thrift shops—if she could even afford to do that. To make things worse, she hadn’t even mentioned the six-hundred-dollar repair bill she owed her garage for work they’d done on her car last month.
What she could really use right now was a cigarette, she thought, but she hadn’t had one since last night and this time she was determined to quit, once and for all. She was starving, too. She’d skipped breakfast and all she’d had for lunch was a bag of popcorn that she’d eaten on the way to her interview with Mr. Cameron.
It hadn’t done much to quell the constant gnaw of hunger inside. All she could do was think of food—food and cigarettes and not necessarily in that order. She’d been feeling grumpy all morning. The interview hadn’t done much to improve her mood. Her nerves were all jangled, her stomach was rumbling, her body craved a nicotine fix, she was broke for at least the next three years____
How come doing the right thing felt so bad?
Her route back to the office took her by her favorite clothing store, Morning Glory, and naturally they were having a huge sale—UP TO 40% OFF EVERYTHING! the banner read. She hesitated for a long moment before finally going in, just to have a look at what she could no longer afford. Then of course there were three dresses that she just had to have and the next thing she knew she was standing at the counter with them.
“Will that be cash or charge?” the sales clerk asked her.
It’d be her last splurge before the austerity program went into affect, she vowed.
But she didn’t have enough money with her to pay for them. Nor could she write a check that wouldn’t bounce— wouldn’t that impress Mr. Cameron with how well she was following the guidelines of his budget? Finally she used her In the City Visa card.
She’d make it up from her next pay. Her first loan payment wasn’t due for three weeks, and she had another paycheck due before that. Conveniently, she’d managed to forget the unpaid bill due her garage.
11
Thursday after work I drive up Highway 14 and pull into the parking lot of The Wishing Well. By the time I’ve walked around back and made my way through the rose bushes, the evening’s starting to fall. I’ve never been here so late in the day before. I sit on the crumbly stone wall and lean against one of the roof supports. It’s even more peaceful than on a Sunday afternoon, and I just drink in the tranquillity for a long time.
I need something good in my life right now. I’ve already lost a couple of pounds, and I still haven’t ha
d a cigarette since Tuesday night, but I feel terrible. My jaw aches from being clenched so much and all I can think of is cigarettes and food, food and cigarettes. Whenever I turned around at work, someone was stuffing a Danish into their mouth, chewing a sandwich, eating cookies or donuts or a bag of chips. The smoke from Keith’s cigarettes—one desk over .from mine—is a constant reminder of what I can’t do anymore.
Sitting here, just letting the quiet soak into me, is the first real down time I feel I’ve had in the last two days. It’s dark when I finally reach into the pocket of my dress and take out the penny I found in front of the trust company the other day.
Splash.
“So there’s this guy,” I say finally. My voice sounds loud, so I speak more softly. “I think I like him a lot, but I’m afraid I’m just going to get hurt again….”
It’s the same old litany, and even I’m getting tired of it. If the well had a wish for itself, it’d probably be for me just to go away and leave it alone.
Wishes. I don’t believe in them, but I’d like to. I think of what Jilly said about them.
It just depends on how badly you want them.
To come true.
For all the times I’ve visited the well, I’ve never actually made a wish myself. I don’t know why. It’s not just because I don’t believe in them. Because there’s something here, isn’t there? Why else would I be able to hear all those old wishes? Why else would the ghosts come walking through my sleep every night? Truth is, I’ve been thinking about wishes more and more lately, it’s just that…
I don’t know. Two days into my new healthy Brenda regime, yes, I’m still hanging in with the diet and not smoking, but it’s like I’m conspiring against myself at the same time, trying to undermine what I am accomplishing with other messes. Can’t eat, can’t smoke? Then, why not blow some money you don’t have?
I made the mistake of stopping at one of the sidewalk jewelry vendors on Lee Street and I used my In the City Visa card to buy fifty dollars’ worth of earrings. I didn’t even know those vendors took credit cards. Then, when I got back to work, there was a guy from a collection agency waiting for me. The garage got tired of waiting for the money I owed them. The collection agency guy had a talk with Rob—my boss, the paper’s editor—and I had to agree to letting them garnishee my wages until the collection agency’s paid off.
Which is going to leave me desperately short. Where am I going to get the money to pay off the bank loan I took out earlier this week, not to mention the money I borrowed on the paper’s Visa card? This diet and no-smoking business is saving me money, but not that much money.
Whatever good I’m supposed to get out of doing the right thing still seems impossibly out of reach. Even though I haven’t smoked in two days, my lungs seem more filled with phlegm than ever and my mouth still tastes terrible. All I had was popcorn again today, and a quarter of a head of lettuce. I’m losing weight, according to my bathroom scale, but I can feel the fat cells biding their time in my body, ready to multiply as soon as I stick a muffin or a piece of chocolate in my mouth. I’m worse than broke.
I guess the reason I haven’t ever made a wish is that this is the only place I know where I don’t feel so bad. If I make a wish it’ll be like losing the genie in the bottle. You know, you’ve always got him in reserve—for company, if nothing else—until you make your final wish.
What would I wish for? To be happy? I’d have to become a completely different person for that to work. Maybe to be rich? But how long before I’d blow it all?
The only thing I’d really want to wish for is to see my dad again, but I know that’s something that’ll never happen.
Monday morning found Jilly sitting on the wooden bench in front of Amos & Cook’s Arts Supplies, impatiently waiting for the store to open. She amused herself as she usually did in this sort of a situation by making up stories about the passersby, but it wasn’t as much fun without somebody to share the stories with. She liked telling them to Geordie best, because she could invariably get the biggest rise out of him.
She’d been up all night working on the preliminary sketches for an album cover that the Broken Hearts had commissioned from her, only to discover when she finally started on the canvas that she’d used up all her blues the last time she’d worked with her oils. So here she sat, watching the minute hand on the clock outside the delicatessen across the street slowly climb to twelve, dragging the slower hour hand up to the nine as it went.
Eventually Amos & Cook’s opened and she darted inside to buy her paints. It was while she was heading back up Yoors Street to her studio that she ran into Brenda coming the other way.
“You’re looking good,” she said when they came abreast of each other.
“Well, thanks a lot,” Brenda said sarcastically.
Jilly blinked in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You and Wendy are always telling me how I shouldn’t worry about being fat—”
“We never said you were—”
“—but now as soon as I find a diet that’s actually letting me lose some weight, I’m looking great.’ “
“Whoa,” Jilly said. “Time out. I have never said that you needed to lose weight.”
“No, but now that I have I look so much better, right?”
“I was just being—”
Friendly, Jilly had been about to say, but Brenda interrupted her.
“Honest for a change,” Brenda said. “Well, thanks for nothing.”
She stalked off before Jilly could reply.
“You have a nice day, too,” Jilly said as she watched Brenda go.
Wow, talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, she thought. She’d never seen Brenda running on such a short fuse.
She was a little hurt from the confrontation until she realized that besides Brenda’s bad mood, there’d been something else different about her this morning: no cigarette in her hand, no smell of stale smoke on her clothes. Knowing that Brenda must have recently quit smoking made Jilly feel less hurt about the way Brenda had snapped at her. She’d quit herself years ago and knew just how hard it was—and how cranky it made you feel. Add that to yet another new diet… .
Quitting cigarettes was a good thing, but Jilly wasn’t so sure about the diet. Brenda didn’t need to lose weight. She had a full figure, but everything was in its proper proportion and place. Truth was, she often felt envious of Brenda’s fuller shape. It was so Italian Renaissance, all rounded and curved—and lovely to paint, though she had yet to get Brenda to sit for her. Perhaps if this latest diet helped raised Brenda’s self-esteem enough, Brenda would finally agree to pose for some quick studies at the very least.
She knew Brenda needed a boost in the self-esteem department, so she supposed a diet that worked couldn’t hurt. Just so long as she doesn’t get too carried away with it, Jilly thought as she continued on home.
13
Even I’m getting tired of my bitchiness. I can’t believe the way I jumped on Jilly this morning. Okay, I know why. I was not having a good morning. The ghosts kept me up all night, going through my head even when I wasn’t asleep. By the time I ran into Jilly, I was feeling irritable and running late, and I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.
Thinking it over, none of that seems like much of an excuse. It’s just that, even though I knew she was just trying to be nice, I couldn’t help feeling this rage toward her for being so two-faced. You’d think a friend would at least be honest right from the start.
Yes, Brenda, you are starting to seriously blimp on us. Do everybody a favor and lose some weight, would you?
Except nobody was going to say something like that to a friend. I wouldn’t even say it to an enemy. It’s bad enough when you’ve got to haul that fat body around with you, never mind having somebody rub your face in the fact of its existence.
I think the best thing I could do right now is just to avoid everybody I know so that I’ll have some friends to come back
to if I ever make it through this period of my life.
I wonder how long I can put Jim off. He called me three times this past weekend. I played sick on Friday and Saturday. When he called on Sunday, I told him I was going out of town. Maybe I really should go out of town, except I can’t afford to travel. I don’t even have transit fare this week. Too bad the paper won’t pay my parking the way it does Rob’s. Of course, I’m not the editor.
When it comes right down to it, I don’t even know why I’m working at a newspaper—even a weekly entertainment rag like In the City. How did I get here?
I was going to be a serious writer like Christy, but somehow I got sidetracked into journalism—because it offered the safety of a regular paycheck, I suppose. I’m still not sure how I ended up as an advertising manager. I don’t even write anymore—except for memos.
The girl I was in college wouldn’t even recognize me now.
14
Jim looked up to find Scotty approaching his desk. Scotty sat down on a corner and started to play with Jim’s crystal ball paperweight, tossing it from hand to hand.
“So,” Scotty said. “How goes the romance?”
Jim grabbed the paperweight and replaced it on his desk. “One of these days you’re going to break that,” he said.
“Yeah, right. It wasn’t me that missed the pop fly at the last game.”
“Wasn’t me who struck out.”
“Ouch. I guess I deserved that.” Scotty started to reach for the paperweight again, then settled for a ballpoint pen instead. He flipped it into the air, caught it again. “But seriously,” he went on. “Was Brenda feeling better on Sunday?”
Jim nodded. “Except she said she’s going to be out of town for a few weeks. She had to pack, so we couldn’t get together.”
“Too bad. Hey, did Roger tell you about the party he’s throwing on Friday? He told me he’s invited some seriously good-looking, single women.”
The Ivory and the Horn Page 10