by Shelly Oria
* * *
So Henrietta is a bit younger, yes, but she is old; they are both old. And people who are old should be wise, because if not that, what is the point? Nothing works like it used to. The body, I mean—it does not operate as it once did. Everything takes a long time—you want to make an omelet, you’d better have a couple of free hours. And the people who used to ask you about your day—How was your day, my sweet Yoli?—and the people you used to invite over when you threw parties, and the people who’d pick up the phone to call you when the Laundromat lost their favorite jacket—they’re all gone. So if you don’t have some wisdom to show, then I honestly don’t understand what the point of it all might be.
I don’t mean to sound suicidal. I am not suicidal. And I certainly do have my wisdom, thank God, even though that’s not a thing one is supposed to say about oneself. But it is true nonetheless; I am a wise woman, and when I have to go to the bathroom four minutes after I went to the bathroom the last time—at least I can tell myself, Yolanda, you are a wise woman, and you are wiser today than ever before thanks to all the years you’ve been on this earth. You know that expression “none the wiser”? That does not apply to me.
* * *
Part of being wise when you are old is detecting what stupidity younger people are up to, and making sure to avoid it. This isn’t hard to do. And yet so many old people embrace the stupidities of the younger generation because they think this will make them younger. How silly. Nothing makes you younger, nothing at all. But that is what they think—they will behave like their grandchildren and use the funny words that they are using and learn how to operate the computer and they will be younger, or appear younger, which they believe is the same. It is not the same.
What I’m trying to say is that younger people nowadays pay no attention to this important thing called compatibility, and that Ludvig and Henrietta, because they are the kind of people who are always trying to be younger, are doing the same thing. How else would you explain this haste? Judith was gone, and whoosh, right away, a new couple was born, Ludvig and Henrietta. I don’t mean to criticize him—Ludvig took care of Judith for many years. She was never a healthy woman, always some issue, even when we were all young. And the last few years—better not to think about it. I always knew he was a special one, but the way he took care of her—that was something you don’t see every day. But what does his dedication have to do with Henrietta, with being compatible or not? Nothing. When you move so fast, you don’t have time to think, look into things, other possibilities. Because for example, there might be plenty of women more suitable for Ludvig. Women who adore seashells. Women who don’t abandon men. That is all I’m trying to say. These women might be out there, waiting for him.
* * *
When you walk on the beach in the early-morning hours, your eyes are scouting the sand and your feet are waiting for the smoothness of that tiny piece of marble. When you stop to pick one up, the wind slows down. I am not a sentimental woman; this is a fact—the wind slows down. My years on this earth have taught me to notice the small ways in which people and nature collaborate. The wind slows down, and while you are almost eighty years old, you are also a newborn. This is a fact. You put the seashell to your ear, this telephone of the ocean. You listen to the sound of something both beyond and within your reach. And you hope. Because after a certain point, what’s between you and a casket except hope? So you hope.
* * *
What a silly invitation it was that I got from Henrietta. Some nonsense about an organization that sends knitted socks to children with bare feet in cold climates. She was apparently volunteering there now, and was hosting an event for them. Nonsense. I knew right away something was up—Henrietta never threw parties. And this whole sock business didn’t sound right. But I didn’t think it had anything to do with Ludvig—why would I? I didn’t even know they’d met. And for all I knew he was in mourning. I had reached out, of course, after I heard of Judith’s passing. I said Anything you need, Ludvig, you just let me know, anything at all.
I was thinking I would give him some time and then call again. He deserves all the support he can get, I thought. And he was always a good friend to my Saul, referring patients any chance he got. I imagined he’d be the kind of widower who’d hide in a dark room for a long time, perhaps until a woman came and showed him how to be outside again, taught him that you still breathe after something like that—just a little different, a little lower is all.
* * *
When the body doesn’t want you breathing deep anymore, you don’t argue. People who don’t understand this end up dead before their time. What you do is you say Thank you for the oxygen, and you breathe low. This is something I learned after Saul, and I was thinking on the phone with Ludvig I should teach him, because I could hear his effort. But I didn’t, I just said Anything you need, Ludvig, you let me know, because I thought, Yolanda, give him time. People need time to grieve their grief the wrong way first. Who would have thought he’d need so little of it?
* * *
A new relationship is nobody’s business, if you ask me. It needs the attention of the people who are in it, not the people around it. And one thing I have learned is when you look at other people looking at you, you end up seeing the wrong things. Young people today, they have it all wrong. They think you have to show your happiness all the time. And there they were, Ludvig and Henrietta, silly like young people, announcing their love to everyone. Not with words, of course, but you live as long as I have, you know words matter very little. Especially words like volunteer or orphans—those are words people say only when they mean something else. Henrietta and Ludvig were announcing their new love with their hands—they were holding hands. They were greeting everyone at the door, Ludvig in a suit and a bow tie—I had never seen him wear a bow tie—and they were holding hands.
I thought for a moment this must be some sort of mistake—how do they even know each other? And what would they possibly have in common? They are such different people. But of course it wasn’t a mistake.
Henrietta said Yolanda, would you consider joining us? I think you’d find it so gratifying. Gratifying, she said—I would find socks gratifying. I said I’m sure I would, but you know in all honesty since Saul I don’t get out of the house much. I looked at Ludvig when I said it, to make sure he heard. And of course Henrietta said Oh that’s not good Yolanda and all that nonsense—she’s a lovely woman, but if there’s any way to use a slogan you can be sure Henrietta will do it. She quoted something about grief—I can’t remember what and I didn’t quite listen, because I wanted to say What do you know about grief, Henrietta? You can’t abandon your husband and then teach other people about grief. But her abandoning, that was many years ago. No one cares about that anymore, I suppose. No one cares that not all grief is the same. So I said You’re right, Henrietta, you’re absolutely right. I looked at Ludvig again when I said it. He nodded. Henrietta always liked to hear she was right.
THAT NIGHT
1.
We have been indoors for many days and long nights now, due to fear of disappointment. Our fear is rational, fact-based. When we go outside—if we go outside—we will be devastated. We will want life to feel as it did that night, and life will fail us. After that night at Lamplight with Gary, life is bound to forever fail us.
2.
That night, we spoke with abandon. We drank in good rhythm. We befriended former lovers, tapped their left shoulder with only one finger, even though we were many. Do you go to the gym, we asked each other that night. Do you at least plan to go? But we never answered. We didn’t have to.
* * *
That night, we counted uncountable things—the advantages of dairy, the siblings we never had. There were moments when we twirled our hair coyly, and in those moments our hair was the kind that twirls well. When we hummed, everyone enjoyed it. Our smiles were the texture of ice cream, which is to say we could be cold and still perceived as sweet. It was our birthday that night,
it was Gary’s book party, it was everyone’s Christmas. We didn’t know it walking in, but it was true, and we had the gifts to prove it. The more we gifted, the more we got, and Lamplight was getting wrapping-paper crowded. Isn’t there an old adage about that, someone asked. And there was. There was an old adage.
3.
We had no special expectations that night—just Gary, reading. He had never been a poet before, or if he was, we knew nothing of it. He was a foot surgeon last we saw him, which was in Argentina and a while back. Before that he sold snakes to collectors, and before that the cooking show, of course—the one that made him famous.
* * *
You can’t see Gary and not want to bed him, but that night wasn’t about sex. Walking into Lamplight and seeing Gary, we knew that right away. Tonight was too good for sex.
4.
We danced ourselves happy that night, lightness in our toes, our heels. But we were also productive, successful. We found solutions to problems, fixed things that were previously broken. Some people were cooking or baking, some were inventing gadgets that would replace umbrellas. It wasn’t raining that night, not yet, but we were seeing the bigger picture. Everyone felt understood. It was an unspoken rule that night—if anyone said anything, everyone stopped and listened. We followed with nodding, just to make sure.
5.
When we stepped outside, it was pouring but silent. We stood there, looking at the rain, hearing nothing. Strange, isn’t it, we said half to Gary, half to the sky. Some storms are silent, Gary said, shrugging. In his head, he was already under the covers, perhaps with a lady or two. Sometimes Gary was a tourist, but that night he was savvy. He knew the ways of our town. Come home with us, we whispered. We wanted to touch his cheek, but we knew better. This wasn’t Argentina. I had a good time, Gary said. Thanks. He smiled his Gary smile at us, and we knew the night was over.
6.
Indoors, the walls are inching toward us. Every few hours, we measure the distance. The rain is loud outside, always loud, and we try not to listen. We talk about that night a lot, but as time goes by, it gets harder to remember. Did we grow strawberries? we ask. Did we suck on their long stems, did it make Gary laugh? We usually say yes, yes we did. Gary laughed, we say, he laughed his quiet Gary laugh. But we can never be sure.
* * *
Every once in a while, the rain seems to stop. We look out the window, and it’s hard to tell; all we see is wetness and fog. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the loudness quiets down. We gather in the center of the room so we won’t measure the distance. We sit in a circle and try to pretend that we are back at Lamplight. We sit in a circle and listen to the silence until we remember loud enough to feel.
FULLY ZIPPED
1.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, My name is Andy, if you need anything.
* * *
What is your name if I don’t need anything? I ask.
2.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman asks, What’s your name?
* * *
Dora Freud, I say.
* * *
Have I pushed it too far? Probably not. In the fitting-room world, I’ve learned, too far doesn’t happen easy. She doesn’t blink. Dora, my name is Lauren if you need anything.
3.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman counts the clothes I have picked. Using blue chalk, she writes a number on the fitting-room door. Seven.
* * *
She is wrong. I have eight items. Briefly, I stare at the woman’s mistake. I say nothing, and by saying nothing I transform the mistake into a lie.
4.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman counts the clothes I have picked, and as she is counting she is avoiding my eyes. She is looking at the line behind me. What is your name, I want to ask her, and Don’t you want to know mine? But this is not that kind of place.
* * *
I try on a blue dress that ties at the back. I can’t ask the woman for help because she didn’t offer it, and because as a rule I try to avoid the words “excuse me.” I especially try to avoid the words “excuse me” when the next words are “can you zip me up?”
* * *
Instead, I look in the mirror with my eyes closed. I’m trying to picture what the blue dress would look like fully zipped.
5.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, Let me know if you need any sizes.
* * *
You’re not that hot either, I tell her.
6.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman asks me how I am today. How are you today, she says. It sounds like the beginning of a song. Not so great, I tell her; my dog just died. Brownie. I’ve had him since I was eight. Oh, she says. My dog sitter killed him, I add. She seems confused and I don’t know how to help her. Well, she says, let me know if you need anything.
7.
As I enter the fitting room, the woman says, Here, try this, too. She is handing me a navy-blue blazer. This is a small store, the kind some people call “boutique.” There is no one around but us. Is this your store? I ask. I like knowing what’s at stake. The blazer hangs between us on her outstretched arm as I wait for her answer. She shakes her head no, says, My aunt’s. She’s probably lying. I look around to be sure. No one’s aunt owns this store. Just thought you might like it, she says, I have the same one. She starts to turn around, but I grab the blazer first, to be polite. She did pick it just for me.
* * *
When I’m alone in the room, I look at the blazer, touch the inside of its only pocket with one finger. Maybe the woman wasn’t lying after all. I think about what it means—what it could mean—for two women to pick each other’s clothes. I want to know her closet as well as I know my own. I want to show her mine. I want us to coparent clothing items.
* * *
The blazer doesn’t fit. It makes me look like a man. I step outside anyway. Wow, the woman says, wow. I shake my head no. She seems shocked. You can’t be serious, she says. How do I explain that I wanted to love it? How do I explain that choosing something to wear means rejecting all the other clothes in the world, all the other selves I could be? I want to ask if she would like to have coffee one morning; in the mornings I explain myself much better. Thank you for your time, I say. Come back another day, she says. I smile, and the woman smiles back. Whether she lied earlier about the store or not, right now I can tell she’s telling the truth.
8.
As I enter the fitting room, I close the door and stand in my underwear in front of the mirror, afraid. I want to feel that my life cannot go on without this dress. It’s a beige dress with a white collar. There are tiny white butterflies all over, but you need to look closely to see. I slow down, slow down, slow down. But I can’t slow down enough. The moment still comes when I try it on and don’t fall in love. Falling in love never comes easy to me. I look at my disappointment. I say to my disappointment, Let’s keep trying. There is no intention in me when I say it, no truth. But I say it again, because even the worst lie turns real if you repeat it enough. Let’s keep trying.
9.
As I enter the fitting room, I regret avoiding the woman; I feel ready for eye contact. I stop and look, wait until she looks back. Hi, I say. Hi, she says, and starts moving toward me; can I help you? You helped me the other day, I say, with the blazer? I remember you, she says, and I nod because I’m not sure what to say. Are you going to try anything on? she asks. I am not holding any clothes. I’ve been thinking about that blazer, I tell her, that maybe it was just a new look, something I wasn’t used to. Can I see it again? I’m so sorry, she says, we sold that one. Her eyebrows are apologizing too. It’s gone.
10.
As I enter the fitting room, I wait for the knock on the door, followed by the saleswoman’s voice. How are you doing in there? she asks. You need anything?
WE, THE WOMEN
We, the people of the great American city, we leave our city twice every week, an
d head north. Up north, there is a small American town where we, the people of the great American city, can learn new things.
There, in the small American town, we perfect our craft. We seek inspiration. We become a community. There, in the small American town, we are assigned mentors, and those mentors tell us that they once used to be just like us, young people of the great American city, traveling north in search of knowledge.
* * *
We, the people of the great American city, we are, in fact, women. Up north, we learn our gender is important. We sit on green velvet rugs and stare at dark wood burning in the fireplace, our mentors saying, Look beyond; imagine. Up north, we learn that fire is a screen, we learn to dream. Our mentors, they tell us of a world where women scratch tomatoes with their nails and the fruit doesn’t bleed. Up north, we think maybe that world can one day be our world.
We, the women of the great American city, when we are not up north, we roam our urban streets. We look for inspiration to hide inside our purses, we look for the kind that travels well. Instead, we, the women of the great American city, we find men. These men, they are not the men we have at home, waiting for us with a cooked meal. These men, they try to buy us and we try to ignore them, because up north, in the small American town, we’ve been taught that no comes in many forms.
We, the women of the great American city, we turn our backs on these men, and they then grade our backs, grade our asses. We, the women of the great American city, we usually get a ten. This ten, it excites us and revolts us, and we throw up at the side of the road. We, the women of the great American city, we then go home to our meal-cooking men, and our men see the remnants of puke on our lips and know what the streets of the big American city were like today. Our men, they wipe our faces clean of puke, and kiss our chaste, voluptuous lips.