by J. J. Murray
She returned to the kitchen table.
She readied her pencil.
She drew in the air.
She looked down at her feet and saw Whack peering up at her. “What do you want?”
Whack licked her right paw.
Hope looked at Whack’s food and water containers. “Why haven’t you eaten today?”
Whack licked her left paw.
“Maybe it’s all the excitement,” Hope said. “You’re not used to seeing me doing anything.” She smiled at Whack.
Whack remained impassive.
“Please don’t stare,” Hope said. “I’m trying to be creative. I have plenty of ironic and twisted thoughts, but how do you illustrate irony?”
Whack didn’t know, or if she did, she wasn’t telling.
Hope leaned back on the chair and nearly toppled over.
She switched chairs.
That one nearly fell over.
She propped her feet on another chair.
She heard Juan cursing his mother and Mr. Marusak yelling for the remote control.
Hope closed her eyes, envisioning her stick figure girl, Noelle, looking at a calendar opened to October. Okay, that’s on the outside of the card, and inside the card . . . nothing. She opened her eyes when she heard her pencil rolling across the table.
“Whack, leave my pencil alone.”
She snatched her pencil and lifted Whack off the table, setting her onto the floor. “I could put something like ‘Merry Christmas . . . Sales’ on the inside.”
Whack blinked.
“Yeah, that’s whack. Or how about . . . ‘Only two months till Christmas. Shop early, shop often. Shop now, or the world economy will suffer a gruesome death. Be a good American and spend more than you have on stuff you don’t need.’ ”
Whack stretched her back and yawned.
“Yeah,” Hope said. “That’s about as exciting as you are.”
She drew a quick calendar on the page, labeling it “October.” On the back of the sheet, she wrote, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”
Is this lame or what? It’s just dumb enough to get someone’s attention, but since October is half over, who would buy this card?
Hope heard the Vaz sisters arrive. They’re coming home later each night. Business must be getting worse. She heard Mr. Antonelli stumbling around his apartment. He’s drunk or hungry or drunk and hungry again.
Hope stared at Whack. “Why don’t you purr? You are the only cat I have ever known not to purr. If I had any skill, I’d do a whole line of greeting cards starring you, and I’d call it ‘The Silent Cat.’ ”
She sketched Whack quickly on a new sheet of paper. Hmm. Maybe . . . She added a little girl with a ponytail under and around Whack so that Whack appeared to be in the girl’s lap. Now what? She “balanced” the little girl on a stick leg—
Yes!
She quickly drew her version of Dylan’s Skinny Santa sitting in a throne-like chair. She created a word bubble coming from the girl’s lips and wrote, “Santa, my kitty cat won’t purr. Can you fix her?” She flipped the sheet and wrote, “Why?”
Oh, that’s brutal. It’s true in my case, but how universal is it? How many other people have mute cats? More importantly, how many cat owners wish their cats were mute?
She turned over the sheet and erased Whack and the words in the bubble. She tried to put herself in the average mall. Dressed-up children and exhausted parents in line. A sign that reads, “Meet Santa Claus at noon today.” An old guy with a fake beard. Overpriced “portraits.” At least half a dozen children crying their guts out. Children reaching for their parents and trying to escape Santa’s lap.
“That is such a creepy tradition,” Hope whispered. Yes, please put my innocent, impressionable child on the scary, red-suited stranger’s leg.
In the word bubble, she wrote, “My mommy will be back any minute now . . .”
She flipped the sheet, erased “Why?,” and wrote, “Free day care.”
No. No mother would leave her child sitting on some scurvy man’s leg for hours at a time. She might think about doing it so she can actually get some shopping done without all the whining and “Mommy, can I have . . .”
She erased the words from both sides and stared at the little girl. “What will you ask from Santa, little girl?”
Why am I not using my signature character?
She transformed the little girl into Noelle, complete with dreads and glasses.
She flexed her fingers. “Okay, now what would this splendide, sexy woman ask Santa?”
She smiled. “ ‘Santa, I want a boyfriend on the side,’ and what will Santa say? ‘’Ho! ’Ho! ’Ho!’ ”
“That’s funny,” Hope whispered. “A bit risqué, but funny.”
Hope decided that if she kept the cover concept the same and only changed the words outside and inside, she could create an entire set of cards. A collection.
A matched set.
She wrote down the ideas as fast as they flew into her head:
Outside: Santa, I want a faithful man . . . Inside: No! No! No!
Outside: Santa, I want a new beach house . . . Inside: Owe! Owe! Owe!
Outside: Santa, I want a new dress . . . Inside: Sew! Sew! Sew!
Outside: Santa, I want a horse . . . Inside: Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!
Outside: Santa, I want to meet a rap star . . . Inside: Yo! Yo! Yo!
Outside: Santa, I want some marijuana . . . Inside: Grow! Grow! Grow!
Outside: Santa, I want a new hairstyle . . . Inside: ’Fro! ’Fro! ’Fro!
Outside: Santa, I want to go to Europe . . . Inside: Row! Row! Row!
She counted her ideas. Ten exactly. A ten-pack. The “Santa’s Knee” collection. If we sell them as a set and give customers free shipping, however, we’ll be costing ourselves five dollars on each collection, but we’re going for volume, right? But there’s still something missing.
She wrote down something obvious under Santa’s responses: “Merry Christmas.”
She stared at the phrase. What’s truly merry about Christmas anyway? Everyone’s rushing about, people seem to be in a bad mood, shopping in crowds, listening to the same carols over and over again. People who should never wear red or green or any combination of red and green are walking about acting happy when they’re really tired of the whole holiday season race.
It’s a real freak show.
She added the word “freaking” between “Merry” and “Christmas.” “Merry freaking Christmas.” That ought to do it.
She redrew the cover of the first card with an empty word bubble and carefully traced nine more. Then she wrote in all ten sets of the words, centering the inside copy beside the fold and between the edges.
“There,” she told Whack. “I’ve been successful.”
Tapped out but happy, Hope flipped through the channels on her TV. No way. They’re already showing It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s October! I used to like that movie, but then I grew up eight years ago.
She turned off the TV and her light and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a beach house and a sunrise child, falling asleep within minutes for the first time in years.
OCTOBER 15
Only 70 more shopping days until Christmas . . .
Chapter 7
Hope nearly jogged up Washington Avenue Thursday morning, her future greeting cards safely hidden in an old FedEx mailer, her shirt already unbuttoned to her bra underneath her coat. She sprinted on Sterling and even stopped at Prospect Perk Café for two House Blend double-doubles.
She had to buy a coffee for her partner, didn’t she?
She slowed and only race-walked up to Kinderstuff and saw Dylan inside wearing his standard hoodie and paint-spattered jeans while working a puzzle with a little Hispanic boy, a little girl wearing a Yankees cap adding more orange paint to her stadium castle on a table nearby.
That has to be Aniya, Hope thought.
Aniya wore jeans, a flowered top, the cap, and the hugest smi
le, her eyes far too big for a child’s face and yet fitting her. She had honey, almost golden, skin, her tiny hands covered with five kinds of colorful paint.
Dylan looked up, smiled, and came to the door. “Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you so early.”
Hope handed him the coffee. “I hope you like your coffee plain, strong, and sweet.” Like me. Okay, only the plain part is right.
“Do you want to hang out for a few minutes?” Dylan asked.
“I’d love to,” Hope said, “but my business partner is working me to death this morning.”
Dylan smiled. “He is?”
“He is such a mean taskmaster,” Hope said. “Since I have the key to the store, I decided to go in early so I could fold three hundred cards and scan in ten cards I stayed up all night to create.”
“You made... ten.” Dylan sipped his coffee. “It is sweet. Strong.” He took another sip and touched the FedEx mailer. “May I see them?”
Do I want to see his reaction in person? What if he doesn’t like them? What if he thinks I’m a Christmas-hating psychotic? It’s true, but . . . “You will. I have to scan them first, and then I’ll e-mail them to you in about half an hour.”
“You’re keeping me in suspense, Hope,” Dylan said.
Just trying to keep you interested, Dylan.
“Could you show me just one?” he asked. “Whet my appetite.”
I’d like nothing more than to whet your appetite and have you asking me for seconds, but if I show you one card, I essentially show you them all. “In half an hour.”
“Thank you for the coffee,” Dylan said.
Hope took a step closer to him. “Is that Aniya?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“Tell her I said hello,” Hope said.
“I will. See you soon, Hope Warren.”
Hope backed away, a smile escaping. “See you soon, Dylan Healy.”
Hope hardly felt the sidewalk as she finished her walk up Flatbush Avenue. Once inside Thrifty, she decided not to wear her smock. She hummed to herself as she scanned and sent her cards to Dylan. She even did the unthinkable: She did a little dance while she ran an overnight Internet order, a flyer for some new show called The Sense of Sound, which was opening at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in the Harvey Theater Friday night.
As she was putting the Baum through its paces folding the last fifty “Siamese Snow Angels” cards, Kiki swept in at nine wearing a tie-dyed orange-and-turquoise banduu that matched the orange of her sweater and the turquoise of her jeans.
The girl looks like a Jamaican sunrise.
“Is Justin in yet?” Kiki asked.
Hope shook her head.
“And this means . . .” Kiki frowned. “You had to open the store this morning.”
Hope nodded.
“And,” Kiki said, “you also had to close up and do the deposit last night.”
Hope nodded.
“We must speak to Mr. Yarmouth about this,” Kiki said.
Oh no! I need Justin to be my boss. I get so much free time with him not bossing me around or being here.
“Were we busy yesterday?” Kiki asked.
Hope shook her head. We weren’t busy, but I was.
Kiki pulled a high stool from under the counter and perched in front of the register. “So I did not miss anything.”
“No.” Just the beginning of a new relationship and a second job, that’s all.
Two hours later at eleven AM, after no one had even lit up a cigarette outside the front door, Justin arrived, and he wore the same purple shirt and khakis he had worn the day before. “Good morning,” he said, and he disappeared into the office.
Say hello to your girlfriend for me, Justin, Hope thought. She might be stiff, though. She’s been stuck on your screen all night, and her “friends” might be angry for having to keep it up all night.
“The man is a half ee-dee-ot,” Kiki whispered. “He is bay-it. Ooman naa like bay-it.”
Women don’t like bait, Hope thought. Women don’t like punks.
“We work for bay-it,” Kiki said.
True, but if Justin is an ee-dee-ot and bay-it, what does that say about us? “Kiki, forgive me for asking, but how do you turn your accent on and off so easily?”
Kiki smiled. “You are suddenly speaking to me.”
I drank a lot of strong, sweet coffee this morning.
Kiki pursed her lips. “I can do the speaky-spokey. I am an American, you know. I was born and raised in Uniondale way out in the suburbs. Some people think I have a fake accent, but it was what I heard as a child. It is what I hear whenever I go home to visit.”
A customer came in to pick up an order Hope ran three days ago.
Kiki winked at Hope. “Hello, Mr. Ernesto,” she said in perfect speaky-spokey. “Are you here to pick up your order today?”
“Sí,” Mr. Ernesto said. “What do I owe you?”
Hope turned away from the whitest-sounding Jamaican she knew and returned to the mainframe, where she checked her e-mail. She clicked on Dylan’s message (“Your Cards!”), the only message in her in-box, and read:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-HAHA! I’ve posted your masterpieces under the “Santa’s Knee” collection on the website. They look fantastic! Funny stuff! Sorry I can’t get away at lunch. I will definitely be there tomorrow with Aniya. She’s excited to meet you. $iam$e $now Angel$ broke 500 $old 5 minute$ ago! Run 200 more A$AP! $ee you @ 5!
Once Hope’s hands stopped shaking, she did some math in her head. Five hundred times ninety cents. Four hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a lot of money for a doodle on a napkin. I have thrown away so many doodles over the years! If I had been making cards for the last five years, I might already be living in my beach house!
She did some more realistic math in her head. No. I’d only be closer to the down payment. Still, closer is better than further.
She loaded the DocuTech with thirty-two-pound paper, pulled up the “Siamese” file, and sent two hundred more to print.
“What are you so happy about?” Kiki asked, spinning idly on her stool.
Hope blinked.
“First you talk to me, and now you are dancing around the machine,” Kiki said. “You must be happy.”
“I didn’t think I was dancing.” She looked at her boots. Were you dancing without my permission?
“You were dancing, Hope,” Kiki said. “And you were smiling until I asked if you were happy. And now you are frowning. Why were you so happy a few seconds ago?”
“I guess I just am,” Hope said. Just feeling the sand between my toes, the ocean breeze in my hair, and the salt spray stinging my face . . . as the real estate agent tells me she can’t sell the house with only a little money down to a woman who works in a copy shop in Brooklyn.
Kiki smiled. “I do not think I have ever seen you smile before this moment. You have a beautiful smile.”
Two compliments in two days. “Thank you.”
“It is the contrast of your dark skin and your white teeth,” Kiki said. “So stunning.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what is the real reason for this smile today?” Kiki asked.
I want to tell her so badly, but I hardly know her. I know that’s my fault. I haven’t said more than a few words to her daily for the last month. Of course, I hardly know Dylan either, but he has been coming into Thrifty for five years. That has to count for something. “I’m . . .”
Kiki laughed. “You are back to being speechless as usual.” She sighed. “You do not have to tell me. Your secrets are safe. For now. Did you run those flyers for the show?”
Hope pointed to a tall stack of copies under the counter.
“Ah,” Kiki said. She picked up a copy. “They look good, do they not?”
Hope nodded.
“I do good work, yes?” Kiki said.
Kiki did those? I thought someone at the Brooklyn Academy of Music did them. “They’re very good.”
“And I
will be paying for them.” She wrote up a work order. “Ticket sales for the show are slow. The cast pitched in to pay for these, and since I work here . . .” She dug out a stack of bills from her leather purse, rang the purchase into the cash register, and deposited the money. “Some of my good friends are in the show, and they all say it will be fantastic.” She closed the register. “Are you going? It is only twenty-five dollars.”
Hope shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt it.” I have a new business to help run.
“You should go,” Kiki said. “The price is so low for such a groundbreaking performance.”
Twenty-five dollars will buy a nice welcome mat on the ground outside my beach house.
“Surely the man who has made you smile and dance like this can pay your way,” Kiki said.
That was very slick. Kiki is extremely adept at prying. “How do you know I’m not happy for another reason?” Hope asked.
“Are you?” Kiki asked.
She got me. She is a master at prying. I will do well to remain speechless around her as much as I can. “Well, no. Not exactly.”
“So there is a man in your life,” Kiki said. “You should get him to take you to the show. Or you take him.” She smiled. “He is a good man?”
“I guess.” How can anyone really know?
“And do you . . . own him?” Kiki asked.
“Oh, I don’t know if I own him,” Hope said. “He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”
“Ah,” Kiki said. “You found him in the last place you looked. My lala, my grandmother, she used to ask me all the time where I found something. I would tell her where, and she would say, ‘Nuh, Kiki. Yuh find in de las’ place yuh look.’ ”
Hope took a hesitant step closer to the counter. “I wasn’t really looking. He just sort of appeared.”
“But now you have found him,” Kiki said. “It is cause for celebration, yes?”
“I guess.”
“Then you must celebrate with him at the show tomorrow night,” Kiki said.
I have also underestimated Miss Kiki’s sales abilities. She is relentless. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”