Keep Me Posted

by Lisa Beazley

  My big box of pretentious and embarrassing “Cassandra Marie” stationery that Mom gave me when I graduated college had finally run out. So had the thank-you cards left over from my baby shower. To reward myself for my thrift, I went on a spree at Greenwich Letterpress on Christopher Street. I had stopped in with the boys last week and gotten just past the welcome mat when I knew I was going to need to come back without them. I came straight from school drop-off, knowing I might spend the bulk of my three hours of freedom at that store.

  Walking among the thick card stock, the thin rice paper, the carefully edited selection of pens, I was transported back to my childhood, when I would often visit a neighborhood shop called the Depot, which sold greeting cards and candles and had an entire wonderful wall of Mrs. Grossman’s stickers. I spent every cent of my allowance on that wall for the whole of my eleventh year. We stopped every week on the way home from ballet. Occasionally, Mom would wander off in search of a greeting card or even pop over to the pharmacy next door, and I remember being scandalously thrilled by the row of “adult” cards, only their tops visible behind the plain white card placed in front of them to hide what debauchery lay beneath. This being the eighties, it meant we saw only teased blond bangs on the women or feathered dark brown hair on the men. Once, Sid climbed up on a stool and quickly grabbed two cards. She foisted one on me, and I beheld a close-up of a red-lace-clad bosom, a single lit candle peeking out from the heaving cleavage. I stifled a giggle and traded cards with Sid. The next one was an oily naked muscleman holding a strategically placed white box with a red bow on it. When Mom and the clerk had returned from the back of the store, Sid grabbed both cards and shoved them in with the birthday cards. That night, Sid and I lay in our beds wondering out loud if our boobs would ever be big enough to hold a candle. “Do you think Mom’s can do that?” I asked. “No way.” “I heard that you know you need a bra when a pencil stays between your boobs without falling to the floor,” I said. “I don’t think so. Tricia Peterson wears a bra and hers are nowhere near big enough to hold on to a pencil or a candle—or even a roll of paper towels,” she said. “Oh. Well, maybe you need a bra if you can smush them together and hold something.” “Maybe.” The memory made me wistful. There was no such adult shelf at Kate’s Paperie—or even any Mrs. Grossman’s stickers—but it smelled exactly like the Depot, and I wished I could find that cleavage card and send it to Sid to see if she remembered. Instead, I settled for a “Brandon and Dylan” card, which I knew would deliver a similar brand of nostalgic giggles. After spending way too much time trying to calculate how different pens would perform on various papers and seriously considering a quill and ink pot, I finally settled on a set of thick notecards embossed with a lone and lovely zebra that came with ornately lined envelopes, a handful of funny postcards for short notes, and a stack of thick and mottled cream-colored sheets for longer letters, along with a mix of gray, pale purple, and orange envelopes. I started my next letter on one of the zebra notecards, and about midway through I regretted it. Something this lowbrow didn’t belong on special paper. So I tossed it and started over on my trusty notebook of Japanese graph paper. New York May 1 Hey, Sis, Guess who is becoming quite the celebrity chef. Jake! I ran into him a few weeks ago doing a photo shoot in front of his new restaurant (which is about six blocks from me), and he seems really good. I haven’t seen him in years—since the last time we broke up, I guess. Now I see him everywhere—in the Times, on the Food Network, or just walking down the street. His Brussels sprouts are the talk of the town. I have to admit that I felt a few pangs of jealousy for the exciting turn his life has taken. Mine must seem so monotonous and boring to him. And part of me feels ripped off for those unglamorous years I spent with him when he was the sous chef at Public. I’m comforting myself with the idea that maybe now he has a raging ego, but when I saw him, he seemed to be as normal as ever, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find myself fantasizing about what my life might be like now if we’d stayed together. I know it’s beyond blasphemous for a mother of two incredible little boys to say such a thing. I mean, obviously I wouldn’t give them up for the world. They are my world. But some days, just for fun, I wonder about other worlds. Be honest: Do you ever think about what your life might have been like if you hadn’t gotten pregnant that summer? I know I do for you. I hope that doesn’t make you feel bad, because it’s only because of the timing of it all. It doesn’t mean that we’d trade in River (or Quinn or Joey) for a second, but you must have thought about it, too. Or—what about ending up with Kenny?! Would you guys be following Phish around in a camper van, River selling grilled cheese alongside Kenny’s kind buds? Love you, and I never think about what life would be like without you! —Cassie PS—Remember the Depot? Singapore