Lucy's Launderette

by Betsy Burke

  When my mother was a young woman just married, she announced that she was pregnant with her first child. That was Dirk. Her mother grimaced and said, “Oh my God, how awful,” and that was that. I often wondered if Dirk, lying there as a mere squiggle of a fetus, had heard her comment through the walls of my mother’s uterus and let it get to him, deciding right then and there to be mentally ill, out of protest.

  My mother had escaped westward to university, but every so often, her mother flew in from the East and pounced.

  “It’s not Granny Clara, is it?” I ventured.

  “Oh no. Spare us. You’ll see in good time.”

  There was nothing left to do but let myself be hurtled along as if I were a passenger on the space shuttle. I had to close my eyes a few times to avoid scaring myself. It wasn’t so much that my mother was a bad driver. It was simply that she moved in another time dimension, one where everyone else drove far too slowly for her tastes.

  When we reached the airport, she cut another man off and zoomed into a parking space.

  “Hurry up,” she snapped. “We’ve got to be there before 3:25. Ridiculous rules. Some union thing makes them open and close at the strangest times.”

  “The flights are always late getting in. And then there’s waiting around for the baggage. Don’t worry. You can usually add an hour to the time.” But my mother hadn’t heard me. She was already rushing into the main part of the building. When I caught up to her she was consulting with someone at an information desk.

  “Downstairs,” she ordered. I followed obediently.

  We were lost in carpeted corridors. “The passengers don’t come through here,” I said. “We’re going the wrong way.”

  “No, we’re not,” snapped my mother. “We don’t want passenger arrivals.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No.”

  My mother was determined to keep me guessing. “Okay. Whatever it is, is it international or domestic?”

  “International.”

  “Oooo. Intriguing.”

  “Here we are,” my mother announced. We were in some kind of freight deposit. “Yoo hoo. Anybody home?”

  A uniformed man rounded a corner. “Can I help you?”

  My mother handed him something furtively, a slip of paper or a ticket.

  “Okey doke,” said the man, and disappeared again. He returned carrying a huge oblong parcel wrapped in well-traveled brown paper. “It’s heavy. Better if the two of you carry it.”

  My mother and I each took an end.

  “Okay, Mom, I give up. What’s in here?”

  “Let’s take it upstairs, get ourselves a coffee, then open it up and have a look.” My mother was nearly peeing herself with anticipation but refused, as usual, to give away her surprise.

  I sighed. We hauled the parcel up an escalator, lugged it through the airport’s main lobby, hobbled with it over to the cappuccino bar and sat it on a chair.

  “Okay,” I said, grabbing a loose bit of paper. “Let’s rip her open.”

  My mother slapped my hand. “Not so fast, Lucille. First, the coffees.” I sighed again and went up to the counter. “A part-skimmed double latte for me and the cocoa mocha with whipped cream for my mother.” The guy behind the counter looked at my mother with something akin to admiration then started making the coffees. I waited there, gazing beyond him, looking into the milling airport crowd, looking but not really seeing. Until something caught my eye.

  It was Sam Trelawny. He had his arm around a very pretty brunette woman. She was caressing his face. I squinted hard to focus better. She seemed to be crying. Then she pulled his face into hers and there was a long kiss. I felt a pang of envy and longing. It was starting to look as though a lot of other women weren’t put off by the occasional lapses into plaid either.

  I paid for the coffees and went back to the table. My mother, hardly able to contain herself, had started to tear away at the parcel’s brown paper. I gave her a hand. There was a carton underneath, with words printed all over it in a strange script that looked like Greek.

  “Go on, Mom. If you don’t hurry up and open it, I will.”

  My mother tore off the flap at one end of the oblong and peered down into the carton. She let out a little whimpering “Ohhh.”

  I went over and took a look. “Jeeeezus. Really, Motherrrr.”

  “Those criminals sent me another letter with the claim ticket. Does he look all right to you?” she asked. “I think they’ve done something to him. I think he’s been tampered with. Poor Winky.”

  I’m the only person I know whose mother makes more fuss over a missing garden gnome than she does over the rest of her family.

  She yanked him up out of the box so that his head and shoulders were visible. “They’ve done something to him. He’s not the same as he was before he left.”

  “It’s only natural, Mom. He’s been on the grand tour of Europe. He’s bound to be more worldly than before.”

  “You’re as bad as them,” she said.

  Winky did look a little brighter, a little snappier. His wink was more impertinent than it had been before his trip. Somebody had given him a fresh coat of paint.

  “Hi, Lucy,” said a man’s voice.

  I looked up to see Sam staring at us. He’d managed to lose the brunette.

  “Hello, Sam. Mom, this is Sam Trelawny, Dirk’s caseworker. Sam, do you know my mother?”

  “Lovely to meet you, Sam,” said my mother, oozing cheerfulness.

  “Mrs. Madison.” Sam shook her hand.

  “Call me June.”

  “June,” said Sam.

  I added, “And this is another important member of our family, Winky, our long-lost garden gnome. He was kidnapped back in October, although if you ask me, it’s a case of the Patty Hearst Syndrome. I think he wanted to be kidnapped. He’s been partway around the world, seen all sorts of things, hasn’t he, Mom? I’m really quite jealous. The kidnappers have finally let him come home.”

  Sam smiled and nodded, then said, “I’ll be in touch with you about Dirk. We’re trying to get a new court order but it may not be easy. Anyway, hang in there. I’ve gotta go. I’m late for a meeting. Nice to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Madison. You, too, Winky,” he said to the plaster statue. Then with a little bow of his head, he turned and walked toward the exit.

  “What an interesting young man. Really, Lucy,” said my mother, “what would it cost you to try flirting a little harder? To take some initiative? To ask him to our house for dinner? Now you’ve gone and scared him off with your silly sarcasm.”

  That night I dreamed about Sam. He was interrogating Winky, who was propped up on a metal chair under one of those glaring lamps police detectives use when they want to extort a confession. Sam went on and on, saying things like, “Keeping silent won’t help you. We know you did it. You sent those threatening letters to Lucy, didn’t you? Didn’t think we’d catch up to you in Europe, did you? But you’re back now. You’re going to have to answer for your behavior.”

  Meanwhile, Dirk was there behind Sam. He was making unnaturally high leaps into the air, like a ballerina, and making faces at Sam’s back. And worse, he was wearing my red dress. I could see that he’d ripped it in a few places and I was furious. I tried screaming at Sam, “He’s there behind you, Dirk’s there behind you. Turn around.” But Sam didn’t hear me. It was as though there were a soundproof glass wall between us, because I kept trying to run toward him. I wanted to grab him and make him look, but I kept coming up against a barrier. My feet seemed to be stuck in molasses. I turned back to Dirk and screamed, “Take off my red dress, take it off this minute or I’ll…”

  “What?” said Dirk, taunting me. “You’ll what?”

  I roared like an animal in the dream but the sound that woke me up was a strangled croak. My face was wet with tears. I lay there in the dark, in a very bad mood.

  23

  Two days before the big opening, Candy called me. “When do I start?”

  �
��You mean you’ll take the job?”

  “I really have to tell you, I don’t know the first thing about making cappuccinos.”

  “Anybody can do it. I’m sure anybody can do it.” I was talking through my hat. Put to the test, I wasn’t sure that I could do it myself.

  Then Candy whispered, “I’ve been painting.”

  “How? Where? Not at your parents’ place.”

  “God, no. Remember David Yee?”

  “From our painting class?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure I remember him. He was good. I remember his scary series. Scary cats, scary flowers, scary people. They were funny.”

  “Yeah, well. We had a little thing when we were at school.”

  “You did? I didn’t know that.”

  “You weren’t supposed to. I was going out with that cowboy idiot from the poli-sci department and he was jealous. Anyway, the thing with David was more of an accident than a thing but he seems to think there was some meaning to it. And hell, it’s nice to be lusted after by someone. I’d forgotten. Turns out he’s working in his cousins’ fast-food place there in the mall, the Chinese food place. Just to make a little extra cash. He’s got this run-down studio in Chinatown where he lives and works and said I could work there whenever I felt like it. So that’s what I’ve been doing. We take leftovers, chow mein and egg rolls and stuff back to his place after we get off our shifts and we go and paint.”

  “And you don’t feel like you’re going crazy, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And even if you did, you’d tell your friends, wouldn’t you. Talking about things always helps, and we’d work it out somehow. Not wanting to go crazy is half the battle, I figure.”

  “I’ve been slapping together these paintings really fast. All these ideas were just sitting there, waiting to be put on canvas. Do you still want some stuff of mine for your place?”

  “Do I? I sure as hell do. Tell me where to go and I’ll send Bob with the van. Are you going to come and help mount it? We haven’t got much time. Just two days.”

  “Maybe. What about David?” said Candy.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Have you got room for some of David’s paintings?”

  “The space is huge. It’s an idea. You’ve gotta be there for the Grand Opening, too, Candy. Real work wouldn’t start until the next morning but you want to be in on the kickoff.”

  “If I can get away. My parents think I’ve been using my spare time to go work out in the gym.”

  “They can hardly deny you exercise, can they?”

  “Exactly.”

  David’s most recent work was a perfect fit for our first exhibit. The pieces had the simplicity and color of Matisse but were much funnier. And Candy’s new work! Candy’s new work was a series, depicting very large women climbing into and bursting out of fancy lingerie. Working in Boito’s Beauties had had its uses after all.

  We had plastered the area with posters announcing the Grand Opening of Lucy’s Launderette, hired kids to distribute flyers, and taken out an ad in the main daily paper. We’d sent out invitations to all of Jeremy’s biker friends. There was a footnote to remind everyone that formal attire was requested. Max’s idea. I thought it was pushing things a bit too far but he pointed out that a few tuxedos would look great against the pinks and reds and blacks. He said I’d want to make it as extravagant as possible so that I’d really have something to remember. Prophetic words.

  The neon Lucy’s Launderette sign was installed. We also put up a black-and-white striped awning so that people could sit out on the sidewalk. It was mid-July and the weather was perfect.

  We were ready. Food was arranged with Hit and Run Kitchen, who were going to be our regular suppliers for the espresso bar, and Leo called to tell me not to worry about music on the night of the opening, that he would take care of everything. The bikers said they would supply the champagne, that it was the least they could do, and finally, Sky brought over my red dress.

  She was carrying a shoe box as well. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do.” She opened the box to reveal a pair of white vintage high heels, pointed toes, classic late fifties, early sixties. Then she pulled a little bottle out of her purse. “Shoe dye,” she said. “If we hurry they’ll be dry for tonight. Try ’em on. Make sure they fit.” The fit was usually guaranteed since Sky and I had the same shoe size. I tried them on. They were almost comfortable.

  Sky shook the little bottle of dye. “Hell of a hard color to find. The reds were all too orange or too pink. This is true ruby red. Just like Dorothy’s magic shoes. Careful not to bang your heels together or you might end up going straight to Kansas.”

  The Grand Opening was scheduled for 8:00 p.m. At six, Leo, dressed in a black leather tuxedo, arrived in a taxi. He had brought keyboards, speakers, synthesizers, a laptop computer, a turntable, cables and mikes. He was a one-man band. It was a side of him I’d never seen before. He started setting up in the corner allotted to musical groups, then said to me, “Just keep funnelling booze to me and I’ll be your entertainment center. I adore being the only star in my galaxy.”

  Bob wheeled into the launderette, very elegant in a rented tux. His wheelchair was festooned with red jewel helium balloons.

  “Nice threads, Bob. I’m sure the babes won’t be able to leave you alone.”

  Bob grinned. “Yeah, well, gotta give ’er a shot, eh? I may be a legless gimp but I’m still one hot dude.”

  I moved through the launderette, checking things for the last time. The girls from Hit and Run Kitchen had delivered the food. There was sushi for cowards (crab and smoked salmon filling instead of raw fish). There were piquant samosas, tiny spinach pies and Cornish pasties. There were Italian crostini with tomato, basil and garlic, porcini mushrooms, pickled artichoke hearts, fried polenta with chicken livers and spicy olives. There were Swedish meatballs, asparagus rolls, little cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off and chicken wings grilled in garlic, soya sauce and honey. The bottles of champagne sat in tubs of ice behind the espresso bar. I’d opted for plastic wineglasses and plates.

  At the front end of the vast wall where the paintings were exhibited, a large printed notice had been put up:

  “The works of Candace Sharp, David Yee and Lucy Madison are for sale. Interested parties should contact Connie Pete.”

  Connie’s phone number and our new e-mail address were given in smaller print at the bottom of the notice. There had been quite a lot of arguing over the pricing of our paintings. In the end, Connie had said, “Leave it in my hands. You artists won’t be any good at getting a price for your work. I can tell. You’ll be so flattered that anyone could be interested that you’ll be ready to give them away. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s how to recognize want. When people want something bad enough, they’ll pay for it.” Maybe she had a point. Somebody had to have a cutthroat approach to the art business.

  Electronic squeaks and squawks came from Leo’s corner. He was testing his equipment. I opened a bottle of champagne, grabbed two plastic glasses and went over to him.

  “Have some liquid courage,” I said.

  “You can’t possibly be scared, Miss Piggy.” Leo knocked back the first glass and poured himself another.

  “Can’t I? Well, I am. What if no one comes? What if they all hate it or think it’s stupid?”

  Leo gave a snorting laugh. “Oh, stop fussing. You’re being an old woman. And behaving like an old woman gets to be a habit. You do it over and over and suddenly you ARE an old woman.”

  “You’re such a comfort, Leo.”

  “Now go home and get dressed. You can’t attend your own Grand Opening dressed in the greasy newspaper liners from the bottom of your garbage pail.” He pointed at my painting clothes. I was still wearing them most of the time now that I didn’t have to play a role or answer to some ogre of a boss.

  I went home to get ready. Connie was in the kitchen, snacking. She was going through a phas
e in which it didn’t matter what she ate as long as there was a big blob of crunchy peanut butter smeared on top of it. She said it was a question of contrasts, the crunchy and the smooth, the oily and the watery, the salty and the sour. I came in just as she was spreading some on a peach.

  “Ooo yuck, Connie. You better get off that stuff. It’ll stick to the roof of your mouth and you’ll have a speech impediment for the rest of the evening. And there’s some much nicer food over at the launderette.”

  Connie looked wistfully at the economy-size jar of Skippy. “I suppose I could always bring this over with me.”

  “Don’t you dare. I’m going upstairs to get ready. What about you? We open in half an hour.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be ready,” she said.

  I went up to my room. The red dress was hanging in its plastic and the shoes were ever so slightly tacky, but dry enough if I didn’t, as Sky had said, bang my heels together. Sky convinced me that I had to wear the vintage natural-colored sheer silk stockings, like the women in the movies, and she’d given me one of the boxes (ten pairs!) that had belonged to Bella Montgomery. I had to get a garter belt for the occasion and because the only one I could find was black, I had to get the rest of the underwear in black lace. Panty hose hadn’t even been invented when they made those stockings. I was so nervous about ruining them that I put on a pair of wooly mittens to pull them on. I stepped into the red dress, reached around and zipped myself up. It was slightly looser than it had been the first time I’d tried it. Now it hung beautifully. I even had shoulder blades to show off in the low-cut V-shaped back. I slid my feet into the shoes and stood in front of the mirror. Lucy Madison, the old Lucy Madison, was on her way back.

  I went downstairs and along to Connie’s bedroom and knocked on the door. “You nearly ready in there?” I asked.

  “C’mon in,” came Connie’s voice. I opened the door.