“You know what knocks me out?” No. But tell me quick, I’ll find one.
“What?”
“That a bright woman like you sells dresses in some shop. I don’t know, I figured you were doing something creative.”
“Like writing?”
“Writing, painting, sculpture, something meaningful. What kind of existence is that, selling dresses for old broads in fur coats?”
“Well, you know how it is. One does what one can.” Jessie tried to keep her lip from curling as she smiled. “What sort of play are you writing?”
“New theater. An all-female cast, in the nude. There’s a really great scene taking shape now for the second act. A homosexual love scene after a woman gives birth.”
“Sounds like fun.” Her tone went over his head. “Hungry yet?” And she still had dinner to look forward to with him. She was considering pleading a violent attack of bubonic plague. Anything to get away from him. But she’d live through it. She’d been through it before. More often than she wanted to admit.
“Yeah. I could dig a good meal.” She made several suggestions and he settled on Mexican, because good Mexican food was rare in New York. At least he had that much sense. She took him to a small restaurant on Lombard Street. The company stank, but at least the food was good.
After dinner she yawned loudly several times and hoped he’d take the hint, but he didn’t. He wanted to see some “night life,” if there was any. There was, but she wasn’t going for it. Not tonight and not with him. She suggested a coffeehouse on Union Street, close to home. She’d have a quick cappuccino and ditch him. She needed the coffee anyway. She had drunk three or four glasses of wine at dinner. But Mario had had at least twice that, after his earlier consumption at Jerry’s. He was beginning to slur his words.
They settled down in the coffeehouse, he with an Irish coffee and she with a frothy cappuccino, and he eyed her squintingly over the top of his glass.
“You’re not a bad-looking chick.” He made it sound like a chemical analysis. Your blood type is O positive.
“Thank you.”
“Where do you live, anyway?”
“Just up a hill or two from here.” She drank the sweet milk foam on the top of her coffee and busied herself looking evasive. One thing she was not planning to share with Mario was her address. She’d had more than enough already.
“Big hills?”
“Medium. Why?”
“’Cause I don’t want to walk any big motherfucking hills, sister, that’s why. I’m piss-eyed tired. And just a wee bit drunk.” He made a pinch with his fingers and smiled leeringly. It almost made Jessie sick to look at him.
“No problem, Mario. We can take a cab and I’ll be happy to drop you off wherever you’re staying.”
“What do you mean ‘wherever I’m staying’?” There was a small spark of anger in his eyes, smoldering in confusion.
“You’re a smart boy. What did it sound like?”
“It sounded for a minute there like you were being a prissy pain in the ass. I assume that I’m staying with you.” For a moment she wanted to tell him she was married, but she wouldn’t solve it that way. Besides, then how could she explain going out to dinner with him?
“Mario”—she smiled sweetly at him—“you assumed wrong. We don’t do things that way out in the provinces. Or I don’t, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He sat slumped in his chair now, with a disagreeable expression on his face.
“It means thank you for a lovely evening.” She started buttoning her jacket and stood up with a wistful look in her eyes. But he leaned across the table and grabbed her arm. His grip on her wrist was surprisingly painful.
“Listen, bitch, we had dinner, didn’t we? I mean what the fuck do you think …” There was a look on his face that she never wanted to see again, and suddenly the earlier conversation with Astrid flashed into her mind … “If he misbehaves, you can hit him” … and she wrenched her arm free, and something in the set of her face told him not to press the point.
“I don’t know what you think, mister. But I know what I think. And I think you’ll be extremely sorry if you touch me again. Good night.” She was gone before he could react again, and it was the waiters who bore the brunt of his anger as he swept his arm across the table, knocking the cups and glasses to the floor. It took two waiters to convince him that what he wanted was some air.
Jessica was almost home by then. As she walked quietly up the last hill to the house, the night air was soft on her face, and she felt surprisingly peaceful. It had been a rotten evening, but she was rid of him. And she would never have to see him again. Men like that made her flesh crawl, but at least she knew how to handle them. And herself. At first, such evenings had terrified her. But she had dated all types by now—all the creeps in creepdom. The good ones were either married or off hiding somewhere. And what was left were all the same. They drank too much, they laughed too hard or not at all, they were pompous or neurotic or borderline gay, they were into drugs or group sex, or wanted to talk about how they hadn’t had an erection in four years because of what their ex-wives had done to them. She was beginning to wonder if she wouldn’t be happier staying home by herself. The libertine life wasn’t much fun.
“How was last night?” Jessie asked Astrid first, as she came into the shop the next morning. She was hoping to quell Astrid’s questions that way. She had no desire to talk about Mario.
“It was a nice evening, actually. I sort of liked it.” She looked happy and relaxed and almost surprised. Unlike Jessie, she didn’t really expect to have a good time on a date. It made her easier to please.
“How was your evening? I think I passed your young man on the steps on my way out.”
“I think you did too. Damn shame you didn’t trip him up on your way.”
“That bad, huh?” Astrid looked sympathetic, which hurt more.
“Actually, considerably worse. He was the pits.” In Astrid’s opinion, he had looked it. “Well, back to the drawing board.”
Jessie managed a thin smile as she sifted quickly through the mail, sorting out the letters from the bills. She paused only for a moment to look at a long plain white envelope before tearing it in half and dropping the pieces in the wastebasket. Another letter from Ian. It hurt Astrid every time she saw Jessie do that. It seemed so unkind, such a waste. She wondered if Ian knew, or suspected, that Jessie wasn’t reading his letters. She wondered what he was saying in the letters.
“Don’t look like that, Astrid.” Jessica’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Like what?”
“Like I tear your heart out every time I throw out his letters.” She had continued sorting the mail, looking almost indifferent. But not quite. Astrid saw her hands tremble just a trifle.
“But why do you do that?”
“Because we have nothing to say to each other anymore. I don’t want to hear it, read it, or open any doors. It would be misleading. I don’t want to get suckered into any kind of dialogue with him.”
“But shouldn’t you give him a chance to say what he thinks? This way seems so unfair.” Astrid’s eyes were almost pleading, and Jessica looked back at the mail as she answered.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t give a damn what he says. I’ve made up my mind. He could only make things harder now. He couldn’t change anything.”
“You’re that sure you want the divorce?”
Jessica looked up before she answered and fixed Astrid’s eyes with her own. “Yes. I’m that sure.” In spite of the Marios, in spite of the loneliness and the emptiness, she was still sure divorce was the right thing. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Two customers walked into the shop at that moment and spared Jessica any further discussion. Katsuko was out, and Astrid had to offer to help. Jessica walked into her office and gently closed the door. Astrid knew what that meant. The subject was closed. It always was.
It was a busy day after that, a busy we
ek, a busy month. The shop was in fine shape now, and people were buying for summer.
They had occasional postcards from Zina, who was already pregnant, and Katsuko had decided to grow her hair long again. Life had returned to trivial details: who was going to Europe, what the new hemline would be, whether or not to paint the front of the shop, planting new geraniums in Katsuko’s tiny garden apartment. Jessie never ceased to feel gratitude for the trivia. The orchestration in her life had been so somber for so long; now it was Mozart and Vivaldi again. Simple and easy and light. And having made the decision to get the divorce, there were no big decisions left.
It was almost as if the horror story had never happened. Her mother’s emerald ring was safely back in the bank. The ownership on the house and the shop were free and clear again. The shop was back on its feet. But there had been changes. A lot more than she wanted to admit. And she had changed. She was more independent, less frightened, more mature. Life was moving along.
They were all having coffee in the boutique one morning when Jessie got to her feet and started going through some of the racks.
“Planning to knock five or ten inches off your height?” Astrid smiled as she watched Jessie go through the size eights.
“Oh, shut up.” She looked over her shoulder with a grin, and then knit her brow. “Kat, what size does Zina usually wear?”
“Oh, Jesus. That’s a tough one. A size four on the hips, and about a fourteen up top.”
“Terrific. So in a smock shape, what size would you say?”
“An eight.”
“That’s what I was looking at.” She cast a victorious glance at Astrid. “I thought maybe we should send her a present. That kid she married doesn’t have much money, and she’s going to be hard to fit now that she’s pregnant. What do you think of these?” She pulled out three tent-shaped dresses from the spring line, in ice cream colors and easy shapes.
“Super!” Kat instantly approved, and Astrid looked touched.
“What a sweet thing to do.”
Jessie looked almost embarrassed as she smiled and handed them to Katsuko.
“Ahh … bullshit.” All three of them laughed and Jessie sat back down to her coffee. “Send those out to her today, okay, Kat? Do you suppose we ought to send her something for the baby?” She didn’t know why, but she wanted to celebrate Zina’s baby. As though he, or she, were someone special.
“Not yet. It isn’t due for months. Besides, that’s bad luck.” Astrid looked slightly uncomfortable. “What’s with all the interest in maternity goodies?”
“I’ve decided that if I’m never going to be a mother, I might as well enjoy being an aunt. Besides, I figured that if I started buttering her up early, she might make me godmother.” Astrid laughed, and Katsuko carefully folded the dresses into a box full of yellow tissue paper. She glanced quickly at Jessie, but Jessie got up and walked away. She felt lonely suddenly. Lonely for a child for the first time in her life. And why now? She decided that it was just because she was ready to love somebody again.
“She’s going to adore them, Jessie. And who says you’re never going to be a mother?” Katsuko was intrigued. It was the first time Jessie had talked openly about children. Katsuko had always suspected that Jessie must have come to some decision about children, but it was rare for her to open up about anything personal. She was not one of those women who discussed her sex life and her dearest dreams in the office. But Jessie seemed to be in an unusually chatty mood. And she didn’t have Ian to confide in anymore. She often seemed hungry for someone to talk to these days. She sat down once more before she replied.
“I say I’m never going to be a mother. I mean, Jesus, have you seen what’s out there these days? If I’ve been seeing any kind of standard sampling, I wouldn’t think of propagating the breed. They ought to be considering how to stamp it out!” The other two women laughed and Jessie finished her coffee. “Halfwits, no wits, nitwits, and dimwits. Not to mention the ones who’ve blitzed out their brains on acid, the sonsofbitches cheating on their wives, and the ones with no sense of humor. You expect me to marry one of those darlings and have a kid, maybe?” And then her face grew serious. “Besides, I’m too old.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Astrid spoke up first.
“I’m not. I’m being honest. By the time I got around to having a child, I’d be thirty-four, thirty-five maybe. That’s too old. You should do it at Zina’s age. How old is she? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?” Katsuko nodded pensively and then asked Jessie a question that hit hard.
“Jessie … are you sorry now that you didn’t have children with Ian?” There was a long pause before she answered, and Astrid was afraid she’d lose her temper, or her cool, but she didn’t.
“I don’t know. Maybe I am. Maybe I can only say that because I’ve never been within miles of a kid. But it seems sad—worse than sad, wasted, empty—to live so many years with a man and have nothing. Some books, some plants, a few pieces of furniture, a burnt-out car. But nothing real, nothing lasting, nothing that says ‘We were,’ even if we aren’t anymore, that says ‘I loved you,’ even if I don’t love you anymore.” There were tears in her eyes as she shrugged gently and stood up. She avoided their eyes and looked busy as she headed back to her little office. “Anyway, so it goes. Back to work, ladies. And don’t forget to send the dresses to Zina right away, Kat.” They didn’t see her again until lunchtime, and neither Astrid nor Katsuko dared comment on the conversation.
But they were all basically happy. Jessie was restless and sick of the men she was going out with, but she wasn’t unhappy. There were no traumas, no crises in her life anymore. And Astrid was still seeing the same man she had been seeing earlier that spring. And enjoying it more than she wanted to admit. He took her to the theater a lot, collected the work of unknown young sculptors, and had a small house in Mendocino that Astrid finally admitted she’d been to. She was spending weekends there, which was why Jessie never heard from her anymore between Friday and Monday.
Jessica was busy too; she was working Saturdays at Lady J, and there were always new men. The trouble was that there were never “old” men, men she had known long enough to feel comfortable with. It was always a birthday party, never old galoshes. She got bored with the constant explanations. Yes, I ski. Yes, I play tennis. No, I don’t like to hike. Yes, I drive a car. No, I’m not allergic to shellfish. I prefer hard mattresses, wear a size eight narrow shoe, a size ten dress, am five feet ten and a half, like rings, love earrings, hate rubies, love emeralds … all of the above, none of the above. It was like constantly applying for a new job.
She was having trouble sleeping again, but she had stayed away from pills ever since her stay at the ranch. She knew they weren’t the solution, and someday … someday … someone would come along, and she’d want him to stay. Maybe. Or maybe not. She had even considered the possibility that no one would come along again. No one she could love. It was a horrible thought, but she did admit it as a possibility. It was what had made her suddenly and almost cruelly regret never having had children. She had always thought she had the option. Now her options were gone.
But maybe it didn’t matter if she never had children, or loved another man, or … maybe it didn’t matter at all. She wondered if she had already fulfilled her destiny. Seven years with Ian, an explosion at the end, a boutique, and a few friends. Maybe that was it. There was a sameness to her life now, a blandness and lack of purpose that made her wonder. All she had to do was get up, go to work, stay at the shop all day, close it at five-thirty, go home and change, go out to dinner, say good night, go to bed. And the next day it would all start all over again. She was tired, but she wasn’t depressed. She wasn’t happy, but at least she wasn’t frightened or lonely. She wasn’t anything. She was numb.
Ian had sent a message, via Martin, not to sell the house; he’d buy her half eventually if he had to, but he didn’t want the house to go. So she went on living there, but now it was just a house. She kept it tidy, it sui
ted her needs, it was comfortable, and it was familiar. But she had put all of Ian’s things in the studio and locked it. And the house had lost half its personality when she’d done that. It was just a house now. Lady J was just a shop. She was just another soon-to-be divorcee on the market.
“Morning, madam. Want a date?” Astrid was carrying lily of the valley as she walked into the shop, and she dropped a clump of it next to Jessie’s coffee cup.
“Jesus, don’t you look happy for this time of the morning.” Jessica attempted a smile and winced, regretting the last half bottle of white wine the night before. But it pleased even Jessie to see Astrid like that, wearing her hair down much of the time now, and with a happy light in her eyes.
“Okay, Miss Sunshine. What kind of date?” She tried another smile and meant it. It was impossible not to smile at Astrid.
“A date with a man.” She looked almost girlish.
“I should hope so. You mean a blind date?”
“No, I don’t think he’s blind, Jessica. He’s only thirty-nine.” The two women laughed and Jessica shrugged.
“Okay, why not? What’s he like?”
“Very sweet, and a little bit ‘not too tall.’” Astrid looked cautiously at Jess. “Does that matter?”
“Will I have to stoop over to talk to him?”
Astrid giggled and shook her head. “No. And he’s really very nice. He’s divorced.”
“Isn’t everyone?” It constantly amazed Jessie to realize how many marriages failed. She hadn’t been that aware of it before she’d filed for divorce herself. It had always seemed that everyone she knew was married. And now everyone she knew was divorced.
They had dinner as a foursome that Thursday night, and Astrid’s beau was delightful. He was elegant, amusing, and good-looking. In fact, he was the first man Jessie had met in a long time who actually appealed to her. He had the same kind of graceful looks as Ian, but with silver hair and a well-trimmed narrow rim of beard. He had traveled extensively, was knowledgeable in art and music, was very funny as he told of some of his exploits, and he was wonderful with Astrid. Jessica wholeheartedly approved, but what pleased her most about the evening was seeing Astrid’s happiness. She had really found the perfect man for her.
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