The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  Paulette is yakking on the phone when I walk into her boutique. She’s heading toward the back where she keeps all of her stock so I say hello to Maya, Paulette’s niece, who works part-time. She’s walking around this small but wonderful little shop, making sure everything is in its place, and waiting for one of four women to ask for her help. Paulette sells good quality merchandise at reasonable prices: sexy lingerie, cool handmade jewelry, casual-funky clothing, and distinctive evening wear—things you won’t find in a department store. She sells soaps and candles that she makes herself. Today it smells like honeydew.

  I lean against the counter, which is really a teak table someone made just for her shop, and I have to look up because hanging above my head is the very first chandelier I made. Or redid. It was rusted brass when I found it on the sidewalk in front of a house that was being demolished in West Oakland. But it’s red now. Rose red. Paulette loves red because she says it gives her energy. I remember wrapping and gluing the rayon ribbon around each arm so tight my fingers blistered. I added sprigs of hot pink baby’s breath and burgundy silk orchids. Each light rises like a white flame from the center of leaves in three shades of green in velvet, rayon, and satin. Each leaf’s edges are wired, which allowed me to bend, pull, and twist them to look as natural as possible. It’s pretty—but not my taste. Paulette has had so many offers to buy it that she finally hung a NOT FOR SALE tag on it. Because of her I’ve made about twenty variations for her customers over the past year.

  She’s still on the phone. Looks and sounds like a heated conversation. One of the women is furiously going through the sale rack. She must be on her lunch hour. She’s black and somewhat attractive. But it seems like she’s in the wrong store. She’s wearing a dark blue suit with matching loafers that I didn’t even know they still made. Another woman is trying on something because I can see her bare white feet under the dressing-room door. A redhead with gray roots and probably on her second face-lift tightens the knot of a yellow cashmere sweater that’s draped over her shoulders. She is killing time because she’s already on her second trip around the store and has not picked up a thing. And then there’s a middle-aged blonde still in her tennis outfit and visor, looking through a mountain of pillows in a corner.

  I made every single one of them. She picks up one and puts it back. The longer I look at them the more I realize that all of them aren’t as attractive as I once thought. In fact, some of them are downright drab. I feel like pulling at least six of them out and dragging them to the back of the store. Friendship can be just as blind as love sometimes, I suppose. I don’t know why I’m even noticing things in here I made when I’ve been in here hundreds of times, and rarely acknowledged any of it. Like those hats on the wall. They’re old Stetsons I had blocked and cleaned and just replaced the old rayon bands with outrageous trim so that they’re now funky and feminine and one of a kind. I’ve been in here when someone tried one on, bought it, and never said a word. I made Paulette promise to keep her mouth shut because it was her bright idea to put my stuff in here to prove to me that people would buy it.

  “How may I help you?” Paulette asks me, dropping the phone rather harshly on the counter.

  “I was just about ready to start shoplifting, but you look like you could use the money, so here.” I drop the Platinum American Express and Gold Visa cards on the table. “Pick the one you’d prefer that I use since I don’t see a sign anywhere.”

  “We take all major credit cards.”

  “Good. Because I’m here to shop hard,” I say, and we’re both trying not to laugh. I wink at Maya. She knows how we do.

  “Are you feeling distraught?” Paulette asks.

  The other women are now all ears.

  “It’s my husband. He’s deserting me. He’s found another woman half my age.”

  “No?” Paulette squeals.

  “Yes, and on Monday he’s off to Costa Rica for four weeks to find himself.”

  “Costa Rica’s a pretty nice place to find anything,” the tennis player says.

  “I’d say so,” says the redhead. “Is he going alone?”

  “No, he’s going with a buddy who’s also suffering from the same disease.”

  “What disease is it they have?” This is the young black girl. She has pulled down one of my hats.

  “I call it Mid-Life Crazy.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say that? My husband has left three times,” says the redhead.

  “And what did you do?”

  “Got depressed. Cried a lot. And then I took him back.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it was easier than living without him. We have the house and the kids almost in college. I didn’t want to change my life just because he wanted to chase after those young girls in his office who throw themselves at him and all the other successful married men there. Those women don’t care about us. But he always comes to his senses when he gets tired.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do,” I say.

  “Kick her ass,” a black woman whom I didn’t see come in is saying. She’s in her early forties and will never find anything in this store to fit her even though Paulette occasionally carries a sixteen.

  “Change the locks before he gets back.”

  “I say wait it out,” the redhead says. “If you love him.”

  “That’s a good point,” I say.

  “Does the name Gordon King mean anything to you?” Paulette finally interjects.

  “That’s too dangerous, and I’m not out of the danger zone yet if you get my drift.”

  “How much longer before you can do the cancan?”

  The women all get that “the-what?” look on their faces. We have lost them.

  “Another week, but it’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “So, Paulette, is everything going okay in your world?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Mookie is being released from a special program where he’s been studying law for the past two years and now suddenly needs a place to stay since he didn’t get his degree the first time he enrolled at this same institution and I’m having a little trouble honoring his request, but other than that, everything’s peachy. So, is there something in particular you’re looking for today?”

  “Yes,” I say, with a look on my face that says we’ll talk about this later.

  “Tell me what you had in mind.”

  “Something pretty,” I say.

  “Well, I’d like to think that’s about everything in here.”

  “How much is the chandelier?”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was a gift.”

  “Okay, then. I don’t need anything for the house anyway.”

  “Are you going straight home after you leave here?”

  “What would make you ask that?”

  “Well, I’m clairvoyant and I know you’re bound for Fresno if my memory serves me right and I’m almost positive that little number you’re wearing is on day two, so you might want to step over to the casual rack first, you think?”

  I give her the finger. “Okay. But I also want something that will make me feel sexy and take his breath away.”

  “Who?” Paulette asks.

  The women are curious again. This is so much fun. Pretending.

  “The invisible man with no name who’ll most likely take my husband’s place one day.” Now just about all of the women are sitting in the window seat, apparently waiting to see just what it’s going to take to accomplish this.

  Spencer still doesn’t sound like himself but I tell him that I’m heading for Fresno today and will be back late tomorrow afternoon or early evening. That I would like to make him and his girlfriend a gourmet dinner on Saturday since they fly out early Sunday. This seems to excite him. The boy loves to eat and I love cooking for people who appreciate it. Except of course my husband, who would be fortunate to get a few morsels of Snuffy�
��s dog food mixed in with the gravy I would so gladly pour over his mashed potatoes. I pity the fool. Spencer tells me his wrist is the worst pain he’s ever felt, but he’s handling it like a man. I tell him not to try so hard, because he’ll have plenty of opportunities to prove his manliness. This shouldn’t be one of them.

  I do not call Leon or Arthurine. Since he’s on vacation, he can take her to Bible study. And I’m not going to any party on Saturday. I don’t care what the occasion is. Plus, it doesn’t really matter. They’re all the same anyway. All of our middle-aged friends have the same kind of parties: the music is either jazz or old R&B and is turned down so low you can barely hear it until more than two people get drunk and demand that the hosts “Turn it up!” because they’re about ready to “cut up” on the living room but most likely the garage floor. This can happen quickly, much later, or not at all. If it’s the latter, we just stand around or sit on the couch and comment on their new piece of artwork—even those of us who have little or no knowledge of art—and then we’ll engage in one of the many long drawn-out philosophical and political discussions and you hope for a topic you feel so strongly about that you have to stop yourself from raising your voice. But who is it you’re trying to convince and what difference will it make? So you just eat your sushi until it’s time for the gumbo that the hostess swears is the best we’ll ever have tasted and you just pray it tastes like gumbo and you can find the shrimp and spot a crab claw as we sip on Napa Valley’s finest and go home without breaking a glass, breaking up, or breaking down.

  Against my better judgment, I pull up to the drive-up window of Burger King and order a Whopper with small fries and no drink. I always have a bottle of water in the car. I eat a few fries then realize I’m almost out of gas. Before I hit the freeway I stop to fill up. I toss my sunglasses in the glove compartment. When I try to close it, it won’t shut. To make room, I try moving around the thick wad of napkins I’ve accumulated from other drive-up windows, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, reading glasses that have recently become a necessity, and a few other things. This time I push it harder but it pops back open and a thick piece of folded paper falls on the floor. When I reach down to pick it up, my arm hits the glove compartment and it snaps shut.

  When the pump stops I get out and am just about to toss this paper when I decide to open it to make sure it’s trash-worthy. Of course it’s that list of promises I made to myself that I haven’t looked at since the day I read it in the doctor’s office. I peek at the first point: “Stop swearing.” Shame shame shame. I haven’t even come close to reducing my usage, let alone stopping altogether. And why was it so important? I believe it was because it made me feel uneducated when I have a vocabulary. Then why haven’t I? Forgot. Lazy.

  I finish the last of the burger and every single French fry. Put the nozzle back into the pump and get in the car. The smell of fries and ketchup is overwhelming. I grab the bag and twist the top as if I’m trying to break its neck. I get back out of the car and shove the bag into the trash bin. This is where it should be, and I know it. I am ashamed of myself because I have not kept a single one of these promises. Haven’t even tried. What was the fucking point…I mean, what was the point in even writing it all down if I wasn’t going to give it a try? Just to remind myself in my head how much I wish I could do? Change? Isn’t this what drug addicts and alcoholics and overeaters do? Promise they’ll quit tomorrow but tomorrow never comes? When will tomorrow become today? It’s the same shit—I mean thing—when I get right down to it. No angel is coming down here to intervene, to stop me from suffering from what feels like inertia. No angel will help me see my life any clearer than it is right now. No angel will give me the courage to lift my foot and step outside of this emotionally draining circle. Unless of course that angel has just been extremely patient, hoping that sooner or later I’d befriend her and finally let her come out of hiding.

  Chapter 16

  I take the long route and decide not to call Lovey ahead of time since she might not remember. And there’s no telling where Joy is or what she might be doing. Even if she happens to be home, who knows what state she’ll be in. By the time I get there, the kids shouldn’t be home from school for at least another hour or so and since I’m almost positive there won’t be a lot of options when it comes to dinner, I’ll see what’s there and then go to the grocery store.

  When I’m about an hour outside of Fresno I decide to turn my cell on. Of course I’ve got three thousand messages from Mr. Costa Rica himself. I don’t want to hear any of them so I just press the automatic callback. He answers on the first ring. “Hello, Leon.”

  “Marilyn, where’ve you been? We’ve been worried sick about you. You’re giving Mom and me a heart attack. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Leon. Just fine. I’m on my way to Fresno.”

  “You mean you’re not coming home first?”

  “Apparently not if I’m on my way.”

  “Why didn’t you come home last night?”

  “Because I didn’t want to.”

  “Well, where’d you stay?”

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I stayed in a place that gave me enough room to think.”

  “We’ve got plenty of rooms in this house where you can think without being disturbed, Marilyn.”

  “I needed to get out of the house, away from you, Leon.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “I am, too, but it’s the truth.”

  “Well, I’ve got some bad news.”

  “What now? I just hope it’s not one of the kids?”

  “No, the kids are fine. Mom’s fine. It’s Snuffy.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “You mean he got out? How?”

  “No, he’s passed on.”

  “Well, it’s about time,” I say, before realizing this isn’t exactly what I want him to say to Arthurine. “What I meant was, I’ve been wondering how much longer he was going to be able to hold on. It was his time, I suppose.”

  “Mother’s a mess.”

  “I know. She really loved that dog.”

  “It would’ve been nice if you’d been here with her.”

  “Leon, don’t even go there, okay?”

  “What?”

  “My being there would not have stopped Snuffy from dying and there would’ve been nothing I could do to comfort Arthurine that you couldn’t do. So stop with the guilt trip. Look, I just wanted you to know what my plans were.”

  “Well, I’m glad you finally called. Mother is trying to decide whether or not to have a little service for Snuffy.”

  “You can’t be serious, Leon?”

  “She’s had that dog for sixteen years, it seems fitting to give him a proper farewell. People do it all the time. There’s a cemetery just for pets so it can’t be that outlandish.”

  “Is she going to have him cremated or stuffed?” I ask, unable to help myself.

  “You really can be crass when you want to be, Marilyn, you know that?”

  “Sometimes the situation dictates it, Leon. But this seems a bit silly. Who’s supposed to come to Snuffy’s funeral besides me, you, and Arthurine?”

  “Prezelle has already said he’d come.”

  “And who else?”

  “That’s plenty. He’s a dog. He didn’t exactly have a slew of friends.”

  “Leon, I’m going to hang up now, okay?”

  “Hold on a second! Spencer said they’d be here in a few hours.”

  “I already know that, and I’m making dinner for him and Brianna on Saturday.”

  “How can you be in two places at once?”

  “I’m not planning on being in two places at once.”

  “Then let me ask you something, Marilyn, and I don’t mean any harm by it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Do you remember the original reason you went to see y
our doctor?”

  “Of course I do. To get my hormone levels checked.”

  “Yes, but this was because you admitted that you’d been forgetting a lot of things and having wild mood swings and just being bitchy all the time for no particular reason.”

  “And your point?”

  “Did she ever actually give you anything for it or not?”

  “No, she didn’t, Leon. I was pregnant, remember?”

  “Yes, but you’re not pregnant now and you’re acting the same way you were before.”

  “I think I’ve got a few good reasons for sounding the way I sound and acting the way I act, and I doubt if it has anything to do with my hormonal balance or imbalance.”

  “Well, you seem to have forgotten all about Frank and Joyce’s party and I just told you about it yesterday.”

  “I didn’t forget.”

  “Then tell me how are you supposed to make dinner when the party’s at the same time?”

  “I’m not going to the party, Leon, because I don’t care if Frank the adulterer is turning a hundred and they’re celebrating fifty years of marital bliss, which you and I both know is a big fat lie. Why should I go over there pretending I’m happy for them when I’m not? She should’ve left him years ago. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not going, Leon. I’m making my son and his girlfriend and any of his friends that want to come over a dinner I hope they’ll remember after they get back to their dorms.”