Vintage

by Susan Gloss

  Charlie shrugged. “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It does matter. It matters to me.” April got up from the table and paced the floor. The cold tile on her bare feet sent a shiver through her. Not knowing exactly what had happened the night of her mom’s accident kept her in a holding pattern, a whirlpool of grief and questions that sucked her in and spit her out, no matter how hard she tried to swim out of it. Being four months pregnant, too, seemed to magnify every emotion.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Charlie put his head in his hands. When he looked up again, he asked, “How can I make it better?”

  See, that’s the problem, April thought. Charlie came from a lush-lawned world where a signature on a check or withdrawal slip could heal most wounds. He didn’t know what it was like, as a kid, to wonder if the phone was going get turned off again, or to wake up every morning wondering if it was going to be a good day or a bad day, based on his mom’s mood swings.

  “If you think there’s an easy fix—some money or magic words that will solve all our problems—then maybe you’re more like your parents than I thought,” she said.

  Now Charlie stood up. “I’m nothing like them. And anyway, just because my parents didn’t struggle to pay the bills doesn’t mean my family didn’t have any problems. Sometimes I think growing up with money can make things worse, in a way.”

  “It’s easy to say that when you had it. We’ll see what you’re saying when we’re struggling to pay the rent.”

  “So what are you saying, exactly?” Charlie crossed his arms over his chest. “That you don’t think I can hack it without Mommy and Daddy to pay the bills?”

  “I’m saying that to pay for four years of med school—that’s a lot of money. And, since you’ve never had to worry about money, I’m not sure you’ve really thought about what it means to turn down that big of a sum.”

  “I didn’t have to think about it,” Charlie said. “I didn’t think about it for even a second.”

  “That’s what worries me,” April said. “It’s all sweet and romantic right now to tell your parents to screw off. All Sonny and Cher and—what was that old song? ‘I Got You Babe.’ But we’ll see what happens when things get harder. I don’t want you to hold it against me someday.”

  “You know, maybe you’re the one who is having second thoughts and that’s why you brought this all up.” Charlie pressed his lips together in a hard line. “You know, maybe my parents were right.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, maybe you can’t commit, just like your mom. She couldn’t commit to your dad or to any of the crazy business schemes she thought up.”

  “She had an illness, Charlie,” April said through a clenched jaw.

  He dropped his arms to his sides. “Yeah, and how do I know you won’t go crazy someday, too?”

  She felt as if Charlie had just punched her in her swollen stomach. Until that point, their fight had been about their families, their circumstances. Now Charlie had made it personal. Ending up like her mom was April’s worst fear, and it could still happen. Her mother’s bipolar disorder didn’t surface at a diagnosable level until she was in her twenties.

  “You’re right,” she said in her iciest voice. “You don’t know. And I suppose you don’t want to stick around to find out.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Oh, I know what you meant,” April said, her ears ringing with anger. “Hell, our baby will probably turn out crazy, too.”

  “Fuck.” Charlie slammed his hand against the table. “Can’t we just reset this whole conversation? Pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice bordered on desperation.

  “I don’t think so. Now that I know what you really think . . .” April’s vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. “I can’t live my life with you watching me every day, wondering if today’s going to be the day I lose my mind. Maybe your parents were right. Maybe you should just cut your losses and get on with whatever they’ve got planned for you.”

  April expected Charlie to protest, but he didn’t. Instead he just stood there, mournful and unmoving, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. He opened his mouth—to apologize, maybe—but no sound came out to fill the stunned space that stretched between them.

  Charlie shuffled to the table and picked up his laptop. He met April’s eyes with a helpless expression and held her gaze for a few long, sorrowful seconds. Then he slumped, as if in a daze, out the side door.

  As soon as he was gone, April picked up her plate from the table and threw it on the floor. Jagged pieces of glass and broken cracker scattered on the tile. She realized her parents had probably fought in this very kitchen, though she’d been too small when they split to remember any details. What she did remember was growing up with the sense that family relationships were fragile and for some people, like her father, replaceable.

  She kept her phone close by her bed that night as she turned beneath her blankets without sleeping. April knew, of course, that she could call Charlie. But to do so seemed like an admission that she’d been more in the wrong than he had. Sometime in the early-morning hours, before the sun came up, she resolved that no, she wouldn’t call.

  This was a test. A test to see if Charlie was up to the task of loving her unconditionally, despite genetics, money, and a dead mother. It was a test and she wanted more than anything for him to pass, but he had to do it on his own.

  The next day, her heart nearly stopped when the doorbell rang. April couldn’t conceal her disappointment when she opened the door to see a political canvasser, clutching leaflets for the Green Party candidate in the state senate primaries. She nearly slammed the door in the poor guy’s face, and in the faces of the UPS driver and of the band kids selling candy bars later that week. They all smiled at her, oblivious to the fact that they were not what she wanted. What she wanted was a chance at a normal family, and with every agonizing day that passed without word from Charlie, that chance grew slimmer.

  April hated waiting. She hated the powerless feeling it produced. But even more than she hated waiting, she hated the conclusion she was coming to—that Charlie was no more reliable than the other people she’d loved in her life.

  April stopped waiting when, exactly two weeks after her and Charlie’s fight, she checked the mailbox and found an ivory, calligraphed envelope nestled among discount-store flyers and debt-collection notices addressed to her mom. The return address on the scripted envelope read “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cabot III.” She tore it open and pulled out a thick, stiff piece of paper. There, engraved in black ink on Strathmore cotton cardstock, was the announcement that the wedding had been canceled.

  Chapter 11

  INVENTORY ITEM: handbag

  APPROXIMATE DATE: 1950s

  CONDITION: fair

  ITEM DESCRIPTION: Straw handbag with fake-flower embellishments. Some fraying of the straw weave on bottom of bag.

  SOURCE: purchased from a friend of Betsy Barrett

  Violet

  WHEN VIOLET ARRIVED AT the store the next day, she noticed that April looked tired. Violet didn’t envy the heartbreak the girl had endured. Still, she noted with a bit of jealousy that although April’s belly was growing larger by the day, she continued to be one of those lucky pregnant women who didn’t get bigger anywhere else.

  Betsy Barrett waved at Violet from one of the orange chairs outside the dressing room, where she sat paging through a magazine.

  “Hi, Betsy,” Violet said. “What brings you in today?”

  Betsy gripped the arms of the chair with her arthritis-knobbed hands and began to push herself up.

  “No need to get up,” Violet said, going over to her. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Nonsense, I’ve been entertaining myself.” Betsy pointed at a picture of a young woman in a perfume ad with an elaborate maritime tattoo spread across her shoulder blades, complet
e with mermaids and a multisailed vessel floating in a sea of skin marked with rippling green waves. “That ship would have sunk years ago if it were on my body.”

  Violet laughed and clipped a flyaway piece of black hair behind her ear with a rhinestone-studded hairpin. “So what brings you in today?”

  “I’ve got some things for you out in the car, but I’ll need some help bringing them in. April offered to help, but I told her she shouldn’t be lifting heavy bags in her condition.”

  “Sure, I can get them,” said Violet. “April, I’ll be right back.”

  Betsy handed her the keys and said, “I’m at a meter out front.”

  Violet stepped outside into summer sunlight and heard the twang of dueling fiddles coming from the street musicians on the corner. A man playing the harmonica tipped his hat at her and she waved.

  She spotted Betsy’s silver Mercedes parked in front of the bike shop next door, Solidarity Cycles. Through the rear window of the car Violet could see several shopping bags on the backseat. She opened the door, and as she leaned over to grab the bags, she caught sight of a slip of paper on the console between the front seats. It looked like a bill, and at the top it said Turtle Bay Cancer Treatment Center. Her eyes watered as she grabbed the bags and set them on the sidewalk.

  Violet dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, debating whether she should confront Betsy about having seen the paper. She didn’t want to seem nosy, but then again Betsy had left it out in plain view and hadn’t stopped her from coming out to the car on her own. Violet wasn’t sure about the etiquette in this situation. On the one hand, it would be hard to pretend she didn’t know. On the other, she wanted to respect her friend’s privacy.

  She picked up the shopping bags and lugged them back to the store. Inside, April was dusting glassware on display shelves while Betsy chattered.

  “ . . . so I told them that unless they made a rule banning parents from auditions, I wasn’t giving another cent to the Young Shakespeare program.” Betsy shook her head. “Honest to God, you’d think it was Broadway the way these parents act.”

  Violet’s throat constricted as she listened to her friend’s voice. Betsy looked fine—a little thin, maybe, but she’d always been thin.

  April set down a cranberry glass vase and placed her hands on her middle. “I’ll have to try to bite my tongue when this little one starts getting involved in extracurriculars.”

  “Shall we see what we have here?” Violet placed Betsy’s shopping bags on the counter and started going through them.

  “Oh, you take your time with that,” Betsy said. “I can come back later. I’ve got an appointment to get to.”

  The mention of an appointment made Violet worry about her friend even more. She hugged Betsy good-bye a little tighter than usual. “It was good to see you again.”

  After Betsy had gone, April came over to the register. “Hey, I might need to take a day off soon. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. Any fun plans?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I need to go through my mom’s old stuff. I’ve been trying to do it after work, but lately I’ve been so tired when I get home I end up going to bed early. My Realtor said all the clutter is kind of off-putting for the potential buyers that have been through the house so far.”

  “Do you need any help?” Violet asked.

  “Most of it’s junk I’ll probably just give to Goodwill.”

  “That’s what my mom said when my grandma died. But it’s only junk if you don’t know what you’re looking for. And if there’s any heavier stuff you need to lift, I can do that, too.”

  “Look at you being all protective,” April said. “You sound like my doctor.”

  “Yeah, well, I know you’re capable of doing a lot on your own. But accepting help once in a while is okay, too.”

  April put her hands on her hips. “You should take your own advice, you know.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Sam Lewis called Violet on the Fourth of July to report that the blue hat with the birdcage veil had been a hit with his students. He also asked if Violet wanted to go see the fireworks with him that night. She accepted, remembering the goose bumps she’d gotten when she and Sam had brushed hands in the shop. It had been a couple of weeks since then, and Violet had figured he wasn’t going to get in touch with her. She was glad she’d been wrong.

  After she closed the shop that evening, Violet ran upstairs and tried on several different outfits for her date, casting each of them aside and piling them on the bed. Miles, looking irritated at this invasion of his prime napping space, huffed out a big-jowled sigh and moved to the living room couch. Violet finally decided on an outfit that was both a little bit retro and a little bit patriotic—a blue and white striped dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt. It had short sleeves, so it showed off the tattoo on her upper arm. She finished off the look with a red leather belt to highlight her curves.

  By the time Sam arrived to pick her up, Violet had worked herself into a buzzing bundle of nerves. She didn’t know why she felt so anxious. She’d been on plenty of dates in the years since her divorce, most of them courtesy of Internet dating sites or a friend’s setup. The setups were usually the most disappointing. Violet used to approach them with high hopes, but she’d since learned to dread the phrase “I have this single friend.” Usually it meant that the man in question was the only other single person, besides Violet, that the friend knew.

  Still, Violet had coffee, had drinks, and, sometimes, even had dinner or sex. She met intellectual men and international travelers. Men who were boring, boorish, or both. Men with graduate degrees, men with neuroses, men with kids. It had been a long time since she’d been truly interested in anyone, though. Since she’d felt a rush of unexpected excitement like she felt when Sam called. Still, she felt hesitant. She just wasn’t sure now was the right time to be pursuing a new romance. The store needed her full attention at the moment. And, unlike other dates she’d been on, no computer algorithm or well-meaning friend had arranged this one. If it didn’t go well, she had no one but herself to blame.

  Miles barked and skittered to the door when someone knocked. When Violet opened it, she saw Sam standing there, wearing jeans and a soft-looking button-down shirt. He clutched a bouquet of sunflowers in one hand.

  “Hey there.” Sam smiled and handed her the flowers.

  “Thank you. They’re gorgeous.” Violet hoped the sweat she could feel under her arms wasn’t soaking through her cotton dress.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep, just let me grab my purse. You can come in.”

  Sam followed her into the kitchen, where Violet arranged the flowers in an antique cut-glass vase, then ran to her room to get the straw handbag she’d chosen. She dumped the contents of her regular purse into it, grabbed a cardigan, and then followed Sam down to the back lot where he’d parked his car, a Subaru wagon with a bike rack on top.

  Violet preferred muscle cars, vintage roadsters, and fin-backed Caddies, but she had to admit that Sam’s car fit him. It looked strong, but not too rough, and able to handle a lot of different situations.

  They got in and Sam pulled the car onto Johnson Street. “So I was thinking we could stop somewhere to pick up some food to take with us to the fireworks.”

  “Sure,” Violet replied. “That sounds great.”

  Sam drove downtown to Capitol Square, where music spilled out from bars and people dined at sidewalk cafés in the fading light. Violet and Sam went into a gourmet cheese shop, where they each tried half a dozen samples before deciding what to buy. Sam tended toward the fresh goat cheeses and creamy Brie, but Violet loved aged varieties, the blue-veined Stiltons and Gorgonzolas. She made sure she popped a mint after eating them. She didn’t want to start out the date with bad breath.

  Even though she’d lived in Wisconsin all her life, she’d never been in a specialty cheese store. It was a relief, though, to have something tangible to focus on, rather than simply staring at each other across a r
estaurant table and making awkward conversation. Violet laughed as Sam wrinkled his nose at the stinky Limburger and said goofy things like, “Ah, yes. I can taste the clover the sheep must have grazed on.”

  After an intense debate, they agreed on an aged Gruyère, a soft chèvre, and a fresh Gouda flecked with fenugreek seeds. A woman behind the counter with a French accent helped them select a bottle of wine and some crackers, olives, and a small box of handmade chocolates to go with the cheese.

  By the time they got back into the car with their picnic, Violet was feeling a lot more relaxed than she’d been when Sam first picked her up.

  “That was fun,” she said. “I can’t believe I’ve never been there before.”

  “I thought it would be good to have a mission—that it would be less awkward that way,” Sam said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on a first date.”

  Violet was impressed that Sam had thought out their date so that they’d both feel comfortable. “It was a good idea. Very thoughtful.”

  “Oh, there’s one other thing I wanted to do before we go to the fireworks.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Sam leaned over to the passenger seat and kissed Violet, slowly and sweetly, before pulling away and starting the car.

  For a moment, Violet couldn’t speak. When her body and brain stopped humming enough for her to recover her voice, she said, “Wow. That usually doesn’t come until the end of a first date.”

  “I couldn’t wait.” Sam held her gaze for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the road. “I would have called you to go out right away after I saw you in your shop, but I left the next day for a backpacking trip out west with an old buddy from college. I’ve been ‘off the grid,’ so to speak, for the last couple of weeks.”

  “It’s okay,” Violet said. “It was worth the wait.”

  At Winnequah Park, where the fireworks would be set off, the lawn was already quilted with blankets. Children waved sparklers and begged their parents for Popsicles from the vendors who weaved their way through the lawn chairs and coolers. As Violet and Sam walked through the grass looking for a place to sit, fireflies rose like sparks from the ground.