by Ruth Reichl
“No,” I said.
“This whole thing embarrasses you, doesn’t it?” she asked.
“A little,” I admitted. “When it’s just a costume and I don’t get into character, I feel like such a fraud that I’m afraid someone’s going to come along, pull the wig off my head, and cry, ‘Aha!’ But getting into character can be eerie. It makes me feel sort of schizophrenic, like my thoughts are mine, but not mine. And people react to me in a whole different way, as if I really were someone else.”
“You’re lucky,” she said. “Most of us would love to be someone else, at least part of the time. C’mon, let’s go finish Brenda. I know a terrific vintage store on Thompson Street. The owner is nuts, but she has great stuff.”
Michael’s Resale, where I usually shopped, was a musty upstairs store on Madison Avenue with a sad, slightly apologetic air. The clerks were older women who seemed to look down on their customers, and they always made me feel like a pitiful specimen trying to pass for rich.
But here we were assaulted by the thump of rock music the minute we walked into the store, and surrounded by a happy swirl of noise and color. A woman stood in the center of the room, so laden with costume jewelry that she looked like a Christmas tree, and when she spotted me she called out, “You’re a 1264.” Going to a rack, she began collecting garments. “You’re in luck,” she said as her arms filled. “Twelve-sixty-four just dropped off a new consignment. Take a look.”
Then she squinted at Carol and said, “You might be an 823. A little conservative, but just your size with a very rich husband. The guy’s a dope; he buys her clothes but doesn’t give her spending money. So what does she do? She buys two of everything and brings me one to sell. That way she always has money in her pocket and I always have plenty of merch. I wish the world had more dopes like him.”
She extracted an old Chinese silk coat from the rack; it was soft beige with printed flowers dancing down the front. She held out the beautifully worn silk and said, “Twelve-sixty-four. Can you see yourself in this?”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind!” cried Carol as I reached to touch the coat. It was soft, and as I stroked the cloth it changed color, going from beige to mauve as it rippled in the light.
“She has a taste for the exotic,” said the proprietress. “See if it fits.” She looked at Carol and started pulling suits from the rack. “Eight-twenty-three, just look at these labels! Armani. Jill Sander. Dior.”
“We’re not here for me,” said Carol.
“Suit yourself,” said the proprietress. Slightly miffed, she turned to help a skinny dark-haired girl zip up a Pucci skirt. “It’s dripping with character!” she whispered huskily.
The girl spun happily, twirling so that the bright turquoise cloth flew out in a circle from her waist.
“Aren’t you glad,” the proprietress asked her, “that you don’t have to deal with shiny newness?” She seemed to mean it, to think of the original owners as garment-tamers whose main purpose in life was breaking in clothing to make her customers comfortable.
I shrugged into the coat. It was much too big, but so soft and beautiful, the color changing as I moved, that I began putting on layer after layer beneath it. Watching, the proprietress softened. “Do you wear orange?” she asked suddenly. “Some redheads don’t, but I have a long orange tunic, silk, that would look fabulous with that coat. And some green silk capris. You’d be a knockout.”
On anyone else the outfit would have looked brazen; on Brenda it just looked whimsical. “I knew it!” said the proprietress. “Don’t you look fabulous? Do you like it? How does it feel?” She had a sudden inspiration and fumbled at her blouse, removing one of the ornaments. Handing me a huge brooch covered in rhinestones, she said, “Try this. Pin it right at the throat.”
I took the thing, which was heavy in my hand, and did as I was told. It was gaudy and very silly and it looked remarkably right. The proprietress grinned. “Twelve-sixty-four called that her Sparkle Plenty Pin. Now I want you to try these shoes.”
They were green suede platforms, the heels much higher than anything I’d ever worn, and they made Brenda look ten feet tall. She resembled me in no way that I could discern, but I liked this large woman with her messy hair and friendly face.
“Got any glasses?” asked Carol.
“Big bowl over there,” replied the woman, pointing. Carol rummaged around. “These!” she suddenly shouted triumphantly, waving some curved green frames in the air. “Put them on.” I hooked the glasses over my ears and looked in the mirror; the lenses were tinted a subtle gray, obscuring the last vestige of Ruth.
“Lipstick!” said Carol. “You need lipstick.”
“I never wear it,” I said. “I mean, not normally.”
Carol made an annoyed little sound; she didn’t either. “Here,” said the proprietress, holding a tube in her outstretched hand. Carol grabbed it, turned, and painted on a generous red mouth, completely ignoring where my own lips ended.
It was just the right touch; the transformation was complete. Brenda was cozy and crumpled and she looked so warm-hearted that I wanted to get to know her. What would she be like?
“Don’t forget about 823!” the proprietress shouted to Carol as we walked out the door. “She’d be perfect for you. Most of her clothes still have the original tags!”
I wore my new clothes home, wondering if anyone would recognize me. Gene would be the first test; instead of using my key, I rang the door-bell. When he pulled the heavy glass door open I waited for his great, friendly laugh.
It didn’t come. He just stood staring, open-mouthed, looking at me so frankly that I tugged at my wig, thinking I must look ridiculous. Then I saw that his expression was goofy, unlike any I had ever seen him wear. He was acting as if I were a gift, a surprise package that had been unexpectedly delivered to his door. He actually bowed a little from the waist. “Come in, come in,” he said, motioning me forward. I walked in and he followed so closely that he was practically stepping on my heels.
“And which of our lucky tenants have you come to visit?” he asked. I began to laugh and he said, “Am I funny?” giving me the dazed look of a love-struck kid. “All visitors here have to be announced,” he continued gently. “Who shall I call? Who should I say is here?”
“Michael Singer,” I said. I found that I was using my radio voice, which is lower and slower than my normal one. “Please tell him it’s Brenda Rose.”
“Certainly, Miss Rose,” he said, going to the phone. It was nice of him to play along like this, I thought, hoping that Michael would do the same when presented with this unfamiliar name.
Apparently he did, because Gene was motioning me into the elevator. He never took his eyes off me as we ascended to the tenth floor, and I could feel him ferreting out the little bits of Ruth beneath the disguise. He jerked the elevator when it stopped, which surprised me—Gene was the smoothest driver in the building. He laughed a little, embarrassed, as the elevator rocked to a halt. And as he pulled the gate open he said, “First door to the right,” in a very soft voice. And in an even softer one he added, “I’ll be looking forward to the pleasure of taking you downstairs again” in tones of utter sincerity.
Disconcerted, I waited until the elevator door had closed. But when the gate had clanged shut and the elevator was chugging its way back to earth, I pushed open the door and peeked in. Michael and Nicky were standing at the end of the hallway, and when Nicky saw me he came running, joyfully calling, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” as he leapt into my arms like an exuberant puppy.
“Who are you?” he asked, fingering the red wig.
“Brenda,” I said. “Do you like her?”
He leaned back and gave me a critical stare. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “You look like a very nice person.”
“And what do you think?” I asked Michael, a little embarrassed.
“Nice,” he said. He stared at me for another minute and added, “I don’t think you’re exactly my type, but I’d be happy t
o go out to eat with you.”
“Can we, Mommy?” asked Nick. He put on his most pleading smile, looking from Michael to me and back again. “Daddy, can we take Brenda out to eat? Can we take her out right now?”
“Not tonight,” I said. “I’m going to cook dinner.”
“Please, please, please,” Nicky begged. “Please can we go to the chop chop place?”
Michael cocked an amused eye at me, waiting for my reaction. “Your secret would be safe with us,” he said under his breath. “No one would know it was you at the chop chop place. And Brenda looks like she might enjoy it.”
“The chop chop place” was Nicky’s name for his favorite restaurant, Benihana, an establishment no self-respecting restaurant critic would set foot in. It was a marketing strategy disguised as a restaurant, and while I couldn’t help admiring the way the owners maximized real estate and minimized labor, it depressed me. I hated the food and its assembly-line quality, and I hated the way they rushed you through your meal.
These sensible thoughts sped through my mind, buzzing like bees. Then they had flown past, disappeared, along with the thought of the chicken I’d been intending to roast, and Brenda was smiling her big red smile and saying in her soft, warm voice, “Benihana is an excellent idea. A perfect idea. How smart of you to think of it. Let’s go get dressed for dinner!”
Where’s your mom?” Gene asked Nicky when we got into the elevator. I had a sudden pang; Nicky had gone along with Miriam, and now I was asking him to do it again. It seemed like a lot to ask of a kid.
But my son didn’t blink. “She had to go somewhere for her job,” he said, as if pretending I was someone else was the most natural thing in the world. “She can’t come with us tonight,” he added helpfully, and I understood that to him these costumes were nothing but a very fun game.
“Well, you’re lucky to be going out with Miss Rose,” said Gene, giving me the goofy look he had worn when he first saw me at the door. “I bet you like redheads as much as I do.”
Nicky frowned. “Her hair’s not red,” he said. “It’s like that metal stuff.”
“Copper,” said Gene. “It’s called copper. You’re right. But I think it’s the most beautiful color hair can be. I’ve always been a sucker for redheads.”
“Not me,” said Nicky loyally. “I like brown hair like Mommy has.” Gene ruffled his hair. “You’re a good kid,” he said. “I’ll be sure to tell your mother what you said.”
I looked to see if he was serious. I couldn’t tell. Nicky giggled, and looking down I saw sheer delight on his face. Why not? For once he knew more than a grown-up. When we reached the ground floor Gene leapt out of the elevator and scurried down the hall like a big, benevolent turtle. “You folks have a beautiful evening,” he said, pulling the door open for us. Nicky giggled again.
People smiled at us on the street, as if we were the most adorable family, and I found myself smiling back, looking people right in the eye. My mouth felt big and loose and generous, and the shoes made me feel tall and powerful. I found that I was striding forward, leaning into the wind like one of those gaudy carved figures on the prow of a boat. It made me feel a little lightheaded and utterly optimistic.
There was a line at Benihana. Michael winced. “I know you hate lines,” I heard myself saying in Brenda’s low, slow voice, “so why don’t you go for a walk around the block? Nicky and I don’t mind waiting, do we, hon?”
Hon? Where did that come from? I looked down to see if Nicky was giving me strange looks, but he was just smiling back, saying, “No, we don’t mind waiting.”
The man just in front of us turned to say, “You have to wait if you want Willie.” He looked down at Nicky and added, “Willie does tricks!”
“All the chefs do tricks,” I said. “That’s why we’re here. Nicky loves the way they make the chicken go flying onto his plate.”
“According to our friends,” said the man, “Willie does the best tricks.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bill. This is Christopher. And we’d like to ask you a question. Where did you get that amazing coat?”
We were fast friends by the time we were finally seated, and it turned out that Bill had been right: Willie was worth waiting for. His hands flying at the speed of light, he chopped vegetables and arranged them into clown faces on the grill. He sent diced chicken flying all over the restaurant—into his hat, into his pocket, ricocheting from Michael’s plate across mine and right onto Nicky’s. He urged Nicky to try mushrooms (he liked them!), got him to taste shrimp (he didn’t like them), and with his antics set the tone for the evening. At dessert time Bill made a little cap out of napkins and perched it on Nicky’s head so we could try filling it with fruit. Nicky seemed surprised that I allowed such rowdy behavior. To be honest, I was sort of surprised myself.
“Here’s our phone number,” said Bill as we paid our checks. “Call the next time you’re planning to come. We’ll join you. It just wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t here.”
“I like eating dinner with Brenda,” confided Nicky on the way home. “She talks to people. Being with her is fun!”
“More fun than when I’m really me?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice neutral. I was surprised to find that I was hurt.
“Yes,” said Nicky. “Brenda’s more fun.”
Michael squeezed my hand, somehow knowing what I was feeling. “What are you talking about?” he said. “She is really you. She’s just you in a particularly good mood.” Then he laughed and added, “Maybe you should be Brenda more often.”
And then we were home and Gene was running to open the door, grinning at me with that ridiculously goofy grin. “I can’t help it,” he said, “I’m a sucker for redheads.” He turned to Michael and said, “Your wife’s not home yet.”
“She may not be home until very late,” Michael murmured. “But Brenda’s going to stay and keep us company until she gets here.”
He and Gene exchanged glances, and I had the oddest feeling. Can you be jealous of yourself?
Daniel?” said Michael a few days later when I pulled the red wig onto my head. “You’re taking Brenda to Daniel? Do you think she’ll fit in?”
“No,” I said, explaining Carol’s strategy, “I’m sure she won’t.”
“It’s just crazy enough to work,” he said. “It’s so completely counterintuitive. Who’s coming?”
“Jules,” I said. “And he’s bringing some new girlfriend he says we’ll like. She’s a painter.”
Michael looked relieved. “I don’t know how the food will be,” he said, “but I do know that we’re going to have fun.”
It was Jules who had introduced Michael to me. I had known him since college, when he’d become like an instant cousin, and we’d been moving in the same orbit ever since. Jules traveled light. Right after I moved to Berkeley, Jules came knocking on the door of the rambling Victorian house I was sharing with a group of friends. It was midnight and he had just broken up with the love of his life. “I’m only staying until I find my own place,” he said, but eight years later he was still there, living out of a suitcase in the spare room. Jules moved to Los Angeles soon after Michael and I did, and for a while he parked his suitcase in our house in Laurel Canyon. Now we were in New York, and Jules and his suitcase were in a loft in SoHo, although that was liable to change on a moment’s notice.
Small and thin, with a face composed entirely of angles, Jules had the peculiar elegance of William Burroughs, to whom he was distantly related. “I suppose he’ll be wearing that beat-up brown leather jacket?” Michael went on.
“Probably,” I said. “I don’t think he has another.”
“Good,” said Michael. “We’re going to make them crazy at that restaurant.” He flung open his closet door, saying, “Now, what do you think I should wear?”
“Nothing special,” I said hurriedly.
“Oh no,” he said, “you wouldn’t want me to look as if I didn’t belong with you.” He pulled out a bright blue shirt. “I think I’
ll wear this.”
“You’re rainbows,” said Nicky when we went to kiss him good night. The babysitter laughed. “Nobody,” she said in her Irish brogue, “would take you two for critics.” She examined us for a second and said, “No worries. Everyone in the restaurant will have to put on sunglasses when you pair walk in!”
The rest of your party is already here,” said the maître d’ dryly. It was only a few weeks since my lunch with Myron; was he looking at me too closely? I forced myself to give him a big smile, fighting the urge to flee as I felt the lipstick slide across my teeth.
“Follow me,” he said, scurrying out from behind his little stand. “Your table is not ready.” He hadn’t recognized me after all! Galloping behind him, I understood that he hoped to bury us in the back of the bar, hoped we would somehow become invisible. But as he sped toward the dark corner where he had parked Jules, every head turned to stare at us. I waited for my face to tighten with self-consciousness, but instead I found myself slowing down, looking curiously around with Brenda’s big lips formed into a smile. Carol’s strategy was working, and it felt fine not to be hiding.
“Jules!” cried Michael when our little parade finally came to a halt. The maître d’ pointed uncomfortably to the chairs and beat a very hasty retreat. “I’d like to introduce you to Brenda Rose.”
Jules looked me over, his lips twitching. He was, indeed, wearing the brown leather jacket. He did not get up. “Nice,” he said. “Amazing, actually.” The woman with him had long black hair, and with her black skirt, black turtleneck top, black tights, and ballet shoes she looked exactly like a beatnik from the sixties. “This is Lorna,” he said.
The beatnik stuck her hand out across the nuts and flowers that crowded the surface of the table. “Thanks for having me,” she said. “I find it so incredible to be here. I’ve always wondered what these places were like.”