She Who Shops

by Joanne Skerrett

  But once you went far enough east you could see downtown Chicago leaning over sternly, reminding anyone who dared forget that, yes, you did live in the city. And if you went not too far off to the west, the decay and desperation there confirmed that not only did you live in the city, you lived in the inner city.

  Weslee tried not to compare the neighborhood with the sprawling home in Rye that she had seen pictures of in Lana’s apartment. She was from a different place, that’s all. Duncan had said it. It’s no big deal. People just come from different places—none better than the other.

  It still bothered Weslee that she never really was part of her neighborhood when she was growing up. She tried in vain to remember some of the faces she saw as they walked out of their cars and up their walkways. They nodded at her as if she were a stranger. Most of the kids she had grown up with had moved away and were now living on their own in the Loop, in high-rise condo buildings, farther south in the suburbs, and all across the country. The neighborhood was foreign to her. It struck her that she had to be away from Chicago a whole year before she realized how little connection she had to her community.

  She had known the other kids on her street, and had played with them, but she’d always felt like an outsider.

  By the time she was old enough to be tested, she had been shipped off to the Latin School of Chicago on the Near North Side, alma mater of William Wrigley and Adlai Stevenson. And she hadn’t felt like an insider there, either. It was no secret that she was there because she was just a little bit smarter and more fortunate than the average kid in her neighborhood but would never be as smart or even a bit as fortunate as the typical Latin School student.

  And that was so obvious. There were the terrible birthday parties she begged her mother to take her to, after which she would always go home angry and hurt that her modest present was met with such disappointment and forced gratitude from the birthday girl or boy. Then all the upper school social events that she eventually stopped going to because of the supremely confident, super-rich A-list crowd and their reign of terror on the weaker girls and boys.

  She had just played the whole time. The academics were not easy, and she had been only a good student in a school full of overachievers. Because of Weslee’s always feeling not as smart, not as rich, not as pretty, school didn’t become fun until she discovered basketball.

  She had played because Terry played, and, she suspected later as an adult, because the school administrators thought it a natural fit for her: “Don’t let your height go to waste.” She had been a great power forward, and that was what got her to Northwestern on a full athletic scholarship.

  She was the only one in her neighborhood that she knew of who went to Northwestern. There had been a boy and a girl in her church who had gotten into the University of Chicago, but they didn’t count because they were from Country Club Hills. Her parents had been so proud. They had wanted to throw her a party, but she begged them not to. Who would she have invited? Certainly not her schoolmates from the Latin School; she could never, ever bring them down here. And she had few friends in her own neighborhood. So she had disappeared at seventeen, popping back up every few months to visit her parents. While there she would see other kids she recognized from time to time, and the brief conversations got briefer and briefer, until they turned into hellos, then grunts, then nods.

  Now they nodded to her from their cars or windows as she drove by in her mother’s Taurus or walked the neighborhood to get some fresh air. No great big bear hugs. No “Girl, where have you been all these years?”

  She was the girl who had gone to that school on the North Side and then to Northwestern. “You know, the tall one, with the tall sister with the twins. Oh, I can’t remember her name for the life of me,” Weslee imagined the neighbors saying.

  Four weeks home and she had done everything she wanted to do in Chicago. She had caught up with her friends, acquaintances, old co-workers; babysat her niece and nephew; ran the lakefront path dodging rollerbladers, cyclists, poseurs; shopped on the Magnificent Mile; went to a play at the Lookingglass; had her share of ethnic food in Rogers Park; and did all the other things she thought she couldn’t do without.

  But she missed Boston terribly. The feeling hit strongest after she spoke with Sherry or Lana. She so wanted to be back there with her new friends. Her mother’s fussing stifled her; her father’s constant advice, political sermons, and quirky neatness frustrated her. She had to get away.

  She contemplated flying up to Boston for a few days, but Sherry had said she was busy working on an investigative report on consumer fraud and would visit Chicago for Weslee’s birthday at the end of the month. Lana was headed to the Caribbean with her mother for the rest of July and would spend the remainder of the summer on the Vineyard. To go to Boston would mean that she would be basically on her own.

  Ugh. She flipped channels again on the living room television. Her parents were at some potluck dinner at church. It was Saturday night.

  She decided to be impulsive. He probably wouldn’t even be home, she thought, yet she picked up the phone and dialed.

  “William, you’re home.”

  “Hey, Weslee.” He sounded genuinely happy to hear her voice. She was relieved at that but kept straining her ears to pick up any sounds of Megan in the background.

  “I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “I’m going to be in Chicago in a few weeks but didn’t have your number to warn you to get out of town first.”

  She laughed. He’s coming here!!!

  “I’ve got a two-day meeting in Schaumburg, but that’s not too far from where you are, right?”

  “No, not at all. I can’t wait to see you.” She immediately regretted saying those words. It had only been a month.

  He didn’t say anything, compounding her discomfort. “So, how are things back at mom and dad’s?”

  “Ugh. It’s OK for the most part. They still treat me like I’m twelve.”

  “Well, you are under their roof.”

  “Gee, thanks for reminding me.”

  “No, I’m just saying that they’re always going to see you that way as long as you’re still upstairs in your little room with all your Barbie dolls.”

  “William, I don’t have any Barbie dolls.”

  “Not even one?”

  She didn’t answer. “It’s just for the summer,” Weslee said, feeling a little shame at living at home. “Once I move back to Boston, I’ll be an adult again.”

  “I’m just kidding. I know how it is. You’re lucky. If my business ever went under, my father would not let me back in the house.”

  “William! Of course he would.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He told me.”

  They both laughed. And once again she was able to forget about being lonely, bored, and missing Boston. William always made her feel so . . . so good about herself. That’s what it was. She felt good about being herself when she talked with him. The laughter came easily. She didn’t feel as if she were somehow unworthy of him the way she sometimes had felt with Duncan.

  “So, have you run into the ex yet?” William asked.

  Weslee had to think for a minute. Duncan? Oh, Michael. She was flattered that he asked.

  “Nah. I don’t want to, either,” she said dismissively, although the reality was that it was inevitable. She was going to a fund-raiser the following week that she knew Michael would be attending.

  William laughed. “Can I be blunt? Your personal life is like a movie,” he said, still laughing.

  “I know,” she said wryly. “I don’t believe it myself, most times.”

  “Well, I hope it has a happy ending,” he said.

  She hurried to change the subject before it turned to Duncan, the last person in the world she wanted to hear about. “So, how’s Megan?” Like she really cared.

  “She’s doing well. She’s here, actually; she went out to get groceries.”

  Weslee�
��s heart sank. “So, she cooks, too?” was all she could muster.

  “Yeah, she’s actually pretty good.”

  “Sounds like a keeper to me,” Weslee said halfheartedly.

  “We’ll see. We’ll see,” William replied.

  She couldn’t talk to him anymore. She made up some excuse and quickly got off the phone.

  “Why did I even call!”

  She imagined him waiting in high anticipation in his cozy love nest with the lovely Megan cooking up a lavish dinner. Were the lights down low, too? She didn’t even want to think of what they would do after dinner. Aargh! It doesn’t matter, she told herself. I’m not jealous. We’re just friends. Just plain friends. I should be happy for him. I am happy for him. I am.

  But that image of him with Megan gnawed at her as she tried in vain to find something worth watching on TV. She flipped channels and thought she saw his easy smile and thick shoulders on every single channel. She switched off the power in disgust. I’m such an idiot, she thought. Why did I call!

  Chapter 32

  “What do you think? The short dress or the long dress?” Weslee held up the two dresses so her mother could inspect them.

  “The long one’s dressier,” Clara Dunster said, frowning at the spaghetti-strap minidress draped over Weslee’s left arm.

  “I knew you’d say that. The short one it is, then.”

  “Why ask me, then?” Her mother rolled her eyes.

  “Because you’re so predictable, lady.” Weslee nudged her on her arm.

  “That dress is really short, Weslee Ann.” Her mother always used her daughter’s full name when she was being critical.

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “Don’t ‘Oh, Mom’ me. You asked my opinion.”

  “The other one makes me look like an old maid.”

  “You never know who might be there tonight. A man’s not going to want to marry you if you’re wearing a minidress.”

  Weslee laughed. “Mom, I’m not going to this thing to find a husband. I’m going because you begged me to go.”

  “I’m just saying, you never know.”

  It was the annual fund-raiser for the hospital where Weslee’s mother had worked for twenty years before retiring five years ago. It was also the hospital where Michael was now chief medical resident. Weslee had to wear the minidress. She had been putting in her miles on the lakefront trail all summer, and she looked even sleeker than she had in Boston. She had to show him—and his internist girlfriend.

  She suspected her mother knew of her true motives but was remaining silent. She didn’t absolutely have to go to the event; her mother had plenty of friends who were willing to accompany her. Her father had a strict policy—no events that required wearing a tuxedo or dancing of any kind—and her mother over the years had adapted by enlisting friends as her escorts.

  Clara Dunster broke her silence. “Well, Michael’s going to be there with his friend.”

  “I know that, Mother.” Weslee pulled on her black sheer pantyhose.

  “And you think that dress is appropriate?”

  “Appropriate for Michael?”

  Her mother didn’t answer.

  “Mom, I want to wear the dress. I look good in it, and I don’t care what Michael or anyone else thinks.”

  “OK.” Her mother shrugged and walked out of Weslee’s room.

  Weslee eased into the dress. It was short, and it clung to her like Saran Wrap. She turned this way and that as she observed herself in the mirror: not bad for an about-to-be thirty-year-old. She knew she had surprised her mother with her defiance, but her mother would just have to get used to it. She had surprised herself, too. But she was pleased. She could see herself changing, becoming bolder and braver, and she liked it.

  Weslee and Clara Dunster made quite a dramatic entrance into the ballroom of the Drake Hotel on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. The resemblance between the two tall and lithe women was striking. They giggled like girlfriends even though it was obvious that they were mother and daughter. The younger of the two was simple and elegant in a short, fitted black dress with black suede sandals that added nearly three inches to her stately frame. Her hair was pulled neatly into a bun at the base of her neck, showing off her diamond stud earrings. The older woman wore her short, coiffed gray hair proudly and was dressed in a gray satin pantsuit with silver high heels and a stunning diamond necklace.

  “Mrs. Dunster,” the chairman of the Friends of the Hospital greeted the two women.

  Weslee smiled and nodded patiently while her mother chatted enthusiastically, drawing more people into a little circle around her. She made a quick getaway as the conversation grew more lively. She looked for the bar. She was thirsty and craved a Diet Coke with lemon. She walked confidently across the ballroom filled with dancing couples. She held her head high, knowing full well that eyes were on her.

  She ordered her drink, smiling flirtatiously at the bartender, who kidded her for being a teetotaler. “Oh, I’m here with my mom, so I’m the designated driver,” she joked, realizing that her mother would kill her if she had heard the joke made at her expense.

  She sipped her drink and looked around the grand room. She loved looking at people, especially beautiful black people, and there were many there tonight. They came in all ages, sizes, shapes, and colors. There were the perennial eighty-year-old couples who never missed a society party and always took to the dance floor the minute the music started, doing their thing, arthritis and osteoporosis be damned. There were also the slightly overweight, overweaved, overly made-up, underdressed divorcees casing the room, on the perennial hunt for new meat. And then there were the younger, super-skinny, supereducated, super-good-looking, social-climbing girls in their late twenties and thirties on the perennial hunt for a rich husband. It was high drama, and she just wanted to stand there and take it all in for a few minutes.

  It was quite a contrast to what Weslee had witnessed on the Vineyard. It wasn’t that people in Chicago did not also put on airs, it was just the lack of mean-spiritedness in the crowd that made this party so much more bearable to her. Dark-skinned and lighter-skinned people mixed happily, tension free. There was no color caste system that Weslee could see with her bare eyes. She felt at ease, comfortable.

  And then there they were.

  Michael looked a little tired and a couple of pounds heavier than when she had seen him last, Weslee noted smugly. She quickly appraised the woman on his arm. She had never seen “her” before, though she had heard her voice on the phone. The petite, slightly pudgy dark-haired woman didn’t live up to her voice or to Weslee’s worst nightmares of a J.Lo look-alike.

  Weslee almost wanted to laugh out loud. She felt so completely over him. She almost wanted to go over to the dance floor and say hello just to show him how fabulous she looked. But she held back. She wanted to enjoy the night. She scanned the room for her mother, and sure enough she was in the middle of another circle of friends.

  Weslee felt eyes on her, and she looked in their direction. He was cute and tall enough to dance with, so she smiled at him.

  His name was Toby or Joby. She really couldn’t hear him above the big band music. His breath was barely tolerable, so she kept her distance. But he was an adequate dancer, and she stayed with him on the dance floor until she felt her make-up starting to run. Then she ran off to the ladies’ room.

  She missed Lana a bit as she danced with a slightly intoxicated senior citizen. Her biting humor would have made Weslee laugh out loud at this sweet man’s moves on the dance floor.

  The live band was full of gray-haired men who were having the time of their lives playing old Sinatra and Porter tunes. It was nothing like Lana’s parties, which Weslee had to admit were so much more fun than these things. She missed the feeling of anticipation she had felt those nights. That anything could happen, that anybody could come along and change her life. She felt a pang for Duncan, but she shoved it away into the back of her mind and heart.

  She looked over at Michael
and his fiancée. She had been avoiding them, but she decided to stop hiding. The fiancée walked away, leaving her an opening.

  “Hi, Michael.” She came up from behind him, so she guessed that was why he seemed so shocked when he turned around and saw her.

  “Weslee. My God, is that you?” He slurred his words a bit.

  “Yes, it’s me. Who else would it be?” She smiled brightly.

  “But what are you doing here? I thought you had moved to Boston.”

  “I’m home for the summer. How are things with you?”

  He looked her over.

  “How are things with you?” she repeated, trying to get his eyes to meet hers.

  “Um. Fine. Great.”

  “Good. Work’s OK?”

  “Work’s great.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” She really was. A bit. “Well, it was nice to see you. I’d better . . .”

  “Who are you here with?” he asked.

  “Uh. My mom and a friend,” she lied.

  “A friend?” He cocked his head disbelievingly.

  “Yes. I really need to get going. It was great to see you.” She noticed the fiancée approaching.

  “I want you to meet—”

  She turned on her heel and left before he could finish. She searched the room for Toby or Joby. She saw him at the bar. Good, she could dance with him. Maybe Michael would think that he was her “friend.”

  Not that she really cared what he thought of her.

  Two weekends later, Weslee and Sherry laughed about a half-drunk Michael left standing at the party while Weslee fled as his fiancée approached.

  Sherry was visiting for the weekend to celebrate Weslee’s thirtieth birthday.

  They had started the day off with breakfast, courtesy of Clara Dunster. After some serious shopping on the Mag Mile, they walked down to Grant Park for the annual jazz festival.