by Kay Brandt
She showered me with affection. “You're such a good boy, Roland. I love you, too.”
****
Within a month, Melinda had the store in tiptop shape. The floors were mopped, drawers and cabinets neat with filing systems and a fresh coat of paint was given to the sales floor walls. She tossed out the cardboard box Jonathan kept receipts and spare change in, and bought a cash register. Pleasant paintings and deodorizing spray made the front room more appealing, and spotlights highlighted Jonathan's newest creations.
She learned the names of the regular ladies and did her best to be polite, yet the spoiled female clientele still scowled at Melinda, refusing conversation or proper acknowledgment.
Claiming the title of store manager was a big step in self-empowerment for her, but the rewards sucked. The man she'd fell in love with was no longer, replaced by an obsessed, unfaithful shell. Melinda ran paranoid circles around him while he worked, and that became their only form of real communication.
Bored with my stationary activities, I started studying my father. The repetitive nature of his work, and the precise technique he used was mesmerizing. He was like a machine, not reacting when he accidentally stabbed or poked himself with needles and scissors. I saw him hammer his thumbs and drive a nail through his palm without showing any discomfort. His cool demeanor couldn't be rattled and his mission of constant output wasn't about to be interrupted.
“Dad?” I dared to ask one afternoon. “Can I hammer, too? I know how to use scissors.”
He handed me an iron mallet like I'd asked for a pencil.
A look of horror covered Melinda's face. “You're not to touch your father's tools, Roland!” She blocked the transfer of the mallet. “Or else I'll take your toys away. Is that what you want?”
“No, mom,” I told her, but I was lying. I hated those stupid toys. “But I want to help,” I continued, desperate for an activity more than sitting on the floor.
The terror in Melinda's eyes shook me to the bone and made me pee my pants a little. “Don't get near any of it!”
I pushed the issue. “I'm tired of playing with my toys! I want to do something else.” Then I did the unthinkable and stomped my feet.
Jonathan may not have reacted to stabbing himself, but he reacted to my budding tantrum. “That type of behavior is NOT allowed in my store,” he growled at me. “Do you, understand, Roland?”
I didn't answer. Instead, I sulked to the bathroom, needing to clean myself. I was too curious to let the scolding scare me. And I liked the attention Jonathan gave me when he was angry.
Sneaking out of the bathroom as quietly as I could, I stood next to the ominous cabinet my parents kept referring to. I waved at it, and fluttered my fingers, letting it know I wasn't afraid. Tracing the sharp edges of the metal frame, I cut my fingertips and left a trail of blood across the bottom drawers. Then, I drew pictures with it, making red outlines of nothing in particular.
Suddenly, the drawer opened all by itself and I peeked inside. It was stuffed with Jonathan's filthy clothes. I looked behind me to see if my parents were watching, but they weren't.
Then, the drawer above it slid open, quietly, slowly, and so did the middle one. There was a clump of mismatched shoes inside them―boots, flats, strappy heels—smashed together like a lump of twisted material. They appeared to be asleep—puppies huddled together for warmth while napping—pulsating freakishly.
Impulsively, I reached my hand in to touch them. The mangled boot lurched at me, and I screamed, alerting my parents to what I was doing.
Melinda flew to my side, and slammed the cabinet shut before Jonathan could utter a word. She said, “You're never, ever to open these drawers! Do you hear me, Roland? Never! No tools, no drawers!” Furious, she took me by the wrist and escorted me to the bathroom.
“But mom, I didn't open them!” I defended myself while sitting on the toilet. “They opened by themselves.”
“They're always locked,” she replied. “Always.”
“I'm sorry, Mom,” I said. “I swear I didn't.”
Melinda dissolved against the wall, sinking down to the floor in a heap of tears and stress. “Roland, I can't explain it. Your father... just please, don't go near those drawers.”
“Okay, mom,” I assured her, and the subject was dropped as fast as it appeared.
****
Jonathan wasn't in view when we exited the bathroom. We heard his muffled voice on the sales floor.
Melinda double checked the cabinet and yanked on the drawers, making sure they were locked. “See?” she said, “They're always locked. And the key is kept in a secret place.”
A secret place, I wondered. What kind of magical place was that?
“Jonathan doesn't know about the secret place, though, Rolie,” she answered my question before I could open my mouth. “And don't ask him about it, either.”
Then Jonathan entered the stockroom, leading a woman in by the hand. She saw us and frowned, giving Jonathan's hand a hard squeeze.
“Is she your four o'clock?” Melinda asked, uncomfortable with their closeness, their touch.
“Yes, she is,” Jonathan replied. “This is Mrs. Williamson.”
Clearly she wasn't a new client, and Jonathan dusted off the fitting chair for her. Mrs. Williamson was an older, classy lady, whose feathers were ruffled by the site of Jonathan's wife and son. I could smell the sugary sweetness of her perfume and it turned my stomach.
“Please be seated.” Jonathan kissed her hand before she got comfortable on the chair. She acted oblivious to his recluse appearance, and didn't seem to be bothered when the layer of grease and sweat covering his face tainted her ivory skin.
“Mom,” I asked, hoping for a cookie or snack, “am I still in trouble?”
Fixated on Jonathan and Mrs. Williamson, Melinda didn't answer. She ran her long, neatly filed fingernails through my hair, petting me like a calming device.
“Can we go home?” The tension in the room was disturbing and I was fidgety. “I want to watch TV.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Williamson,” Melinda blurted out, sickened by Jonathan's bad manners and rudeness. “I'm Melinda, the wife who runs the business.” She pushed me forward and I tripped over my feet, falling on a knee.
Picking me up by my shirt, Melinda cast an awkward spotlight on me. “And this is our son, Roland.”
Mrs. Williamson nodded without interest, keeping her gaze on Jonathan.
Then, I saw my father remove Mrs. Williamson's shoes and rub the arches of her feet. He acted as if they were alone, and not being observed.
Mrs. Williamson released a moan, enjoying the massage. “Such warm, strong hands,” she complimented Jonathan, relaxing her leg in his grip.
Melinda lost what little color she had in her face over the sound and clutched her chest.
“Mom?” I looked up at the green woman accidentally choking me with my shirt collar.
She let go, realizing what she was doing, and for a moment, we stood there, motionless. It was very weird feeling like Jonathan and Mrs. Williamson were performers on stage putting on a show and Melinda and I were their captive audience.
Unexpectedly, Melinda sat us both at the work bench and said boldly, “We're going to stay for this fitting, Mrs. Williamson.”
Jonathan glared at Melinda. “No, you should leave us be.”
“Not today,” Melinda replied, holding her ground. “Your only child needs to learn the trade, honey. It's best if he learns at this tender, young age, rather than believing he'll have a life of his own, free of what plagues the men in this family.”
Mrs. Williamson grunted her disapproval and Jonathan weakly gave in, lowering his head.
Melinda warned, “Keep it clean. There's an impressionable boy in the room.”
We stayed for the fitting, which was cut short by our interference. Jonathan and client behaved and when the fitting was over, Mrs. Williamson left, saying nothing when Melinda called out, “Thank you for your business! Hope to see
you back soon!”
****
Like a kiss from God, Melinda acknowledged it was time for me to start my academic years. Suddenly, I was removed from the isolated drudgery of life in the stockroom and brought to a Kindergarten where I finally got to play with other kids. More significantly, I was encouraged to speak more than a couple of words per day out loud.
For five hours a day, five days a week, I was away from the nightmare. What transpired between Melinda, Jonathan, the customers and the shoes during that time wasn't my business. What I do remember is my mother's drinking at night. Her daily addiction to wine evolved into excess, and she would often pick me up from school drunk out of her mind, babbling about the evils of men mixed in with the latest shoe trend.
She was back to her needy, compulsive self, and from her muttering, was planning her own acts of infidelity. Jonathan tolerated Melinda's slurred speech and increasing belligerence towards the female customers, I guess, but his patience was stretched thin, especially on the rare nights they were both at home.
“You don't have to be at the store tomorrow,” he'd tell her coldly, refusing to eat the drunken slop she'd serve. “You can stay home.”
“I'm not staying home,” she'd respond, licking drips of wine from the edge of her glass. “You'd die without me. Besides, I know who'll be on your fitting chair tomorrow, and I'll be damned if you're with them alone.”
As hard as she held the line with him, Melinda eventually faded out of the store, using my elementary school schedule as an excuse to visit her “special” male friends. Sometimes they'd accompany her to my school in the afternoons.
“Roland, this is Tim.” Melinda introduced me to one of the rogue men as she scratched his arm affectionately. “He's an actor.”
“Oh yeah?” I'd say, thinking any job other than shoe-making was great.
“Yeah,” Tim replied. “I've done a few commercials.”
“He's very talented.” Melinda squeezed Tim's bicep. “He'll make it big, I'm sure.”
My mother was smitten, and allowed his hands to wander her body in public. I thought this was normal behavior, having nothing to compare her actions to, and accepted it. Tim didn't make it, not with her or acting. He just sort of evaporated like the rest of her flings.
Melinda's affairs made my dull weeks a bit more colorful, though, never knowing who'd show up next. When a “special friend” appeared for several afternoons, it felt like a new family member had arrived—someone familiar who knew my name and liked my mother more than my father did.
Somewhere on Melinda's adulteress path, her activities were cut short, due to the unexpected arrival of flighty, flirty Aunt Grace, Melinda's younger half-sister.
She'd come for an unannounced visit for her twenty-first birthday, equipped with an out-of-control speed habit and a badly broken heart, dumped by her college professor.
“Yeah, that mother fucker's got another thing coming if he thinks I won't report him for what he did to me,” Grace told Melinda during our first dinner with her. Jonathan was at the store, refusing to come home to meet the new guest, or at least that's what Melinda used as his excuse. They guzzled wine, locking onto each other, two depressed and vengeful women finding their co-conspirator. Aunt Grace's words were coated with venom and hate. “He used me, Melinda, but he's going to pay, one way or another.”
“Men,” Melinda empathized. “They all should go to hell.”
“Yes.” Grace replied, looking at me curiously. She was a total stranger to me. Melinda didn't talk about her beyond a couple of vague references. I knew she had a younger sibling living in another state from a different mother, but that was all.
“So,” Grace continued, “I got the design degree, and just like dad said, it's worthless. Architecture and interior design are dead. The 1970's are culturally void. My college education is basically worthless, and so is my relationship.”
“I'm sorry, Gracie.” Melinda offered her comfort in the form of a light pat on the shoulder. A couple of awkward moments passed before she spoke again. “You're welcome to stay with us for a few days if need be. Roland would love the company.”
“Oh, that's kind of you, Mel.” Absorbed in her disillusionment, Grace gave me a second glance. “You have a son?”
Covering her embarrassment, Melinda smiled stiffly and opened a third bottle of wine. “Yes, this is Roland, my pride and joy. This boy keeps me alive. Come, honey, meet your aunt Grace.”
Aunt Grace and I shook hands, a foreshadowing of the unwanted partnership that would befall us. “How cute. A nephew. And you never told me?”
“I... we've been so busy, and so have you,” Melinda bluffed, refilling Grace's glass. “He's seven, and about to start second grade.”
“Well, hello Roland,” my all-of-a-sudden aunt said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I replied. “Do you like to watch TV?”
She laughed. “Sometimes.”
And that was that. Grace and Melinda resumed their man-hating exchange and I tuned them out in favor of cartoons.
****
Spry Aunt Grace turned a dull, uneventful summer into a whirlwind of hyperactivity. She was wildly energetic, playful, and overly happy, snorting, drinking, talking a thousand miles an hour about topics I was too young to understand. Her two-week stay became four, and then her guest-status went permanent, hired as my after-school babysitter in exchange for free room and board.
My listlessness was quelled because her immaturity level was on par with mine at age seven. And when we weren't running in speedy circles, she'd crash in front of the TV with me and laugh hysterically at sitcoms and silly cartoons. We were happily distracted by each other, and for once there was hope.
The daily routine of hosting mindless entertainment wore on Aunt Grace. She needed action, a change of scenery, and opted for evening jaunts, which always ended up at the store where my mother was getting drunk. I'd sit in front of a small, portable television on the sales room floor while Melinda and Grace cracked open bottles of wine and drank until full tilt inebriation was achieved.
The sisterly rekindling was kind of cute. Melinda put up with her sister's need to be the center of attention, soothing her shattered ego and aching heart with a special blend of older sister empathy and booze. Aunt Grace filled a hole in Melinda, too, and helped to ease the tediousness of life hanging out on the sales floor while explicit sounds resonated from the stockroom.
Jonathan and Aunt Grace had an interesting connection. He was comfortable with her chatty and charming personality during “family” time at the occasional shared dinner. She didn't offer profound insight or musings, but she was light, breezy and fun to be around. Interested in Jonathan's obsession with design, Aunt Grace spun a circular conversation that repeated frequently, and excluding Melinda and I from the topic. Her goal had been to achieve a Master’s degree and live with extended family in Europe where she could emerge as a top designer.
“If that asshole hadn't skewed my path,” she'd state with spiked emotions, referring to her ex-professor, “I wouldn't even be here right now.” And then silence would fall, like she'd crossed the line, exposing her ugly truth. She'd brought levity to our fragile family, and was the buffer between a sick man, his depressed wife and lonely kid. But we were the last people she'd wanted to be with, and the nice-nice facade was wearing thin.
Then came the unexpected demand. “I want to work at the store,” Aunt Grace told Melinda one night in the kitchen. “I've got creative ideas on how to modernize it, and that's what the store is lacking. It's so sixty's, Melinda,” the artist shared. “A facelift would do it good.”
“No, Grace,” Melinda replied. “The store is quicksand, not worth your effort. You have your whole life to live. Why be stuck here when you could go to Europe?”
“I said that's what I wanted then,” Grace said with anger. “When I was with him.”
“Calm down,” Melinda replied. “I care about your dreams. You're my only sibling.”
“That we know of.” Grace lit a joint, puffed and passed it to Melinda. “Dad was a real mother fucker when he was married to my mother. Yours, too.”
“Whatever,” Melinda said, “however many, if any, you're my only one. Regardless, there's better out there.”
“You need me,” Grace reminded her. “Roland needs me.”
Melinda inhaled deeply, and exhaled a long, swirling strand of smoke. “We'll survive. Don't let us block your path.”
“Why are you so quick to refuse my offer? I see how hard your life has been, and it hurts me that you've sacrificed your own ambitions for that of your pathetic excuse for a husband.” Grace explained.
Melinda clarified, “I had no ambitions. All I wanted was to be a wife and mother and live on the east coast. I've got two of those things. So what if the third hasn't happened yet?” And then she whispered, “Roland is still so young.”
“Do you hear yourself, Melinda?” Grace asked. “You hate your life and you won't admit it. I'm probably the only person on the planet you can be honest with, but you still can't tell the truth. Anyone can see how miserable you are.” Taking a drag, Grace continued, “I want to help you. This is what feels right, offering my services to you, Jonathan and Rolie-poly.”
“Fine.” Melinda gave in. “You can work part time.”
Satisfied, Grace dug in with a loving, sisterly remark. “Besides you need me to distract you from whatever Jonathan's doing in the back room, you know what I mean?”
Soul invaded, Melinda shrunk. “How about tomorrow? Want to start then?
****
“I should give you some training,” Melinda said to Aunt Grace, opening a bottle of wine on the sales floor at three-thirty in the afternoon a day after the job was confirmed. I was in tow, forced into being a witness to Grace's first day on the job. “There are no appointments schedule for an hour or so. These women, they're chronically late.”
“What do I need to know?” asked Grace, semi-insulted. “Seems pretty straight forward to me.”