“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, shouldn’t we go out for champagne or omelets or something?” said Harriet. Imogene, who was intent on stretching a shred of black Lycra across the derriere of a mannequin, seemed not to hear a word.
“Did you see the scissors?” Imogene said, looking around. “They were just here.”
“Here,” said Harriet, handing her boss the scissors. “When did he ask? Tell me everything.”
“This morning,” said Imogene, “while I was flossing my teeth.” Imogene snipped away at the Lycra, and then twisted what remained of the fabric around the girth of the mannequin.
“That is so romantic,” said Harriet. “Did he knock, or just walk in and look at you flossing and then you just knew?” Harriet liked to get the whole picture.
Imogene remembered maybe half the picture. She daintily rolled the edges of the underpants. “Voilà. The Anti-Thong,” Imogene said with pride. “What do you think? Don’t you think it’s about time for women to accentuate, not hide, their visible panty line?”
“I guess it is,” said Harriet. “What did you say when Wally asked? You said yes, right?”
“First I finished flossing my teeth,” said Imogene, “and then I said no.”
235.
Imogene fussed with her creation. “We could put piping around the edges, of course,” Imogene said.
“Or take a risk with rickrack!” said Harriet.
236.
Imogene’s phone rang. It was Wally.
237.
Wally had had an origami accident.
“Why are you calling me?” said Imogene—not peeved, just curious. “Shouldn’t you be looking for a Band-Aid?” Imogene gestured to Harriet that she’d be off the phone presently. To Wally she said, “The Band-Aids are on the bottom shelf of the bathroom cabinet.”
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” said Wally. “It’s really deep,” he said, referring to his wound.
“What’s deep?” said Imogene, afraid of the possibilities.
It was fortunate that Imogene’s Serapi carpet had a tawny-colored background.
“Wal, hearing my voice is not going to fix anything,” said Imogene. “I think you better take care of your finger right away.” She gestured sorry about this to Harriet.
“I didn’t expect you to fix anything,” said Wally. “I feel better just talking to you. It’s soothing. Could I tell you some thoughts I had about you today?”
“Write them down, can’t you?” said Imogene, pointing to the halter top in Harriet’s right hand because the darts on the halter top in Harriet’s other hand would flatter no bosom.
“Ow,” said Wally.
“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” said Imo-gene, who preferred fixing to soothing.
“No, thank you,” said Wally, “it’s not an emergency anymore.”
The phone call was concluded. Imogene resumed business, but she’d definitely been touched. She wondered if Wally had cribbed any of his thoughts about her from the Lake Poets.
(Little-known fact: tapioca pudding with a pinch of powdered ginger works wonders on carpets.)
238.
At breakfast, the next morning, Wally said to Imogene, who was kneeling on the rug, “Could you please not spray toxic chemicals while I’m eating?”
239.
In what might be called the middle of the night, Imogene gently jabbed Wally awake. “There is something I need to tell you,” she said. “It’s very important.”
Wally turned toward her and smiled. “Yes?” he said, in happy anticipation.
“I don’t believe there’s such a thing as compromise,” she said. “It’s just the winner’s way of saying ‘no hard feelings’ to the loser.”
Wally pulled Imogene closer. “We’ll each compromise fifty percent of the time,” he said. “No ifs, ands, or buts.”
240.
Wally and Imogene swore that they would tell each other everything. No secrets, they said. Forever. Wally looked at Imogene adoringly. Then they had nothing to say.
“Did I ever tell you about when I sold part of my Bulgarian stamp collection?” said Wally.
241.
When the package arrived, Wally wasted no time tearing it open. “I can’t believe you got those things,” said Imogene, who was theoretically minding her own business.
“I know,” said Wally, in enthusiastic agreement. “Wait, what things?”
“Those,” said Imogene, indicating the many boxes of individually wrapped toothpicks Wally had just received.
“They’re just what I wanted!” he said. “Now I don’t have to keep swiping them from the diner.”
“But twelve thousand?” said Imogene, who’d put down her magazine to get a closer look.
“Let’s say I go through five a day—conservatively,” said Wally, with deliberation. “That’s one thousand, eight hundred twenty-five a year.”
“Wally,” said Imogene.
“Are you saying I should order more?” said Wally. “They were only thirteen dollars. The price will definitely go up. What if we order a million?”
What Imogene was saying, though she did not say it, was that having one’s apartment burgled had its upside. Wally cracked open a box of toothpicks, and handed one to Imogene. “We can give them as Christmas presents,” he said. “To people who eat.”
Imogene unwrapped a toothpick and held it up to the light. “It does seem awfully well made,” she mused.
Wally beamed. “We agree about the important things,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Will you marry me?”
242.
Sometimes the best things come in small packages, and sometimes things just come in packages.
243.
That night at dinner, Imogene said, “Nobody’s kid got into college today.” Wally helped himself to seconds. Imogene said, “If we had a kid, where do you think it wouldn’t get in?”
Wally put down his fork. “Our kid?” Wally said. “Our kid would not get into Harvard!”
Imogene smiled. Wally reached across the table for the salt. “Will you marry me?” he said.
“Oh, wait,” she said. “The brat in 12D got wait-listed at Tufts.”
244.
245.
246.
Then came the week that cannot be graphed. Imogene and Wally visited a charming metropolis in Europe. They never made it to the cathedral, but they agreed to tell friends and family how they’d been especially taken with the stained glass in one of those side rooms—were they called sacristies? Imogene and Wally did see the public gardens. The flowers were in self-important bloom, especially the lavender. Imogene didn’t get the point of lingering there once they’d looked around. Wally went to the police museum and ran through the war museum, or was it the other way around? Meanwhile, Imogene shopped for lace. Look at the light, they said to each other so many times that they were scared they’d never be able to quit saying it. They were sick of the light, too. Naturally, they ate well. Imogene was pleased she hadn’t gained weight. All that walking, they both theorized. How many kilograms in a pound again? Imogene thought. Oh, and finally, they almost missed their return flight because Wally spent a terrifically long time trying to decide if he should put the foreign coins in his pocket or pack them in the suitcase. “It’s all the same,” said Imogene finally. “That’s what makes it an impossible decision,” said Wally.
247.
All in all, they had a really lovely week.
248.
Wally and Imogene were still crazy about each other—even after their luggage was lost. As they waited for the man at the counter to return with the lost-baggage forms, Wally took Imogene’s hand. “Do you realize how close I came to putting the coins in my medium-sized soft upright?” he said, pointing to the chart of suitcase types that were possible to lose.
249.
When Wally and Imogene got home, everyone asked if they’d had nice weather. “It rained,” said Imogene. Everyone seemed to take it badly. Nobody as
ked about the cathedral. Maybe everyone was just too dismayed about the meteorological conditions.
250.
Imogene’s mind was still elsewhere.
293.
Patty meant 251. But Patty likes the ring of 293.
294.
Here’s a thought: Could it be that Patty, with your reading pleasure in mind, had slyly deleted the chaplettes particularly heavy in detailia of Imogene and Wally cleaning closets, filing taxes, renewing passports, defrosting the freezer even though it was supposed to be too modern for that, buying a quart of 2%, figuring out how to get there, waiting for the light to turn green, fast-forwarding through the commercials, adjusting the knob, calling the wrong number, being on hold, hello goodbye, buttoning the buttons, zipping the zips, smelling their hands?
Or could Patty be tiptoeing past some unpleasantness in chaplettes 251–292?
Prosaic truth: Patty meant 293. Numbering is harder than you think. Everything is.
295.
Wally Yez and Imogene Gilfeather lived together under the same roof for several more months until one day, a year had gone by.
296.
Then there was more of the same.
297.
(The following chaplette is the recipient of the 2011 Hyundai Prize, awarded biannually to the most outstanding work of literature written and revised while driving.)
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
298.
Wally had meant to celebrate their anniversary with a surprise Imogene would never forget, but by the time Wally remembered the milestone, the statute of limitations for commemorations had passed. If Wally can forget a triumphant date like this, nobody’s safe.
299.
There follows a transcript of a conversation that took place in Imogene and Wally’s living room, a little after chaplette 298.
300.
IMOGENE: I thought you said you were going to take out the trash.
WALLY: Here’s the secret about me. If you want me to take out the trash, you have to put it by the front door.
IMOGENE: That’s the secret?
WALLY: Yes. So don’t tell anyone or everyone will start leaving their trash there.
IMOGENE: Wally!
WALLY: What?
IMOGENE: I’m going to make some toast, read the paper, empty the dishwasher, and file my nails. Meanwhile, will you take out the trash?
WALLY: That’s the difference between you and me. You’re a doer, and I’m more of a can-do type.
301.
Lo, one night, the crazy lady in 7G was taken away in an ambulance, never to return. Imogene made an inquiry.
303.*
There were already three bids on the apartment.
(Come on, this is New York!)
CCCIV.
Not Rome.
305.
Wally fixed the thingamajig inside the television! He was even more astonished than Imogene by his aptitude. “It took me a long time to learn I was a fast learner,” he said.
“Isn’t that what you said the first time I talked to you on the phone—when you fixed my computer?” said Imogene.
“If it was,” said Wally, “then I agree with myself.”
306.
Eventually, there came a time (inevitable, isn’t it?) when Imogene felt comfortable enough with Wally to let her hair down, all but a wayward strand. One day, when Imogene’s hair was not only recklessly down, but unstyled, Wally said, “Imo, do you want to walk over to the gallery with the neon sign? They’re having an opening of the sculptor you liked at the museum that time.”
Imogene said yes, but shouldn’t she at least comb her hair?
Wally said, “Oh, your hair looks fine enough for an exhibit that takes place in the basement gallery. But you might want to put on some lipstick or something, and on second thought, comb your hair.”
A few blocks from the gallery, Wally happened to mention that his friends Derek, Jonathan, Thomas, Gerry, Matthew, Michael, Rick, and Nino, and maybe Wally’s old girlfriend, might be at the opening. Well, probably they would, he said. They would. Definitely.
Imogene turned around and marched home.
307.
It was one thing to appear among strangers when your hair is down, but another thing to do it near neon.
308.
Who is wrong?
Wally or Imogene?
(This is the question this story is posing.)
309.
Another question, this one posed by Patty:
Are you really going to finish that?
310.
Imogene and Wally went to brunch at the Sepkowitzes’. Wally did most of the talking, a fair share of the eating, a lot of the laughing, a respectable amount of the clearing plates from the table, and all of the legerdemain. When the other guests got up to go, Wally and Imogene stayed. They stayed even after Imogene politely mentioned to Wally that it was long past brunchtime, let alone lunchtime. And besides, she had stuff to do.
“Oh, don’t go,” said Meg Sepkowitz. “There’s more Bloody Mary mix.”
“Just a few more minutes,” said Wally to Imogene. At long last, Imogene and Wally put on their coats and took their umbrellas. Imogene opened the front door. “Wow,” said Wally, taking in the portrait of Richard Sepkowitz and Meg Sepkowitz hanging in the vestibule. “You guys sure were lucky to find a painting that looked just like you.” The Sepkowitzes laughed.
311.
“Wally is a big Yes,” said Richard. “And Imogene is a big No.”
312.
Everyone, even Imogene, seemed to find that enchantingly droll.
313.
The observation deserves repeating. Wally is a big Yes and Imogene is a big No.
314.
Wally and Imogene were but a block from the Sepkowitzes’ when Wally said, “At some point I was trying to figure out if I was the fattest person in the room.”
The author does not consider Wally fat, but there is no denying that between chaplettes 198 and 233, Wally had put on weight. Imogene did not reply. She had her own weight to think of.
315.
It has dawned on the author that heretofore in these pages, the word droll has been used twice. Furthermore, in her lifetime, Patty has milked the word enchantingly dry. In light of this, let the official record, in the fourth revision, show that everyone seemed to find Richard Sepkowitz’s remark waggishly apt.
316.
Tragically so.
317.
On the way home, Imogene did not want to marry Wally again, and said so. Wally put his finger through the belt loop of Imogene’s trench coat and pulled her toward him. He was not a quitter.
318.
“One more question,” said Wally. “Do you think we’ll be in this book long enough for them to hear me stop pleading with you?”
319.
Enough horsing around.
320.
Back at the Sepkowitzes’, the party was over and Meg and Richard were combing the living room for stray glasses and dessert plates to take back to the kitchen. “Don’t Imo-gene and Wally remind you of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy?” said Richard.
“Let me think,” said Meg, who was doing a cost-benefit analysis of whether it was worth it to cork up a nearly empty bottle of champagne. “Which would be which?” she said, taking a swig to finish up the bubbly.
321.
Soon it would be Wally’s birthday. When Imogene suggested they have a birthday party, Wally agreed with gusto. “Let’s see,” said Imogene, thinking of the guest list. “Who is your favorite person?” “You,” said Wally. “Who are your two favorites, then?” said Imogene. “You and the person you used to be,” said Wally.
322.
When Wally read the news in the obits, he was delivered of a noise loud enough to bring Imogene into the room at a brisk pace. “This can’t be!” he said. “He was only thirty-four—oh, that’s someone else. He was ninety.” Wally put his head in his hands. “I need to let this sink in.” T
he father of Chaos Theory had died, and Wally appeared distraught.
“Did you know him?” said Imogene in a tone that could be called sympathetic. She pulled up a chair.
“Frankly, I didn’t even know he was alive,” said Wally, lifting his head. He read further. “Wow, they’re equating him with Newton, and that’s crap.”
Imogene stood up. “You got over his death awfully fast,” she observed.
“You know what the Stages of Grief woman neglected to realize?” said Wally. “That the last stage is happiness.”
“Sometimes the first stage, too,” said Imogene, wondering if chaos were ahead. “I’ll speak at your funeral if you speak at mine,” she said as she left the room, but Wally did not seem to hear.
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