Interior Design

by Philip Graham

  *

  Isabel spends her lunch break the following day in the thrift shop, searching through cluttered aisles and brimming cardboard boxes. The hangers squeak, as if encouraging her to hunt further through the cotton prints, the long, dark skirts, and she feels a budding panic at the sight of other customers, afraid they might be the first to find what she’s looking for.

  In an old box behind a stack of lampshades, Isabel finds a pair of dark pumps. Though the left heel has a few ugly scuffs, she steps into the dressing room. The shoes fit, and Isabel sits for a long time in quiet gratitude. When she slips them off she remembers Richard kneeling before her, cradling her bare feet, and his hand is whole again—she can feel the long gentle touch of his index finger and thumb, and she waits for him to rise and unbutton her blouse. He hesitates, and so she shifts a little in her seat to encourage him, she reaches out to stroke his soft, straight hair. But the salesgirl is knocking on the door: “Honey, are you all right in there?”

  *

  When Isabel returns home, still held by that reincarnated touch, Richard is standing in the living room doorway, scanning the bag under her arm, its bulge. Afraid he’ll reach for it with his bad hand, she walks by, yet feels the unfairness of this and stops by the stairs when he says, “Shoes?”

  “Uh-huh,” she replies, turning to him, “but they need a little polishing.”

  She knows Richard wants to offer his help—his hesitation is so familiar—so she sets the bag down by the banister. “I’ll go make a quick dinner,” she says.

  Later, as she shakes the colander, steam rising from the spaghetti, she watches Richard’s reflection in the darkened window before her: he’s waiting at the table, his eyes following her. She lingers, filling the bowls—he can watch as long as he likes.

  “So how was work?”

  Startled by this unexpected question, Isabel pauses. If he’s really curious, he’s picked the right day. She places the spaghetti on the table and says, “Well, a fellow came in before closing and bought seven different kinds of lawn sprinklers. The girl at the next counter even noticed.”

  Richard laughs—he was actually listening.

  “We couldn’t imagine what he wanted with them all. I wish I’d asked.”

  Serving himself, Richard says, “Maybe the guy… oh, I don’t know.” He lifts his knife and fork, then stops and grins. “No, wait—maybe he’s a spy. Maybe each sprinkler … is a different signal. For his contact. The kind that covers a whole front lawn means, ‘I’m being watched.’ Or one of those twisting jobs means, ‘Meet me at the drop-off point.’ Stuff like that.”

  Isabel doesn’t know what to say to Richard’s sudden burst of words. “Yeah,” he continues, twirling repetitive loops of spaghetti, “it might be a kind of sprinkler code. Big secrets—has nothing to do with the lawn. Better tell your manager to call the FBI.” He stops, embarrassed by all this talk, and soon he’s sopping up sauce with garlic bread—he seems surprised that the meal is so good.

  That night, Isabel listens to Richard’s stirrings in the dark and she can’t wait for that figure in the closet to be finished. Then, she’s sure, he’ll reach across the space between them on the bed. He’ll whisper to her as he used to—first complaints about the assembly line, perhaps one of those little jokes she could never remember afterward, then short phrases about her hair, lips, shoulders, and his remembered voice murmurs to her until she falls asleep.

  *

  Two days later, Isabel is swinging the shopping bag in time to her light gait as she returns home, enjoying the heft of the folded woolen skirt inside. Even though she found it in an expensive shop and blanched at the price, her search is finally over.

  She’s halfway up the walk to her porch when she hears the squeal of an electric drill. With a few quick steps she stands just outside the workshop and tries to decipher that shrill grinding. What could Richard possibly be adding to the figure—a face? She opens the door. He’s bent over the workbench vise, sparks rising as he drills a hole in a thin metal tube. There’s curved piping of all sizes scattered across the bench. Richard turns his goggled face up, the plastic lenses hazy with tiny scratches.

  “You gave me a great idea, hon,” he says, smiling, and he gestures at the metal clutter. “I’m making a sprinkler—comes with attachments, so folks can water the lawn any way they like. Seven sprinklers in one, y’know?”

  He picks up a slim, half-oval cylinder. “This one’ll do the side lawn, but it won’t drench the house or spill over into the neighbor’s.” He reaches for another. “And this one …”

  “Not now, all right? Maybe later,” Isabel says. She shifts the shopping bag from one hand to another, shakes it a little so he’ll notice.

  Richard nods, though she’s not sure how well he can really see through those goggles. Or is he staring through her again? He turns back to the vise. She shakes the bag again until the skirt inside thrashes about—doesn’t he understand what she’s found? But the drill has already started its piercing whine. Sparks loop into the air.

  She walks alone up to the bedroom. The drill squeals again. Isabel slides open the closet door and pushes away Richard’s shirts. The figure simply hangs there, the clothes flat on its frame, and Isabel is embarrassed at the sight of the panties beneath the blouse, the curve of those exposed wire thighs. She pulls the new skirt from the bag and presses its itchy woolen pile against her face, inhales the startling freshness of this last piece of a puzzle she and Richard have been trying to solve.

  Then Isabel kneels down before the figure, gathers one wire foot and then the other, and slips them, jangling, into the gray skirt. When she pulls the skirt up the curve of wire legs the figure shivers, as if it too understands something momentous is about to occur. Isabel stops and shivers as well, imagining that it’s ready to lift both arms and raise itself off the wooden rod, no longer content to dangle.

  Isabel grabs the figure’s hands to hold it still. She feels the wire edges through the gloves’ fabric, the soft fabric that has no real fingers to cling to. I should be wearing these gloves, she thinks, and she pulls them off. The skirt, only halfway up those thighs, slips slowly to the ground. So why stop? Isabel decides, reaching for the buttons on the blouse, and within moments she’s undressed the wriggling figure down to its bare metal frame.

  The scattered clothes lie in a pile on the floor, and Isabel realizes with a shock that they’re waiting for her. Of course, she thinks, and she strips off her outfit as quickly as she can. But when she stands exposed before that still quivering figure, its emptiness seems to mock her, its faint metal tinkling sounds like a dismissive giggle. “Don’t,” Isabel hisses, rage rising inside her, and suddenly she’s ready to tear apart that torso, twist off that head. She shakes her fist at the thing, squeezing her hand so hard it trembles painfully before her, curled and floating.

  Uncoiling her hand and stretching her fingers, Isabel watches the pink patches vanish from her palm. Then she reaches out and bends and bends a wire shoulder until she tugs an arm joint loose. But she cuts herself on a sharp metal edge and a red squiggle runs across her knuckle. She licks it. At first queasy at her own taste—a slightly strange sweetness—she sucks at herself until no new drop appears.

  She returns to that dangling arm, but when its cold metal edge brushes against her breast as if in protest, Isabel has to suppress a scream. She lifts the figure off the rod and throws the clattering thing on the rug. Kneeling, she bends and twists apart the wire limbs and body, and though some part of her cries out against this, it’s a tiny voice, one that grows smaller and smaller, until the figure is nothing but a grimace of wires on the floor. Isabel stops, gulping for air. What will Richard say when he sees this? she thinks, What have I done?

  “Just what I needed to,” she says to the empty room. She kicks those misshapen pieces into the closet and slides the door shut. Then, with great deliberation, Isabel dresses herself in those clothes that are hers, hers.

  She sits in a chair and assumes t
he pose of the photograph: her lips slightly parted, her eyes oval, her legs crossed and balanced just so, one foot stretched, the shoe pointing toward the door. Richard will forget he ever made that wire thing when he sees me, she thinks. But the door is still closed, there’s no hint of him. Her legs begin to numb.

  The drill downstairs screeches again and again, but he has to finish sometime. Then he’ll wonder where she is. He’ll have to remember her standing in the doorway holding that shopping bag, he’ll understand at once what was inside and he’ll be amazed that he didn’t notice before. Isabel wants so much to hear the steps’ little creaks and groans that she knows so well until there’s just Richard’s hesitation on the other side of the door, his fingers on the knob but not yet turning it, he’s so excited. And when he finally opens that door he’ll see her patient smile. Then, like a photo rising out of itself, Isabel will raise her arms, and each white-gloved hand will stretch toward him.

  The Reverse

  Still exhausted from hauling Happy Shrimp platters at the restaurant last night, Fern lingers in bed and listens to the muffled echo of David’s voice in the shower. He’s crooning a song he made up yesterday about a heart breaking into different geometric shapes, how unhappiness is only a puzzle with actual pieces that can join and heal. Fern loves the awkward quirks of his voice as he sings about a pulsating trapezoid fitting with a warm little parallelogram. She imagines him in his subway booth later in the day, selling tokens and melodically counting out change, waiting for a great song to finally strike.

  Fern has an audition for a commercial this morning, but she’s wary of yet another script holding secrets she’ll probably never decipher. And today’s audition sounds so peculiar, the trade listing simply announcing, Dress for the role you prefer. She reaches across the bed for the clock—9:22, less than two hours—and then hurries over to the bathroom. Shivering from the cold floor tiles, Fern stares in the mirror at her blurry face, her flattened brown hair. With a sigh she pushes away David’s razor and shaving cream, certain that only the most inventive application of makeup can make her presentable this morning. Fern digs her fingers in her lopsided hair but she can’t fluff it. She decides to join David in the shower.

  “Hey sweetie,” she says to his soapy back, and suddenly the swirl of water at her feet and the wet folds of the shower curtain give Fern a brief glimpse of last night’s dream, something about a beach. She closes her eyes and tries to hold the image, but David has turned around and is making slippery patterns on her breasts. Her back against the wet tiles, Fern smells his hair with its scent of shampoo, and her sleek arms encircle him. Now I’m really going to be late, she thinks. “Isosceles triangle,” he croons, his hands sliding down her stomach.

  *

  Fern stands at the edge of a large room among a crowd of actresses in costume: there’s the Slinky Diet-Cola look, the All-Natural-Cereal look, the Harried Housewife look and more. Not sure why she’s even come, Fern glances down at her plain blouse and jeans, thrown on in her rush: the Unprepared look.

  Technicians are slowly swiveling large cameras into place. Why are there cameras? she wonders. Everyone is wandering about and no one seems in charge. A woman with an enormous comb in her thick hair passes Fern and trips over a cable. She falls to her knees, the comb clattering on the floor, and Fern watches it dangle from the woman’s lobe by a long silver chain. It’s an earring, Fern realizes—what is she supposed to be? A lanky man with a clipboard helps the woman snatch up the swaying comb. When she stands and whispers to him, he giggles and writes something in his pad.

  Then Fern notices the woman’s clothes are inside out: loose threads hang from her shoulders, the broad, inner seams of her blouse are exposed, and from her pants the hidden flaps of pockets hang like wide, pale tongues. The inside white label on her blouse seems to shine out. Fern steps closer and leans forward, wanting to read the instructions, but instead she’s suddenly recalling her dream. She was nude and walking along a crowded beach, but no one noticed because her tan had somehow reversed. Her body was pale white except for one horizontal strip of brown across her hips that blended in with her pubic hair, and another tan line across her breasts that hid her nipples.

  The woman is facing her. “Are you trying to read my label? I so much like curiosity.”

  Fern nods, unable to speak, certain that everyone around them is watching. She resists the impulse to cover her chest, her crotch.

  “One hundred percent cotton. I’m all-natural. And I like to be washed in warm water.”

  Like a guilty child, Fern nods again.

  The woman eyes her carefully. “A bit bland. But I don’t think you’ll film bland. Your name is?”

  “Fern…”

  “My god, what a name!” the woman laughs. “You’ll be perfect.” The man beside her scribbles away.

  They lead her through the crowd and Fern realizes this has been an interview of sorts. The woman whispers to her lanky assistant. “All right, everybody,” he calls out, “we’ve found our girl. Time to go home.” Fern is almost alarmed to hear this—she had begun to think of Happy Shrimp as a career.

  “What the fuck was this all about, anyway?” someone shouts.

  The woman turns to her assistant. “Mick, dear, would you turn that off?” He slips through the crowd, murmuring apologies.

  She turns to Fern. “I’m Marjorie, your director du jour. Now Fern, I know this sounds a bit unorthodox, but we’re going to improvise our commercial. And we’re going to do it right now.”

  No script? Fern thinks, but she doesn’t have time to be relieved, because before the last actress has gone, she is standing in front of a stark blue screen backdrop and the makeup man is already blushing her cheekbones. “Nothing fancy,” Marjorie says, “just give her a touch-up.” She waves her hand at the backdrop, but Fern can’t turn to look. “Don’t worry about all that nothing behind you. The deal is, a downtown artist will draw the background later. Then we program it into a computer and everything will get, ah, frisky. But you, my dear, come first.”

  Marjorie turns and slaps her palms against her dangling pants pockets and shouts, “Where’s the love interest?” She turns and whispers to Fern, “He’s a redhead. Think lots of kiss-kiss.”

  Within minutes the lights are on Fern and her costar, but there’s nothing to work with, no set, no script, no product. “Get to know each other, kids,” Marjorie calls out. “Don’t mind us. Or the lights. Or the cameras.”

  The redhead’s face is as blank as a plate. He must have been the worst at his audition, Fern thinks—maybe we’ve both been selected as a joke. She tries a sidelong grin as they draw closer, but when they embrace she can feel the knots in his stiff shoulders. His arms hang limp at his sides. But he’s the same height and build as David, so Fern closes her eyes and runs her finger slowly down his spine.

  “Hold it,” Marjorie calls out.

  “I’m sorry. I just thought that…”

  “No, I like it,” she says, out of her chair and striding toward them. “It’s tender and sexy, and that’s the kind of identification we need for a drain cleaner, which is, by the way, what we’re selling here. When your finger slips down his back it gives a subliminal message of water running down a pipe.”

  Fern’s chin still rests, idiotically, on the redhead’s shoulder, and she can only stare at Marjorie, afraid to admit she was merely thinking about her boyfriend.

  Marjorie steps back a moment. “I think we’ll take a close-up of those fingers first, then one of your face.” She takes the comb from her hair, the thin chain jangling, and brushes back Fern’s bangs. “Keep your eyes closed first. And then open them so all our housewives at home can imagine what he’s rubbing against you down there, okay?”

  *

  When they’re finally done Marjorie shouts out, “All right, strike the set!” A few technicians laugh, and they gather up cords and lights.

  “Thanks,” the redhead whispers to Fern before walking off, and she stands alone, still not q
uite believing what has happened. Marjorie approaches, talking to Mick: “Remind Pascal again that I want the animation sloppy, not slick, okay?”

  Then Marjorie is beside her. “Impressive. I knew you’d be the one to come through. Really, all I wanted from that fella was the back of his head, all those nice red curls. And now, dear, there are these little annoyances called forms…”

  While Fern finishes signing. Marjorie asks, “So, do you always read other people’s labels? Wait, don’t answer that. Can I give you a lift?”

  “Sure,” Fern says, though she’d rather take the subway and stop at David’s station with the good news, tell him how he was her unseen partner. But Marjorie is already strolling away and Fern follows.

  They walk up the block, the wind ruffling their hair. “So,” Marjorie says, the stray strings of her exposed seams fluttering, “you want to know all about me. You’ve heard about Conceptual Art? Well, I invented Conceptual Radio. I deejayed for an early morning radio program I designed, called Alarm Clock Music. ‘This show is a public service,’ I’d whisper in a husky voice that really got the letters coming in, ‘featuring music so awful it makes you get up.’ I’d flip on the Rice Krispies Snap! Crackle! Pop! theme song arranged for string quartet—the scherzo version—and then segue into a piano roll made from the Braille version of Joyce’s Ulysses. Ah, here’s my car,” she says. Fern is disappointed that it’s an ordinary tan import.

  They get in and Marjorie presses the lighter on the dashboard before driving off. “I woke up the whole city. Absenteeism was zip, the Chamber of Commerce threw a banquet in my honor. And then,” she pauses, lighting her cigarette, “I quit.” Marjorie shifts gears, silent, and Fern understands she’s supposed to respond.

  “Why?”

  “Why, you ask? Never keep dancing while the termites are eating through the floorboards, I always say. Anyway, I hustled arts grants with the usual performance art scam. Finally I got this idea for a project on the American housewife, an adventure domestica in fifteen- and thirty-second installments, in collaboration with major corporate sponsors. I figure, what with cable, video rentals, CD-ROMs, and the Internet, it’s clear the networks’ ratings are going bow-wow, so we’re at a point where anything is possible. And I was right, because you know a company’s desperate if they hired me with complete creative control. Actually, they think they need a huge loss—all that computer stuff will cost, y’know—something that’ll help them when they file for Chapter Eleven. Ha—just wait.”