by Susan Gloss
Just thinking about the four hundred square feet she’d left behind surfaced an ache in Annie’s chest that she’d been trying, ever since she arrived in Madison, to shove down and shut up. She told herself that losing her apartment was a small price to pay in the name of art. Still, she missed the sounds of the city—the chatter floating in through her open window from the coffee shop below, the sighing sound of the bus stopping at the corner, the constant white noise of hundreds of conversations going on in a single block. She missed how the shadows from the building across the street kept out the morning sun, but flooded her small rooms with light in the afternoon, perfect for painting or drawing. She missed being able to stop in at a museum or gallery on a whim, whenever she needed rejuvenation. Losing New York, and her tiny foothold in it, felt like losing a family member. But if there was one thing Annie had learned over the years, it was that she had to keep moving.
It’s just that she’d always thought of it sort of metaphorically.
Annie never second-guessed herself. Not when she’d been sprayed with teargas while marching for civil rights in Alabama. Not when she’d been hospitalized for heatstroke in DC rallying for the Equal Rights Amendment. And she certainly hadn’t flinched when she’d gotten a letter from the co-op board expressing concern over the activities taking place in her apartment. Annie had contacted a lawyer friend at the ACLU, who advised her to obtain a copy of the board meeting minutes. The minutes reflected that Mrs. Van der Woodsen on the fourteenth floor, among others, had voiced worries about “drug addicts” being given access to the building.
For once in her life, Mrs. Van der Woodsen had been right. Annie was letting drug addicts into the building. And she was giving them drugs. But not the drugs they were addicted to.
Now, a loud knock brought Annie’s thoughts back to the present. She opened the door that led to the basement from the backyard.
“Caroline,” Annie said. “I’m glad you came back.”
The woman standing on the other side didn’t look like someone with chronic pain, and she certainly didn’t look like an addict. She looked like a suburban mom, with her yoga pants and short haircut. But Annie had learned, by photographing dozens of people, that not all physical pain was obvious from the outside, and that addictions were easy to hide when a person was determined to do so. Annie knew, though, that the mother of two had become so addicted to prescription opioids after shoulder surgery that she’d once passed out in the bathroom of a dollar store, with both kids in a shopping cart, after buying black-market pills in the parking lot. Annie also knew there were a lot more Carolines out there, and that she couldn’t help them all. But maybe if she could document a little bit about a few people’s struggles, she’d raise awareness.
“Can I get you anything to eat or drink?” Annie asked as she led Caroline inside.
Caroline shook her head. “No thanks.”
“How have you been feeling?”
“Honestly? Like shit. At this point I’m not even sure if the way I’m feeling is related to the surgery or the withdrawal from the drugs. But I haven’t had any pills in a month now, so maybe this is just my new normal. I do think the pot helps, though. It at least distracts me from the pain for a little while.” Caroline winced as she sat down on an armchair draped with a Turkish kilim tapestry. Annie noticed just how pallid and dull Caroline’s skin looked next to the bright diamond pattern on the fabric. It was as if the raspberry and azure tones of the tapestry drew their saturation directly from Caroline, stealing the flush from her cheeks and the color from her eyes.
Annie settled onto an adjustable stool behind the camera she’d set up. “Do you mind if I just start taking pictures while we talk?” she asked.
“Go right ahead.” Caroline removed the flats she was wearing and placed them on the rug.
“Just like last time, we don’t have to talk about pain, unless you want to,” Annie said. “Or about anything, really.” Click click click.
“Fine with me.” Caroline fidgeted and looked around the room.
Annie got up, opened the door of a metal filing cabinet, and produced a lacquered wood box. When Annie first discovered the box in a cabinet in the corner of the basement, along with a set of Japanese language–learning CDs, she couldn’t figure out how to open the thing. But after fiddling with it for a bit, she realized it was a puzzle, and became more determined than ever to get it open. When she finally did, she realized it would be the perfect place to store her pot. Now, she jiggled each side of the box in the specific sequence she’d memorized, until the top slid open and revealed various smoking tools and a bag filled with preseeded, high-quality cannabis.
“You’re probably looking for this,” Annie said, bringing the box to Caroline.
She sat up straighter. “Thank you.” Caroline selected a handheld vaporizer from the box, switched it on, and set it down. While she waited for it to heat up, she picked up a vase from atop an overturned crate being used as an end table. Blown-glass daffodils, tulips, and lilies in translucent shades of yellow, pink, and lavender sprang out from the mouth of the vase on delicate green stems. “This is lovely,” she said.
“A friend of mine who’s a glass sculptor gave it to me when I left New York. She does mostly large-scale pieces, to install on ceilings and walls and things, but obviously I couldn’t move something like that with me, so she made me something small.”
Caroline picked up the vaporizer. “I think it’s ready. Do you want any?” She held it out toward Annie.
Annie settled back onto her stool, then pressed the shutter release with another click. “No thanks,” she said. Not that I haven’t smoked my fair share over the years, Annie thought. But this was not about her.
Caroline nodded as she inhaled, then blew out a light stream of vapor. “I just didn’t know what the etiquette was.”
“There is none,” Annie said.
To herself, she added, No etiquette, no rules, no road map. For someone accustomed to venturing into uncharted territory, Annie wondered why she suddenly felt so nervous.
Chapter Thirteen
Betsy
PIECE: Yohji Yamamoto, fashion sketch, circa 1990.
Betsy stuck out in Tokyo. Not only was she blond—well, more gray-blond these days—but she was on the tall side for a woman.
“You know how you always say you like to blend in with the locals?” Walt had said. “That’s not going to be possible in Japan.”
Despite, or maybe because of Walt’s warning, Betsy ordered some language-instruction tapes before their trip, her first ever to Japan. For weeks, she’d walked around the house and the neighborhood with headphones on, repeating phrases about meals and markets, restrooms and taxicabs. Walt had teased her when she nearly crashed into him one evening while rounding the corner from the hallway to their bedroom.
He lifted up one of the earphones. “Before you go to all this trouble, I should tell you most of the employees at the hotel speak English. I’ve stayed there before,” he said. “Same with the guys I’ll be meeting with and their wives. They’re a bunch of polyglots. I’ve heard some of them shift from Japanese to Thai to German with hardly a breath in between.”
Betsy paused her lesson. “Well, that’s all the more reason for me to at least make an effort. If they speak a handful of languages, there’s no reason I can’t learn to at least say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”
“I admire your dedication. Just don’t be embarrassed if you ask a question in Japanese and they respond in English.”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned from traveling to other parts of the world, it’s that I have to check my pride along with my luggage.” Betsy had put her hands on her hips. “And anyway, I’m not worried about when I’m with you or your work people. I want to be able to wander the city . . . to go into neighborhoods that aren’t on the usual tourist circuit. I can’t do that without at least knowing the word for ‘taxi’ or ‘subway.’”
“I can get a car service to take you whe
rever you need to go from the hotel.”
She’d thrown up her hands. “Where’s the adventure in that?”
On the evening after they arrived in Tokyo, the Barretts were invited for drinks at the home of a Japanese banker who was assisting Walt’s company in its purchase of a Japanese manufacturing business. Mina, the banker’s wife, greeted them at the door of their high-rise penthouse. She was decked out in a sculptural black dress that looked familiar to Betsy. Similar to something Calvin sent, probably.
Calvin was Betsy’s stylist. He preferred that term to what he considered to be the more crass title of “personal shopper.” He and Betsy mailed notes, magazine clips, and catalog photos back and forth all year long, in preparation for Betsy’s visits to New York a few times a year. In her younger years, she used to do all her own shopping. Like most people do. Sometimes she missed the days when she and her friend Ingrid would walk miles in a single day, in search of the perfect pieces to wear for whatever galas and globe-trotting adventures the next season had in store for them. But lately Betsy’s energy level seemed to be lower, even as she took on more volunteer commitments in Madison. There were the ballet and youth symphony boards. The scholarship committee she steered at the university. Not to mention dinners for Walt’s business colleagues and contacts. Calvin, who wore nothing but black T-shirts and black jeans himself, was decisive and opinionated—qualities Betsy had come to appreciate now that her day planner seemed to be booked solid for weeks in advance. As much as Betsy liked fashion, she liked feeling useful a whole lot more.
Now, as Mina ushered her inside, Betsy remembered where she had seen the dress before. Calvin had, indeed, sent her a picture of it. One he’d taken at last season’s Fashion Week. He’d sent the photo along with a swatch of black heather flannel and a sketch of an oversized, angular wrap-style jacket. Enclosed with the items had been a handwritten note.
A stunner from Yamamoto’s latest collection. Neckline’s a little lower than you like, but he designed a coat for one of my other clients to wear over it. Like you, she’s of a “certain age” (eye roll here) and concerned about showing too much décolletage. I’ve enclosed a copy of the sketch for the coat. Something similar might work for you. Tell me what you think. —C
Betsy had ultimately decided against the dress, electing instead to buy a gray Donna Karan surplice-style sheath that Calvin described as “classic and beyond reproach.” But the black dress with the deep, plunging V-neck looked perfect on the younger Mina. Betsy told her as much.
“Yohji Yamamoto, right?” she said.
Mina nodded, obviously delighted that Betsy recognized the designer of her garment. “It’s more conservative than what I usually wear. When I met Walt last time he was here, he seemed quite . . . traditional? I thought you might be, too.”
“Not as much as my husband. Or at least I try not to be.” Betsy gave Walt a playful jab with her elbow. “Anyway, I admire your confidence. I told my stylist the dress was too risqué for me. But I’m quite a bit older than you. When you get to be my age, you know what works on you and what doesn’t.”
“‘Invest in quality’ is what my mother always said about clothes,” Mina said. “It was something I didn’t understand until I got older. Probably because I didn’t need to. When I was young, I could buy any cheap, trendy thing off the rack and look decent in it. Now, I need tailoring that’s intentional. Fabrics that drape in the right places.”
“There’s nothing worse than fabric that drapes in the wrong places,” Betsy said.
Mina laughed. “Now, had I known you like fashion, I might have worn something a little more fun. Versace, maybe? I’m absolutely in love with that sequined matador jacket he showed last season.”
“Are you women going to talk fashion all night at the front door or are you going to come in and have a drink?” Mina’s husband asked.
Walt had been right about the language barrier, or lack thereof. Their host and hostess spoke English so fluently it would have seemed almost ridiculous for Betsy to try to use any of the Japanese phrases she’d learned. She’d have to wait for another opportunity to test out whether she’d actually absorbed anything from all those hours spent saying things like “Where is the bathroom?” and, her favorite, “Do you come here often?” Apparently, whoever created the language-learning series she’d purchased wanted to make sure the listener learned a few pick-up lines in addition to the usual utilitarian phrases.
Mina led the Barretts into a large living room filled with modern leather furniture. She offered them something to drink. The men chose whiskey and quickly became engaged in a conversation about baseball. Betsy followed Mina’s lead and sipped warm sake from a small porcelain cup.
“So, if you enjoy fashion, I’m sure you’ve noticed that we’re a bit obsessed with it here,” Mina said.
“I’ve been having fun just seeing what people are wearing. I’ve only been here a couple of days, but already I’ve seen some trends we don’t have back home. Especially on the younger women.”
“Ah, yes, the kogal.” Mina rolled her eyes. “The schoolgirls. My mother would have wept if I’d tried to leave the house in skirts as short as those girls are wearing now.”
“I was a teenager in the sixties, so short skirts don’t shock me,” Betsy said. “What I’ve noticed the most is all the unusual makeup—the girls with the white lipstick and dark eyeliner. They were everywhere when I was walking around near Shibuya Station earlier.”
“Did they also have fake-tan skin and orange hair?”
Betsy nodded. “Pink hair, too.”
“You must mean the ganguro gals. I’ve read some fashion critics say it’s all about challenging notions of traditional Japanese feminine beauty—you know, light skin and dark hair. But it seems to me like it’s maybe just teenagers having fun. I don’t really get it.”
“Well, that gives us something in common,” Mina’s husband piped in. “I don’t get any of it. So much of fashion just seems silly to me.”
Betsy and Mina exchanged a knowing look.
“Certain trends might seem silly,” Betsy said. “But fashion can also play a part in social and cultural change. Look at the flapper movement in the twenties. A lot of women bobbed their hair or wore shorter hemlines to get a reaction. Some did it because it was just easier or more comfortable. Others followed suit because it became the thing to do. Eventually those styles were accepted within the norm.”
“Well, let’s just hope orange hair doesn’t become the new norm,” Mina said. “Though I’m afraid it already has.” She looked across the room to where the men now stood near the windows, returning to their sports talk as the lights of the city sparkled below. “Next time someone tries to tell me that fashion is silly, I’m going to say what you just told me. About cultural shifts. Progress.”
Toward the end of the evening, Mina left the room and returned with a small package wrapped in yellow paper. She presented it to Betsy with both hands.
“What’s this?” Betsy asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a small gift.”
Betsy knew, from seeing the gift-laden suitcases Walt always brought back with him from Japan, that gift giving was an important part of the culture. It was why she’d brought along a box of chocolates that evening from the confectionery in their hotel. The saleswoman had put an uneven number of chocolates in the box, explaining that too many of the even numbers were unlucky (four, in particular, was associated with death).
Walt had told Betsy that it was customary to verbally refuse the gift at first, but accept it in the end. So she and Mina began the dance of “you shouldn’t have” and “no, please, it’s just a little something” until, finally, Betsy took the package. When she opened it, she drew in her breath.
Inside was a shiny wooden box decorated on all sides with a mosaic pattern made from inlaid pieces of wood in different shades of brown, red, and black.
“This is gorgeous,” Betsy said. “Can you tell me about it?”
“
It’s a Himitsu-Bako,” Mina said. “A puzzle box. Legend has it that they were first designed for samurai to exchange secret messages.” She paused. “I hope you’re not disappointed. Had I known you like fashion so much, I’d have gotten you something to wear.”
“Stop,” Betsy said, shaking her head. “This is perfect.” She tried to remove the cover, but it seemed to be locked shut.
“You have to do it a certain way. Here, I’ll show you.” Mina walked Betsy through the steps to open the box, first moving this side an inch, then that side, until the cover slid off.
Betsy clapped her hands. “Now, if only I can remember how to do that when you’re not around . . .”
Their fussing over the gift had caught their husbands’ attention, and Walt came over to see.
“I’ve noticed boxes like that in some of the shops,” Walt said. “Beautiful.”
“Probably not like this one.” Mina waved a dismissive hand. “Most of the ones in the stores are mass-produced. Just cheap plastic on top of wood. This one was handmade. It’s one of a kind.”
Betsy ran her hand lightly over the smooth surface of the box, being careful not to leave fingerprints. “It looks like an antique.”
“You’re right. It’s about a hundred years old.” Mina smiled and turned to Walt. “Very good eye, this one, no?”
“Sometimes too good,” Walt said. “She’s very hard to please, but I’d say you’ve done a great job of it. Maybe I should call you next time I’m trying to pick out a present for her. Her birthday is coming up in a couple of months.”
“I’m sure I can think of a few ideas.” Mina gave Betsy a wink.
In the taxi on the way home, Betsy chided Walt for not warning her that their hosts might present them with such an extravagant gift.
“I brought them candy,” she said. “I read somewhere that it’s a good hostess gift. But had I known that they’d be giving us a priceless work of art—an antique!—I’d have searched around for something better.”