by Nina Solomon
Chloe pushed the shopping cart to the dressing room and motioned for Grace to get in line. The woman ahead of her had so much in her cart that it looked like she was buying inventory to open her own vintage store. When it was Grace’s turn, the attendant handing out the numbers didn’t flinch at the abundance of clothes she was taking into what they called the dressing room—far too loose of a term for the sheer lack of space or privacy it offered. Basically, it was a circular area surrounded by a shower curtain. Grace hung her clothes on hooks that were originally hot-and-cold water faucets and looked down to make sure she wasn’t stepping on a drain. Chloe stood outside, handing her clothes from the cart.
“Put this camisole on under the cardigan, and then try on the gray pinstripes. I want to see them on you, so come out,” she instructed. “And don’t forget the motorcycle boots.”
When Grace emerged, she was not wearing a single item of clothing she had come in with, except her black gold-toe socks, which were Laz’s, and her underwear. Chloe clapped her hands when she saw Grace, and immediately directed her to a full-length mirror that was leaning against the wall. She stood behind Grace and adjusted the collar on the leopard coat.
For the first time in years, Grace recognized herself. She liked what she saw—from the slouchy pants to the sturdy boots, and even the worn-in leopard coat. She felt awake, her eyes bright and her face glowing, without a stitch of makeup.
“You’re back,” Chloe said.
“I didn’t know I’d been gone.”
“Not gone—just in hiding,” Chloe answered. “Come on, let’s pay and then go get your stuff from the hotel.”
“What about my clothes, the ones I came in with?” Grace asked, looking at her pink princess coat draped over a plastic chair.
“Leave them. They belong to someone else anyway.”
26
MAMBO NIGHT
Grace listened as the pilot informed the passengers that because of dense fog and heavy traffic flying into La Guardia that they would be delayed for at least another hour. She was dressed head to toe in her new vestments, her leopard coat occupying the seat next to her like a wild animal escaped from captivity. The plane circled the airport in a nauseating figure eight. The irony was not lost on Grace, for whom another hour in a holding pattern would hardly make a difference.
When she finally arrived at home, she found a note from Griffin taped to the side of the orchid that she’d rescued from Laz’s apartment. She read the letter, noting how similar Griffin’s handwriting was to Laz’s.
I will always remember how you let me in and made me feel welcome. My father’s lucky to have you. I’ve decided to go back to Maryland. I can’t wait forever for something that might never happen. It’s time to get back to my life. Thank you for all your kindness. Griffin.
She stopped and took a deep breath, then folded the letter. She hadn’t been honest with him and felt she deserved no thanks. She wasn’t even sure if she had a life to get back to, and this kid knew that his was still waiting for him to return.
The only other sign that Griffin had been there was a stack of plastic containers that had been rinsed out and placed in the kitchen sink. Grace filled the sink with warm soapy water, knowing that Francine expected her containers to be returned in the exact condition that they’d been given, and she suspected the sauce might take some time to dissolve.
She opened the freezer to find that Griffin had defrosted and consumed more than a year’s worth of sweet-and-sour meatballs and a dozen bagels in a mere two-day span. The freezer was now empty, except for the spinach lasagna, the birthday blinis, a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda, and two ice trays that Grace didn’t even remember having bought.
There were two messages from her parents on the answering machine, confirming Scrabble night. Best wishes to the birthday girl. And bring the blinis, if you still have them. We’re doing a vodka tasting. With Francine in Paris and Grace having missed celebrating her birthday with her parents, Grace felt obliged to go. She called to report the state of the blinis and to let her parents know that she had something she needed to discuss with them. She feared that if she didn’t tell them immediately, she might lose her resolve.
She called the credit card company and was relieved to find that her charge card was no longer frozen, although the limit on her account had been readjusted. She left her suitcase to unpack later, stuffing Laz’s filled duffel bag into the back of the hall closet. Then, still wearing her new outfit from Chicago, she grabbed her purse and the blinis and went downstairs to get a taxi.
When Grace arrived at her parents’ building, she saw that it was draped with the same black construction netting that covered Laz’s old building. Huge Dumpsters blocked the driveway, and she was directed to the service entrance by the doorman.
Milton and Bert were sitting at the kitchen table when Grace walked in. Bert had brought over an assortment of frozen delicacies—pierogi, caviar, as well as a bottle of Ketel One vodka. He’d already poured himself a glass. Grace opened the box of frozen blinis and put them on the kitchen table. Encrusted with a thick layer of ice, they looked more like sand-covered jellyfish than something edible. Grace’s father rose and, standing on tiptoe, kissed her on the top of her head.
“Trip okay?” he asked.
“It was fine,” she answered, unbuttoning her leopard coat.
“Laz working?” he asked, as if they’d rehearsed this exchange.
“Yes. He sends his best.”
“You’ve got a good one, there. Don’t let him go.” She knew the next line by heart, but just couldn’t manage to get the words out this time.
Her mother entered the kitchen and stood staring at Grace, dumbfounded. “What on earth are you wearing?” she said finally. Grace’s father looked up.
“Just my usual,” he answered.
“Not you, Milton. Grace.”
“She looks the same to me. Maybe a little taller,” her father said, still under the misguided impression that he stood five feet ten and a half.
“It must be the boots, Dad,” Grace said, feeling herself slouching slightly. She touched the beadwork on her cardigan sweater. “Chloe picked out some new things for me while I was in Chicago.” Her mother approached her, touching the leopard coat with trepidation.
“Secondhand,” she determined. “And more than gently used. Well, it’s lucky I didn’t send that box of odds and ends to Goodwill yet. Oh, and I picked up a pashmina for you on sale at Filenes’s to wear to Mambo Night.”
“Thanks, Mom, but I already have something to wear,” Grace said, shrugging off her coat as well as her mother’s comments. “I noticed they’re doing some work on the building,” she said, hoping to change the subject.
“Keep your voice down,” her mother said in a hushed tone. She pulled Grace aside and looked to make sure Milton was sufficiently occupied. “They’re refacing the building,” her mother whispered, “replacing the blue bricks. Daddy will be beside himself when he finds out—he thinks they’re just sandblasting.”
Grace knew not to push any further. It was an unspoken rule in her family that keeping people in the dark for as long as possible was a gesture of love and devotion, not deceit. Her mother would no doubt keep this from Milton until the last blue brick had been removed. But, short of giving him a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses, she could not keep him in this state of innocence forever. In a few months’ time, he would begin to notice that, brick by brick, his beloved blue building was being transformed into something more subdued and in keeping with the upscale neighborhood in which they lived. If he couldn’t take this, how could Grace expect him to take the news of Laz’s disappearance? The urge to protect him was strong.
“What’s all the whispering?” Bert asked, coming up behind them with a mouthful of caviar.
“Nothing,” Grace covered. “Did Francine get off all right?”
“Oh, yes, fine, fine. Except she took enough luggage for an around-the-world tour—almost threw my hip out again. She sai
d her meatballs made quite a hit. So, what were you two girls talking about?”
“I was just telling Grace that we’re going to see Miss Julie on Friday night.”
Bert looked blankly from Grace to her mother. Grace was impressed. Maybe it was from her mother that Grace had inherited her skills at deception.
“Miss who?” Bert asked.
“We have season tickets,” Milton chimed in.
“Strindberg,” her mother added.
“He’s Swedish,” Grace’s father said, in explanation. Her father always did research before attending a cultural event, reading the scores before attending operas or looking up artists on the Internet before seeing an exhibit. “A disciple of Schopenhauer and a notorious misogynist.”
“A misogynist, really?” Bert piped up, as if elated that he was finally able to make a contribution to the conversation. “What kind? Deep tissue or craniosacral?”
Paulette gave Bert a quizzical look. Bert let out a deep sigh when his comment was dismissed and took a sip of his drink. Grace felt a genuine tenderness toward Bert, on whom Francine’s absence was clearly taking its toll.
“What was it you wanted to talk to us about, dear?” her mother asked, popping the blinis into the microwave. Grace looked at her father, who was occupied so contentedly at the table with a new gadget that she felt her newfound resolve swiftly fading. Maybe in a day or two, when he’d come to terms with the fate of his beloved blue building. Surely it could wait.
“I was just thinking,” Grace said, noticing a few scuff marks that her motorcycle boots had left on her mother’s vinyl flooring, “it’s been a long time since you’ve been over. Why don’t you and Dad come for dinner Tuesday? I can make a pot of chili.”
“You mean the vegetarian one from The Moosewood Cookbook?” her mother asked.
“Yes. The one I made for Laz’s birthday last year.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll bring the entrée.”
“That is the entrée,” Grace said.
“But you know how much Laz loves my veal roast with the wild rice stuffing.”
“Laz won’t be there. He has to give a talk in Pittsburgh.”
“He can eat it when he gets home. He’ll need some protein.” Grace noticed that she was beginning to resent her mother’s unending doting on Laz. The last thing she wanted was to start filling up the freezer again with things she couldn’t eat, now that it had been emptied.
“Tuesday’s out,” Bert said. “Remember? It’s Mambo Night. Must have just slipped your mind, I guess.”
“We could make it a late supper,” Grace suggested, hoping to allay his fears, but in truth, she’d blocked it out altogether. “After Mambo Night.” Nothing short of an act of God could get her out of the Hadassah dance at this point.
“Well, how about we pop over for a quick cannoli from Café La Fortuna?” Grace’s father suggested.
“Milton, you know the doctor told you to cut down on saturated fats.”
“I can have a taste,” he said. “Just a bite. I’ll eat the part with the air.”
“How’s ten?” Grace asked, looking at Bert for approval. She didn’t want him to feel slighted. He nodded, closing his eyes and shaking his head resignedly, as if having just given in to a tough all-night negotiation.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” her mother said.
GRACE THOUGHT OF nothing else over the next two days but how to break the news about Laz to her parents. She didn’t know which would be harder—telling them or watching their reaction. If only she didn’t have to actually be there. It could go two possible ways.
In the first scenario, after they recovered from the initial shock, her parents would assume total responsibility. In some convoluted way, they would recast the events until the entire thing was their fault. Her father, unable to take another bite of his cannoli, would then walk toward the window, thrust his hands deep into his pockets as if they might contain the solution and not just a crumpled shopping list and a few quarters, and gaze out over the park, at a loss for words. Grace’s mother, growing flushed and increasingly frenetic, would spend several minutes deliberating over whether to wrap up the leftovers or do the dishes first. Her father would then notice the state of the Duro-Lites and proceed to disengage the dimmer switch and rewire the circuit that connected to the Christmas tree, after a great fuss about the possibility of being electrocuted. Then, they would all collapse into the sectional couch and put on The Charlie Rose Show.
The other, more likely scenario involved her parents coming over for cannolis, and Grace not saying a single word.
PERHAPS IT WAS the salty beluga caviar that her parents had picked up at Costco and Grace had indulgently eaten that caused her hands to retain water. Even two days later, Grace’s fingers were swollen and her engagement ring and wedding band were uncomfortably tight. Edema, her father always called it, pumping his fingers and waving his hands in the air after he’d been to a Chinese restaurant, even though he had specified no MSG. Grace removed her rings and dropped them into a small jar, which she filled with sudsing ammonia and water. She gave the jar a shake and watched the glint of diamonds, sapphires, and bubbles swirling around. She turned it upside down. The rings made a hollow tinny sound as they hit the lid.
She found Laz’s wedding band right where he’d left it, behind the can of shaving cream in the medicine cabinet. Strangely, the can felt almost empty, even though no one had used it recently, as if in the intervening weeks its contents had just dematerialized. Grace slipped his ring on her finger, imagining the configuration of Laz’s knuckles, the indentations and bends in his fingers. She took it off and held it up to the light. The ring all but disappeared as she squinted through it, just a thin circle that from a certain angle was barely detectable.
The more she looked at it, the more she began to see the ring as nothing more than a piece of soldered metal badly in need of cleaning. She tried to rekindle her faith in its powers, but instead, the longer she held it, the more diminished it became. She dropped it into the jar of ammonia with her ring and gave the jar another quick shake, hoping to renew some of its former luster. A marital snow globe. The rings settled in the jar with distance between them, like two caged animals.
It was getting late. Grace rummaged through her closet, looking for something to wear to the Hadassah dance. She found a low-cut red dress and a pair of strappy sandals she’d bought before she met Laz. The one time she wore the outfit, Laz told her she looked like a contestant in the Miss America pageant. She hadn’t known how to take the comment at the time, so she had relegated the dress to the back of the closet in case she needed it for a costume party. This seemed an appropriate occasion.
In a last-ditch effort to distract herself from the inevitable pain of telling her parents the truth, she prepared and fussed over a plate of brandied figs on rice crackers. It was amazing how long it took to get the figs to look just right—a task that could have expanded indefinitely, if only she’d actually had the luxury of time. She knew Bert would not appreciate her being late. She covered the plate with plastic wrap, even though the platter was still sorely lacking in aesthetic value. She was about to head out the door when the phone rang.
“Grace? Bert, here.” He didn’t sound quite like himself.
“Is everything all right?” Grace asked.”
I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, but I threw my hip out, and I’m just in no shape for Mambo Night. You should have seen the cortisone shot they gave me. Francine could skewer a horse with the needle they used.” Grace tried to conceal her delight at this turn of events.
“Well, there’s always next year,” she assured him.
“I know how much you were looking forward to it.”
“Don’t give it another thought. I’ll find something to do. Just take care of that hip.”
Grace hung up the phone and was on her way into the bedroom to change when she caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror. She walked toward the mirror, lifting the
scalloped hem of the skirt a bit, revealing her black fishnet stockings. She had a vague memory of learning to samba at the Barclay School, where she had snapped a pair of castanets in her hands and stamped her feet on the polished floor.
She hadn’t danced in ages, but now, all dressed up with nowhere to go, she suddenly felt the urge. She found a Latin music compilation CD that she and Laz had won as a door prize at some charity event, and put it on.
The music was loud and the beat was infectious. Before Grace knew it, she was not only mamboing around the room, she was twirling and shimmying like a Brazilian showgirl. She didn’t know what had come over her. All along, she’d been dreading the evening, and here she was having a private Mambo Night by herself. She kicked her leg high in the air, nearly knocking over a standing lamp and almost losing her balance, but it didn’t stop her. She felt flushed and unencumbered—she could have danced for hours—until reality once again descended upon her. Her parents were due in less than an hour.
She sat down on the window seat, clutching her knees to her chest, and pictured her parents at home getting ready—her mother telling her father to wear his ecru pullover with the burgundy tie, her father calling down for the car to pick up the cannolis he wasn’t even permitted to eat. Grace felt herself faltering. She closed her eyes and thought about the horoscope that Kane had given her for her birthday: Make a wish. Open your eyes. Did it come true?
As she tried to formulate her wish, she found her mind wandering off as if in an enchanted forest. The more she tried to bring herself back, the more her mind went around another bend. She found herself wishing for things that made no sense—the taste of pure dark chocolate, a wisp of lilac, untrodden snow, a lump of soft clay, a stretch of silence without fear—all things with no definite beginning or end. Strange wishes. There were none about Laz coming home and their life picking up where it had left off.
She made one last attempt to pinpoint and crystallize her wish. She concentrated. Did it come true? She opened her eyes. Kane was standing before her. She got up and turned off the music.