Second First Impressions

by Sally Thorne

  I’ve heard a variation of this statement from many, many candidates. Resident Protection Shields Up. I walk off. “This way.”

  I’m learning that some guys can make you intensely aware of their . . . maleness. I feel like I’m being followed by a T. rex. The pavers make audible granite squeaks underneath his boots. His shadow stretches out in front of us, eclipsing mine. And I don’t know how it’s possible to feel someone’s interest, but the hair tie holding my bun feels loose and my tights roll down my waist a few inches.

  In his man’s voice, all deep and husky, he asks, “Can I ask about my duties?”

  “I think it’d be best if you just brought them up in the interview,” I say, sidestepping both the question and a tortoise. “The Parlonis will be your bosses, not me.”

  “But I’d do anything you asked me to.” I don’t know why, but the way he says it flusters the absolute hell out of me. When I don’t reply, he continues in his normal voice, “You’re not going to even give me a clue of what’s coming.”

  “I want to see how you work under pressure.”

  He lengthens his stride to fall into step beside me. “Don’t worry. My specialty is walking into rooms and making people love me.”

  “And do you have a hundred percent success rate?” I expect a grin and an outrageous claim in return, but instead he just looks rattled. I see that his confident mask has slipped. Maybe he’s thinking about his father.

  He notices my attention. “You do fine under pressure, too. I know it must have been stressful to have Dad barging in.”

  I straighten up my clothes before I ring the Parlonis’ doorbell. “Your dad’s asking your sister Rose to conduct a site review.”

  “Oh man, I’m sorry. Pack your bags.” He draws in a deep breath and blows it out, and I know for sure he’s nervous. He’s just a good actor.

  The door opens, and it’s Aggie, natty in a pewter pantsuit. Only armchairs and wealthy old women can pull off that kind of thick jacquard fabric. “Renata’s selecting a new costume. Hello, young man.”

  I take charge of the introduction. “Theodore Prescott, meet Agatha Parloni.”

  “Teddy,” he amends with a smile. They shake hands in a brisk, business-like way. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Parloni.”

  “Call me Aggie. This way, young man. Are you going to sit in, Ruthie?” She’s noticed my notepad.

  “I will, if that’s okay.” I trail along behind them. Around us, the house is in slight disarray. There’s a four-foot stack of garments in their dry-cleaning bags across the back of the couch. The bench is covered in mugs again. Only last night I stacked their dishwasher, fuming that I paid twenty dollars to be laughed at by a guy. The memory galvanizes me. I am not helping him out from this point forward.

  “A bit untidy,” Aggie says with a weary sigh. “Did you have any trouble finding Providence?”

  “No. And Ruthie was very kind to walk me up.”

  “That’s Ruthie,” Aggie says, a faint smile on her lips. Little does she know I’m dreaming of some ritual humiliation. “So kind.”

  “Kind of uptight,” Renata deadpans from behind us. What a treat to get a free master class in comic timing. She walks toward us. A bonus fashion show.

  Teddy is wonderstruck. “So green.”

  It’s an entirely green ensemble. She’s wearing very wide pants, a silk blouse, a bejeweled fanny pack, and a visor that has MONEY printed across the brim. Her little flat shoes sparkle. To top it off, she’s got on the emerald-green wig she calls “the Pisces.” She is wearing makeup that could be seen from the back row of a Broadway theater. Blending makeup is for “young people with time on their hands.”

  If she’s gratified by Teddy’s jaw-on-the-floor reaction, Renata doesn’t show it. Instead, she strolls around him like he’s a fridge that has just been delivered. “What make and model is this?”

  Aggie sighs at her dramatics. “Teddy Prescott, this is Renata Parloni.”

  “Unfurl that hair, Rapunzel,” Renata orders Teddy, and there’s a genuine shampoo-ad gloss-and-tousle moment when he does. “What a wig that would make. Would you consider selling that to me?”

  “Sorry. Without it, I’m nothing.”

  Renata replies, “Worth a try. Do you ever cut it?”

  “My sister Daisy trims it at Christmastime, out on the back patio. She’s the only one I trust. The others would shave me bald.” He grasps it now for comfort.

  Renata will not give up easily. “I’d pay top dollar. Think it over.”

  Aggie clears her throat. As always, things are off to a weird start. “Let’s sit in the sunroom.”

  “My least favorite room,” Renata replies dourly, positioning herself out of the pool of warm yellow light. “If I had my way, we would have the shutters closed permanently.”

  “But you don’t have your way,” Aggie replies mildly, and I realize I’ve missed something in their dynamic. Renata is loud as a foghorn and half as subtle, but Aggie is the boss. “Take a seat,” she encourages, and we do.

  “Teddy Prescott, your first task is to ensure sunlight never again touches my skin. You two don’t know what you have: SKIN.” Renata makes both Teddy and me jump in our seats. We look down at ourselves. She intones like a creep, “Nice young skin.”

  Teddy asks, “Am I going to end up in the bottom of a well, applying lotion to myself?”

  “What you do in your spare time is none of my business,” Renata advises him. “Oh, let’s take a look.” She means the tattoos across his knuckles. “GIVE and TAKE. Are you left- or right-handed?”

  “Left.”

  “So you admit you take more than you give.” Renata is locking into a mode I have seen many times before: a serpentine argument based on the applicant’s self-perception. We barely have sixty seconds on the clock.

  “Depends on who I’m with.”

  “Elaborate,” Renata instructs crisply.

  “If I’m down in the well, alone with the lotion, then yes. If I’m not alone, then I definitely mix it up.” Those multicolor eyes flick back to me now, maybe checking how I’m handling this risqué line of reply. He sees I’m amused, and now those eyes are sparkling.

  “One point to Teddy,” Aggie umpires.

  “What a blank canvas we’ve got here.” Renata reaches over and takes my wrist, unbuttoning my cuff and pushing up my sleeve. “We could take her to get a tattoo. I’ll pay. What should she get? I know, a big Virgin Mary.” She’s shockingly strong and I inhale as her nails begin to press.

  “Ow,” I protest.

  For the first time, Teddy looks truly uncomfortable. “That’s the first interview question? What tattoo would I, a licensed tattoo artist, give Ruthie? Whatever she asked for. Let her go, please.” His voice has dipped down into that particular register men use when they want their way, now. We three women suddenly remember what he is.

  Renata releases my arm, which is now marked with crescent nail indentations. She makes long eye contact with Aggie, who remains impassive. They conduct a wordless communication. Then Renata says to me, “We’re going to have to invent a new category, aren’t we, Ruthie?” This is her apology.

  “What are some of your common categories?” Teddy asks, like he is not dealing with a strange person. “Maybe I can tell you which one I fit into.”

  Renata begins ticking off on her fingers. “Country Bumpkin. Little Boy Lost. Too Dumb to Live. Fake Grandson—they’re the ones hoping to inherit.”

  Aggie adds, “Environmental Man—no deodorant.”

  “I wear deodorant.”

  “Another point to Teddy. I think sometimes I still get a whiff of Matthew,” Aggie says. “And it’s been years.”

  I try to join in. “Tortured Artist?” If these are his designs, he’s talented.

  “I’m feeling mildly tortured right about now,” Teddy agrees.

  Renata looks out the window like she’s remembering someone special. “My favorites have been Insomniac Potheads. Ones who can get me a good supply, and we si
t up all night talking about which celebrity is going to die next.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” I must be getting mellow. It’s the late-afternoon sun shining through onto my back.

  “When you’re this old, weed and takeout is all you have left to live for. And love, of course,” Renata says, patting her sister’s hand. “Ah, je suis très romantique . . . Quick. Give me a compliment.” That’s a test lobbed at Teddy.

  Teddy replies, “Your house is nice.” The view from this room is lovely: Manicured lawns roll up to an English box hedge. Beyond that, there is a birdbath and a stooped wisteria.

  Renata scoffs. “Boring attempt, minus a point. If I wasn’t a million years old, I’d be back in my old loft in Tribeca.” Not this song again. Her eyes narrow dangerously. “I meant a compliment for me.”

  Teddy steps up to the plate. He squints his eyes against the sunlight. He lifts his bat. “You are,” Teddy says with emphasis and absolute sincerity, “the best-dressed person I have ever met.”

  The crowd leaps to their feet. We shade our eyes. He knocks it clean out of the park. That compliment is denting the windshield of a bus two suburbs over.

  “Oh,” Renata says, looking down at herself. “You mean this outfit?” A smile is on her mouth and she strokes a hand down her rail-thin thigh as if it were a treasured pet. “This old pair of Dior cruise collection 2016 palazzo pants? This vintage Balenciaga blouse? He’s pretty good, that’s ten points,” she says offhand to Aggie, who is starting to doze in the warm room.

  He doesn’t gloat. “What’s the job involve?”

  Renata asks, “Can you drive? That’s all I care about. One time, a boy told us he didn’t drive because of the carbon footprint. I put a footprint on his ass.”

  Teddy grins, and it’s a lovely thing. “I ride a motorbike. But I’d love to take your Rolls-Royce out for a spin.”

  Aggie rouses herself from her sleepy sunlit dozing. “Tell us more about yourself.” At the exact moment, Renata says, “How tall are you?” Why are elderly women obsessed with knowing how tall young men are?

  “I’m twenty-seven. I’m six four. Like I said, I’m a tattoo artist, but I’ve also been a delivery driver.”

  Aggie considers this. “Why are you not working in your chosen field?”

  “I might try to get some freelance work. At night, so it won’t interfere.”

  “We are very demanding,” Renata interrupts. “I want you always available to pick things up or drive us around. There’s a lot of dry-cleaning. It’s an easy job, I don’t know why young men have such a hard time with it. Get us flowers. Pizza. Restaurant reservations. Hmmm, what else?” Renata looks to me.

  “Maintenance, cleaning, laundry, spontaneous compliments.” It’s an expansive role, based around swallowing one’s rage and pride. “Lots of running out for snacks and helping them order things online.”

  “I can cook a bit too,” Teddy says. He keeps looking to me. Is he expecting me to ask something? Am I his safety blanket? I shield my page from him on the side of the table and write down:

  Tattoo artist/Delivery driver

  27 yo, 6'4", That Hair

  Can cook; sincerely rendered compliment

  I’ve also been keeping track of the points allocated and subtracted. Melanie can’t be faulted for thinking I expected meeting notes to be taken. Add Kind of uptight to my dating profile.

  I put my hand into my hair, checking for unwinding strands. I bite back a yawn. I smush my lips around to redistribute my lip balm. Why is everything silent? I look up. Teddy is still looking at me. The sisters are looking at Teddy looking at me.

  Aggie is smiling. “Doesn’t she look so pretty sitting in that sunbeam?” Teddy jerks his eyes from me in surprise. So that’s what it feels like to be visible for a few long moments. Like touching a live wire.

  Renata adds, “There is an expression. Still waters run deep. Do you know what that means?”

  “I do now,” he replies, again with that sincerity. “I really think I do.”

  Just as I begin to get hot with embarrassment, Aggie says, “I take it that this job will be a stepping-stone, back to tattoos.” She is the Patron Saint of Merciful Subject Changes. I will light a candle for her tonight.

  “One of my friends is setting up a second tattoo studio in Fairchild and I want to buy in. I’d manage that location. But I need the money by Christmas or he’ll sell the share to someone else.” His eyes come back to me like a reflex, and his next words are humble. “At least, that’s the plan.”

  I know his father seemed to doubt his sincerity in pursuing this, but let’s get real. This is a person who could sell ice in a snowstorm. If he focused his charm and effort, he could have anything he wanted. Before Renata can shoot him down, because she does like taking potshots at simple goals and dreams, I reply: “Well, of course you’ll do it, Teddy.”

  He’s surprised by how certain I sound.

  “I’ve never been to Fairchild,” Aggie says. “How far away is that?” We are all already trying to calculate if he’ll be gone-forever gone.

  He confirms that he pretty much will. “Five hours away. It’s a really nice town. Kind of like here, actually. But best of all, there’s no studios there. I researched it for my business case. There’s a community college campus and a military training base there, and they have to drive hours to get work done on their tattoos.” Sounds like he’s got a bigger stake in this than he first let on. My perception of him shifts a little.

  “Why don’t you just ask Daddy to stump up the cash?” Renata asks with saccharine sweetness. It’s actually the question I wish I could ask. “Get an advance on that inheritance. Cash in, sonny boy.”

  “I’m fairly sure there’s no inheritance.”

  Renata asks, “Are you the only son?” Teddy nods, but he’s very uncomfortable. I’m just about to interject when Renata keeps going. “You’re probably hitting the jackpot eventually.”

  “I have four sisters ahead in the queue. Anyway, I don’t take money from him. And he doesn’t give money to me. It’s an arrangement involving no money.”

  Aggie says, “So, Teddy will have his studio. Do you have a goal, Ruthie?”

  The question is asked in that slow kind way that people ask kindergartners what they want to be when they grow up. As a kid, I had an improvised veterinarian uniform made out of my father’s old white shirts, plus a toy ginger-striped cat with bald front legs from my rebandaging. Aggie’s just being polite, and this interview is not about me, but I find I want to answer anyway.

  “I’m hopefully going to—” I’m about to explain about Sylvia’s retirement and my more realistic office manager aspirations when Renata speaks right over the top of me like I don’t exist.

  “Now, time for the practical component of your interview.”

  “Okay,” Teddy says, looking reflexively to me.

  Renata snaps, “You’re on your own. No clues, no hints. This is why young men have always infuriated me. They stopgap their inadequacies with competent young women.” She’s getting very angry now. “Early in our careers, we were like donkeys that the men in our offices loaded up with work. No more, never again. You’re the donkey now.”

  “Of course. Sorry.” He is suitably chastened. “Hee-haw.”

  “Here is three hundred dollars. Go and buy me a white shirt. Let’s see how clever you are, little donkey. You have one hour, starting now.” The money is slapped down. “Ruthie, sixty minutes, if you please.”

  “She hasn’t done this one in a long time,” Aggie says to me. I go to their oven and set a timer. Just looking at how late we are in the afternoon, I don’t think he’s going to make it. Panic and glee are rising inside me.

  If Teddy is surprised by this task, he hides it well. “Am I allowed to ask any questions about what sort of shirt?” He’s looking at the timer and setting his own on his phone.

  Aggie shakes her head at his attempt. “Of course not, young man. Do your best.” Her eyes gleam with dee
p amusement, and for a split second I think she’s every bit the puppeteer that her sister is. “All you can do is your best.”

  He looks outside across the manicured lawns. His father technically owns everything framed outside that window. It’s a degrading task for someone with the surname Prescott. He’s going to tell her to shove it. He’ll find another job.

  “Easy,” he says. As his running footsteps depart, Renata lets out a howl of pure elation and we all grin at one another. It is luscious to make a young man run for his life. And just like that, no matter what he brings back, I am absolutely certain that Teddy got the job.

  Chapter Six

  No one would guess my penchant for evening nudity by looking at me in my daytime wool knits.

  My usual evening routine is to close all the drapes, take off my clothes, and walk around my cottage for a few minutes before my bath. It didn’t start in any kind of deviant way. Six months after I moved into this cottage, I had to walk out naked into the living room to find a towel in the laundry basket. It was the exact moment that I realized I have my own house and can do whatever I want, and now I’m addicted to that air sensation all over. But for however long Teddy hangs around here, I’m going to have to remain buttoned up.

  It’s amazing how life works. You can wake up in your current existence and then go to bed with everything changed.

  After a kitchen fire in the mid-1980s, this large cottage was converted into a dual occupancy dwelling, with a wall put right down the middle. I can hear my new neighbor shuffling around in his new home. There’s a sneeze, a banging cupboard door, a barked expletive, gentle fake sobbing.

  I am gallantly committed to keeping to my routine. I’ll do the same thing I do every night, just with this new shimmer in my stomach. I preheat the oven. I go into the bathroom and light the row of candles on the back ledge. I drop in a blob of bubble bath and release my hair from its bun prison.

  I’m exhausted from the email I sent to Sylvia. It was an impossible tone to achieve: Hi, how are you mixed with don’t panic but and a smattering of I have a bad feeling. A three-paragraph email took me almost an hour of redrafting and arguing with myself. I’ve never needed a bath more. I put one hand on the top button of my blouse and there’s a tap on the door.