Deconstructed(40)
“What are you doing here anyway, Mother?” I asked.
“What do you mean? A mother can’t come see her daughter?”
I made a face. “You never come to the store. You don’t like dusty antiques. I believe that’s what you always say.”
My mother lifted a shoulder. She wore her standard uniform for the week—trim trousers tailored to her specifications, a white Talbots button-down, and a cashmere cardigan. In the summer, she eschewed the cardigan for rolled-up sleeves. She wore my grandmother’s diamonds in lobes revealed by tucking her tawny, shoulder-length bob behind her ears. Elizabeth Arden red stained her plumped lips. High cheekbones, firmed skin, and ladylike makeup completed her look. Oh, and those Roger Vivier buckled shoes with the two-inch chunky heel. “Fine. So I got a call from your husband. About the investment opportunity. I tell you, Catherine, I do not like family members involving me in their schemes. Or whatever that Walker man is dreaming up.”
“Scott called you about an investment?”
“I’m not here to tattle. I just wanted you to understand my stance because I told him no. And I didn’t want you to be upset with me.”
“I’m not upset. I’m a little confused, though. Scott stays away from that sort of thing. He knows a few bankers who got in over their heads on some bad deals. But Donner Walker is one of his old frat buddy’s brothers, and I think he got cornered into introducing him around. I didn’t think Scott was actively involved in a deal or anything.” I also hadn’t known my husband had been cheating on me. Did I really know Scott the way I thought I had?
My husband had always been such a man of integrity, taking pride in his reputation, his ability to serve, his standing in the bank. Scott liked to say the only way he was comfortable was if he squeaked when he walked, which I thought weird, but I knew what he meant. He wore an American flag on his lapel, wrote personal notes on monogrammed stationery, and attended every mayor’s prayer breakfast. He’d groomed himself to be trustworthy, a man with whom people wanted to do business, a man who didn’t screw a tennis coach or ask his mother-in-law to invest in an “opportunity.” My husband had changed . . . or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d always been exactly what he was, and I had just fit the image I wanted of him into my world. The past two weeks had shown me that I had been wrong about him—he wasn’t truthful, steady, or admirable.
“Well, maybe he’s not involved per se, but I am not interested in anything that Jack has not approved.” Jack was Mother’s investment guy who she sometimes slept with, not that I was supposed to know. I had once caught them coming out of a hotel in Bossier, both looking, well, very satisfied and loving toward one another. I had never told her I knew.
I shrugged. “I don’t know why Scott even asked you. I’ll see what’s going on when I talk to him next.”
“Don’t bother. Now, are you going to try on this dress Ruby made? I myself have settled on wearing the Ralph Lauren this year, but if I were younger and bustier, I might arm wrestle you for that dress.” My mother commandeered a small chair and sank into it. Had my mother ever arm wrestled? I couldn’t picture her even attempting it.
So, thing was, I didn’t really want to cram my PMS-bloated body into that tight dress right now, but Ruby looked at me with something I hadn’t seen from her before—hope. “I’m feeling fat today.”
“Oh, pish.” My mother waved her hands. “You need to switch from wine to vodka. And stop using salad dressing.”
“Sure, General.” I carefully took down the dress, admiring the waterfall of fabric. Maybe it was too young for me. It would show a lot of skin, and I may have consumed way too many carbs last week in my effort to comfort myself over losing my marriage. God, why couldn’t I be one of those tragic figures who refused to eat because they were so bereft? Instead I ate an entire hamburger-with-extra-olives pizza from Johnny’s Pizza . . . in one day.
I went to my office because even though it was the place where I had learned of Scott’s infidelity, it felt like my safe place. Cute note cards, my Lilly Pulitzer planner, the stack of detective books, the adorable paisley bulletin board, and an original oil abstract in soft blush, navy, and gold hugged me. I could ignore the marks and scars on the white walls because I knew what that felt like. I had them, too.
The dress fit me, for the most part—Ruby had a good eye—but it was tight in the bust and maybe a smidge tight in my waist, but I managed to zip it without busting the zipper. No mirror in the office, but I loved the swish of the skirt and the way it felt against my skin. When I reemerged in the room with the mirror and my mother (two things that always tell the truth), Ruby assessed me with a practiced eye and nodded.
My mother tilted her head. “It works.”
Ruby hooked a finger in the back of the dress. “I can let it out so you can breathe.”
“Or I can stop eating Rolos out of Julia Kate’s Easter basket hidden in the back of my closet,” I said, turning to look in the mirror.
They were right—it worked. It worked well, and I wasn’t sure that I had ever felt so glamorous, except at maybe my junior prom and my wedding day. The dress played up my assets—my nice boobs, my curvy figure, the sweep of my shoulders (thanks, Gran!), and my trim ankles. Most of Shreveport turned out in understated dresses for any gala, with the exception of Christmas in the Sky, the Shreveport Regional Arts Council fundraiser, which was scintillating and titillating and allowed for some sequins. Otherwise, most events required evening wear to be a tasteful background for Grandmother’s pearls or the jewels hidden during the War between the States. Yes, there were southerners who thought the term Civil War rather distasteful. Lord help us all if we were ever not tasteful, sold the family silver, or wore white shoes after Labor Day. Our grandmothers would turn over in their overpriced caskets.