The Secrets We Kept(49)

* * *



—

We debriefed in the ladies’ room.

“Those clothes!”

“That hair!”

“That handshake!”

Sally’s handshake had been firm. Not like some of the men whose grips crushed our fingers, but enough to make us notice. “Firm, but not too firm,” Norma said. “That’s how the politicians do it.”

“But why’s she here?”

“Who knows.”

“Well, I know they don’t put women like that behind a reception desk,” Norma said. “And if they do, it’s for a reason.”



* * *



—

After work, I took the long route home so I could pass Hecht’s. Their elaborate window displays were my favorite in the city: mannequins dressed for the ski slopes atop a tiny hill of cotton snow in winter, searching for Easter eggs in their prettiest pastel frocks in spring, lounging in their bikinis by a blue cellophane pool in summer.

As I passed, a man with a tape measure in his back pocket was arranging a trio of mannequins dressed as witches behind a black plastic cauldron. I told myself I was just going to pass the window and be on my way. When I went inside, I told myself I was just going to browse. When I started browsing, I told myself I’d just look to see if I could afford anything that didn’t look handmade—something that looked like something Sally Forrester might wear.

I passed my hands over the racks, fingering the silks and linens between my fingers, and ran my hand along a skirt’s perfect stitching. If my mother had been with me, she’d have shown me how machines had cheaply achieved this uniformity and how, over time, the seams would fray, the buttons would fall off, and eventually the ill-informed shopper who’d purchased the overpriced skirt would come to her so she could fix it. She’d have held up a calloused sewing finger and told me there’s no replacement for hard work.

As I pressed a red blouse with a red-and-white paisley scarf under its Peter Pan collar against my chest, a salesgirl asked if I needed help. “Just looking,” I said. Salesgirls always intimidated me, which is why I hardly ever went into department stores in the first place—that, and I never had the money to spend.

“Lovely blouse,” the salesgirl continued. She was dressed in a fit and flare black skirt and white blouse, her bangs shellacked into a high arch above her forehead. “It would look fabulous on you. Like to try it on?” She took the hanger from me before I could respond, and I followed her to the dressing room. She placed the blouse on a hook. “Let me know if you need another size.”

Before undressing, I checked the price tag. I couldn’t afford it, but I stayed in the dressing room for a few minutes to make her think I at least tried it on. I’d tell her red just wasn’t my color. But when I opened the door, I found myself saying, “I’ll take it.”



* * *



—

Mama inundated me with questions when I walked through the door. “Where were you? On a date with Teddy? Has he proposed yet?” Any time Mama brought up Teddy, I felt unnerved.

“I went for a walk.”

“Has he broken up with you? I knew this would happen.”

“Mama! I just wanted to go on a walk.”

“Such a long walk! Always such long walks for you these days. God only knows what you’re up to.”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“No matter. You shouldn’t walk so much. You’re already too skinny. And who has time to walk anyway? I needed your help finishing the beading on Miss Halpern’s prom dress. This is a big opportunity for me to get into the American teen market. I do a dress for Miss Halpern and all her friends see her in it, and then they want one too. Next thing you know, a USA Dresses and More for You dress will be on American Bandstand next to that handsome Richard Clark.”

“Dick Clark?”

“Who?”

I sat at the kitchen table next to her, careful to place my purse under my feet so she wouldn’t see the bit of tissue paper sticking out of the zipper. “Wait,” I said. “I know that dress. Yellow chiffon, right?”

“Not a good color for such a pale girl, but who am I to say?”

“But that dress doesn’t have much beading. Just a little on the straps. You can finish something like that in an hour.” Instead of answering, Mama got up from the table. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

She turned and looked at me, her brow furrowed. “I’m just tired.”



* * *



—

I wore my new red blouse to work the next day, hiding it under an oversized beige sweater before leaving. Mama didn’t see the blouse, although she did comment on the sweater. “That ugly old thing?” she asked. She pretended to look out one of the half windows of our basement apartment. “Is it snowing outside? You’re not going skiing, are you?”

“You’re back to your old self.”

“What other self would I be?”

I kissed her cheek and hurried out.

Sweating, I waited until I reached the bus stop before taking the sweater off. I held my coat between my thighs and wiggled out of it. A woman passing with her two children dressed in Catholic school uniforms gave me a look. It wasn’t until I was on the bus that I realized my blouse was misbuttoned and a portion of my bra was exposed.