Well Behaved Wives(36)
Lillian flushed with uneasiness. All this time, she’d never shown an interest in this shopgirl. Saleswoman, she corrected herself mentally. She had seen her as no more than a clerk. “Your girls must be proud of you, and grateful.”
Maryanne chuckled. “Teenagers aren’t known for their gratitude. I think mostly they’re glad I’m not home after school to bother them.”
“I know what you mean. Even when they’re at home, they seem to be in a world of their own.”
Maryanne smiled sympathetically. “One day they’ll understand how I wished I could have been there. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, but ideally—”
“You’d like to be home?”
“I’d like to be home.”
The grass was always greener, as they said. To Lillian, a job that let her contribute financially to the household—and have access to her own money, her own will—seemed wonderful.
She could only admire Maryanne’s determination to provide her daughters with an education. Lillian had always been able to take it for granted that Peter’s salary was more than enough for anything she and the girls needed or wanted, including college. And they had to go to college. Not to get an M.R.S. either.
Lillian draped two silk scarves over her arm as Maryanne emerged from behind the counter. “You made lovely choices for the girls today, but I’m not surprised.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Mrs. Diamond.”
“I’d like it if you called me Lillian.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
Maryanne gave her a shy smile. “Thank you—Lillian.”
They sauntered back through the store, but Lillian abruptly paused in front of a rack of children’s wear and turned to Maryanne. “Can I ask you a question?” Lillian didn’t wait for an answer. “What do you like best about your job? Assuming you really do like it.”
“Nice clients like you.”
“I was not fishing for a compliment; I’d like to know.”
Maryanne shifted her gaze from side to side as if looking for spies or a trap. “I like doing something that I’m skilled at. But more important, I like that because I work, my girls can go to college if they want. With the extra money, we’ve been able to afford tutors when the girls needed them, and that’s how we’ll pay tuition. My job is bigger than its tasks. It can create my daughters’ future.”
Lillian looked at Maryanne with new respect. Her answer was candid, honest, even inspiring. This woman was working with a purpose, and getting her daughters married wasn’t her goal.
“Is it only about your daughters? What about you, Maryanne? Do you enjoy your job?”
Lillian knew the question was forward, but she really wanted to know. Was it a bad thing if Maryanne had been motivated by her children and not personal growth? Now that she was questioning her priorities, Lillian wanted to discover what brought meaning to her own life. Even taking the time to consider that seemed a luxury. Yet it didn’t feel entirely comfortable. It felt like an unwanted gift wrapped in a bow of misgivings.
“I’ve never thought about that before.” Maryanne scrunched her face, perhaps shuffling her additional responses. “Well, I like having something interesting to talk about when I go home every day. No shortage of stories. Nothing inappropriate or private, of course.”
Lillian chuckled. “No explanation needed. My mother worked at Gimbels. She came home with the best stories.” The middle-class excess her mother had described had been hard for Lillian to even imagine then. Nightgowns, buntings, blankets, bloomers, diaper covers, bibs, bonnets, and more, all chosen by customers before the birth and delivered after. Like items brought about by some magic in a fairy tale—not like the reality in their lives, the lives of average, working people.
Years later, Lillian’s layette shopping experience had surpassed anything her mother had described—she’d bought one or more of everything in blue and then in pink. Oh, how she had missed her mother that day. Missed being able to share her own fairy-tale life. Somehow, talking with Maryanne made Lillian think about her mother and remember the good things. Was it just the lack of pretense? The easy conversation? How had she never recognized the parallels before?
Lillian and Maryanne smiled at a kinship neither of them had imagined. Maryanne reached over and straightened the toddler clothes on the rack beside them. Little blue sailor suits with matching wool caps.
“I bet your mother is happy for you,” Maryanne said. “Being on the other side of the counter, so to speak.”
The question ruffled Lillian’s mood. Her mother? Happy for Lillian? Happy about anything? The mother she remembered, the twinkle-eyed Anna Feldman who used to hand her a small wax-paper sack containing chocolate-covered pretzel bits (milk and dark), was long gone. The sack had been full of pieces too broken for the candy-counter girl to display or sell. She blinked back a tear.
“Perfection is overrated,” her mother had said. Did she still remember that as she spent her days staring mindlessly out of the hospital window?
Lillian wished she could recall the truth of her mother’s smile. Whether it was genuine or not. Back then, Lillian had seen only a yummy snack inside the bag, not a metaphor for life. What else about her mother had young Lillian missed?