I thought that I was destined for higher things. Really, looking back on it now, I don't know why I thought that, but I did. I'm not even sure what I meant by "higher things," even. A hat? That would have been higher.
I know I didn't expect to never fit. I mean, I never fit ANYBODY. I must have been passed on to ten women, maybe twelve ... and nobody was happy. I was too baggy in the thighs on one; too loose in the waist on another; indistinguishable from a sausage casing on the third. Too short, too long, too liable to ride up in embarrassing ways: if I could be uncomfortable, I was. It's not that I meant to; I really didn't. It's just what I was.
The worst part, though, was what they called me. Did you know that there are people in this world who use the word "pants" to mean something is ludicrously terrible? "That film was utter pants." "Slacks" is also just plain awful. Why "slacks"? Why not "sharps"? "I think I'll put on a pair of slacks." You might as well say "I think I'll go shoot myself in the foot." Pantaloons? Loony. Knickers? What a horse does. Britches? "You betchure." Breeches? Once more into the breeches, my friends. Trousers? You've got to be kidding me. TROOOOOOW-zers. Just say it a few times, you'll see. I prefer "nether garment" myself, but, of course, nobody asked me. Hardly anyone even tried me on more than once, so we didn't get to the "what should I call you" stage.
I haven't given up hope, though. Somebody picked me up in a thrift store (I have sunk so low, I admit it) the other day. When she stopped laughing, she held me up to her friend. "I think I can do something with this," she said.
"What, violate non-proliferation agreements?" (Her friend was holding a chartreuse batwing sweater, so I don't know where she found room to talk.)
"No -- what if I did that jeans-to-skirt thing?"
Her friend stopped, considering. "Well, that COULD be cute ... and if not, there's always turning it into a tote bag. Your mom would love it."
So that's what I'm waiting for now. To be a tote bag. Or maybe (oh please!) a skirt. Being a skirt wouldn't be completely pants, would it?
Remember the 2008 charity drive? Doesn't it seem a million years ago? It ended January 6, and according to the widget, we raised $1250 for Books Through Bars! Which is fantastic, given how completely horrible the economic news has been ...
And I did promise that I would name a character in my forthcoming novel, The Secret Lives of Dresses (due out from Grand Central AND Hodder in 2010! And in Dutch and German sometime after that!) after one of the generous donors, and ... the winner is ... Maureen Boyle!
This character, as far as I know now, sports a Bettie Page haircut, fixes motorcycles, knits, and is studying HVAC. (All this is subject to change before publication.)
If you'd like to know my randomizing methodology, it's this -- I dumped all the email addresses into an Excel file, assigned them all random numbers using Excel's RAND function, and then sorted on that number. Maureen came out on top!
I want to thank all of you who contributed to this year's fundraiser ... the money we raised will go towards books for women prisoners in particular.
If you want to be more involved with books for prisoners, Books Through Bars has set up this cool interactive map of programs in the US!
If you've been a reader of this blog, you probably know about the Secret Lives of Dresses series. (If you don't know about them, the links are over there in the sidebar, on the right.)
And you probably also know that, for the last couple years, I've been lucky enough to be able to raise money for some great charities by offering to write new "Secret Lives" vignettes if we reach our donation goal. This year, I hope we can raise $1500 for Books Through Bars, a charity in Philadelphia that provides books, especially dictionaries, to prisoners. They are working towards starting a program in a nearby women's prison, and our donations would go towards that effort.
If we make our goal, I have a new prize this year. You see, there's going to be a "Secret Lives of Dresses" book (just like many of you have asked for!) sometime in 2010, from Grand Central Publishing in the US and Hodder in the UK. And guess what? It's a novel! A novel that I haven't exactly finished yet, so I have room to rename a character! If you donate to this charity drive and email me a copy of your receipt (email is erin at dressaday dot com), I will choose one name from all the donors and name a character in the novel after him or her. (Yep, seriously.)
I don't care if you give a dollar or a hundred dollars (although obviously, I'd prefer you give a hundred dollars, if you can ...). But if you give anything at all, you have a chance to be a character (or at least a character's name) in the "Secret Lives of Dresses" novel. In addition, my wonderful editor at 5 Spot/Grand Central, Caryn Karmatz-Ruby, has offered to send me a box of their fantastic books to give as prizes for some runners-up (whom I'll also select randomly from all donors) ...
So, what are you waiting for? Scroll back up and click the "donate" button, and help a woman in prison educate herself so that, when she is released, she never has to go back.
The Donate For Good site accepts PayPal and credit cards; please put "DressaDay" in the "Designation" box so that Books Through Bars can make sure that our donations go to their women's program.
She was sitting on a gunmetal-gray velvet pouffe, feeling uncomfortable. It wasn't my fault; I'm very comfortable. I know every dress says she's comfortable, but I really am.
The waiter had already come by twice, but she hadn't touched her champagne. I think she only took it to keep them from asking her if she wanted any.
I knew something had happened when I felt myself tighten; she'd taken a deep breath. She didn't let it out for a long time. She stared into the bottom of the glass.
A shadow loomed over us, and a light voice said "Kathy! You, here?"
He wasn't very tall, and he wasn't very young, but he wasn't old, either. In brighter light I bet you'd see gray in his hair. His evening dress was immaculate, but it looked as if he wore it every day, like he put it on right after breakfast. It was tailored to hide a little bit of a belly, I thought.
He sank down beside her. A waiter immediately appeared, and he took a glass. I could feel him staring; it felt like being next to a hot radiator.
"You look perfectly elegant," he said.
"It'd be a nicer compliment if you didn't sound so surprised," she answered. She took her first sip from the glass.
"Well, I usually see you in dungarees and an old shirt. Or a boiler suit. Although I must admit the boiler suit can be pretty cute."
"That's what I paint in. This is what I -- " she waved the glass around " -- whatever this is -- in."
"This is Elena's showoff party. Are you showing off?"
"I think I'm being shown off. Or I'm going to be. She bought something last month. The big canvas -- you remember? And with a big canvas you get a personal appearance by the artist. Plus Green Stamps."
"Ah." He smiled. "That explains all. Even the dress. Did she send it?"
"Her secretary did. I even get to keep it."
"Elena likes to make sure of all the details, she does. It's endearing in her ... and lovely on you."
She looked into her glass again. "Where's the Countess? I didn't see her."
"She's with the Count. Wherever he is."
I could feel her turn towards him, slightly. "Should I feel sorry for you? Or for her?"
"Do you feel sorry for the library book when it has to go back to the library?"
"Sometimes, sometimes I do. If I didn't get a chance to read it before it was due."
"Well, then, you shouldn't feel sorry for either of us on that account. We figured out how the story ended."
"And it's really ended? This time?"
"Big letters, saying "THE END" appeared on the screen. I believe there was a sunset involved. Probably a horse, too."
"You're mixing things up. We were talking about books, not movies."
"We were?"
Music started in the other room.
"C'mon," he said. A waiter was right there, again. He was the kind of man waiters liked. He took her glass away and put it on the waiting tray, next to his. "Let's dance."
When he put his hand on her waist I felt her gut clench, but I don't think he felt it.
"You dance like you paint," he said.
"Lots of blue?"
"Lots of air." He smiled down at her. Not very far down; their faces were close together. "Lightness. Lots of little surprises, surprises you only find after a very long time looking."
She didn't say anything, but I felt her relax, just a bit.
"The funny thing about you, Kathy, is that as a woman, you're very direct. More direct than most women. As an artist, though ... you're oblique."
"That's an interesting interpretation," she said. "I have told you how much I hate being compared to 'most women', though, haven't I?"
"You see? Direct. Of course, most women want to think they're unique. The difference is, you actually are."
He sounded so dispassionate, as if he were talking about auto insurance or Korea; that alone should have tipped me off that he wasn't.
"And what about you? Are you unique?"
"Me, I'm right off the assembly line. They make ten thousand of me a year, and you can get me in any color you like, with an optional radio."
"I could give you a custom paint job." She grinned at him. It was the first time she'd smiled since she put me on.
"I bet you could. Good thing I like blue."
They had drifted to the edge of the dance floor as the music stopped. A large woman in an electric-green dress swooped down on them. There was a jeweled clip in the shape of a peacock feather in her hair, and her eyes were lined in the same peacock color. She spoke in a low voice but it carried like a shout.
"My two geniuses! Of course you know each other! How perfect! Clancy, doesn't she look deee-vine?"
"Absolutely," he said. "I was just telling her so."
"Liar," she said.
"I was getting around to it." He looked like a sulky boy, just for a moment.
Elena wasn't paying attention; she had her head turned towards the band. "Clancy," she said. "I know I said I wasn't going to make you do this, but the drummer got a hernia or indigestion or malaria or something, and the replacement won't be here for twenty minutes -- would you play something?"
He looked doubtful. Elena didn't notice.
"Please, Clancy -- it would mean so much to me. And everyone here loves you, you know that. Play something for me?"
"For you, Elena, anything," he said. He shrugged. "Although you're making me stand Kathy up for the next dance. I can't dance and play at the same time."
Elena laughed. "If anyone could, you could, Clancy." She was still looking towards the band. "Oh, and play something new, will you? Thanks, darling!" She hurried off.
"Play something new, will you, darling?" she said, imitating Elena.
He looked away, absent for a moment. He took a deep breath. "I think I will play something new," he said. "Be careful what you ask for." He headed up towards the piano.
Elena was already up there. I thought she would make an announcement, but she just said, "Everybody, Clancy!" There was a lot of applause.
She didn't clap. She just looked at him.
He sat down and did an elaborate jokey hand stretch. He dropped his hands on the keyboard in a dramatic chord. The room went quiet.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "This is a new piece. It's called "Kathy"."
I can't really tell you what it sounded like; I can only tell you that she shivered and got goosebumps. And that I got really mussed during the cab ride home, but I didn't care.
[NB: this is a first draft ... wrote it all this morning very quickly! so it might change.]
[Note: Sarah pointed out that this is really #14, because #13 was the fundraising post back in December. I've updated the list on the sidebar, so everything should be properly numbered and ordered now ...]
The total raised for homeless women veterans (including some off-widget donations through Paypal) is now $1692. You rock!
So, as promised, I have a new Secret Lives for you. This one has a twist -- there's no picture. Nope, nothing. Nada. Zilch. I "found" the story first and then couldn't find the dress -- either dress, any dress -- that's in the story. SO ... if you have the dress that this story's about, send me the link, and if I find The Right One, I will send the sender a couple of the Dress A Day measuring tapes as a thank-you! You can email the links or leave them in the comments. (It's better not to send images by email if at all possible, thanks!)
So here goes ...
I’ve never been one to step in, you know. I’m not a meddler, and I think it’s better when you leave folks to fight their own battles. Makes ‘em stronger. But there is one thing I won’t tolerate, never have, and that’s bullying. I just won’t have it in any closet I’m hanging in, and that’s a fact.
We’d been doing all right. Sure, the closet was crowded, and she didn’t use nice hangers, and we weren’t what you’d call organized, but that didn’t seem to matter. We all felt rescued, in a way. She was a collector, she didn’t really wear us very often, but we weren’t in a box or in some little girl’s dress-up chest, and that’s saying something. I personally didn’t mind not being carefully sectioned off — jackets and even pants can have real interesting opinions, you know. Once you get to know them you see they’re really just like you. I don’t hold with prejudice. And some of those evening gowns, well, they’re so fluffy and light, they’re just like kittens. You can’t be tired or mad with a kitten.
Well, as I said, she’s a collector, and she buys a lot. Every few days there’d be another bag on the floor of the closet, and then, unless it was something wool, she’d hang it right up. The wool stuff always went to the cleaners, in case they had the moth. We sure appreciated that. We didn’t really quiz the new ones as to where they came from; it was something we’d let them tell us themselves, in their own time. Some of them had been having difficulties, you know, and we’re not the prying kind. Lots of the new ones had hems hanging down, or a seam that had come undone, or lost buttons. Sometimes she’d get them fixed up right away, but sometimes she didn’t. If she didn’t we tried to be careful, not jostle them too much. Those undone seams can be painful, and nobody’s happy without all their buttons. I myself had been missing a few when I came, so she pulled the rest and gave me a whole new set. They’re not quite like my old ones but I get by all right. And they’re a good deal whiter and shinier than the ones I used to have, that’s for sure.
Now, some of us say they knew immediately that the new one was going to be trouble, right when they first set eyes on that bag, but I think they’re just trying to make themselves more important. If they had really known, wouldn’t they have done something? If just one of them had slipped off the hanger and covered the bag, it would have been weeks until they were hung up again and she was let loose — we all know that.
Me, I didn’t know a thing. I was talking with a suit about how she went to vote once—which sure was interesting, I can tell you—and I didn’t even look up until we got shoved a little more to the side to make room.
And, Lordy, did the new one need room. I’ve never seen so many ruffles. And red? Redder than fire. That was a dress, all right, and didn’t she know it. Not a seam out of place, or a hitch in her zipper, either. Coulda been new, except that she came in a flimsy plastic bag just like the rest of us had. New dresses like that come on their own hangers.
She didn’t set out to be trouble, I’ll give her that. Or if she did, she hid it until she knew there was no one around who could give her any back. Sweet as pie she was, the first couple days. Talked real nice to the dresses on either side of her, asked questions, giggled a don’t-mind-me, I’m-just-silly after every answer. It wasn’t until she’d done all her reconnaissance, I guess it’s called, that she really dug in. She’d been next to a good dress, been with us for years. Nothing red-ruffle fancy, just a solid, dependable office-y type shirt dress. Full skirt, all original buttons in good condition. Even her white collar hadn’t yellowed or frayed. So despite being unglamorous, she had a bit of her own glory, in that she got worn probably more often than any of the rest of us.
Well, ol’ Red started up whispering to her, from the first day. Playing her up, making her feel like it was her and Red that were special ones, and the rest of us little better’n rags. Once her head was well and turned, though, Red cooled it way off. Started talking more to the dress on the other side, paying that one special little attentions, until that poor shirtdress was about to go crazy, not knowing what had happened, or why.
And of course we saw what always happens, when folks set out to be deliberately cruel; the poor shirtdress, goaded too far, blew up, and there was an embarrassing scene. Red didn’t move a ruffle, just hung there patiently, with an air of waiting for a tantrum to be over. Then she was all “Are you done?” and when the shirtdress was “NO!” she just went on, cutting as a pair of shears. “Well, I am,” and turned back to the other dress.
Poor shirtdress, she was so miserable, she didn’t know what to do. She worked one of her own buttons loose and got herself off the hanger. I never saw a dress so crumpled on the floor. A couple days later she was borne away to the mending pile. Most of us tried to avoid the mending pile, as there was no guarantee we’d ever come back, but I could see her as she was carried away, and she didn’t look like she wanted to come back.
And of course this meant there was a new dress next to Red, again. Now this dress was fairly young, as dresses go. Cute, cute as a button, with her short skirt and big patch pockets, all covered in big flowers, big as plates. She was young, but she wasn’t dumb, and at first she didn’t want anything to do with Red. She and the shirtdress had been real good friends, at least until Red came. So she was smarting a bit at being ignored for Red, and mad at what Red had done to her friend.
I think Red took that as a challenge. And Red seemed to like a challenge. She started talking to that dress on her other side, the one she’d turned away from shirtdress for, a bit louder. Telling her stories of adventure, so that little miss miniskirt couldn’t but hear them. And we all know if there’s one thing young folks want, it’s adventure. Red got her pulled in deeper and deeper until of course she forgot she wasn’t speaking to Red, and squeaked out “What happened then? What did you do?” And Red just paused a tiny bit, hardly noticeable, just savoring having caught her fish, and finished the story.
Now that other dress — the one on Red’s other side, away from miss miniskirt — well, let’s just say she wasn’t well-liked, before Red came. She had a bit of chip on her shoulder (as well as a stain she always moaned about, wishing she had a brooch to hide it). She’d been a good solid dress, lots of faculty dinner cocktail parties and such; she’d always claimed to have met a Nobel Prize winner once, but since she couldn’t remember his name, that tended to diminish the tale. Not that we’d know the name, but it would have added something. Or added more than “he wore a corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches” did, which was all she could remember. But she had that way about her where you felt she was always counting up the breaths everyone was taking for fear they’d get more air than she did.
Faculty dress was a bit disdainful of flowered-miniskirt. She’d try to pull Red aside, to make a little quip or joke at her expense, to make some snide remark about miniskirt’s callow youth. But Red wouldn’t play; she was doing to faculty what she’d done to shirtdress, all over again. And faculty couldn’t see it. She just kept trying and trying, and that made Red happier and happier to ignore her.
Now, to give miniskirt credit, she didn’t like what Red was doing. She kept trying to bring faculty into the conversations, and asked her opinion about things and even listened to the answers. But she was young, and she was impressed by Red, and she couldn’t help but laugh when Red made poor stuffy faculty dress the butt of a joke or two. Or more.
You know that there’s nothing a stuffy person hates more than being laughed at, and nothing harder to fight against — fighting just makes you more ridiculous. So faculty tried to take it in good part, and pretend she wasn’t hurt by the jokes. She even made one or two herself. But Red couldn’t have that — she didn’t want to see faculty putting on a brave face. She wanted another breakdown, and she was scheming to get it.
At this point I made up my mind to do something. If shirtdress had her head turned, that was one thing, and you had to expect that in a crowded closet relationships were going to go wrong every once in a while. But from what I could see, Red was setting out to do it again, and that made it a different thing altogether.
Red and miniskirt were doing a lot of whispering and laughing, and I could see faculty was worried. It was obvious they were going to try some prank, at faculty’s expense. Maybe sticking her with a pin, if they could get one, to see her jump, or covering her with loose threads, or worse. Something hurtful to her dignity, which was really all she had left.
I know I look old and washed out and unfit for more than the rag bag myself, but I’ve been around a long time, since the closet was nigh empty, and I know things. I can do things I don’t brag about, which is how you manage to keep doing them. And one of the things I can do is get myself worn. It’s a knack, really, and I’d like to tell you I could teach you how, but I can’t. It’s like teaching someone how to wiggle their ears. You can either do it, or you can’t.
You can’t do it any old time, but I know how to pick my opportunities, and so it was the next Saturday that I got myself picked up off the hanger. All I really needed was to be tried on — I wasn’t angling to be worn all day. So once I was on I did just a little twist, and no matter what she did I wouldn’t hang straight. I can be quite uncomfortable when I try, for all that I’m washed and soft otherwise.
So she shoved me back on the hanger, and — just as I’d asked — back in the closet, the other dresses had shifted around some, and I was shoved right between faculty and Red.
As you can imagine, Red didn’t like that one little bit. But she tried not to let me see that; after all, I was just an old grandma dress. Making me upset wouldn’t be worth the trouble. She acted real pretty towards me, and I didn’t let on that I’d been watching her and knew her tricks.
I wasn’t sure if Red and miniskirt were still going to go through with their prank, with the shuffling around and me being their new neighbor and all, miniskirt seemed to have lost her taste for it. Planning a prank is all very well, but doing one needs a different level of interest, and miniskirt, being young, was a bit flighty. She had gotten into a game that came around every once in a while, where all the dresses had to talk about which shoes they’d like to be matched up with. That one was always good for quite a bit of laughing. If I ever need to get everyone in a good mood all I have to do is say “cowboy boots,” in a moony kind of way, and they’ll all be giggling for weeks. I don’t care — I do like myself a good cowboy boot. They make such a nice clomping sound, they do.
Red, though, wasn’t going to be thwarted. She kept signaling past me to faculty, little rustles and flutters that I pretended to be deaf to. I knew she was trying to bring faculty around again, starting with a pretty apology and building up to confidences, only to tear her down again first chance she got. Isn’t it a shame when folks who are so beautiful on the outside have their seams all unfinished and raveling inside?
I hadn’t been sure what I was going to do when I got close, but it was getting close that let me know what I should do. Red had been so loud about her adventures — the parties, and the people, and the dinners, and so on — but there wasn’t a mark on her. She didn’t have so much as a salad-dressing spot. She kept herself pretty well straight on the hanger, but you can always see what you need to if you try, and I saw what I needed to see.
Red was new.
I mean, she wasn’t new-new, in the sense of having just been sewn. No, she was deadstock, an old dress that had never sold, that had lived its whole life without ever taking off its tag. I could see the tag hanging down, right inside the armhole. She’d been expensive, but that didn’t matter. One word from me and all her celebrity would be over; her tales changed from anecdotes to flat-out lies. She’d be pitied, not envied.
I s’pose that’s why she was so mean — hanging in a store or a warehouse for years will do that to you, I’ve heard — but an explanation is not an excuse.
So I waited until late that night, and then I nudged Red. Woke her right up. She was mad, but she tried not to let me see.
“You can be mad,” I said. “You’re gonna be madder still when I’ve said what I’m going to say.”
“Oh, and what’s that, grandma?” Red could go from simper to sneer quick as a blink.
“I’ve been watching you. I don’t like what you’re doing. You’re going to stop.”
“And how are you going to make me?” Red fluttered her ruffles.
“Had any luck getting that tag off?”
She jumped a bit then. She knew that I knew, and she didn’t like it.
“What tag?” She was still trying to bluff her way out.
“$79.95. Before markdown. It’s a classy price but you’ve never been a classy dress, or you would have been worn, wouldn’t you?”
She was silent then, and I knew that she wouldn’t be messing about again. As I said, I don’t hold with bullies.
And of course hitting the goal also means drabbles every day from now until Christmas Eve! Thanks again!
As promised, here's an "incentive drabble" to help push this year's donation campaign (for homeless women veterans) along ... once we hit $1500 in donations (and due to donations outside the widget, we're at $1250 right now, so there's not that far to go) there will be a full-length Secret Lives posted *and* drabbles every day from the day we reach the target to Christmas.
I thought she wasn't going to be bold enough, when she chose me. She should have chosen my sister, in red, or even had me dyed black. And the bows ... I've always been self-conscious about those bows. So when the time came, and they were at her door, I was surprised when she invited him in for "one more drink." And even more surprised when I was ditched for something "more comfortable." (I am comfortable!) So, no, I don't know what happened next, but, then again, even if I did, a lady never tells (and a gentleman never asks).
[Thanks to F.Baer for the image!]
In the meantime, if the widget below doesn't work for you, here's the Paypal button:
and here's the link directly to the ChangingThePresent page ... Thank you!
I don't drink the cocktails, of course, but I like them anyway. I like the sweaty short fat glasses that look so sure of themselves and smug, their little swords impaling the glossy maraschino cherries gleefully. I like the graceful martini glasses, too, with the smoky olives lurking in their depths, or the tiny onions. "Like eyeballs!" she said once, and I agreed with her. After that I was happy that she didn't drink the ones with the onions. Sometimes he makes her one of the short fat ones even before they leave for the party, when she's running around in stockings and no shoes, putting her earrings in while trying to find her favorite lipstick, which she was sure was in the pocket of her coat, but which usually turns out to have been left in the car.
On the way they don't usually listen to the radio, but when they get to the parties there's always music. I like that man with the sad voice the best, but I like the dancing songs, too. She's a good dancer, and she knows how to use me when she dances, how to make my skirt swirl just so. I especially like that moment when the dance has just stopped but she's still standing there in somebody's arms. Usually they're his arms, unless there's a card game starting up, and then it could be anyone. I like him the best, but there's another one, Bill -- he's a very good dancer. Sometimes, when they're dancing, he whispers into her ear. I can't hear what he says but I can hear what she says back. "Oh, Bill, you're terrible!" is what she says, but she doesn't sound upset. She's usually laughing.
I like seeing the other dresses, too, although of course we don't really talk. It's more like a series of little nods; I might nod to Alice's black crepe, as if to say "nice seeing you again," (although of course you see her everywhere, she really deserves a rest). I might give a little acknowledging nod to a new dress; there's usually at least one new dress at every party, and the new ones always get the most scrutiny. Everyone wants to make sure the fashion hasn't changed so much that their wearers will think they've become dowdy. I'm not one of the oldest, but I'm not one of the newest, either. I hear from her other dresses that sometimes the ones that have been to too many parties here go to her sister in Baltimore. I'm not sure where Baltimore is, but I hope they have parties. They must, or why would she send her dresses there? I don't want to go anywhere that doesn't have parties.
Sometimes unexpected things happen at parties -- there was the time that Gerry decided he didn't want to wear pants, for one. (I always wondered what the other suits thought about that, but of course we hardly ever talk to them, even when we share a closet. They're so uncommunicative.) Once she walked in on Phil and Amelia in the spare room. I thought they were dancing, but it seemed odd for them to be dancing so far from the music. Amelia's dress was all askew, too. It wasn't hanging right at all. And I'll never forget the time, at Harold and Pat's Christmas party, when Pat brought out that flaming dessert and the dangling ball fringe on her party apron went right up, just whoosh! Harold had to squirt her with the soda siphon. Luckily her dress was okay, it was a bright red polished cotton. I don't think cottons make very good party dresses, but maybe that's why Pat went all-out with such a fancy apron. After that party, on the way home, she laughed so hard I thought she was going to split my zipper.
On the way home from the parties he holds her hand, and they talk about everyone they just saw. "Can you believe he brought that woman from his office, and the divorce not final?" and "Jeff's not doing well, not doing well at all. Putting on a brave front, though, for Georgia." Sometimes they're quiet, and then I know they're tired, or that they had too many fat little glasses.
When we walk in the door her shoes come right off, and her coat goes over the nearest chair. Her earrings land next to her bag on the table in the hall, right by the mail. She whispers hello and goodbye and thank-you to the babysitter. Sometimes she and the babysitter yawn at the same time, and that makes them both laugh. The babysitter just lives two doors down, but he always walks her home. As soon as the door shuts again behind them, she rushes up the stairs to his room. First she stands in the doorway for a minute, making sure he's still asleep, that the noise of the door opening and closing didn't wake him.
I can see him in the dim light of the bunny nightlight, so I'm sure she can too, but she always goes closer. Sometimes I'm a bit afraid of the little boy; his hands are always so dirty! But I'm safe when he's asleep. She sits on the edge of the bed, and brushes his hair away from his forehead. Every time I see him, he needs a haircut. She always bends to kiss his cheek, something he usually doesn't allow before they leave for the party. His face is slack with sleep, and he doesn't turn away.
Then she just sits and watches him. I never thought watching someone sleep would be interesting (I think pajamas are really boring) but watching the little boy is, somehow. Maybe it's just feeling what she feels that's so interesting. Once, I remember, he laughed in his sleep. He must have been dreaming. I'll never forget that sound; it was so beautiful, like something made of crystal suddenly turning into bubbles and floating away.
She sits there until she hears the door open. Then she leans over him and whispers "I love you, darling boy," kisses him again, fusses with his covers, and heads downstairs. Sometimes he makes her one more drink, they sit on the sofa, talk a little, but usually she just helps him lock up and turn out the lights, before going to take me off. She always hangs me right up, which is nice. It's not comfortable to spend all night on the floor, especially after a party. I hope if I go to Baltimore her sister hangs up her dresses right away, too.
[Click on the image to go to the eBay listing for this dress.] [Edited to change # -- this is actually #12, #11 was here.
