The Cubicle Next Door (22 page)

“There has to be something. Are you sure she tried them all on?” Grandmother wasn’t about to let me leave without a dress.

“Yes.” Betty surveyed the mound of discarded clothing on her bed. “Except for the strapless.”

Thelma seized it from the pile. “She’ll try it on.”

“It will be much too cold.” Adele barely squeezed out the words before sneezing.

“She can wear a coat.” Thelma shoved it into my hands and pushed me toward the bathroom. “Try it.”

I went into the bathroom and unzipped the dress. The material was heavy and slippery. Substantial. The color was slippery too. It wasn’t really gray. It wasn’t really lavender. It existed in the shades between them. I stepped into it, not bothering to take off my jeans or T-shirt. I had already decided that if I had to wear a dress, it wouldn’t be strapless. But I looked in the mirror and changed my mind.

I unzipped it, tugged off my T-shirt, and slipped the straps of my bra off my shoulders. Brought the dress up to my chest and zipped it up again. Turned to see the view from the back.

I was still standing there, gazing at myself, when Adele knocked on the door and then pushed it open. She stood there for a long moment. “That’s it. That’s the one.” She reached in to grab a tissue before she half-turned and then called over her shoulder to the others. “Come and see.”

A moment later, they were crowding the doorway, trying to see over each other’s heads. Only Thelma had a clear advantage.

“It’s beautiful, but it’s still strapless and it’s still December.” Propriety, at least in apparel, was Betty’s motto.

Thelma, however, was much more practical. “She can wear a coat. You do have one, Jackie, don’t you?”

“I have my duffle coat.”

“She can’t wear a duffle coat. Give me a minute.” Betty relinquished her space and we could hear her padding down the hall. Several minutes later, she returned carrying a pile of sleek white fur.

“I can’t wear that…whatever it is.”

“It’s a rabbit fur capelet.” She held it out by the puffy round pom-poms.

“And how would you like it if someone made a capelet out of your skin?”

“Already been done. You know that movie? The one where there’s a cannibal?”

“Hannibal something…”

“With the elephants?”

“No. With the guy who wears the mask.”

“Jason.”

“No. The other mask.”

“Freddy.”

“The other one.”

I decided to put them out of their misery. “
Silence of the Lambs
.” Thank you, Adele, for that vivid mental picture.

Betty held it out to me again. “Just try it.”

“It’s against my principles.”

“Well, so is going to dances, if I’m not mistaken.” She settled it across my shoulders and tied the strings, leaving them to dangle mid-chest. It looked exactly like the cape Priscilla Dillon had worn in the second grade. The cape I’d always admired, always secretly longed to pet, always craved to own. Hers even had a muff to match. “But what about my arms?” The cape only covered my shoulders and upper arms.

“We’ll just have to find some gloves.” Adele was busy patting the capelet. As if she thought by pressing it onto my skin, I’d change my mind about wearing it.

“I have a better idea!” Betty plodded back down the hall and returned a minute later. “There’s a muff to match!”

A muff. “Can I…try it?” I pushed my hands into the satin-lined middle of the muff. And that was it. In an instant all my principles deserted me.

Betty beamed. “And if that’s not warm enough, just remember Joe is a nice tall boy. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind tucking you underneath his arm if you get too chilly.”

They all smiled.

I scowled, trying to reconcile my traitorous feelings with my firmly held lifelong beliefs. I finally told myself the rabbits were long dead and I might as well redeem their deaths. Put them to good use.

Reduce, reuse, recycle, redeem.

Before I left with the dress, Betty loaded me up with shoes, gloves, and some sort of contraption she called a corselet that dangled straps. I just dumped them all into a bag and draped the dress over my arm.

The three of them waved from Betty’s door as Grandmother and I left. “Don’t forget!” Adele called behind us. “We’ll come over next Saturday to help you get ready.”

The first crisis took place long before Saturday. It was two days later, on Sunday, when I actually started listening to myself think. My thoughts were these:
I’m going to a dance with Joe. I’m going to a dance with Joe? I’m actually going to a dance. I’m going to dance?

That was the first point at which I tried to back out.

“Do you know Joe’s number?” I asked Grandmother at dinner.

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“No.” I had never called Joe. I never had to. I saw him practically every day. Why would I know his phone number?

“What do you need it for?”

“To call him.”

“Why?” Grandmother may not have been
the
quintessential grandmother, but she still had a sixth sense about some things.

“Because I can’t go to the dance with him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t dance. It would defeat the purpose of the whole evening.”

“I’ll teach you.”

She told all the others and the next night, after work, they congregated in the living room. They sat on the couch, all four of them, listening to a Glenn Miller record as I stood in the middle of the floor.

Adele finally took charge. “Thelma, you be the man.”

“I can’t. I’ve never led. I’ve always followed.”

“Betty?”

“I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”

I stood there, staring at them. “So all of you know how to dance, but only if there’s a man for a partner?”

Betty laughed. “What other reason is there for dancing?”

“I’ll call Oliver.” Grandmother pushed off from the couch and picked up the phone.

He showed up ten minutes later in a tweed sports coat pulled over a wool sweater and an ascot knotted at his throat.

“How may I be of service?”

Grandmother took over. “Jackie doesn’t know how to dance.”

“Do you have any music?”

Adele returned the needle to the record and the sounds of a waltz began floating into the air.

“My dear, may I have this dance?” Oliver had bowed at the waist and extended his hand. But it wasn’t offered to me. He was talking to Grandmother.

“But…it’s Jackie who doesn’t know…”

“Of course it is, but one of the best methods of learning is by observing.”

“Oh. Well then…” She placed her hand in his and he drew her into a sweeping turn and then proceeded to swirl her around the living room.

And just to be clear, my problem is not with observation. I could watch people dance all day. My problem is in application. In actually applying those same steps to my own clumsy feet.

By the time the song was over, there was color on Grandmother’s cheeks and she was laughing. Oliver twirled her to the couch, where the other ladies were seated, and then he released her hand. “Thank you, my dear. That dance was lovely. Would any of you other ladies care to dance?”

That crafty old man danced with all of the women before he finally turned his attentions to me.

“Now then, Jackie, let us proceed.” He extended his hand and I took it in mine. He had a surprisingly strong grip and a steady arm. He tried to spin me around as he took me to the middle of the living room, but I was taken by surprise and my arm refused to bend.

He released me and put his own hand up to the middle of his back.

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t—”

“It’s nothing. Just a wrenched muscle. There’s no need to worry yourself about it.” He grasped my hand again and waited several beats before catching up with the music.

This time, he didn’t try to spin me, he just tried to turn me, but I didn’t get the signal, I guess, because I ended up running into him. “I’m sorry!”

“Let’s take a moment to converse. This may help: You must not be too stiff or too limp. There is tension required for dancing so that signals don’t get missed. Dancers communicate with their bodies, not with words. We’ll try again.” He stood in place for several beats, simply rocking to the rhythm, and then he moved a foot forward and then back.

I tried to follow, tried to do the same.

“Marvelous. We’ll just keep on for a moment.”

True to his word, he let me get comfortable before trying any more tricks. And then I felt pressure underneath my shoulder blades. A pressure that made me think he wanted to turn to left.

And so I let him guide me around in a turn.

“Lovely.”

And then I felt him press again and he guided me in a turn to the right.

“Splendid.”

And then his hand lifted mine as his other hand guided me underneath the tunnel our arms had made. He’d spun me! And then he took me on a full circuit, turning and spinning me around the living room floor.

The ladies left soon after.

Oliver stayed, dancing with Grandmother. I watched them for a while. With her, at least, he relaxed. She seemed to soften his stiff English facade. As I crept up the stairs to go to bed, they were still dancing.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

What am I doing?

I’ve agreed to do…one, two, three…things I’ve never done before. And all because you asked me to. I used to be able to depend on the word “no.” But it’s as if I’ve forgotten how to pronounce it. What is it about you? What am I doing? And why?

Posted on December 3 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Although “no” is not a universal word, a surprising number of peoples have a negative response that sounds similar. In languages from Byelorussian to Kurdish to Saramaccan, your “no” would still probably be understood as “no.”

Posted by:
NozAll | December 3 at 09:03 PM

Sounds like you have the ability to be rude in almost any language. What talent!

Posted by:
theshrink | December 3 at 09:14 PM

You sound like me. My initial responses are always no. Trains people to leave you alone.

Posted by:
survivor | December 3 at 09:48 PM

Sometimes, special people unlock the hidden depths of our souls.

Posted by:
philosophie | December 3 at 10:25 PM

What’d I tell you? He
was
trying to suck up to you, wasn’t he?

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | December 3 at 10:32 PM

This is a G-rated blog! I’ve just deleted three obscene comments! I’ll do it again if I have to.

Posted by:
TCND | December 3 at 10:41 PM

Grow up you guys! (Because that’s what they are; girls wouldn’t post stuff like that.)

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | December 3 at 10:45 PM

Gentlemen don’t use four-letter words.

Posted by:
theshrink | December 3 at 10:49 PM

It’s the lurkers. Can’t trust them, the sneaky son of a guns.

Posted by:
survivor | December 3 at 10:53 PM

Twenty-Two

S
aturday dawned bright and clear. The day of the dance. The day Grandmother and her friends would help me get ready for the dance.

The doorbell started ringing at 6:00. Thelma was first. She’d brought a bag filled with biscuits. Betty was next. She came lugging a hard-sided cosmetic case that had seen better days. Adele brought an old-fashioned beauty parlor-style hair dryer, equipped with an articulated hose and an attached inflatable cap. They deposited their treasures in the middle of the kitchen table and then stood staring at me.

I was afraid to move. Afraid even to flinch. Afraid if I tensed even one muscle, they’d be all over me.

Thelma was the one who finally broke the silence. “Where are those shoes?”

“Shoes?”

She shuffled in the direction of the stairs as if she were going to climb up to my room and find them herself.

“Just…wait a minute. I’ll go get them.” But I didn’t move. I was afraid to leave them alone. Afraid if Adele plugged her gadget in, it would short-circuit the wiring in the house. Afraid if I left, for even a few minutes, Betty would open her cosmetic case and the past-their-expiration-date cosmetics, when combined with oxygen, would combust in a minor explosion of talcum powder and shimmery baby blue eye shadow. I didn’t want to have to clean up that mess.

But Thelma was still moving toward the stairs, so I turned her back around toward the kitchen table and went to find the shoes myself.

By the time I got back, the worst had happened. The table was now a garage sale jumble of odd-colored makeup. And from the acrid smell, I could tell someone had plugged the hair dryer in.

“It still works!” Adele was holding up the now-inflated cap.

Wonderful.

Thelma relieved me of the shoes, took them to the table, and sat down in a chair. Then she took a biscuit from her bag, split it open, and began to rub my shoe with one of the halves. “When I saw these shoes last Friday, I said to myself, ‘Those shoes need a good biscuit shine.’”

A biscuit shine.

She polished away for a couple minutes, going through three biscuits in the process. Then she held them up for everyone to see.

They looked as if they were brand new.

I walked over and took them off her hands. “That’s incredible! How did you know how to do that?”

She blushed. That’s about as much pleasure as I’d ever seen her exhibit. Tanks aren’t prone to full-blown displays of emotion.

They spent the morning going through Betty’s cosmetics and talking about the good old days. At 1:00 they walked into the living room to watch a movie on the Sci-Fi Channel and promptly fell asleep.

I tiptoed upstairs and took a shower. I wrapped a towel around myself and took the dress from the closet, holding it out in front of me, not quite daring to touch the material.