Karen Wunsch, Violets for her Furs (story)

As soon as we were settled in her beat-up car she murmured, “I guess you’ve gathered that the baby’s father is out of the picture….” Trying to convey something like, “No big deal,” I waited for the rest of the story. She kept putting Chap Stick on her lips; seemed quiet. I tried to remember if she’d always been quiet. Mostly she seemed worried that I wouldn’t be comfortable in her apartment. “It’s cheap, I mean, underneath the carpeting there’s only concrete.” Brightening at the memory, “Pete’s and my first apartment was like that….” I was a little surprised that she didn’t seem to remember he’s a lawyer. As soon as we walked into her small, sparsely furnished apartment, Elvis, a large slobbering dog of indeterminate breed that I’d forgotten Matt had given her, almost knocked me over! Apologizing profusely, Ellen scolded Elvis half-heartedly, as if she couldn’t bear to scold him. I tried to hide how terrified I’d been. Ellen insisted on giving up her bedroom for me; had bought the kind of tea I like. We settled down on the sofa. But mainly we talked about what she was reading for her English classes. “I can’t believe you don’t like Toni Morrison, either,” she kept saying. I was flattered that my opinion seemed to mean so much to her. She kept pulling back her hair into a kind of fat ponytail (making herself less pretty), and then taking it out, a habit I remembered from when she was in high school. I used to love her stories about all the things she used to do to straighten her hair. “Remember how you used to iron your hair?” “God, I haven’t thought of that in a while, it never really worked for very long. You know, I love the way you give me back stories about my life….” I loved being told what she loves about me! “You know, since my mother died—did I tell you she died last year—I often think of that story about your mother and the little window in your bedroom, how she’d look through it every morning & on sunny days she’d say, ‘Here’s that beautiful sun,’ & then on rainy days she’d say, ‘Can you smell the good rain?’” Tears came to Ellen’s eyes, and then tears came to mine. The phone rang. “No, not tonight.” She didn’t stay on long. As soon as she hung up I said, and meant it, that I’d love to meet her friends, and so we ended up planning a small dinner party. She’d already bought the ingredients for Chicken Chili, a recipe I’d given her (basically a chicken stew using a salsa sauce—Matt loves it, too). Her friends Tiny and Tina would bring over more food. “They’re great cooks. And knowing them,” she smiled, and I could tell that she really liked them, “we’ll have lots of leftovers.” “When Matt was little he used to say, ‘All you make are leftovers, we never have the originals…’” Immediately I regretted bringing him up, but she just laughed. She has a nice kind of tinkling laugh. Wishing I could give her some wonderful young man who’d love to make her laugh—I vowed to at least buy something “big” for the baby, like a crib. Elvis kept trying to get at the chicken, and Ellen kept scolding him as if she couldn’t bear to scold him. Dinner Party Tiny, who turned out to be fairly heavy, was a few years older than Ellen and getting a Master’s in French Lit. Tina, Ellen’s age, very pretty with copper red hair and bright red lipstick, wanted to sing in musical comedies. She already had a manager, and although she spoke of him dismissively, I was impressed. Right away Tina and Tiny were very warm to me—Ellen had clearly told them lots of nice things. Her small terrace overlooks the building’s barren parking lot, but it felt great sitting there at twilight, chatting with lively young women, drinking wine & nibbling fabulous hors d’oeuvres that Tina had made. Tiny was extremely funny about wanting to write something from the point of view of Proust’s mother. Tina tended to say “like” a lot, but she told great stories about movie stars who are really short, gay, have pores as big as craters, etc. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think of who…. As the sun set, I was the only one to put on a sweater. It made me think of how on that first warmish day of spring almost all of my students will come to school wearing shorts and tee shirts. I love that about young people, the way they fight for spring. Periodically Ellen would look at me affectionately as she made announcements like, “You know, Ann was teaching her autobiography course long before memoir became so trendy.” It was sweet of her, but got a little irritating. In her candy-colored maternity outfit she didn’t look particularly pretty, especially next to Tina. I kept trying to think of who Tina reminded me of. What else? When I sneeze, I can’t help doing it in a way people notice, a fake-sounding ah-choo, ah-choo ah-CHOO. People who know me have pretty much given up on the constant God bless you’s, etc. (except my dear son who, bless him, always tells me, God bless you). I noticed that when I went into my sneezing trilogy, none of the young women said it. What else? It turned out that Tina and I both love Rogers & Hart, Cole Porter, etc. She told me lots of interesting things about “the Great American Songbook,” like that there are some songs—say “All the Things You Are”—which have always appealed to jazz musicians, whereas others, like “As Time Goes By,” they never play—even though for most people, the latter is “emotionally off the charts.” I liked that phrase, “emotionally off the charts.” But for some reason I decided not to mention that “As Time Goes By” is one of my and Pete’s songs. And after a while I changed the subject because Tiny and Ellen clearly weren’t very interested. (At one point, wondering if Ellen--quiet and taking her hair in and out of a ponytail—could be a little jealous of Tina’s and my rapport, I felt like shaking her: impressed as I was by Tina, Ellen was the one I wanted to shine!) We put a tablecloth over the card table, lit candles, and suddenly the apartment looked almost cozy. Although I love the smell of simmering tomatoes and curry, and Tiny had baked delicious-looking rosemary bread, I’d stuffed myself with hors d’oeuvres and would have been happy to skip the rest of the meal—except that I was looking forward to it. Indeed, I was having such a good time that it passed through my mind that if Pete were going to call, I hoped he’d wait. Perhaps it was all the wine everyone kept pouring me, but when Tina mentioned that she had a gig coming up in some God-forsaken part of Florida where she’d be going with her manager, I immediately pictured them in someplace romantic like London: In a small club, wearing something bold (with her brassy hair) like bright green taffeta, Tina would be singing, say, “He Bought Me Violets for My Furs,” certainly not thinking of her manager because—to her—he was only her manager; but then (and like in one of those Times wedding stories), they’d be idly walking around the Thames the next day when they’d see some old lady selling violets, & he’d insist on buying Tina a bunch; and then he’d start madly rummaging in his pockets and she’d be wondering what in the hell he was doing, when he’d triumphantly take out a diamond ring: bursting into tears, she’d realize that she loved him, too. No one would let me do the dishes or even clear. Suddenly tired, I just sat for a while. Although Pete tends not to call, I hoped that he would. Finally I called him, but he wasn’t at home or at the office so I assumed that he’d gone out for a late dinner. On an impulse and feeling sneaky, I (quietly) called Matt, who hadn’t realized I was gone but sounded happy to hear from me—until I apparently went on too long about the Chicken Chili. Kissing me goodbye, Tina and Tiny assured me that when the baby came they’d make sure Ellen’s fridge was full of nutritious casseroles. Soon afterwards Ellen and I said good night. I was surprised when I felt shy about kissing¬ her.