18
I go downtown a lot. Mostly to the jewelry district to buy materials when I run out of gems. Or check on the progress of my jewelry, like I did on Thursday at Dipen’s. The new prototype for the necklace was perfect, thank God, although it looks like the order will take longer than Dipen thought because his casting machine broke down. But he promised me he’d have the order ready in two weeks, which puts me at exactly half a week before it is due to Rox, so I’ll still meet my deadline easily. I hope. Working with these guys, or let’s be honest, being completely dependent on them to make my jewelry, is having to be two parts sugary sweet plus one part hard-core commando, like some kind of chocolate bullet-chip ice cream. I have to stay on them to make sure the work gets done on time, but if I’m not nice about it, they’ll keep stalling or even stop doing my orders. I’ve seen designers at Dipen’s in tears, pleading with him to keep doing their work, and him standing on the other side of his counter, his face placid but firm, as he repeatedly tells them to never come there again.
But when I don’t have to go downtown for business what I really like to do is drive around downtown a lot, like I did last night when I couldn’t get to sleep because I kept thinking about Andrew. It was almost one A.M. on Saturday morning, and Michael had just left because he had to be at the station for the six A.M. show and the freeways are hell in the mornings. “On Saturdays?” I’d asked. But he’d just kissed me and promised to call me later. I couldn’t handle being in bed by myself. The stillness was too disturbing. I was just lying there with nothing moving but my thoughts, which were doing swoops in my head, so I finally jumped up, pulled on some clothes, got in my truck, and hit the freeway. Suzanne would have been outraged if she knew. “All those drunk drivers on the road,” I could imagine her saying as I got on the 10 heading east. But my truck is big and safe, and it was either drive or tear my hair out thinking about Andrew.
I headed east on the freeway toward downtown and the desert and Texas and what used to be home. But I didn’t go that far. I made the loop I like to make from the 10 up the 110 to the 101 that kind of sideswipes me by all those tall downtown buildings, the only really big ones L.A. has. Okay, Century City has a few and there’s that corridor of condos on Wilshire Boulevard, but for hard-core New York City–style skyscrapers—they’re downtown.
Which is why I went. They make me feel safe, seeing them standing so solid and sure, as if their weight can hold down and secure this slipping, tilting West Coast terrain. And from my truck up on the freeway, they’re almost at eye level so they look smaller in a way, like diamond-encrusted jewelry I can touch, even reach out and pick up if I want and put in my pocket to carry with me, like a memory that is there to look at whenever I want to, but isn’t the only thing I can see. Like how I wish it were with Andrew.
And don’t, honestly.
Usually one loop is enough, but last night, I drove it twice. I took the 110 north to the 101 east until I got off in Hollywood, then I turned back around and got on the freeway, retracing my journey. I passed the buildings a second time, their brightness smiling at me in the dark, I thought I might have to do a triple loop, but once I was completely past them, a lulling feeling kicked in and I knew I could go home. As if the buildings had sung me to sleep.
Some of those buildings it took me a while to like. The DWP building, for instance, on First Street, I could not appreciate at all. Just a tall, simple box of glass and white with black lines running across the front. A big neonothing is what I thought it was. Then one day, driving into downtown on First Street, as I got to the top of the hill, I saw the building there glistening. It was so perfect for its space that I finally understood it couldn’t have been anything other than what it was. I suddenly loved it and do still, partly because I disliked it so much before.
But that change of heart has not happened for me with the Pacific Shopping Center, a building I continue to loathe. Particularly Bloomingdale’s at the Pacific Shopping Center. Okay, actually the bra department in Bloomingdale’s at the Pacific Shopping Center, the locale of the purgatory I am in now.
Suzanne’s bridal shower is today, this lovely Saturday, and besides being groggy from not enough sleep thanks to last night’s nocturnal drive, I have nothing to wear. A fact that should have me in a clothing department, but if I get a new bra, which I’ve needed for a while, then the black top with the black pants I am wearing will look fine, though probably wrong. Sheer and floral and soft come to mind for a nuptial event, but after conjuring a blizzard of outfits in my bedroom, I ended up in my favorite black pants and top. The apparel equivalent of eating oatmeal every morning—I don’t have to think about choices and I know it’s good for my body.
As I stand in front of a rack of bras and flip through the tags on an endless supply of Playmate-appropriate contraptions, I feel like a school-kid who only got three letters of the alphabet: B C C B D D D B.
I walk over to the young, bored, and abundantly endowed salesclerk lounging behind the register, and say, “I’m sorry, I seem to be the last woman in Los Angeles to get breast implants, do you have any A-cup bras at all?”
She regards me as if I am a species she has vaguely heard something about, then points to a wall overflowing with padded built-in-breasts bras.
“Uh, without the matching throw pillows sewn inside.”
She gives me an irritated look, then leads me over to a dimly lit corner where, next to a rack of postmastectomy garments, are the brave, the few A-cup bras.
“Maybe you should try one on,” she says in what is not a meant-to-be-helpful tone.
“I’m in a hurry, I have to get to a…” I suddenly imagine a “Marie Antoinette tits-like-a-champagne-glass” annual convention, but since it is the L.A. chapter, I am all alone. “Just ring it up,” I say, taking a bra off the rack that is the same brand and style I’ve had before, and handing it to her.
As I wait for my purchase, it occurs to me that for my size, a store outside this city might have a bigger selection. I wonder if I have enough frequent flier miles to get some place more…flat, I guess, then realize I have no idea where that would be.
The A-cup bra fits perfectly—should that depress me or make me happy?—when I put it on in the second-floor bathroom, wanting to be out of that prejudiced lingerie department. Maybe the ACLU could take them on.
The drive from the shopping center to the Pacific Palisades, where my sister’s bridal shower is being held, is easier than I thought it would be considering they are at opposite ends of town. Suzanne’s best friend, Mandy, an actress, is hosting it at her Richard Neutra–designed home. When Suzanne told me about it, I vaguely recalled having read an article about the architect, but when I pull up in front of Mandy’s house, I quickly recognize its famous style. Very stark, straight, clean lines. As I walk up the sidewalk, the curls of my hair feel like a literal affront to the design. I wonder if Mandy allows any wavy lines on her property at all; then she opens the front door and I see that she has saved them all for herself. She is a series of strategically placed circles: round up-lifted eyes; puffy cloudlike lips; and cleavage that goes on for hours before the nipples even begin to start. I suddenly feel I have more in common with a glass-and-wood structure than a member of my own sex.
Honest to God, it is all I can do to look at her face and not her breasts. Now, growing up, I went to the French Quarter all the time and would see the girls on Bourbon Street with their pasties and twirls, so I’ve always known that I’m small. I just had no idea until I moved to L.A. how big Big can get. No wonder men stare in incredulous fascination—what this woman had was like nothing on my body at all.
“You must be the sister,” Mandy says, moving all of her selves aside to let me in.
Nice to meet you, too, I think, while I force a smile.
Just past the foyer that Mandy has led me into, I can see an austere living room filled with clusters of chattering, tittering women. As I move to join the festivities—Mandy has already entered the room—a waiter intercepts me, blocking my passage with a tray of champagne glasses that he holds in front of my breasts.
My “no” comes out a bit too vehemently, so I soften it with, “I mean, thanks anyway, but do you think I could get a vodka on the rocks with a twist?”
He scrutinizes me, as if trying to predict what other social sins I will commit today.
“No, okay.” I brush my request off with a laugh, but he’s not buying it. “How about a coffee?”
“Espresso.” His tone implies that it is patently obvious I have never attended a bridal shower on the West side.
“Make it a double.”
After that delightful tête-à-tête, the party looks like a downright refuge. I see Suzanne sitting next to a building of gifts that appears ready to topple onto her at any moment. Hearts and love and pink and doves decorate the packages, while ribbons cascade down the sides. I immediately envision jewelry of thin multicolored cords dotted with gems encircling necks, arms, and waists, making presents of their wearers. I want to create them.
“There you are,” Suzanne yells through the soft and pretty voices of the women in the soft and pretty dresses, as she gestures wildly for me to join her across the room. I immediately regret my outfit, especially the time wasted on the new bra that is making little to no difference on me.
Which reminds me of when I was in first grade and wanting to be like straight-haired Suzanne, I decided to wear headbands. Momma bought one in every color for me, so I could wear a different one each day. The headband was visible in my hair, a happy strip of bright color among my curls, but it had no effect on how my hair looked, though I was certain it did. Certain that by wearing the small binding object, not unlike the one currently on my chest, I had entered the great sorority of life.
On the third day of wearing a headband to school (green was the color du jour), I was walking to the swings at recess to meet my best friend, when a tall blond eighth-grade girl came up to me.
“Why are you wearing that?” She used a tone that I had only heard used by Momma and Daddy when they were really mad. She was in too high a grade to be Suzanne’s friend, so why was she talking to me and about what? I was wearing the same plaid pleated uniform as everyone else.
All around us, girls were playing hopscotch, jumping rope, hand patting sing-song games, whispering in groups, or lounging in the sun with their socks rolled down and skirts pushed up until a nun came along.
“That headband. It looks ridiculous in your hair. Curly-haired girls can’t wear headbands.” Her face contorted from the honey-sweet American dream to a deep ugly sneer. “You look stupid.”
The green plastic hair ornament had become tighter and tighter with each of her words. My face felt hot, and I didn’t want to look at her anymore. She made a nasty laugh, again said, “You look stupid,” then walked away, leaving me standing there. I didn’t just feel stupid, I felt dumb, a word Daddy wouldn’t let us use about anyone, but there I was using it about me in my head. None of the other girls seemed to have heard her, but I figured they already thought the same thing and just hadn’t said it.
I went to the bathroom into the farthest stall, closed and locked the door behind me, and broke the headband with my hands, the sharpness of the plastic hurting me with each break. Pieces of green flew out onto the hexagonal tile floor, as I kept bending and breaking until the headband was just tiny bits of bright shards lying on the dingy white tile. My hair was all wrong and I hadn’t even known it. If that wasn’t dumb, what was?
I was about four when I noticed that my hair was curly without the pin curls that Momma laboriously put on Suzanne every night before bed. When I asked Momma why I didn’t need those, too, she told me that I was blessed, that the angels curled my hair every night while I slept. I tried to stay up a few nights to meet these angels and talk to them, to see if the pin curls they made were the same as the ones Momma did on Suzanne or better—maybe they used golden pins from heaven. But as I stomped on the already broken pieces of green headband on the bathroom floor, I wondered why those angels couldn’t’ve picked on someone else.
“Yvette, Yvette.”
My sister was calling me, rescuing me from this memory as she couldn’t when it happened.
“Come meet Betsy, my wedding coordinator I’ve been telling you about.”
As I walk down the two steps into the sunken living room, Suzanne turns to the older, conservatively dressed, and professionally happy looking woman sitting on her left and, pointing at me, says, “See her height? Now don’t you think her bouquet can be taller?”
I make my way through the ocean of estrogen, hug Suzanne, then move to the empty chair next to them, slipping into it like a life preserver. “It’s so nice to meet you,” I say to the wedding coordinator. “I’m Suzanne’s sister, Yvette.”
“Legs apart!” Betsy bellows.
“What?” I jump in my chair, suddenly worried some odd animal is on the loose that only attacks feet that are close together.
“Your legs, you have to keep them uncrossed and apart or you’re out of the game.” Her silver-haired head is close to me, watery blue eyes peering into my face. She is grinning madly.
“The game.”
“Whoever keeps their legs uncrossed during the whole bridal shower wins the prize! Of course, Suzanne here has already won—she’s the bride!—but you ladies—”
“Have to—” I smile and nod at her.
“That’s right—keep those legs apart!”
“Right, well, lucky for me I’m not wearing a skirt.”
Betsy’s licensed and official smile quickly turns into a frown as she notices my black pants for the first time. She looks as if someone just told her that the wedding march was legally banned.
“I need to have a fitting with my veil,” Suzanne says, leaning past her still-in-shock wedding coordinator. “I’ve waited long enough; the wedding’s just over a month away, for God’s sake. How’s next week?”
I wake up in a scream. The black clothes I wore to the bridal shower are on the floor next to my bed, and I try to remind myself that nothing else was there, but it feels as though something just left my room. I am still for a few moments, sitting straight up in bed, barely daring to breathe, as I listen, trying to hear anything, anyone, some tangible evidence of what scared me, but the apartment is quiet.
As I sink back onto my pillow, I am relieved no one was really there, but I’m still flipped out. My praying to Mary before going to sleep clearly did nothing to keep the dream away. I consider calling Michael to ask him to come over, but it’s after three in the morning, and even though it’s Sunday, he probably has a long work day ahead. I don’t know where he gets his energy. I wish more of it was spent on me. He almost called me his girlfriend the other night. Kind of, at least. He phoned on Wednesday in the late afternoon, wondering if I wanted to hang out later, then showed up at nine P.M. with Indian food and a video of The Phantom of the Opera with Lon Chaney. Even though it was a silent film, Michael insisted we not speak. “The music, after all,” he said, which was fine with me. I love Lon Chaney in that role—taped-up nose and dreadful wig, so desperate for the love of someone plainly annoying as hell. Like Gone With the Wind, sort of. Though with that story, I had no patience. I couldn’t stand Ashley, and found Scarlett a fool for wasting her time and thoughts on him. One rainy summer day when I was ten, in the middle of reading the book in my grandmother’s attic-playroom, I literally threw it down in disgust and tramped loudly down the stairs, my critique coming out in my feet. My grandmother was in her sitting room, embroidering pillowcases for a cousin’s bridal trousseau.
“I can’t stand Ashley,” I declared, flouncing onto the couch, but carefully so as not to jar her needlework.
“Ashley Wilkes is a perfect Southern gentleman,” she said without looking up from the violet petal she was sewing and knowing exactly whom I was talking about.
“Then I don’t like Southern gentlemen.”
She pulled the needle taut from the cloth, stopped her embroidery, and looked at me with her gray eyes over her glasses, as if acknowledging my age and deciding that there was still time for this view of mine to be saved. Then she handed me a tea towel, and suggested I help with that, thereby ending the subject.
The Phantom of the Opera video had ended, the credits were rolling by, I was lying on my couch with one of Michael’s arms around me, happy, but the movie had made me think of Andrew in a sideways sort of way, and I didn’t want to. I had already missed part of what Michael was saying to me, small and low in my ear.
“I mean, we hang out and stuff, isn’t that enough? I know there’s a label for that, but I’m not into semantics.”
By “stuff” I guessed he meant that we have sex. And I didn’t exactly want labels, either—though, okay, maybe a little—what I really wanted was the security of “I love you.” And to actually feel it for him. Which I think I really will—fully, completely, and truly—once I finally forget about Andrew which surely will happen any day because how long can one interaction, if I can even call it that, which, okay, I am calling it that, an interaction and so much more because he talked to Sydney about me for Christ’s sake, and what’s that if not the result of an interaction we had, but even so, how much longer can that fuel these constant thoughts of him? He is married, after all, with children, like Suzanne will be soon, but at least Michael will be at her wedding with me, and maybe their love spell will move onto us, so next year we’ll be up there. But is that what I want?
It is obvious that I’m not going to fall back asleep, so I get out of bed, put away the clothes I wore to Suzanne’s shower, and go to the kitchen for a glass of water and that forces me to pass Suzanne’s veil on the iron stand in my living room. I keep moving the damn thing back and forth from my studio to this room, half to force myself to finish it, half to get it out of my sight. I wish it would take flight and my responsibility for it would end. Why in God’s name did I ever agree to do this for her? Could there be any bigger emotionally loaded commitment to make? Sure, I’ll be completely responsible for what everyone sees around your blushing bridal face on your wedding day. No, that’s not too much pressure—okay! I figure I have another week of putting Suzanne off before she tears down my door to see it, but surely I can finish it by then. In fact, I know I can. It’s a veil, for Christ’s sake, not the David I’m meant to create—just get it done. If only I didn’t get such ennui whenever I try.