Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

11


I am standing at the living-room window, watching for King’s car. He is taking me to the employment agency he works for. “You don’t need any experience for lots of these jobs,” he’d said. “Alive and ambulatory, you’re in their A-plus bracket.”

Lydia, who is on the sofa with a large-print novel, sighs and puts her book down.

“What,” I say.

“Are you grinding your teeth? Is that the noise I’m hearing?”

“I’m not grinding my teeth.”

“I could have sworn.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No!” I cross my arms tightly over my chest.

“It’s hard, I know. But you’ll be all right.”

I go to sit beside her. “It’s just, I’ve never felt so … I mean, I think about getting a job at McDonald’s, and I worry that I won’t be able to work the cash register.”

“Oh, I think you could probably manage that.”

I check my watch, get up to look out the window again.

“He’s not due quite yet,” Lydia says. “Don’t worry. He won’t be late. He’s not the type.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he cares. He pays attention. He’s not the type to disappoint.”

“Right. As opposed to the type I married.”

Lydia hesitates, then says, “I wonder if I might ask you something.”

I turn to face her. “Of course.”

“Did you think life would be easy all the time?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

A horn honks, and I jump up. “Here he is! I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck. And take your time, I’ll be here when Travis gets home. I’ll have him help me make dinner—he’s quite good at making meatballs.”

“Thank you. And Lydia?”

“Yes?”

“I really didn’t think it would be easy all the time. I just didn’t know how weak I was.”

“Well. That’s where you’re wrong.” She pulls her cardigan up higher over her shoulders, resettles her glasses on her nose. “You’ll see.”

Kings waits for me while I fill out the application and have an interview. Then he takes me to a diner. He orders coffee; I order the cheeseburger platter deluxe.

“So?” he says.

“So, it was easy!” I shed my coat, toss it into the corner of the booth. I feel good. I feel great.

“I told you.”

“The woman who interviewed me looked like she was twelve.”

“Ah. The senior staff member, then.”

“They said they’d call as soon as tomorrow.”

“They could.”

“Maybe we’ll get a job doing something together!”

“I’m moving mattresses tomorrow. Warehouse.”

“Oh. Never mind.”

My burger is delivered, and I take a bite, then say around it, “I told my mother I’d go out with someone she knows.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I wanted to do something for her.”

“What about you? Is it something you want to do?”

I salt my french fries, eat one. Two. “Not really.”

“You might have a good time.”

I shrug, offer a fry to him, which he refuses. I wonder if he’s dieting. If he lost weight, he’d be a very attractive man. But I would miss something. I’ve grown accustomed to his size. It’s comforting to me.

“Your husband was an a*shole,” King says suddenly.

I look up, stop chewing.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay. It’s true.”

“It’s hard to hear criticism about someone you love, though. I know that.”

I start to say I never really loved David, then don’t.

In the car on the way home, I tell King, “I feel so comfortable with you.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, from the very beginning, I felt as though we were friends.” I shiver a little. The car is cold.

He turns up the heat, reaches behind him for a blanket, tosses it on my lap. “Me too.” And then, “You know, I’ve just started to date out of the personals. So don’t feel bad about your mother fixing you up.”

“Really? Have you had good experiences?”

“Mostly, I’m too fat.” It is mild, without rancor, the way he says it. “I tell them on the phone that I’m heavy, they usually say it’s no problem, but then I show up and most of the time they get that look. You know? That look?”

“So what do you do?”

He shrugs. “I tell them never mind. I say it’s okay. I go home and read, or go to the movie by myself.”

“Well, they’re … They ought to give you a chance.”

“Yeah,” King says, smiling, and suddenly I see him as a little boy, home from school, innocent and hungry, holding pulpy papers in his hand that he will offer up to his mother. And then he is himself again, pulling into my driveway. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Thank you.”

I laugh. “For what?”

“I don’t know.”

I open the car door, and he says, “Well, I do know.” I wait, expectantly, and he says, “I’ll tell you another time.”