“Not at all. I’m here to help,” she said, expertly deflecting all sarcasm.
I was left alone to roam the store, the walls lined with life-size posters of the Swedes and Brazilians who modeled the lingerie. As I pretended to browse, I discreetly slipped things into my satchel, using my bulky body as a shield. That part was unexpectedly easy. The difficult part was removing the security tags. I needed to be in the dressing room to do that, but I had no reason to go in there. Even the robes weren’t likely to fit me, the unfuckable female.
Though I’d said I was shopping for someone else, I spotted a display of scarves, necklaces, and other size-free items in the middle of the store that I could pretend were for me. I selected a few accessories that would go with my dress and asked the salesgirl if I could try them on in the dressing room, to see how they looked. She wasn’t suspicious of me; people rarely were.
In the dressing room, I used the scissors I’d bought at the drugstore to cut the saucer-shaped security tags off the underwear. The scissors weren’t quite sharp enough and I gnawed at the fabric and ruined the items, which wasn’t something the average thief would have done, but then I had no intention of wearing the underwear. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but stealing it felt good.
I was prepared for the alarm to sound as I walked out the door or for the bored security guard to tackle me, but nothing happened. This was one of the most reckless things I’d ever done, and though I wasn’t likely to see my face printed on T-shirts anytime soon, it gave me a thrill.
At home, I dumped the lilac negligee and the rest of the contraband in my closet. calliope was born in this room / january 1973.
“What are you going to do with all that underwear?” Sana asked when she came upstairs to visit me in my room, looking at the tangled, frayed, colorful heap on the closet floor. I confessed to her that I’d stolen it. She clearly disapproved, but didn’t berate me.
“I’m saving it for a special occasion,” I said.
“Waiting for Mr. Right?”
“I already met Mr. Right, didn’t I tell you? I encountered him in the subway station. He punched me in the face.”
For the rest of the week, I settled into a routine. In the morning I was up at the sound of the music and made breakfast for everyone. After the women cleared out of the kitchen, I’d spend a few hours baking, still in my nightgown, listening to the radio for any news of Leeta. While I stuffed myself with cupcakes and popovers and whatever else I’d made, I’d call my mother. She wanted to talk about Verena’s book and was full of questions about my new life and where I was living, relieved that I was away from Brooklyn and surrounded by new friends. When I finished baking and eating, I’d put the rest of the baked goods onto platters and trays for the other women and then I’d shower, dress in my new clothes (which were becoming snug), and visit a branch of V— S—.
On the fourth day, when I went down the stairs, ready to go out, I paused in the red-walled entryway to make sure I had put my scissors in my satchel. Then there was the shattering of glass followed by screeching tires. I feared that a bomb was finally blowing up the Bessie Cantor Foundation next door and I was experiencing the blast in slow motion. I stood frozen in place until I felt certain that a fireball wasn’t about to rip through the walls.
I walked into the living room and bent over to pick up what turned out to be a brick with a piece of paper rubber-banded around it. One side of the paper, in block lettering, read: DIE BITCH. On the other side: EULAYLA 4-EVER.
“What’s going on?” Verena said, coming into the living room and taking the brick from me. She read the messages and frowned, seeming resigned rather than surprised. “This happens sometimes,” she said. “Former Baptists. So many of them hate me.” She handed me the brick and asked me to unwrap the rubber band and save the piece of paper.
“If they’d added a T, it could have said DIET BITCH,” I said. “That would have been far more clever.”
Verena didn’t laugh. She collected the broom and dustpan and began to sweep up the broken glass. I unwrapped the paper and flattened it on the coffee table. I figured I’d leave the brick out back, but when Verena wasn’t looking, I slipped it into my satchel, enjoying the heft of it.