About Face (6 page)

She didn't bother to read the charts and graphs with Jeremy's well-behaved numbers. She didn't need to, she knew what they'd say. She liked numbers too. Some of her best friends were numbers. She knew that, looked at from one angle, they told exactly the story Jeremy was hearing. But there were other angles, too.

She stared at the Crayola blue sky, then down at the traffic patterns. She spotted a spider on the orchid plant in front of the window. Absentmindedly, she broke off one of the threads on the web he was building. The spider slipped off the broken thread and righted himself on the one below. I know how you feel, buddy, she thought. The benefits were a really important thread in my life. An anchor. I feel unbalanced too.

Enough metaphors. She got up and paced while she thought about Jeremy, smart but stupid. Someone who has to do things in a certain way, even if the way is wrong, just to show it's his way, Mr. Three Piece Suit and horn rim glasses with the insipid family pictures and control issues. Narrow. Unimaginative.

How to handle a guy like this?

As she paced, she entered and exited the stripes of light coming in the window. Funny how her blouse could be a bright blue when she was in the light and a deep blue when she was in the shade. She stopped pacing and shifted her weight back and forth, in and out of a shaft of light, trying to spot the moment of change. She wondered which of those colors, the bright blue or the deep blue, or maybe a third or even fourth she wasn't seeing, was the true, objective color of the blouse.

The horrible thought came to her as she tried to catch the precise moment of color transition: Maybe I
should
retire after all. Maybe David is right; maybe this is the handwriting on the wall. The very thought increased gravity, slowed her down.

But she soon changed her direction and her tune, picking up the pace and revving herself up again. No way, nuh-huh. Sorry, David, I'm not retiring, not like this. If I retire, it won't be because Jeremy took away my charity benefits, it will be on my terms.

Now she had to figure out exactly what her terms were.

CHAPTER 5

Unwrapping the Big Idea

 

 

RUTH'S SECRETARY CAME IN with as jaunty a bounce as her platform sandals would allow. Colleen's exuberance for her job splashed over into an exuberance for Mimosa's products, and for trying as many of them as she could, often at the same time. This day, under her asymmetrical helmet of sun-yellow hair, she wore rakish slashes of chartreuse eye shadow.

Colleen had proven her competence and her loyalty many times, and Ruth tried to look at her personal style with a sense of humor, even with some envy for its youthful abandon. Ruth loved and trusted Colleen like a daughter.

“Ruth, are you okay?” Her quizzical look, head tilted to the side, showcased the bright pink lipstick that extended slightly past the physical boundary of her lips.

“I'm in good health, let's put it that way.”

“Okay, but, like, what's going on?”

“I just found out Jeremy is changing the benefit-event program. Not changing, exactly. Eliminating.”

“Eliminating? No way, he couldn't do that. Could he? Why's he doing it anyway?”

“He says we spend more money raising the money than we should, and it would be cheaper to write a check.”

“But wait a second.” Colleen flopped into one of the chairs at Ruth's desk, then adjusted her cropped top and miniskirt. Ruth was glad to see her belly pierce-hole was closing up nicely, after she'd insisted on a stud-less belly or no visible belly at all.

“Doesn't he realize about the good vibes? And the, you know, publicity and all that? It's not just about the money, right?”

“Too intangible for him, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just don't say anything to anyone.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I'm working on it. Remember, mum's the word.”

“Okeydokey.”

Colleen dropped off a package that had just arrived, then went back to her desk with a little less bounce.

Ruth opened the package and looked briefly at the sample pump-bottles without much interest. Most of her attention was looking here and there for inspiration. She couldn't do an end-run around Jeremy, even if she'd wanted to, because he was the top of the line. Should she pretend to be his version of a team player, waiting for her opportunity to trip him up? She probably could, but didn't think she wanted to live her corporate life that way. Could she stomach just going along with it all?

Her hyperactive train of thought eventually jumped the track and, unbidden, turned to the big idea she'd been playing with for some time. The idea turned one of the commandments of the cosmetics industry on its head, so she'd wanted to give it time in her mind's greenhouse until she was good and sure it could take the exposure.

The way she saw it, a youthful appearance was the holy grail of the cosmetics industry, the consummation devoutly to be wished, the be-all and end-all. But there were women in her age group who didn't go along with the “looking good means looking young” equation. Some of her best friends were these very women.

Ruth's idea was a product line for mature women who wanted to look like attractive middle-aged women, not like women who were trying to look younger. This makeup wouldn't cover, wouldn't hide, it would enhance. It would celebrate. It would help women have the confidence to be themselves.

The irony of a cosmetics company helping women feel authentic was delicious. But she also smelled the profits.

Maybe it was time for the unveiling. With Jeremy's latest move, her identity would now have a hole where the “doing something socially worthwhile” part had been. Maybe a product line that helped women feel better about themselves would fill it. Can selling something count as doing good?

Yes it can, she answered herself. If the product helped women feel good about themselves. In an authentic kind of way. Empowered. It definitely can count.

She started one of her “plusses and minuses” charts on a piece of the heavy stock white-on-white paper used at Mimosa.

The plusses:

First was that it was a good thing to do, “Good” as in “Moral,” something she could really be proud of. She'd be helping women feel better about themselves.

Also, it would bring a lot of new women to Mimosa, those who didn't usually buy cosmetics. It would make a ton of money.

Third was that it was an “aha” sort of idea, really different. She liked that.

Fourth, a big splashy success would be the best defense against disparagement of the Lipstick & Scarves results.

The minuses:

It was very risky.

Also, things weren't exactly copacetic between her and Jeremy. He was interested in numbers, not imagination. Doing good for middle-aged women would not be of any interest to him. And, she had to admit, that wasn't completely unfair. He was an orthodox corporate guy and wanted the corporation to make money. He wasn't the corporate odd-ball here, she was. Perhaps he sensed that faster than she gave him credit for.

Playing around with her two columns, she knew, was a stall. Mulling was easy, taking action not-so.

Action. What kind? With Dean she'd have talked about the value of innovation, of cultivating brand awareness with a certain demographic group. With Jeremy it could only be about profits. She needed numbers, lots of numbers, all lined up and behaving themselves.

A job for her friend Terry, a self-described “data nerd” over in Research.

She dialed Terry's extension and, after chatting with Terry's secretary about her baby's ear infection, she got through.

“Sorry about my numbers for the scarf deal, Ruthie. At the meeting. Great event, though. As usual.”

“No problem. Numbers are numbers. And thanks.”

“Are you recovered?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. I haven't seen you for ages, though, not counting yesterday's meeting. How about lunch? Soon?”

“Love to. I miss you too, but you sound like you have something up your sleeve and on your mind. Hmmm?”

“Moi? What's good for you? Next Thursday? I'd love to try that new bistro down the block. I hear the chef's the brother-in-law of some famous chef in Paris.”

“Okay, Miss Mysterious. It'll be fun to catch up and … and whatever else we're going to do.”

Ruth pushed away from the desk and thought that, while the die wasn't exactly cast yet, she had a die-casting date. Time to talk to David about all this, too.

Of course, if she really got to create the line, it could be a big, splashy failure. Then she'd really have to go. With her tail so far between her legs, they'd all think she was doing somersaults. Oh well, who cares?

I care, she answered herself. Not about leaving. About putting herself out on a limb and falling.

No, no, it would succeed. She knew it would. Lots of profits, lots of good vibes, as Colleen put it. She envisioned what a star she'd be around the company, how Jeremy would have to be careful about his disrespect and power-plays. Most important, how the new product line would quell her feeling of not fitting in here, not feeling true to herself. Be a miracle drug for anxiety and uncertainty. Hers and everyone else's.

Whoa, girl. Slow down, get yourself under control.

But she'd held this idea in for what felt like a long time and now that she was thinking about letting it out, it felt like finding a bathroom after a long car trip: when relief is in sight, self-control is excruciating if not impossible.

What in the world am I about to do?

Part II

CHAPTER 6

Fear of the Cosmic Courtroom

 

 

BETWEEN DAVID'S BOMBSHELL ANNOUNCEMENT, her encounter with Vivian, Jeremy's shake-up, and her tentative ideas about a new product line, she'd been chasing sleep for two nights, finally catching it last night around three-thirty. She lingered in bed, feeling she deserved it, and knowing today was the day to sort out her feelings and talk to David, who had, unfortunately, not forgotten about retiring.

Outside the bedroom window, the sun seemed less ephemeral, more intentional than usual because she'd slept late. Except for the gentle movement of the branches and the shifting sunlight through them, she might have been looking at a painting.

Surrendering to the day, she got up. David's shorts-and-sweat-socks drawer was open. He must already have gone jogging. Hoping he'd made the coffee before he left, she wrapped herself in her thick white terry robe, belting it tightly, and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen, enjoying the feel of the carpeting under her feet even as she knew her cold feet would punish her for not wearing slippers.

In the kitchen, the Mexican wall tiles were sun-bathing. Seeing the pot of coffee at the far end, she silently thanked David and repaid him by overlooking the open silverware drawer directly below it. Grabbing a heavy white mug, she prepared her morning jumpstart, then settled herself at the small round table in front of the window, contemplating the unexpected cheerfulness of the vase of forsythia. David's cup was still there, next to the newspaper, which was opened to the sports section. “Yankees Look Strong in Spring Training,” cheered the headline. Well, she thought, David will be in a good mood today. It doesn't take much.

She idly flipped the pages and looked out at the neighborhood activity. Her neighbor was getting an early start on planting a lilac bush. Shirley jumped up on the shovel with both feet to force it into the earth. It took two or three jumps. By then it was in so far, she couldn't lift it out with all its dirt, so she had to lift a little dirt at a time. Struggle to get the shovel in, struggle to get it out, but never do it half-way. Spunk to spare.

She realized her feet were cold. Damn, she knew this would happen. And why did her feet have to keep acting like cold appendages stuck crudely to her mid-calves? She was tired of being cold. Old and cold.

Then her body treated her to her first hot flash of the weekend. The speed with which it took over caught her by surprise, as always. The power of her hormones—or, rather, their lack—felt as much a force of nature as gravity.

Rather than stand in front of the refrigerator, she tried a friend's suggestion: visualizing herself on a beach, where the heat would be pleasant and accompanied by the nurturing sound of waves. No dice. The heat on a beach came from outside her body, whereas this heat was definitely within.

Enough. She closed the paper and went upstairs to get showered and dressed.

“Hi hon,” David said, returning from jogging, as she emerged from her shower. “I had a great run. It is really gorgeous out there. You know how you can
smell
spring before it's actually… And the flowers are starting to… It's just a great day.”

She caught herself smiling a robotic half-smile.

“How about if I go into town?” David seemed determined to bull through her mood, even though that approach had never worked in the past. “I'll take the grocery list and get some stuff for lunch, too. I want to check out the new deli. I'll stop by the dry cleaner and the post office. While I'm at it, I guess I'll go over to Millwood and drop off those papers at the accountant's office. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

He dropped his sweaty running clothes on the floor and headed toward the bathroom in his underwear. “Remember,” Ruth said. “We decided to cut down on fat in our diet after Max's little… episode. So go easy at the deli.”

“Got it.” He closed the bathroom door behind him, then re-emerged. “While I'm gone, why don't you try to find some time to relax? You could use a little … ” He tried to maintain eye contact and took a step towards her.

“A little what? Relaxation? Is that a joke?” She sidestepped, walking toward one side of the bed. He followed her lead and walked to the other side. They removed the pillows, then simultaneously pulled the covers up toward the headboard and straightened them out, just as they did every morning, not even noticing what they were doing. She waited for him to smooth a wrinkle in the blanket on his side.

“No, I've got way too much to do. I've got to pay bills, do laundry, return at least a dozen phone calls. Including one to Josh, to see if he's called that guy.”

“What guy?”

“Don't you remember? That school superintendent Diane told him about, a friend of hers? I could ask him tomorrow at lunch, but I'm afraid it'll piss him off and I don't want that to spoil our time together. So I have to think of a reason to call today.”

They fluffed the pillows and replaced them on the bed covers. “And then I have to push and pull some numbers into line for Jeremy.”

What she really wanted to do in the worst way was escape into a crossword puzzle. A really hard one, the kind where she'd make inroads bit by bit. “If this letter goes here in the Across word, then that must mean the word going down is… ” And after awhile, the world having taken a back seat to the challenge, every box would have the letter that belonged in it.

“But I'll put relaxing on my list and maybe that way I'll get to it—in my next life.”

He headed back to the bathroom and she heard him turn on the shower, then call out, “Okay, you do your stuff, I'll do mine, but let's do lunch.”

She forced out a curt “It's a date.” Neither of them mentioned the elephant in the room waiting to be discussed.

While David was gone, Ruth loaded the stereo with Brahms' Violin Concerto, Joan Baez's Diamonds and Rust, and the Carole King record Josh had called Weally Wosie. She turned up the volume and occasionally hummed or sang along as she neatly slid check-writing and phone-calling between washer and dryer cycles, enjoying the solitude and the steady progress. While she tackled tasks, she also churned around her major dilemmas, David and Jeremy. Yin and Yang. Scylla and Charybdis. Rock and hard place.

She hated the idea of retiring. It was about being old. She wasn't in denial, she knew her body was aging, especially since the so-called “Change of Life.” She hated that euphemism for menopause. Menopause needed some marketing. If it were her product, she'd call it “Freedom from Mess.” Or maybe “Babies Be Gone.”

And her spirit was older, too. She sensed it at work, especially around the snippy young MBA types who thought they knew everything.

Lurking somewhere in there, she knew, was the facts of her parents' deaths, two years apart. She was surprised how much she missed them, considering she hadn't gotten along with them all that well. The other day, she'd caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror at the gym and, fleetingly, saw her mother's face. The sagging cheeks and tired eyes, the graying eyebrows. Did she really look like her mother, she'd wondered with horror? Or was she just missing her?

And raising Josh was over and done with, too. David was right—she should let him run his own life, make his own mistakes. But, oh, she liked it better when he was five or six and she was more … more what? … more important.

Running into Vivian last night didn't help, either, especially since Vivian had remained so “pure.”

So, no, she wasn't denying she was aging, she just didn't want to honor it.

David returned from his errands before she'd begun to focus on Jeremy. They unbagged the groceries, working side by side, mostly silently. Each item removed from its bag was like a brick removed from the wall between them.

David unwrapped each lunch element from the new store in town as dramatically as if it were a Christmas present.

“Don't these white beans with olive oil and oregano look terrific? We don't have beans that often and they seem so, I don't know … so … like sitting in a café? Like that time in France with… ?”

Ruth grabbed the stepladder, then silently went to the cupboard over the stove at the far end of the kitchen. She stood on her toes on the top step and grabbed the blue celadon dish they'd bought and shipped home from a pottery factory in Thailand.

“Now here's something you don't see every day. Marinated … Jerusalem … Artichokes,” David said, trying to roll the “r's” and waving his hands in the way of a magician with brightly colored scarves.

“What are
they
?” Ruth asked.

“I'm glad you asked. It turns out Steve of ‘Steve's Deli' was in Paris during the war. He said food was really scarce because the Germans ate all the good stuff. Except they didn't like Jerusalem Artichokes and left them for the French. Now they're back in vogue.”

She walked back to the pantry, flattening herself out as much as possible as she passed David along the way, to retrieve Aunt Alice's practically-unused wedding gift platter with sparkles.

David, still playing Santa Claus, presented the curried lamb balls and dilled new potatoes. When he was finished, he said, “Not too much fat, right?”

“Mm-hmm, you did good, sweetie.” Another dropped stitch in the marital fabric reknitted.

They set the food on the round table by the window, rearranging the vase of forsythia, and the salt, pepper, oil and vinegar so everything would fit. Ruth looked at the choice of platters as a montage of their life, foreplay for their discussion. Later.

Next door, Shirley wasn't digging any more. It looked like the hole was done, but the lilac bush wasn't yet in it, and Shirley was gone. The shovel was lying next to the hole, though.

David tasted a little bit of everything in sequence, sometimes combining two items in one bite. Ruth went through one item at a time. “Did you see anyone in town?” she asked.

As they ate, he filled her in on the goings-on. Who was running for mayor, who was resigning from the Town Board, who had had a face lift.

Out on the street, it turned out Shirley wasn't the only one teasing the season. The new family across the way was getting their yard ready, picking up twigs and pruning. It was their first spring in the house, and they were obviously raring to go, energized by the newness.

David had put down his silverware, had his elbows on the table, and was twirling his wedding ring. Ruth wondered why he was nervous. She was the one with the dilemma.

Ruth ate her beans, savoring and stalling.

They sat in silence for awhile. Without looking up from her plate, she said, “I have been thinking about what you said, honey, like I said I would. It was a shock, you know, and I—”

“I guess it was crummy timing to drop it in your lap on the way to the concert. I did try talking about it before, but… ” He bit his lip. “When you asked me what the meeting was about, I just didn't want to…”

She cut the two dilled new-potatoes that remained on her plate into pieces, then into smaller pieces, then arranged them as a face. She dragged her eyes off the potatoes and looked up at David, wrinkled her forehead and frowned slightly, tilted her head, then looked out the window, into the middle distance, her eyes not focusing on anything in particular.

“I guess I can see how you might be ready to retire. You've done exactly what you've always known you wanted to do, and you've done a great job and you've been fulfilled by it and so I guess you're ready to let it go. And, besides, you love golf. You're lucky that way.”

He nodded slowly.

“Retired people become marginalized, hanging out around the edges of things, looking in to where it's all happening. Like my folks. To the point where an exterminator visit became enough to plan a day around.”

“It doesn't have to be—”

“And retirement is about endings,” she continued. “I hate endings, even the good ones. I'll just torture myself about my choices. And besides, I just feel like I'm not finished yet.”

“Do you suppose there might just be something in between Mimosa and retirement?”

“Then there's that whole thing about accounting for myself and realizing that all I ever did was sell makeup. I didn't cure cancer, I didn't wipe out poverty, I didn't teach children to be better human beings. Except for Josh, of course. I sold makeup, period, the end.”

David, with a gentle voice and a gentler touch, pointed out the obvious, that staying at Mimosa wouldn't help her cure cancer or come up with some other dramatic answer for the Grand Inquisitor. All it would do was put off the moment of questioning her choices. Which she shouldn't do anyway.

He shifted from compassionate to upbeat. “I'm just talking about the next chapter, a fun chapter.”

“It may be ‘just a chapter,' but it's the
last
chapter, isn't it?”