Eileen Slovak

Chapter Thirty: Battling Spinsterhood in a Little Black Dress

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scarlet

I hope everything’s alright with Dad. I call Catherine to discuss the odd conversation that I had with him last night.

      “He probably had a friend stop by because he didn’t want to be alone.”

      “Another weird thing, last weekend when I visited, I found a jar of dog biscuits on his counter. What do you make of that?”

      “I don’t know, maybe he brings them with him when he goes for his walks so the neighborhood dogs won’t chase him,” Catherine suggests.

      “Sounds logical.”

      When I hang up, I get another call from the heavy breather followed by an abrupt hang up. I log it in the note document I started keeping on my cell phone. Six times this week so far. Keeping track is better than doing nothing at all.

      With Emilie’s assistance, by late afternoon Friday, we’ve slogged through one of the enormous boxes of files Frank entrusted to me. We’ve set up meetings with potential inventors over the next two weeks. I’m feeling victorious about work, but the prank calls have me a little on edge.

      Walking out to the parking garage, I find myself listening for footsteps, fanatically checking over my shoulder. Once on the road, I scan my rearview mirror to see if anyone is following me. No single car remains behind me for long. Drivers speed up to pass me, since in my paranoia, I’m driving well below the legal speed limit. Great, now I’m becoming a paranoid spinster, soon to have an apartment full of cats! I’m talking to myself. This is just great. Corky’s right, I am losing it.

     Once safely inside my apartment I lock my door, letting out a huge sigh. This is no way to be. I need to figure out who’s harassing me to put a stop to it before I go insane. Moving to the small kitchenette, I slip off my shoes. Then, I gobble down a lukewarm Lean Cuisine while standing in front of the microwave. By 8:30 p.m. I’m in bed, scanning cat adoption sites on my phone.

      The early bedtime gave me a boost for my Saturday run. I nearly sprint the entire five miles. Afterward, I sit on a street bench recovering, my breath making visible streams in the crisp morning air. If there really is someone out to get me, he’ll have to catch me first.

     Over poached eggs on dry wheat toast, I ruminate about plans for the evening. Corky’s art show is tonight at 7 p.m. While I enjoy traditional forms of art, Corky’s style is more abstract. I’m not sure I always understand what I’m seeing. I say a silent prayer no one asks my opinion on the collection, rehearsing some vague commentary just in case. 

     Maggie is bringing Joe, the anesthesiologist, who I’m looking forward to finally meeting. I say a second prayer that I’ll like Joe, since Maggie is so infatuated with him. I’m sans date. I’m hoping there will be some cute guys there. I should put myself out there like Corky says. I’ll dress for taking chances. Why am I so great at work but so lousy at real life? Anxiety maybe? Running always helps. It’s my drug of choice. I feel mentally lighter but my need for some sexy attire for tonight is a looming issue.

      I had persuaded Catherine and Gary to hire a sitter for the night and come to the show. I call to check in and to make sure she hasn’t changed her mind.

      “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since we’ve been out other than for a family event?” Catherine says. “I have nothing suitable to wear tonight. I spend my life in jeans and t-shirts. All of my old work clothes are out of style, not to mention two sizes too small.”

      “Then you’re way overdue for some new clothes. We’re going shopping. My closet needs some updating anyway,” I say, thinking about Corky’s comments.

      When I arrive at the house, Gary has already left to take the boys to karate.

     “Where’s Charlotte?” 

     “She’s with Gary and the boys. I’m going to owe him big time for this. First, for a child free shopping trip, then for dragging him to some ‘snore show’ tonight as he put it.”

     “Oh, it won’t be that bad tonight. It’s being catered. I hear there are multiple fully loaded bar stations. That ought to settle him down. Plus, tell him I said some culture will do him good. I can drive you both tonight if you want.”

      “You know Gary. He’ll want to get there late then leave early.”

      “In that case, I’d better fly solo; Corky will never forgive me if I don’t make a decent showing. Where do you want to go shopping? Anne Taylor, Nordstrom?”

      “I was thinking Marshalls or TJ Maxx. More in line with my budget.”

      “Fine, but steer clear of the clearance racks.”

      “Of course. Well…maybe one rounder.”

      “Catherine, if it’s on clearance it means no one else wanted it badly enough to pay full price for it. Is that the image you want to project?”

      “Maybe it means no one saw it’s great potential.”

      “How did you manage to dress yourself when you were working?”

      “I wore business suits every day. It didn’t take much thought. Then again, I had time to shop and read fashion magazines instead of skimming through the Parents magazine on the toilet. I hoped you were better at this than I am.”

      “I usually ask the sales clerk for the outfit that’s on the manikin in my size.”

     “The manikin probably is your size.”

      “Sometimes. We might need some help from a fashionista. Maggie’s off today, I’ll see what she’s doing; she loves shopping.”

      “Wow, I feel so free with no diaper bag, snacks or toys to carry.” Catherine checks herself. “It’s like I’m forgetting something.”

      “Yes, having three kids in tow. I’m really glad you guys are coming tonight. You need this.”

      “I absolutely do!”

      Maggie meets us in the Marshalls parking lot.

      “Hey, Cat! I hear you’re having a wardrobe crisis. Let’s go get you all sexied up! Wahoo!”

      “My inner cougar is in your hands!”

      “Meeeooow!” Maggie says.

      After a half hour of searching, we each have a pile of items in the cart to try on. All thanks to Maggie, our personal shopper.

      “If department store owners had any sense, they would install low lighting with fun house mirrors. Mirrors that make you look twenty pounds thinner in fitting rooms,” Catherine moans. “They would sell so much more!”

      “What do you do if you still look like hell in the skinny mirror?” I ask stepping out of the fitting room wearing a beige sweater dress with a beaded bodice. I walk over to the large three-way mirror past Maggie who’s perched on the adjacent, faux leather settee.

      “Wow that’s amazing,” she says. “You look just like my mom.”

      Poking her head out of the fitting room stall, Catherine chimes in: “She’s right.”

      “Ugh! I haven’t found anything!” I say, “I’m sticking with black, it’s easier. Color is highly overrated.”

      “Scar, beige isn’t really a color. It’s like the absence of color,” Maggie yawns.

      “Help my sister, will you?” I wave her off.

      “You should wear more red, blue, or green even,” Maggie suggests.

      “My hair is red. I never wear red.”

      “Are you kidding? You look great in red,” she says, “and your hair is auburn.”

      “Um, excuse me?” I gesture toward Catherine’s fitting room.

      “Cat, how did you ever put up with her growing up?” Maggie shouts over the dressing room door. “You turned out so normal. Are you sure you two were raised in the same house?”

      “Help!!!” Catherine shouts opening her door. She’s trapped in a dress she can’t budge over her hips or her shoulders.

      “How did you get this on in the first place?” I ask netting a kick in the shin from Maggie for my comment. 

     “Ouch!” I yelp, taking a swing and miss at Maggie while we try to work the dress over Catherine’s head.

      “Ooohhh, the zipper is stuck in my hair,” she cries. Maggie lifts, while I untangle.

      When finally free of the garment Catherine’s hair is completely standing on end.

     “Do we have time for a trip to the salon?” I ask. Maggie boots my other leg.

    “Ow! Would you quit it? I guess I’m wearing pants tonight to cover up all my bruises.”

      “At least now they’re even,” Maggie smiles.

      “Brat!” I shout whipping the dress at Maggie.

      “Girls, do I have to separate you two?” Catherine attempts to smooth down her hair.

      “No Mom, we’ll behave,” Maggie says. She pulls a hairbrush and hairspray out of her giant purse and hands them over to Catherine.

      “Oh, well, I wasn’t expecting miracles,” Catherine sighs, looking in the mirror.

      “Shush it. You’re going to look fabulous tonight!” Maggie shows her a navy-blue cap sleeved dress with an above the knee flowy skirt.

      Slipping it on and twirling a few times, Catherine says: “It doesn’t look half bad.”

      “Who’s that sexy Momma?” Maggie asks.

      “Perfect, Cat!” I say, “I think Gary’s getting lucky tonight.”

      After two hours with several fits of hysterical laughter, we have some cute tops, stylish jeans and a blue cocktail dress for Catherine. I find one pair of black jeans, a cocktail dress, and two colorful, form fitting tops.

      “Scarlet, who knew you were hiding a hot body under all of that beige?” Maggie asks. “Catherine, I can’t wait to see how you look tonight. Let’s go find you some shoes.”

      “You know the nice thing about shoes?” Catherine asks. “No matter how big your butt gets, your feet always stay the same size.”

     “Right on, sister!” Maggie says giving Catherine a high five. “After checkout, we need lunch, pronto.”

      “Oh, thank goodness,” I say, “all of this shopping is making my head spin.”

      “Thanks girls, I really needed this,” Catherine says.

      “Any time,” Maggie answers.

      “Catherine, promise you’ll go home and immediately burn all of your Mommy jeans?” I ask.

      “Are you kidding? Mom jeans are back in style,” she says.

      “Not the ones from the nineties. We can use Gary’s barbecue next Friday to roast them.”

      The turnout for the show is greater than I anticipated. By the time I arrive, the line of people waiting to go inside the warehouse turned gallery, wraps around the building. I notice all of the expensive cars in the lot, hopeful for Corky’s sake that they belonged to potential collectors. I feel like a celebrity flashing my VIP ticket avoiding the long line altogether. Once inside, a waiter hands me a glass of champagne while others pass with a bevy of hors devours.

      The crowd moves slowly through the exhibit hall, sweeping me up in it. I search for Corky’s display while taking in wall sized paintings. The murmur in the room blends with the pop music playing in the background. Scanning the booths, I can’t believe I’m seeing Serena Jacobs of all people, displaying her paintings. Ugh! Thankfully, she doesn’t see me. I duck in the opposite direction.

      Jake, Corky’s roommate as well as former classmate, is in a far corner of the exhibit area. Jake’s a photographer as well as an avid runner. I’m so accustomed to seeing him in running gear, I almost don’t recognize him in his slim fitting black, leather pants, tight gray sweater and studded boots. His short-cropped hair is slicked back with a hair product that gives it a sheen under the florescent lighting. Built for competitive running, Jake is tall, thin, and wiry. We met at a 5k road race in Cranston five years ago. I finished somewhere in the middle while Jake and his friends competed to be among the top five finishers. Short races for Jake are fun training runs for the half marathons and marathons he competes in across the country. After that race, a group of us runners met at the Un Pub where Jake introduced me to Corky. When I approach, Jake is walking a patron through his photo display. The man didn’t buy anything but he took Jake’s business card. More potential customers approach while I admire his photos.

      “Hey stranger,” he says. “I’m so glad you came. Have you seen Corky’s work yet? It’ll blow your mind. She’s such a genius.”

      “No, I haven’t made my way there yet. But show me what you’ve got here.”

      Jake’s black and white photo exposition is themed “Found in Providence”. It features pictures of single discarded objects found on the city streets. One photograph is of an old battered work boot. Another is a rusty bicycle missing both wheels. There’s one of a purse spilled on the sidewalk, likely minus some of its contents. I’ve always been impressed by his talent. I’m sure tonight, he’ll sell some of the large format pieces on display.

      “I thought about calling it, lost in Providence, but found is so much more significant,” he says.

      My favorite is a trio of photos of a thin, scruffy stray dog. In the first, he sits looking fierce. In the second, he’s hunched, his eyes fearful. Then in the third he’s walking away from the camera, looking back over his shoulder at Jake, wide-eyed.

      “His expression tells his story. That one broke my heart while I was taking it.” He points to the dog fleeing. “I tried to feed him but he bolted. I haven’t been able to find him since.”

      I see a few portraits of the homeless. Some of street artists. Then, I come to a sixteen by twenty inch of someone I recognize. It’s a young woman in a dark tank top, with ripped jeans and bare feet. She’s leaning against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette with her eyes closed. The smoke obfuscates her features, but I can see she’s laughing and appears to be in motion.

      “Wow, you really captured her Jake.”

      “That’s easy. Corky’s so expressive.”

      “Speaking of Corky, I’d better go find her before I end up on the “S” list. Nice job, Jake. Good luck with the show. I’ll see you after.”

      “Thanks Scarlet.”

      The minute I walk away, Jake is enveloped by art enthusiasts. I slip into the first ladies’ room I find. Once inside, I assess my appearance in the mirror. I smooth the front of my little black dress and reapply lip gloss. I look pretty good tonight. There are some hot men here. I saw a few watching me walk by. I’ll take an opportunity if one presents itself. When I turn to leave, a familiar unfriendly face startles me.

      “Trish! What a surprise. What are you doing here? I mean, how are you?”

      Thankful I haven’t seen her since Sean’s funeral, it’s still a shock. She’s the last person I expect to run into here. I’ve heard she lives in Boston now.

      “How am I? Well let’s see…my fiancé was killed. My life is basically over,” she sneers. “Here you are, not a bother in the world. How do you think I’m doing, Scarlet?”

      The fiancé comment throws me. Could she possibly be talking about Sean? I don’t know how to respond so I say nothing. I’m contemplating a way to extricate myself.

      “I hope whoever was responsible for what happened to Sean pays dearly for it,” she says.

      “Trish, Sean’s death was an accident.”

      Another woman enters the restroom. She looks at me, then at Trish. Sensing the obvious tension, she pops into the nearest stall. It’s a relief not to be alone in the bathroom with Trish.

      “How do you know, Scarlet? Were you there? Did you see it happen? If Sean’s family believed it was an accident, why would they hire a private detective to look into it?”

      “But the police said…I mean the report was…that it was an accident.”

      “They’re looking at everyone involved as a potential suspect. Just so you know.”

      “I don’t know where you’re going with this. Sean’s death has been very hard for all of us. I know how…attached…you were.”

      The presence of another person in the room does not sway Trish from her attack.

      “Oh, please! You don’t know anything! Don’t think you fooled anyone with that pathetic display at the funeral!”

      I flush with embarrassment but don’t respond. I’m trying to think of a way to defuse Trish. Getting angry will surely fuel her fire, but my lack of response only seems to make things worse.

      “He was in love with me. He never stopped. He wanted me back. You were a fling. Someone he saw to get over me. You meant nothing to him. Remember that, Scarlet.”

      Trish smiles a bizarre smile, then turns on her heels, stomping out of the ladies’ room. A few seconds later, the woman in the stall cracks the door peering out.

      “She’s gone, it’s safe to come out,” I say. I feel like Glenda, the good witch, from the Wizard of Oz.

      “Wow, she’s having a seriously bad day.” The woman says.

      “You have no idea.”

      I pull myself together. Still shaken, I exit the restroom, walking right into the Reality Stud. Smiling, he recognizes me. Frazzled from the episode in the bathroom, I force a weak smile. I’m scanning the area to make sure there’s no sign of Trish.

      “Are you okay?”

      “I’m fine. The ladies’ room isn’t as safe as it used to be. Excuse me.”