“Jackstraps,” Eleanor said, “same as every Friday night.” She pulled her scrunchie off and her blonde hair stayed put until she ran her fingers in and out a few times. She had the thin, hard-living face of a smoker and drinker and had been divorced for decades from her rodeo-rider husband. She pulled lipstick out of her bag and ran it over her lips without checking a mirror, then traced her work with a finger.
They punched out. “I thought-maybe I could join you?” Esme said.
Eleanor’s eyebrows went up and she smiled. “You changing your ways, Esme? It’s pretty rowdy there.”
“I feel rowdy,” Esme said. She felt like exploding, was how she felt, after the latest call from Ray. Something had torn between them like the tear on a piece of fabric that continues straight across, all the way across the cloth until the piece is neatly halved. If she went home now she would call him, apologize, say things she shouldn’t, anything to try to mend this tear.
And besides, she couldn’t stand the thought of going home right now. She couldn’t contain all she felt right now. She had to get out, right now, but not alone. She didn’t want to be alone.
Their boss, Ward Cameron, a small man who liked to cut a big swath, sneaked silently up behind them. “Not so fast,” he bellowed, startling them. He chuckled at their reaction as they turned to face him. “Rotation tomorrow, Saturday morning. You two, eight a.m. Don’t be late.”
They both maintained smiles for as long as he was looking, then Eleanor rolled her eyes.
“We oughtta unionize.”
“He beat back a union vote twice.”
“Then I oughtta quit. I hear they might open a new Safeway across the street from the Whitwood Center.”
“Ellie, you love it here. You’re so sociable. I admire how friendly you are with the customers. You love getting people laughing.”
Eleanor smiled, appreciating the compliment. “I love the money.” They walked into the employee lunchroom, where each employee was allowed a small locker for personal items. Eleanor pulled off her work shirt, a modest blouse, replacing it with a green tank top and hanging a string of beads around her neck. “Voila,” she said, and laughed.
Esme wondered at her changing in this room, but no men arrived to applaud her.
“Ward likes me,” Eleanor was saying. “Have you noticed? Whenever he gets a little bored, he drops something just so he can watch me bend over. What would he do without me?” She already knew the answer. “Hire another one. I guess that’s why I’ve gone through two husbands already. I think I’m special but they think different. You ever married, Esme? I always wondered.”
Although she had worked at the store for many years, Esme had always kept her distance. She never went out with the other clerks, and kept to herself at lunch. She preferred to walk somewhere, to the dollar store to browse for little household things, or to a nearby park where she could escape the store, which had no windows, no natural light, and a lot of talk about very personal things.
“I’m a widow,” she said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Long time ago,” Esme said, changing out of the thick-cushioned shoes she wore to protect her feet from the day of standing. Everything important in her life had happened so long ago, but Ray was now on a rampage through the past. She remembered the phone call again and this uncontainable anger returned-against Ray, for his pigheadedness, and against Leigh, who had dealt him a massive and destabilizing blow and set him on this course.
“Let’s go, Eleanor!”
“We’re gone.” Eleanor snapped her purse shut and gave Esme a glossy smile.
They joined a crew of three other female coworkers, all finishing shifts at six o’clock that day. Even for those on an early shift, Friday had that glow. Even Esme felt it, a hopeful electricity as if this weekend would bring all they desired. Chatting and laughing, they walked toward the cafe-bar, which was only a block from the grocery store.
Esme worked hard to enjoy the walk. The hot yellow of the day had drifted away, a burning sun low in the sky now at its sweetest and most benign. The heat of the sidewalk radiated up through the thin sole of her sandals.
She tried to hear what Eleanor’s friends were saying, but one thing about evening, every car for thirty miles around had hit the boulevard. Drivers squinted against the long low rays. She saw angry faces behind the windshields. She crossed her arms.
“You cold, honey?” Eleanor asked. “Here.” She removed her thin crocheted sweater. “Take this. I’m hot enough for both of us.” She expanded her chest and everybody laughed. The other women were younger than Eleanor and Esme and in pretty good shape. You couldn’t hold a job at Granada ’s unless you could stand for eight to ten hours.
Esme looked down at her blouse and black pants and thought, I look older than I am. She felt a little ashamed, as if she was letting down the other women, detracting from their beauty. She wished she had put on some makeup, or a skirt-her legs were still good-oh, what was she doing? She’d given up cocktail lounges years and years before. She felt like turning around and going home, but it had been such a long time since she had let herself live a little-there would be a long bar, shiny bottles, low light. She could relax, have a refreshment-
A long long time.
Jackstraps had flashed its green sign for a lot longer than Esme had worked at the market. A long wooden counter with shiny black marble inlays made a wide half-circle through the center of the room. Two immense flat screens blasted quick-cut images of Nascar racing. The place had begun to fill up. The women sat down along the far end of the bar, Eleanor choosing to stand.
All the men at the counter had swiveled to watch them enter. Several continued to check the group out. The air practically glittered around the women as the sexual energy in the room rose. Esme felt increasingly uncomfortable.
“Shoot. Too far from the bartender,” Amy said, opening her purse and taking out a mirror. She fluffed her hair and returned it to the bag. “I’m in a hurry. Craig’s picking me up later.”
Multicolored halogen pendants lit them festively, and the bartender came over right away, bantering with all of them equally, although Esme saw immediately that he focused the gleam in his eye on Eleanor.
“Jack, this is Esme,” she said.
“Welcome, darlin’.” Jack, as well-seasoned as his bar, put an arm around Eleanor’s waist.
The other women all had special drinks.
“Esme?” Eleanor asked.
“Coke,” she said.
“Coke?” Eleanor leaned over and patted her on the knee. “Don’t tell me you came with us tonight thinking you’d get away with that. I never saw a woman who needed something stronger. You leave it to me. I’ll pick something’ll knock your socks off.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Why not? Not healthy?” asked the youngest one.
“I have to drive home. It’s just a bad idea.”
A few of the women looked offended. “One drink is not illegal,” said one. “Nobody has to come out of here any drunker than they want.”
“You live over on Close Street, right? That’s not too far from me on Ceres,” Amy said. “Craig’ll give you a lift home and I can pick you up for the early shift in the morning if you’re worried about driving.”
No driving. That meant she could drink whatever she liked. Anything. Why not? She had come out tonight because she wanted a drink, so there. Esme said, “Okay. Wine?”
Spirits restored, they laughed at her. “This is no place to drink wine.” A debate ensued over which lethal mixture Jack might serve. “Oh, I know,” said Amy, the slowest clerk with the fastest smile. She kept the customers and the boss happy on sheer charm. “Give her the stoplight tease.”
“What’s that?” one of them asked.
“Show her, Jack.”
“That’s strong stuff for a lady don’t like to drink much,” Jack said.
“Too true,” Eleanor said. “Maybe a beer’s about the right speed.”
“Who said I don’t like to drink?” Esme said, rallying to the mood. “Now I’ve got a ride home. Okay, barkeep, I’ll have a stoplight tease. Please.”
Jack left them. They watched him flip bottles around sparkling glasses, dashing a little of this and that, pouring some of the other, but quickly turned to each other to catch up on gossip.
The moms complained about their kids’ crowded schedules, ex-husbands late with child support, nasty landlords. The unmarried discussed various dates, almost all bad but some humorous. Eleanor, the senior checker at Granada ’s and the most-married so far, ruled the conversation, kidding around, taking the worst situations and wrestling some fun out of them.
One of the grizzled guys with hat hair on the other side of the bar came over and Eleanor drifted away with him. Esme sat on her stool, smiling at the right times. Her mind wandered as she looked into the mirror behind the bar and watched the headlights of the cars on the boulevard, the red, white, green colors blurring like watercolors as the evening darkened. The noise level rose as more people came in, and she was vaguely aware of a sleeve brushing against her, someone leaning briefly into her back, bursts of laughter.
Esme blew out a long breath. Where was her damn drink? Let it come. The bottles glittered. There she was in the mirror, dark-haired, neat, almost sixty years old. Not like thirty-six years before. She wondered what her friends would say if they knew this would be her first drink in all that time.
She sped up the road toward Avonbury Street, her foot pressed all the way down, singing as loud as she could, radio blasting, windows open. You couldn’t think back and remember an event like that, you recalled it in flashes, and that’s how she recalled it. A curb rising up to meet her, the sudden realization that she was on the wrong side of the road and that her tires were up on the curb of a central divider.
“Shit!”
She swung the wheel hard, slammed on her brakes, and backed up the empty road. Thank God, nobody there to witness this ridiculous thing. Back on the right side of the road again, she drove slowly, methodically, and when the car drifted across the center line she corrected carefully. She didn’t have far to go, only a couple of blocks to get home and make dinner. He’d be home in an hour.
How did she get so drunk? Oh, yeah. Mad at him. Stopped at the bar, saying to herself, to hell with being a responsible person! To hell with my screwed-up life!
In those days, she drank manhattans. To this day, she could not tell you what went into them. She had liked the name. Also, the drink had an attractive color, and came in a triangle-shaped glass she thought sophisticated.
Four. Five. She drank so much so fast she passed out for a second or two on the bar. When she awoke she ordered another one and was politely invited to leave. Someone wanted to call her a cab. She told him she would walk home, no problem.
She climbed into her car, the cheapest used automobile on the lot that day she and Henry went to buy one together.
They had fought, but Henry prevailed, as he always did. Logical, solid, respectable, smart, he could outtalk her, outsmart her, and leave her laughing while he did it. So things had been in the beginning. Later, they had skipped over the part where he made her laugh. He looked at her differently, and the way he looked at her made her dislike herself, and that made her act badly.
She hated this dinged-up car almost as much as she hated being married to a man named Henry, whom she called Hank because it sounded more manly. Everyone, right down to the flakiest housewife on the block, drove cars like this because of their fuel efficiency and budget pricing.
In those days, she didn’t care about money or budgets. She expected life to have some flair, drama. She never expected to get stuck in a mundane house in a suburb. What happened to that girl
