“We’ll be fine,” Patsy said, stepping back to admire her work. She’d dressed three “Brazilian butt” half-mannequins Pru had gotten from eBay in hundred-dollar jeans and hung them in the front display window. From where Pru stood, they looked like very pert, recently executed bodies swaying in the breeze.
“Are you going to put up nooses and cheering peasants, too?”
“You don’t like it? I thought it was kind of funny.”
“No, I don’t,” Pru said. “Take it down, please.”
“Fine,” Patsy grumbled. “Testy Testerson.”
They’d been working since early morning. Annali was at Fiona’s for the night. At dinnertime, John showed up with sandwiches and coffee. After he left, Pru climbed back up the ladder, barefoot, to finish the display of evening bags, which had already taken way too long. She was so nervous that she accidentally ripped the lining of a very expensive evening bag, and in frustration she threw the purse across the room. Its long, heavy shoulder chain flew out and wrapped itself like a whip around a glass vase full of blue pebbles, some mystical thing of Patsy’s which was supposed to bestow good luck. The glass vase wobbled, then fell to the floor and shattered.
Patsy put her hands on her hips and said, “God, Pru, you are such a moody fucking nightmare lately.”
“Just shut up,” Pru said, from the top of the ladder.
“What is with you?” Patsy said, going to the closet for the broom and dustpan. “Is it all really just the store? Or is there something else going on?”
“Isn’t the store enough?” Pru said. “I mean, look at this place. It’s a disaster.” And of course, she’d just made it worse, breaking the damn vase. Why did Patsy have to bring such a ridiculous thing into the shop, to begin with?
“I think it’s that John Owen,” Patsy said, beginning to sweep up the glass. “Every time you see him, I swear, you go absolutely haywire. He sure is around often enough, too. Why don’t the two of you just get it over with, and fuck?” She said it absently, as she worked. She even looked up at Pru and grinned.
“I’m not the one who fucks married men,” Pru said, before she could stop herself.
Patsy stopped grinning. A look of pain crossed her face. Pru felt as if she’d slapped a small child.
“No, you’re not that stupid, are you?” Patsy said tightly. “I didn’t know John was married,” she added. “You could have said something. Ever.”
That was when Pru jumped off the ladder. She jumped because she was so angry with herself. She couldn’t believe she’d been so awful. She meant to go to Patsy and say she was sorry, but she didn’t look before she jumped, and her bare feet landed on the pile of glass shards Patsy had just made.
As she hit the ground, a white-hot pain seared the bottom of one foot. She tried to stand on the other foot, but fell. The bottom of her right foot had been split open. Patsy came over and looked at the gash. She pulled a length of paper towels from a roll, and wrapped up Pru’s foot in it. Soon it was soaked in blood.
“You have to go to the hospital,” Patsy said, firmly. “No— don’t even argue with me.”
Patsy grabbed her purse and the roll of paper towels. They hobbled outside and flagged down a passing cab. Pru’s foot throbbed and bled through the second paper towel. Patsy said, “The nearest hospital, please,” and the driver hit the accelerator. When they arrived, Patsy threw a twenty at him, and helped Pru inside. While they were in the waiting room, someone came with more gauze, to hold her until she could be seen by one of the doctors.
The waiting room was packed with people, many of them much worse off than Pru. One guy held a wad of gauze over an eye, and Pru was afraid there was nothing behind it. Everyone looked up at the TV screen, which was showing old reruns. Patsy went to find the cafeteria. Pru watched an episode of Three’s Company. God, that Furley was a creep. She tried not to think about all the things that needed to be done at the shop before the opening. Her foot throbbed, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at it. Her threshold for pain, as with fear, was down around dirt level.
As the program ended, Patsy came back with two cups of herbal tea. She handed one to Pru, who said, “I’m sorry, Patsy. I shouldn’t have said that. And I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I guess John Owen is a sore spot. I mean, you were right. Well, you were wrong. We’ve already . . . had sex.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “fucked.”
The truth was, she still felt like they were sleeping together, behind his wife’s back. She felt every bit as if she were having an affair. It was all done without any physical contact, of course, but they found reasons to see each other every day. It was because of the shop—always, ostensibly, because of the shop. It was too easy for Pru to pop around the corner, to see if he had any spackle. Or he would stop by, with another idea for her. Each day, she felt more and more guilty and confused, on account of the way they’d looked at each other. It was almost worse than if they were merely sleeping together. Were it just sex, at least she’d know how to define it. But what was this? Was she preventing him from working on his marriage? She worried that it was true.
Pru took a sip of her tea, and suddenly realized that she wanted to tell Patsy everything. She told her about the night they
