chapter 6

My mother brought me home a dress from the thrift shop in a brown paper bag. Like a salami sandwich. It cost five bucks. I didn’t want to like it, but even before I tried it on, I did. Then when I actually put it on and turned in front of my mother’s full-length mirror, I tried not to smile. It was perfect. Oh, my basic stick figure was there, all right, lurking under the folds of striped taffeta, but still, I looked pretty neat. The dress did things for me.

My mother sat back on her heels, surveying the pinnedup hem.

“I must say I outdid myself,” she said smugly.

“It’s still too long,” I said.

“Absolutely perfect. You’re all set.”

“How about shoes? And panty hose?”

“Shoes? Panty hose?” my mother repeated as if I’d spoken in Arabic.

“Well,” I told her, “my dress was practically free, after all, and you don’t expect me to go to the Rainbow Room in sneakers, do you? And I can’t very well go barefoot, either. So what do you suggest?”

“Don’t get snippy,” my mother warned me.

Al rang her special ring. I let her in. “How do you like it?” I whirled for her benefit. “It’s the bargain of the century. My mother is very pleased with herself for finding it. Come on into her room. She’s shortening it.”

If I hadn’t been so entranced with myself, I would’ve noticed Al’s grim expression. She stomped along behind me as I led her to my mother’s boudoir. That’s French for bedroom.

“Hello, Al,” my mother greeted her.

Al said hello back. She didn’t go into her routine about not being called Al any more. She simply plopped into my mother’s boudoir chair, another thrift-shop bargain. The chair’s bottom gave way, and Al’s bottom hit the floor with an enormous thud.

“Oh, my gosh!” she cried, struggling to escape the chair’s clutching arms. “I’m sorry! I’ll pay to get it fixed. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s not your fault, Al,” said my mother, stretching out a hand to help her up. “It’s needed fixing for some time. Don’t worry about it.”

“Boy, that’s a relief. I thought I’d totaled it. I’m such a klutz.”

“No, you’re not,” my mother said. To me she said, “Please take off your dress, and watch the pins. I’ll get to it tonight.”

After my mother made off with my dress over her arm, I stood in my underwear and watched Al pace.

“What’s eating you?” I asked. In a minute she’d have to go to the bathroom.

“How’d you like my dress? My mother got it at the thrift shop. For five bucks. It’s really spiffy, don’t you think? I didn’t want to let on how much I liked it or she’ll never buy me anything in a department store ever again,” I said laughing.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Al said. “Excuse me.”

When she came back I told her I was getting heels and panty hose tomorrow. “What are you going to wear?” I said. “Did your mother bring you home anything yet?”

“What for?” Al went over to the window and stared out.

“For Saturday night is what for,” I reminded her. “For your birthday dinner.”

Al turned and looked at me.

“It’s off,” she said glumly.

“What do you mean? What’s off?” I knew in my heart what she meant, but I had to hear her say it.

“No Rainbow Room. No celebration. Nada. I’ll be lucky to get a burger at Burger King.”

I couldn’t speak. I was stunned.

“Stan, the one who was taking us there,” Al said, “well, he had to go to Europe for a couple of weeks. He told my mother we’ll do it when he gets back. I say forget the whole thing. My mother says she’ll take us, but I told her no. It’s too expensive. It’s not worth it. It’s too much money. And for what?” Al whirled on me and I backed off, arms crossed on my chest, suddenly cold.

“For a single lousy dinner, that’s what. With all the people starving in the world, who needs it?”

“That’s OK,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment, “we’ll think of something to do to celebrate.”

Al trudged to the door as if her red shoes weighed a ton. “Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Hey, it’s your birthday, not mine,” I said.

“I’m sorry I made such a big deal out of it.”

“It’s OK,” I said again. “Is your mother mad?”

“Mad at who?”

“Stan.”

“He can’t always call the shots. He’s always hopping on a plane to go somewhere. He’s an international banker.”

“That’s why he makes megabucks,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I’ll just curl up with a good book. Beats indigestion, huh?” Al’s eyes reminded me of a picture I’d seen of a baby deer caught in a trap: huge, liquid, sad. She did a couple of halfhearted bumps and grinds, but without her usual flair.

“I eat too much, anyway,” she said. “Have a weird day.”

“You, too,” I told her.

After she’d gone, I stayed put, telling myself not to be a baby. It was her birthday, not mine, as I’d said. Good thing my mother bought the dress for a measly five bucks. Good thing she hadn’t sprung for fifty.

I don’t know who felt worse, Al or me.

I’ll probably never know.