Herb's Pajamas Page 4

  As Walter begins to smile another man appears, with a guitar. Walter begins to strum the air, humming to himself, moving this way and that in front of the window.

  EDITH’S WARDROBE

  HATS

  EDITH DIDN’T REALLY know which hat. There were a whole bunch of them on the little stand and she took down a blue felt with a red rose on the brim. She turned it over to see where the label was so she could tell back from front, although maybe there was no such thing anymore as back and front. She placed the hat carefully on top of her head, the label in the back (the rose off center), and then she gently pulled it down her forehead. The hat felt snug around her head, tight and oddly reassuring. It made Edith think about her skull, and the delicate brain inside, and how nicely everything worked. She looked at her reflection in the mirror that sat at a tilt on the counter, and automatically she made her mirror face, lips pursed, eyes slightly narrowed. It was a forties face, a femme fatale face, and Edith had been making it since she was twelve years old.

  “May I?” asked the pretty Chinese salesgirl behind the counter, and without waiting for Edith to answer she reached across and with cool sure hands she tugged the hat down over Edith’s left ear, leaving the other naked and, Edith felt, unecessarily exposed. “Looks good at an angle,” said the young woman, and she smiled at Edith and motioned to the mirror. Edith blushed. “Oh,” she said, “thank you.” She looked in the mirror again just to be polite and then she quickly pulled the hat off and patted her hair. “Not really for me,” she said apologetically, and replaced the hat on its little sponge rubber pad. “Thank you, though.”

  The girl continued to smile and Edith pulled down a different hat, an enormous greenish beret-looking affair, and Edith put it back without trying it on. It looked awfully saggy and Edith thought it would droop down the back of her coat like some hideous net. Edith was wearing her good gray coat, the warm one she had gotten last year on sale. It wasn’t a frumpy coat—Edith wasn’t a frump, it was a middle-aged coat for a middle-aged person. You could not distinguish two separate breasts beneath it, just a broad dignified expanse that sloped more or less outward and dropped off more or less downward over the substantial person that Edith had, over the years, become. Her only ornament was a silver sea turtle, which clambered ever up toward Edith’s shoulder.

  Edith reached now for a dark blue hat but the salesgirl handed her instead a floppy black bonnet with red and yellow cherries in a big bunch at the front, if that was the front, the whole thing a bit shapeless and haphazard looking. Edith remembered sucking on some ornamental cherries once when she was small, not giving up at the pasty, disappointing taste. She remembered her mother taking them out of her mouth, fussing and scolding as she did so. This was perhaps Edith’s earliest memory.

  Edith stood still now as the girl positioned the hat on her head. There was a wire at the outermost part of the brim which reminded Edith of a run-over lampshade, but she didn’t say so. The girl’s fingers brushing Edith’s cheek made Edith feel suddenly sleepy and she said, “Is this a warm hat?” instead of “Do I look silly?,” not wanting to look in the mirror but doing so anyway. Actually, the hat looked rather nice on her and the cherries gave her coat a little lift. But it was completely out of the question and she took it off carefully and handed it back to the girl. “I don’t know,” said Edith.

  “Looked very nice,” said the girl. “One of a kind.” She smiled at Edith, revealing extremely white teeth.

  Edith reached again for the small blue hat. It was really more of a knitted cap, the kind sailors wore. “I knew somebody had a hat like this once,” said Edith, looking in the mirror as she raised her eyebrows and lowered the cap over her head. The girl leaned forward and began to tuck stray strands of Edith’s hair under the cap but Edith drew back as politely as she could. “You probably weren’t even born then,” said Edith, and she smiled her own nicest smile. The girl nodded and Edith thought how pretty she was, beautiful almost. “He saw me in my nightgown once,” Edith continued, lowering her voice. “Of course, that’s nothing in today’s world, but in 1953, I can tell you, it was considered very risqué.” The girl disappeared down behind the counter and Edith heard the rustling of tissue paper and then the girl stood up again. “I walked in my sleep, you see,” said Edith. “I was standing on our front lawn in my white nightgown and a pair of red rubber boots, if you can believe such a thing. It was raining.” Edith looked at the girl to see if she could believe such a thing but couldn’t read her expression. “He took my upper arm, you see, very gently, so as not to wake me”—Edith illustrated by grabbing the upper part of her right arm with her left hand—“only I must have been awake already because I can recall everything.”

  “Really.” The girl neatened up a pile of pink tissue paper.

  “Yes, indeed. He led me back inside the house and I could smell his breath because he had been drinking. He had a cigarette in his mouth the entire time, I remember distinctly, although it had gone out in the rain. He put his cap on my head which was silly because it was as wet as my hair and he sat me down on a kitchen chair. Then he said, ‘See you later, Edith,’ and he left.” Edith noticed the girl had sunk to her knees again behind the counter and all she could see was the top of her head. Edith was forced to raise her voice. “You know, he went to prison several months later for burglary. My mother knew his parents. We didn’t see them for the longest time.” Edith fell silent. “I wasn’t a popular girl. But I always had a very small waist.”

  The girl had several boxes on top of the counter and she was laying tissue paper in them now. “Would you like to see something else?” Her smile was friendly.

  “Of course, I believed myself to be in love with him for a week after, maybe a month.” Edith looked at herself again in the mirror. “Do you think this hat makes my head look too small?”

  “Excuse me?” the girl answered.

  “Does it look as if I’ve got a little head?”

  “No,” said the girl. “No, not at all. It looks fine. Very nice.”

  “Because that’s the one thing you can’t change,” said Edith. “A little head. There’s nothing you can do about it. I have a horror of appearing to have a little head,” said Edith, and she took a small mirror out of her bag. Edith looked at herself from the side, from all angles. “I was too shy to speak to him again. My mother made me return the hat. I’m afraid I may have snubbed him.” Edith satisfied herself that her head appeared to be a normal size. “I think I’ll take the other one. Please. After all. The one with the cherries.”

  Edith wore her new hat out of the store. On the street, she caught sight of herself in a shop window and she took it off and carried it in her hand. A block later she put it back on; then, crossing Broadway against the light, she took it off again. And so it continued, all the way home.

  NEGLIGEE

  “NEGLIGEE,” SAID EDITH, forcing the word with some difficulty from her mouth.

  “For madam?”

  “For someone about my size,” said Edith humbly. “My friend is too sick to shop.”

  Murmurs of sympathy.

  “Well, not sick, exactly. She broke her leg,” said Edith. “Well, actually, just one of the small bones in her foot,” Edith went on, warming to it. “A can of soup fell on it. Unopened. A big can. The red looks nice. No, the black looks nice. She’ll like the little roses, I think. Her husband is coming back from a long trip,” Edith found it necessary to add. “Is there a bottom part too?”

  Edith paid for the tiny thing, assured by the saleslady that this would be flattering to the full-figured woman.

  Edith took the plane to Richmond. “I am taking a flier on love,” whispered Edith on the plane, sitting by the window, ripping open the bags of peanuts. She watched the houses shrink, the ribbons of road start to stretch out and uncurl beneath her. She wondered what would happen to the plane if she stopped concentrating. “If he’s there, he’s there,” thought Edith philosophically.

  He was there but he didn�
�t recognize Edith’s voice. “Who is this?” he said.

  “Don’t you remember?” said Edith. She had packed nothing but the tiny nightie. She had left her return ticket open. It smelled good in Richmond. She loved the smell of rotting vegetation. “Don’t you remember?” said Edith. “We had three margaritas? After your talk? You said to call if I was ever in Richmond and now here I am.” Edith remembered everything. She had stood pink and perspiring in his hotel room wearing her big snowsuit and her scarf and he had worn his gray parka with the stain on the pocket and he had kissed her seven times. She remembered everything although she had been a bit tipsy.

  “Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” she had chortled all the way home in the taxi. His name was Tyler, and he was a travel writer, and she had sat next to him in Mrs. Keosian’s ninth-grade science class. Her mother had known his mother. Edith had read everything he had ever written. Edith had gone to a lecture he gave which was so ill-attended that she had had no trouble speaking to him after it was over. They had been the only two people in the auditorium. She had offered herself as a companion for coffee, and he had hesitated and then accepted. He had taken her elbow, and guided her across the streets. They had not gone out for coffee, he had taken her to Brat’s and ordered margaritas for her, a double scotch on the rocks for himself. “So,” he had said when they were sitting at a dark scarred little table in the back, “where have you run across my work?” Later, in his hotel room, Edith had never even taken off her coat. After several minutes of kissing he had pushed her away and regarded her at arm’s length. “Ah, Edith,” he had said, perspiring a bit himself. “Well. It’s getting quite late and I have to catch a very early plane. Let me find you a cab. No, I insist.” Edith’s mouth was still hot from kissing. She stood before him, a trembly maiden of fifty-two. “You can call me, Edith, if you ever come to Richmond,” Tyler had said kindly as he shook her hand. He had given the driver a twenty and told him to keep the change. It was so generous of him, Edith had thought, tipsy and happy and bewildered by love.

  “YOU’RE WHERE?” TYLER sounded alarmed. “Where are you staying, Edith?”

  “With you,” said Edith, feeling warm. Her stockings were too hot for this weather. She put her little bag on the floor between her feet and unbuttoned her big coat. It was very, very warm here. “I’ve come down for the weekend.” Edith tried to sound casual.

  “My god,” he said, and there was a long pause. Edith waited, her left foot rubbing her right ankle where something must have bitten her already. “All right, Edith,” he said finally, but his voice sounded so grim.

  Tyler picked her up in the reddest car Edith ever had seen. “My,” she said, settling herself in the front seat with a happy fuss. “This is the just the reddest car. It’s so interesting here.” Edith looked out of the window, which she had rolled all the way down. Tyler asked her to roll it back up again. He had air-conditioning in his car. Everyone had air-conditioning everywhere down South.

  “I’M AFRAID, EDITH,” said Tyler when they had gotten under way, “I’m afraid”—he shook his head sorrowfully— “you’ve come at a bad time for me. If you’d care to stay in my guest room I would be happy to have you. Otherwise—” He broke off. He cleared his throat. Edith studied a small red bump on the back of her left hand. She brought it close to her face for a better look. She wondered what chiggers looked like, actually. “My psychiatrist has warned me against starting, you know, a new relationship right now. We’ve reached a turning point in my analysis, and she feels it would be destructive for me to engage in anything intimate with a new woman at the moment, no matter how”—he smiled at Edith—“appealing she might be. I’m sure you understand what I’m talking about.” And Tyler studied the road ahead, where a car was pulling into his lane.

  Edith, blushing furiously, understood. “Oh,” she said, “I don’t mind. I’m just down for the day anyway. I always do this. I like to have a look at other parts of the United States whenever I get a chance. And mother was having company today so I thought to myself, what a good time to visit Richmond. So historical.” Edith’s voice grew husky. She too cleared her throat. She began scratching the back of her hand. She hoped he would have calamine lotion in his house, but she wasn’t going to ask him.

  Tyler’s walls were lined with books and his sliding kitchen doors were made of glass. He had a small garden and a hanging jasmine plant. Edith stood beneath it while he was out. She breathed in the sweet sweet smell. “We could be so happy here,” she whispered. Tyler had many appointments, and Edith had not given him any warning. He was sorry, but this was a normal day of work for him and he hoped she would be all right alone. “You won’t be too bored, I hope,” he said. “Oh, no,” said Edith. “There is so much to read here.” And she smiled at him as he left, wanting to wave from the front door. She stood there with her hand up but he didn’t turn around. He just got into his car and drove away. “After all,” said Edith to herself, “I’m not his wife.” Edith sat down at the kitchen table with a book by Tyler Fletcher in her lap. She studied photographs of him trekking up mountainsides, picking his way across bogs. She studied the muscles in his calves. The phone rang and rang but Tyler had said the machine would pick up any calls. She should not bother herself. Tyler had showed her how to turn down the sound if it got too troublesome. The blinking red light was for messages. Soon it was blinking so fast Edith couldn’t count the calls. The phone rang fifty times. The sound was turned off on the answering machine, so Edith couldn’t hear any of the messages. Edith didn’t dare go upstairs. Suppose he came home unexpectedly and found her there, snooping?

  Edith made herself a cup of coffee. He had a drip coffeepot but his coffee had that horrible almond flavor and Edith had to pour it down the sink. At three-thirty, Edith ventured outside for a brief walk. But really, his was just a street like other streets, and she was afraid people would wonder who she was and what she was doing there. Along the way she sustained several other small bites. She came back after only five minutes and she looked in his medicine chest. No calamine. Only aftershave. Six different kinds of aftershave. She picked her favorite, which was what she thought he had smelled like the night he had kissed her so many times. Edith put the bottle in her pocket. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Absolutely not.” And she put it back on the shelf. His medicine chest was clean and orderly. She looked inside his laundry hamper. The clothes in there were folded too. Men’s blue boxer shorts. She wanted to pick up a pair but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. She thought again of his kisses and the memory caused little shocks on the palms of her hands, the soles of her feet. “How odd,” she thought. “It really is electricity.”

  When Tyler got home, he put a bag of groceries on the counter. The phone rang and he spoke into it with a low voice. “Tomorrow,” she heard him say. “Yes. I promise.” Edith felt so silly. She wanted to disappear. But she was much too big to disappear. She decided to make the best of it. She cooked an omelet. Edith was good with eggs and butter, and her omelets were always tender and brown. “This is a symphony,” said Tyler, taking a bite, “a poem and a symphony.”

  “This is my specialty,” said Edith, proud and happy. “One of my specialties.” And she ate her omelet with a big spoon.

  They watched trout fishing on late-night TV. Large-mouth-bass fishing, taught by the Bass Master. It was for some reason terribly funny. They both laughed hysterically. Edith found herself wanting to sit closer and closer, but Tyler had put a pillow between them to rest his arm. Tears came to their eyes. Edith’s stomach began to hurt and she had to cry out. “No,” she said. “Stop. Don’t. It’s too funny!” she shouted, doubling over like a big piece of bread.

  “I never laugh this hard,” said Tyler with a puzzled expression on his face and Edith thought he might be going to kiss her. “Good night,” he said instead. On Edith’s bedside table was a book called A Man Called Peter. Also a copy of Spartacus. Edith took this as a joke and she read the first lines of both books. Then she put them back
carefully. The bed was small, a cot really. She turned on the air conditioner, then turned it off again. She opened her overnight bag and took out the negligee. It took her some time to figure out how it went, because it had no regular arms or legs, and then when she got it on she wanted to see how it looked, but there was no mirror in the bedroom except a tiny one above the bureau in which Edith could see no more than her face. Edith tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom and climbed up on the edge of the tub to look in the mirror. She turned this way and that. “Well,” she said, “it’s not too bad, really.” On her way back to bed she looked up the long stairs to Tyler’s room. He had already turned out his lights. It was completely dark up there. What would happen if she just went up and lay down in the bed next to him? It wouldn’t be good manners, certainly. And she might be sent back downstairs again and that would be the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to Edith, worse than anything. So Edith climbed into the little bed and she slept the night in her negligee, which itched her, and by morning, what with scratching and adjusting and flailing about in a strange bed, the thing had torn and Edith found it in the bed underneath her. It had come right off in the night. Perhaps it had not been well made, perhaps they were not meant for actual sleeping. Edith packed it anyway; she was afraid Tyler would find it if she threw it away. Besides, it was a souvenir of sorts.

  In the morning Tyler was in a hurry. He needed to get to a big meeting that day and he was anxious to drive Edith to the airport. On top of that, his phone was ringing again. “It was awfully good of you to come,” said Tyler to Edith, holding open the front door. The telephone rang again. Tyler spoke less softly this time. “Yes,” he said, “I realize that,” and he put the phone down hard. Edith was sure they would never have spoken to each other like that. Tyler was warming up the engine and Edith took a last look around. “Good-bye house,” she said, holding a breath of jasmine all the way to the car.