Free Food for Millionaires (8 page)
“He’s called Tina, but she’s not allowed to tell him where I am. Nor are you.”
“Understood,” Virginia said, still not getting Casey’s decision to live with Ella. “You could have stayed with me. At Newport.”
“You were visiting your grandmother—”
“Lady Eugenie would’ve been happy to have you.”
“Thank you,” Casey said graciously, having told Virginia about the fight but not the hitting.
“And if you want to be in the city, you could stay with Jane and Fritzy. They love you, too. But Ella Shim?” Virginia couldn’t remember Ella uttering a word out loud in the six years she’d known her at Brearley. Did the girl even speak?
“She’s not so bad.” Casey could hear Ella’s voice in her head from only a few hours ago, how she’d pleaded with Ted to get her a job. “I’ve known her from Sunday school. And she has an extra room. C’mon, I can’t stay with your parents.” Casey made a face. “They’re super, but—”
“Yeah, neither can I,” Virginia said. Jane and Fritzy were a particular drink of water. They were also not young parents, both in their early sixties. Their excessive politeness could be construed as detachment or, worse, a social frigidity. They didn’t mean to be that way; they just didn’t know how to be intimate or talk like regular people. What also polarized their household was that they’d sent Virginia to a shrink ever since she could talk almost, so they’d raised this girl to have all these feelings when they appeared to have none. “They’re very sweet,” Virginia said of her parents, “but tough to live with. I’m sure my biological parents were deeply troubled individuals, highly emotional. And verbal. I bet my biological mother was a screamer.” She smiled with some satisfaction.
“Hmm. . .” Casey fiddled with the ice in her drink. Over the years, Virginia had imagined her biological mother as everything between a hooker and a nun.
“And how are you?” Virginia asked.
“Fine. I just have to get a job,” Casey replied.
“You’ll get one,” Virginia said, wanting to figure out what else was going on in that tough nut of hers. She’d never met anyone so proud in her life. “I mean, do you like living with Ella?”
“She’s not you,” Casey said. There was always a pecking order among girlfriends. “Once I get my cash flow in order, I’m moving out. Find an affordable place in Manhattan. No problem.” She said all this confidently, as though it were just a matter of time.
“You can come to Italy.” Virginia raised her hands enthusiastically. “How cool would that be?”
“I can go to the moon, too, but NASA won’t return my calls.”
Virginia smirked. “You can live with me.”
“Not in the cards for this girl.”
“Why not? They let Koreans into Italy the last time I checked.”
“Mexicans, too?”
“Ha.” This was the thing Virginia liked about Casey—she could fire back instantly.
“You should at least visit me. I’m not coming back for a long time. The degree can take two years or more. Fritzy and Jane will come to see me. You know how I hate flying.”
“And phones.”
Virginia sighed. “But I write all the time.”
“Yes. You do.” Casey loved her friend’s letters. It was like receiving the pages of a genius’s diary, and because of her flowery style, the letters read as if from another era. Virginia wrote in her unfiltered prose about her observations and desires, never holding back her failures or doubts. In her writing, she directed her thinking like a woman walking out of a maze, turning the corners of events and ideas. Casey admired Virginia’s mind and hadn’t known just how brilliant her friend was until she’d started to receive her letters. And Virginia didn’t hide anything—this was the thing Casey prized most about her.
If Casey felt wild and angry compared with Tina, she was even-tempered and discreet around Virginia, who thrummed with vitality and curiosity. Even as Virginia got drunk, slept with too many men, and lost her house keys on a regular basis, Casey couldn’t help but admire her friend, who didn’t feel deterred by shame or failure. Virginia was not afraid of criticism—that, Casey thought, was an extraordinary thing.
“You will come visit me. Yes?”
Virginia smiled pleasantly, yet what Casey felt was the pang of being left behind. Their lives had always looked different, but after graduation, a divide had risen between them like a drawbridge sealing up a castle. From the other side of the moat, Casey had to make her own way.
“You’re the one who’s leaving. So why should I visit?” Casey said coldly.
Virginia looked hurt by this, and Casey felt sorry. She was Casey’s closest friend from school—buddies since the second week of freshman year. Virginia was leaving for Italy the next day. It wasn’t as though Casey didn’t know her friend’s sorrows—how she’d searched for her birth mother since she was eleven, all leads going nowhere. This was Virginia, the girl who’d written prizewinning papers at school and was getting a master’s degree in Bologna because her spoken and written Italian was that good. Her French was native quality. The Romance language she couldn’t learn, however, was Spanish—the language her biological mother would have spoken. Every time Virginia had tried to take lessons, she’d ended up dissolving into tears.
Virginia reached across the table to take Casey’s hand. “I will miss you.”
“Oh, stop. You’ll be so busy chasing boys that you’ll hardly have time to pick up a pen.” Casey felt like crying.
“My record disputes such unfair charges.”
Casey could say nothing to this. There were eight or nine ribbon-tied bundles of Virginia’s letters at her parents’ from previous summers.
“Come visit, Casey. There are Italian men in Italy.”
Casey laughed.
“And gelato. Oh, the marron glacé gelato. You can’t believe that ice cream can taste—” Virginia swooned, her face lighting up in rapture; Chuck came by to bring her a beer.
Casey waved at him, letting him cut in. Chuck and Virginia had had a semester-long thing during sophomore year. Virginia said they were good friends—reliable for annual strip poker nights and the occasional movie. Besides, Casey thought, it wasn’t fair to monopolize the guest of honor. Though she had been on the verge of telling Virginia about the fight with her father and how she hadn’t gone to Newport because of her face. But how would that have changed anything? The past couldn’t be corrected by explanations. Virginia yearned for a rationale from her biological mother—
Why did you give me up?
—and Casey wondered how that would really fix anything. Would it satisfy? The Crafts seemed like perfectly good parents. Casey’s biological parents were a mess. And what good would it do to talk about all of it? It was just as well that Chuck Raines had come by. He had a square head and a thin neck. He still had a crush on Virginia.
“Have you had gelato, Chuck?” Virginia asked him.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Italians make damn good ice cream. You gonna hook me up?”
“
Naturellemente
.” Virginia closed her eyes and shrugged like her Milanese aunt Patrizia, who’d married her mother’s younger brother, the art dealer.
Casey smiled at their happiness, the mutual recognition of something enjoyed. She’d never tried marron glacé gelato. Marron was French for chestnut? Glacé was glazed? That much she got. How did you say “chestnut” in Italian? The world was so vast, and there was so much she didn’t know.
E
LLA HEADED TOWARD THE BANK OF ELEVATORS
at Bayard’s, bypassing the glass cases of exquisite jewelry as well as the premier fragrance counters of New York. She was oblivious to the sparkle and scent of the shop, still thinking about the funny face David Greene had made when she’d explained that she had to leave the annual fund meeting fifteen minutes early because of the dress. He rarely looked displeased with her. Yet whenever her wedding was brought up, David tended to change the topic or remember that he had to finish up something. His navy blue eyes, so full of mirth and curiosity, would darken soberly when she’d talk about Ted.
Naturally, Ted teased her about him, saying that her dorky white boss had a fetish for Asian girls. But David wasn’t like that, she’d argued as best she could. He respected everyone, wouldn’t reduce a person to a stereotype. Yet the more she’d defend David, the worse Ted got. So she certainly didn’t tell her fiancé that each morning she walked to work eagerly, looking forward to listening to David’s thoughts about the alumni or the parent body, the progress of the class fund. On Fridays, they ate sandwiches together in the park if it was mild outside or in the office if the weather wasn’t agreeable. He’d tell her stories about the inmates from the men’s prison where he taught writing on the weekends as a volunteer. Sometimes he’d bring along his students’ misspelled rap lyrics and read them aloud to her with as much gravity and delight as if he were reading from his favorite poet, Philip Larkin. Two weeks ago, with shyness and pride, he’d shown her two poems he’d had published in
The Kenyon Review
. One was about a boy who sits patiently in his father’s waiting room, and for days after, she couldn’t stop thinking about his description of the heavy stack of
National Geographic
s the boy in the poem ends up reading as his father sees one client after another—the curling yellow page corners, photographs of sharp-nosed ladies wearing orange scarves on their heads, the white-capped mountain of Japan.
Casey was there, waiting for her as promised—by the four elevators located in the back of the store. Once inside the car, Casey pushed six for bridal. There was no one else besides them.
“So, tell me. What does the dress look like again?”
Ella couldn’t answer the question. She frowned.
“Ella?” Casey said firmly. “The dress?”
“It’s long.” With her hands, Ella made an awkward sweeping gesture from her shoulders to her hips. “Off white?” She could hardly distinguish all the whites she’d seen that day. “You know, a regular wedding dress, like, what you’d expect. You know.”
“Is that how they teach you to talk at Wellesley? ‘Like’ and ‘you know’?” Casey feigned a look of disapproval.
Her teasing pleased Ella. At home, especially when Ted came around, Casey increasingly made herself disappear behind a kind of decorum, her formal manners creating an inviolable barrier. But at Bayard’s, she seemed to revert to the plucky girl Ella had known at church—intimate and amused by whatever she saw or heard. Even the way she strolled with a kind of flair and bounce had come back.
Casey now raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer, a little peeved with Ella for the absence of details. She wanted to know what Ella wanted. It was her wedding dress, after all.
The problem was that Ella could barely remember her choice. There had been so many: lace, ornaments, sleeves, straps, belts, flowers—with or without. It had been her father’s office manager, Sharlene, who’d made the appointment for her and her father at Bayard’s. But when Ella went to her father’s office to pick him up, it turned out that one of his postoperative patients had gotten a viral infection and Dr. Shim had to return to the hospital. He’d left a scribbled note for her on the pink telephone message pad: “Go for broke.” Sharlene, who felt sorry for the girl, had added, “Your dad really did say that you can get whatever you want.” Ella had smiled bravely at the kind lady who’d told her only what Ella already knew, so she’d trudged off to face the snowy blur of dresses by herself. It was after purchasing the costliest dress there that she’d come down the escalator to spot Casey standing before a pile of clothes she’d intended to put on hold.
The elevator stopped at three. A pair of attractive women stepped in, chatting glumly about the troubles their husbands were having at work.
Casey ignored them and, staring intently at Ella, asked about the sleeves. Ella used hand gestures again to illustrate the style.
In her mind, Casey was filling in the blanks with words she’d picked up over the years working retail and from the dressmaking classes she’d taken during the summers at FIT: ivory satin silk, portrait neckline, A-line bodice with princess seams, tapered sleeves, no train, hem trimmed with seed pearls. Sounded all right. Just all right, however. Casey paid attention to Ella’s tone of voice—brimming with a fear of rebuke.
After living with Ella for a month, Casey knew her host’s safe wardrobe: Talbots, L. L. Bean, Lands’ End, Bass Weejuns. Ella dressed like a beautiful preppy nun—Peter Pan–collared blouses, dark A-line skirts or pleated-front pants, Hanes nude stockings, boxy Shetland cardigans, stacked heel pumps with tassels. But Miss Zero Fashion Sense had screwed up the courage to ask Casey for help because she was terrified that Ted, a dandy extraordinaire, wouldn’t approve of her dress. For fancy parties, Ted bought dresses for her. But neither felt it was right for him to help with her wedding dress.
The attractive women got off at five. As they left, Casey caught a whiff of Eau de Camille, a favorite scent of hers.
Then she got an idea. There were other ways to discern a shy customer’s preferences. “You don’t wear perfume, do you?”
“No, Ted doesn’t like perfume or makeup.”
“Really?” Casey said skeptically. “But do you?”
Ella shrugged.
“Okay. Think of smells you like.”
Ella wrinkled her brow. Casey reached over to smooth the little V in Ella’s forehead with her fingertips. “Don’t do that.” This was something Sabine had taught her to be conscious of—to prevent wrinkles.
Ella thought about it. “Oranges. And cinnamon.”
Casey smiled. “Food. Colors.”
“What does that mean?”
“Comfort, pleasure, warmth. Those come to mind. Yes?” Casey tried to look patient. “This isn’t a science. I just try to associate ideas with whatever you choose. Then I wonder if that’s how you want others to see you. If that’s how you see yourself. Then, how do you put that onto something you want to wear? Do you understand me?”
It made little sense to Ella, but she was intrigued. “Maybe you can help me choose one. A scent, I mean.”
“We’re searching for a dress, darling.”
Casey gave her one of her shop assistant smiles—full of courtesy and innocence. She felt like giving up. In her mind, she could hear Ella asking her to tell her who she was. How was she supposed to do that? How could anyone tell you who you are? The elevator stopped at six.
“What scents do you like?” Ella asked, exiting the elevator.
“Tuberose, gardenia, lilies.”
“And that means what?”
“Knowing my preferences won’t help you know yours,” Casey replied, her annoyance undisguised. The bridal department was not ten yards away from the elevator. Casey slipped her hand in the crook of Ella’s arm to keep her from walking ahead. She motioned to the empty camelback sofa parked opposite the lingerie department.
“Sit,” she said, and Ella sat down. “Let me see the receipt.”
Ella withdrew it from her purse and handed it to her. She stared at the mirrored surfaces of the elevator doors, fearful of Casey’s response. The dress had cost eight thousand dollars.
Casey nodded impassively. This was her inured response to having been surrounded by the wealthy for so many years. She would never have asked the price, except that she had to know Ella’s budget. Obviously there was none.
Casey read the back of the receipt carefully. “May I?” she asked before tucking it into her skirt pocket. “Now, for the last time.” She took a breath. “How would you like to look at your wedding?”
“I never thought much of it, you know?”
“Again with the you-knows. You’re giving women’s education a terrible name.”
Ella laughed. “What kind of dress would you wear, Casey?”
“I’m not the one getting married.”
“Do you want to get married?”
Casey frowned, irritated by Ella’s inability to stay on point. Virginia had often remarked that Casey thought like a man. It was Virginia’s argument that women thought in branches and men in trunks. Ella’s distractible nature made Casey feel masculine.
“No. I don’t want to get married. I’m twenty-two years old.”
“I’m twenty-one,” Ella said.
Casey whistled. “I know.”
Ella twisted the gold braid strap of her Chanel handbag—a birthday present from Ted—her slim white fingers fluttering across its quilted leather body. The girl needed comforting. That was obvious. Casey tried to think of what she should say. Ella had everything. Absolutely everything. Now she wanted Casey to assure her that she was making the right decision about her marriage. It seemed to Casey that despite Ella’s bountiful generosity, she was almost greedy in wanting her approval, too. How was it possible to give affirmation to the winner when you were so clearly the loser?
“Go back to the dress.”
“I barely remember it, Casey. I was so overwhelmed.” Ella’s slender neck bent as if burdened by a heavy yoke.
Casey then recalled how some women dragged girlfriends along to choose a rain hat, an item costing fifty bucks at Sabine’s. Ella had chosen her wedding dress alone, and though Casey would’ve preferred to do that for herself if the occasion ever arose, it occurred to her that Ella had had no choice about it. Ella had no mother or sister. Ella was closest to her father and Ted, but they were useless for a number of things that women did for one another without thinking. Casey had many people who liked her but few she told anything to and fewer she asked anything of. From the outside, it looked as though Casey and Ella were opposites, but they were similar in the small number of intimates in their lives.
“Do you think I’m too young to get married?” Ella asked. David had joked once that she was nearly a child bride.
“Well, no.” Casey dished out the appropriate response. She herself had entertained the idea of marrying Jay a few weeks ago, but she saw now how perfectly stupid that would have been.
Ella fidgeted with the flap of her handbag, clicking and unclicking the latch, refusing to look into Casey’s eyes. Ella knew she wasn’t a confident person, but when it came to her upcoming marriage, she felt more insecure than usual. It wasn’t her father’s style to overrule her, not that it had ever needed doing, but he’d mentioned in a vague way that a long engagement might be nice. What would Ella have done if Casey said out loud what her father refused to say?
It was impossible for Casey not to notice the profound worry in Ella’s pretty dark eyes.
“Ted’s a good guy. A veritable catch. For God’s sake, he’s Korean even. How did you possibly manage to find one?” Casey sounded shrill at the last thing, because that fact to her was more shocking than anything. Nearly all the Korean-American women she knew were with white guys. Then Casey reminded herself that her sister had recently found a Korean to date, too. Then she wondered if Tina had gotten laid after all.
“Do you like him?” Ella asked, somewhat reassured.
“He went to Harvard twice. He can’t be stupid, right? He’s got an insanely well-paying gig. And he’s good-looking.” Casey did not mention love. Because it would’ve sound like crap and therefore contaminating the true things she’d tossed out. As it was, each word of praise was costing her something dear, but payment, Casey felt, was required.
Ella smiled. “I really appreciate you doing this.”
“No problem.”
“I mean you coming with me today. These places are not easy for me. I feel afraid of the salesladies. You coming here,” Ella repeated, “this means so much—”
“Shut up, Ella.” Casey tried to sound funny when she said this. “You’re letting me live in your place for free, lending me your shoes even. . .. Thank God we’re the same size.” Casey had almost no cash left, no available credit, and if she didn’t get that job as a sales assistant, then she didn’t know what she was going to do. Her face looked normal now, so she could finally go see Sabine to ask about work; they’d only spoken on the phone since she’d left her parents, and it was always better to talk to Sabine in person. But her parents wouldn’t want her to depend on Sabine anymore. Working weekends during the school year and full-time during summers for four years was more than they could tolerate. Everything with Koreans, Casey thought, was about avoiding shame. Her life was still a train wreck. And she missed Jay all the time. Every morning she wanted to bind her hands to keep herself from phoning him. “This is nothing.”
Ella interrupted her. “You know, I’ve always wanted us to be friends. At church, for all those years, I had wanted you to like me.” She smiled like a child. “And I didn’t know how to get you to notice me.” She blushed.
Casey didn’t know what to do with all this sincerity. “Thank you,” she said. She got up from the sofa, and Ella followed behind.
The red-haired sales associate met them and brought over Ella’s sample dress. It was common for brides to show off their dresses to their friends. “It’s good to see you again, Ella. And how do you do?” The sales associate smiled glibly at Casey. Her name was Joan. Joan Kenar, accent on the second syllable. Two strands of marble-size Kenneth pearls circled her mottled throat.
In no time, Ella popped out of the dressing room wearing the sample dress that she’d ordered. Casey sat on the white leather sofa set aside for the bridal party, her ankles crossed, spine vertical. Ella looked at her friend. Casey’s face went vacant, as though she weren’t in the room anymore. Ella understood then that Casey hated it. Why should it matter whether Casey liked it or not? Ella thought. But it did. It mattered so much. In fact, it was all that mattered. Then Ella knew. Ted wouldn’t like it, either.
