Little Pink Slips (22 page)

"It's just a trip."

"But it's forty below. North Dakota is the home page of the wind

chill factor."

"Sasha," Magnolia said as she walked away, "that's why God

invented fur."

C h a p t e r 2 3

Aw, Heck, What Would Jesus Do?

Magnolia stood with her
luggage at the designated meeting place: directly under the vintage airplane hanging from the ceil

ing of Fargo's industrial-chic airport, Great Plains–style. Flying to

Minneapolis, Magnolia had begun to picture Misty as increasingly

wide and soft. Between Minneapolis and Fargo, she had ballooned in

her mind to at least size 18. By the time she deplaned, Magnolia

sternly reminded herself to be the soul of graciousness and overlook

her childhood friend's maternal transformation.

The woman striding confidently through the airport could, how

ever, easily pass for Christy Brinkley's younger sister. Her tall body—

buxom but trim—would be comfortably at home on a black diamond

ski slope, although you'd have to go to Montana to find one. Misty had

tucked her jeans into a pair of Uggs, and under an unzipped white

parka Magnolia could see a pink turtleneck which matched her blush

free cheeks. Her hair hung as long as when she was crowned home

coming queen twenty years ago. Around her enormous blue eyes,

fringed with dark lashes, were fans of delicate crow's feet but—over

all—Misty appeared as fresh as newly fallen Norwegian snow.

Magnolia despised her on sight. She instantly regretted wearing

her sheared mink. I'm the one who looks matronly, she thought. "Maggie?"

"Misty!" Magnolia didn't know whether she should greet her, as

she would Abbey or even her top editors, with a kiss on the cheek. Too

New York. She settled for a long hug.

"Gosh, look at you," Misty said, sizing her up, top to bottom. "I

can't wait for Bucky to see you, city girl," She lingered on Magnolia's

high-heeled suede footwear. "But, jeez, I hope those boots don't get

ruined."

You can kiss these Manolos good-bye, Magnolia said to herself.

Misty effortlessly grabbed Magnolia's heavy duffel and pointed her

toward the exit, where a white Eddie Bauer–logo'd vehicle the size of

a small garbage truck spit swirls of vapor into the crackly air. Magno

lia pulled her Russian hat low over her forehead. The temperature

made her nose run, and as Misty tossed her suitcase in the car's rear

end—already crowded with a toboggan, two sleds, a shovel, cross

country skis, and a golden retriever—Magnolia turned away to blot

the dripping with her black kid glove.

"Hey, Goldfarb!" Bucky got out of the car and swept her toward

his barrel chest. She'd forgotten how Bucky had always found her orig

inal last name endlessly amusing—or what bruisers the men were

here. He made his SUV look like a Matchbox car. "Hop in," he said.

Magnolia hoisted herself into the backseat, where a rosy Polartec

swaddled baby slept sweetly in a car seat.

"That's our youngest, Bjorn," Misty said. "We're picking up the

big ones on the way to your hotel. Be there in a jiff."

"No rush, guys," Magnolia said. "And thanks for meeting me. I

can't believe I'm here."

"Say what?" Bucky asked.

"Excuse me?" Magnolia said.

"Ya, you're right, Misty," he said. "She did get herself a New York

accent."

   "Don't be a dork, Bucky," Misty said. "She has not." Misty paused. "Well, maybe a little. Like that woman on
The Nanny r
eruns." Magnolia, used to being complimented on her all-American dic

tion, faked a laugh and looked out the window. It was only 3:45 in the afternoon but the northern light was rapidly fading. As Bucky drove

on the crunchy, snow-packed streets, Misty delivered a voice-over.

"See that house"—she pointed to a tidy split level surrounded by

a few, bare trees. "That's where Scott and Jen live now." Magnolia

guessed she was supposed to remember who they were. "And that one

over there"—a vinyl-sided ranch already heavily illuminated for

Christmas—"was Tom and Deb's, but he hooked up with Cynthia.

Deb's a lesbian now. Moved to the Twin Cities." Misty raised her eye

brows in mock shock.

Just as Magnolia began to try to imagine what life might have been

like had she never left Fargo—would she be with Tom, assuming she

could recall who he was? would she own a set of jumper cables and

know what to do with them?—Bucky and Misty stopped in front of a

school whose playground had been flooded with water that had frozen

to create a skating rink. The jolt awoke the baby, who started to wail.

In one fluid motion, Misty exited the SUV's front passenger door,

popped around and opened the back door, unbuckled the car seat, and

plopped the startled child in Magnolia's lap, saying "We'll be back in

two shakes—mind the baby, okay?"

The chunky little boy took one look at Magnolia and cried at twice

the volume. She tried to bounce him on her lap—that's what mom

mies did—but he felt heavier than Biggie, and her jerks succeeded

only in making tears stream down his little chapped face. The child

pulled off one red mitten, tossed it on the floor, and shrieked even

louder. This roused the sleeping dog, who leaped over the seat and

began to slobber on Magnolia's mink and pant hotly in her face. She

could see the dog's breath in the chilly car.

   "What's your name again?" Magnolia asked the unhappy infant. Lorne? Porn?
"Bjorn!"
Had Misty named her child for that Swedish tennis champ with the scraggly hair and headband? When they were both thirteen, she dimly remembered his face on a cover of
Time
plastered to her friend's bedroom wall. Or was Bjorn the cool ethnic

name here, the Upper Midwest equivalent of Jaden or Aiden?

She stared out the window, which was getting fogged. Where were

Bucky and Misty? The doors opened. Three apple-cheeked cherubs carrying ice skates

crowded into the seat behind Magnolia, a blur of primary-colored

jackets, pom-pom hats, and boots.

"I'm Brittany," said a mini Misty. "These are the twins, Brett and

Brendan."

"Meet Mrs. Goldfarb, kids," Bucky said.

"Hello Mrs. Goldfarb," Brittany said in a singsong that matched

her parents.

"Actually, that's my mother—you can call me Magnolia."

"That's a dumb name."

"Company manners, Brittany," Misty said, not unkindly, to her

daughter. "Maggie can call herself whatever she wants."

She turned around to face Magnolia as she continued their tour—

the coffee bar where Siegel's Menswear used to be, the sewage treat

ment plant, the nonexistent landscaping. And in less than five

minutes, they were pulling up to her hotel. "You're going to love it

here at the Donaldson—just like South Beach," Misty said.

I'll be the judge of that, Magnolia thought.

"Pick you up for supper at seven," Misty shouted out the window

as the SUV huffed around the corner.

The last time she'd been in Fargo—twelve years earlier, before

her parents abandoned the state for tennis in nonstop 70-degree

sunshine—this hotel had been a flophouse. Now, from what Magnolia

could tell, the whole town was getting subversively trendy. Loft condos

had sprouted up where pawnshops used to be. A patisserie stood next to

a tractor factory rehabbed into a sleek, postmodern office building that

appeared to be furnished by Design Within Reach. Where were the

endless freight trains whose cars she'd counted as a child, trains that

dissected Fargo four times a day and made traffic—such as it was—

come to a standstill? Magnolia hadn't seen a one. And had all the lumpy,

polyester people of her memory migrated, perhaps to South Dakota?

At the Donaldson, a bellman opened the door to a suite twice the

size of Magnolia's first New York studio apartment. The walls were

decorator white and the carpeting, sisal. "Is that a hot tub?" Magnolia asked the bellman, pointing to what

looked like a small lap pool.

"Ya, you betcha," he said. "Welcome to the HoDo."

She wondered whether its water would freeze like the skating rink.

As soon as he had left, she jacked up the thermostat to eighty degrees

and kept her coat on as she unpacked. Maybe she would cancel Misty.

HBO on the gigantic, flat-screened TV; a run-through of tomorrow's

speech; and room service sounded like a fine night. She studied the

menu, which promised "artisanal twists on classic regional favorites."

What might they be? In the Goldfarb home, artisanal food was kugel,

brisket, pastrami and rye bread—imported from Winnipeg or Min

neapolis—and the occasional Sara Lee coffee cake. Here, who knew?

Lutefisk? Jell-O martinis? Perhaps she'd drop in at the bar and check

out the R&B band. Or the poetry reading. Really, her stay was going to

be better than Disney World, and all for $144 a night.

The telephone rang. She hoped it was Misty, canceling.

"Maggie?" asked a nervous, high-pitched voice.

   It couldn't be.

   "I read about your speech tomorrow in the
Forun,
" he said. "Welcome home."

"Tyler! Or do I have to call you Pastor Peterson now?"

"You heard I got ordained?"

"Did you have a choice?"

"Ya, it's kind of a family business." When they grew up, Tyler's

dad herded the flock of Fargo's largest Lutheran church, of which

there were as many as Forest Gump had shrimp dishes. All of his

older brothers had become ministers. "So, anyway, I was wonder

ing . . ."

"Yes, Tyler?"

"If you could meet me? I'm in the bar downstairs."

Would Tyler
wear a minister's collar? Carry a bible? Say grace? Magnolia threaded her way through the dark, crowded hotel lounge, searching for the dirty-blond hair that used to hang over her high

school boyfriend's eyes. Next to several men in orange, deer-hunting

clothing, a group of shrill college girls dominated one end of the

smoky bar, their male counterparts circling them like the chorus of a

Bollywood movie. Magnolia turned in the opposite direction, where

a few couples were sipping margaritas and chomping tortilla chips.

No Tyler.

Maybe he wasn't going to show. Worse, maybe it had been a joke

instigated by Bucky, who would roar through the door, slapping his

beefy thigh and shouting, "Got ya, Goldfarb. Still got the hots for

Tyler Peterson, huh?" She sat at a table and waited, crossing her arms

against her breasts. Even with a layer of silk long johns under her

jeans and a thick cashmere turtleneck, Magnolia wondered how she

had ever survived here in Iglooville.

She felt a tap on her shoulder. In place of the Tyler she remem

bered stood a serious man with wire-rimmed glasses and a blue knit

ski hat. She could easily picture him at a desk in a bank, granting a

loan to a customer in a John Deere cap. He stared at her and didn't

seem able to speak. Nor could she.

"Maggie," he said, after what felt like minutes. "I like your hair

long." He brushed away her bangs, and as his hand grazed her cheek,

she shivered—this time not from the cold—and pulled him close,

breathing in the clean scent of skin she'd know anywhere.

"Aw, heck, I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, as they sat down

together. He pulled off his hat; his hair had turned brown. Magnolia

blinked away her tears.

"It's just so great to be home." She lied. The truth was, if she

wanted to go to a Starbucks or a Gap, she could find dozens at home in

Manhattan, with the same caramel macchiatos and boot-cut jeans.