Possessions (22 page)

“I'm not . . . free Friday night.”

“Listen to me.” Holding the door handle, he had his arm across her lap, pinning her in place. “I expect you to tell me the truth. If you don't want to be with me on Friday, say so. If you don't want to be with me at all, say so. But I will not tolerate your behaving like an adolescent who can't handle a simple relationship.”

“This relationship,” she retorted, “is no more simple than you are. It's easy for you to forget Craig—”

“Never easy,” he murmured.

“—but I can't, and because of that I'm confused about a lot of things and none of them are simple. And I'd like you to remove your arm.”

After a moment he sat back. “Free to go.”

She pushed open the door and stepped out. “Marrakech was wonderful. Thank you.”

“And Friday night?”

She looked at his narrow face, the hollows in his cheeks accentuated by the slanting streetlight, his mouth curved in a challenging smile. “How formal is it?”

“Black tie for the men; a little more flexible for the women.”

Flexible. She had no money for a flexible formal dress. But as she was about to refuse, she stopped. Why shouldn't she go out with Derek? Everything about him was intriguing—even the cruel wit of his descriptions in the restaurant. And even if she was confused about Craig, missing him, worrying about him, bewildered by the money she was sure he'd sent—he had left her, after all, to fend for herself. Why shouldn't she allow herself the pleasure, and vanity, she got from Derek's attention?

But she needed a dress. I could ask Leslie, Katherine thought. Maybe I can find something on sale. And fix it up. I'll be
home on Thanksgiving; I could do it then. Why not? I like being with Derek. And I don't have to live like a prisoner while I'm waiting for Craig.

It was only after she had agreed to Friday night, and was unlocking the door of her apartment, that she realized she had used Derek's description: living in a prison.

*  *  *

Thanksgiving. Rescued, Katherine thought, by Leslie and her brother. Derek had neatly passed over it when he invited her to a Friday-night party; Victoria and Tobias had left the week before on a museum expedition to Peru. Leslie had suggested a restaurant, which had horrified Jennifer and Todd. Thanksgiving meant home.

“Then I'll cook,” Leslie said. “I should, now and then, or I'll forget how. And Bruce makes a wicked pumpkin pie. Wait till you taste it.”

Bruce McAlister, ten years younger than his sister, had flaming hair as crinkly as steel wool, matching eyebrows that shot up and down in astonished arcs, and nonstop speech. If not for Bruce, Katherine thought, and the way he distracted Jennifer and Todd from memories of Canadian Thanksgivings, the evening could have been a disaster.

“It's bourbon that does it, I don't even measure, I just pour,” he said when they all gasped at their first taste of his pumpkin pie. All through dinner, as they feasted on Leslie's stuffed turkey and Katherine's cranberry sauce and vegetables, he had entertained them with stories of his friends, who lived in an area called the Panhandle. “A few years ago, when we lived on unemployment and food stamps and love, it was a blast—good guitars, good grass, good women . . .”

“Bruce,” Leslie warned.

“Shit, they know all this.” His eyebrows shot up as he grinned at Jennifer and Todd. “Anyway things are different, it's depressing the way everybody's so straight all of a sudden, getting married, having kids, buying dishwashers, for Christ's sake, working steady . . . Even me,” he added sadly.

Todd was transfixed by Bruce's jumping red eyebrows and gesticulating hands. “You work too?” he asked.

“I admit it with deep embarrassment, I do indeed work from eight thirty to five
five days a week
and I am grossly underpaid by that posh establishment called Heath's—”

“That's where Mom works!” Todd cried.

“And my sister as well, in fact she got me the job—who else would hire me with my background?—but
she
spends her days on the executive top floor while your mother and I slave away in the basement.”

“I don't remember seeing you,” Katherine said.

“You wouldn't, I never stir from the computer room; do you know that I can make a computer do anything except bake a pumpkin pie?”

And that was when he cut into his dessert and they all got their first taste of what Katherine would have sworn was a bottle of bourbon lightly flavored with pumpkin. “Bruce,” Leslie laughed. “Where's the other one?”

“Alas my sis knows me too well; I do happen to have another one.” Reaching under the table, he brought forth a box. “Unfortunately, you understand, this one has only vanilla, no bourbon, no brandy, just the stuff the poor Pilgrims had, and no wonder most of them never survived the winter.”

They laughed and praised the second pie. We laughed most of the evening, Katherine thought later. Laughed and sang to Bruce's guitar playing and went home early, with smiles and leftover turkey, and even when we were alone again we didn't reminisce about Canadian Thanksgivings or our house in Vancouver. Thank God for Bruce McAlister; he got us through the day.

*  *  *

On Friday, Katherine asked Gil Lister if she could leave an hour early. He adjusted the ski jacket on a mannequin and zipped it closed before saying over his shoulder, “Kiddies sick?”

“No. I have something to do.”

“Something personal.”

“Yes. But, Gil, all the invoices are finished and last week's scenery will be ready to be shipped back by three o'clock—”

“Katherine, we've been receiving a number of personal telephone calls at work, haven't we? And we've been having lunches that lasted over an hour—”

“Only twice! And it's been more than a month since—”

“And a number of times in creating a window, you were not where I expected you to be. There is a
laxness,
Katherine, in your behavior. If this indicates dissatisfaction, if you would
prefer to work elsewhere, we should part; I cannot work in an atmosphere of frowns and groans and hostility.”

“I do not groan,” Katherine said tightly. “And I frown less than you do. I try to be friendly, I don't think I'm hostile, but I would be more satisfied if you let me help design windows instead of treating me like an imbecile or a coat rack.”

Lister's hands paused, then moved on, buckling a ski boot. He stood and bent the mannequin's knee. “Ski poles.”

Katherine took a breath, then let it out without speaking, and handed him the poles. They finished the scene of a slalom race in silence. “Ah,” Lister breathed, scanning the slope they had covered with styrofoam flakes marked by ski tracks behind the mannequins who were rounding flag-topped slalom posts. Without warning, he whipped about. “What would
you
do with it?”

“Bring it to life,” she said bluntly. “It's dead.”
I'll get another job; I don't have to take his insults.
“Use only two racers, with a third at the top, bending forward to start, and put spectators along the side, especially children and teenagers. Three-year-olds are skiing now, and Heath's has clothes for them. Put a digital time clock in that corner, and a finish line under it. A mountain background; I've seen one in the storeroom. And I'd have someone holding a trophy for the winner.”

“Would you indeed.”

His voice caught her up. What was the matter with her? How long might it take to get another job? “I'm sorry, Gil. The window is fine; it's simple and colorful. Do you want to put prices with them?”

“No.” He was tapping his foot and studying the four racers. “I've never skied, you know; it looks quite exciting. Get downstairs and pack up last week's scenery. Don't seal the boxes; I want to check them. You may leave half an hour early if it is a matter of life and death.”

“Thank you.” She was trembling with fury. He'd let her apology lie there, unaccepted, unacknowledged. But it was my fault, she thought as she packed a box with plastic autumn leaves. I knew he'd be angry when I criticized him. Victoria was right; I jump at people. But then why does Derek say I'm timid?

I wish I knew what I really am

Exactly half an hour early, she left work and rushed home. Leslie had found a dress for her and was coming at eight, just before Derek arrived, to pass judgment. Dinner with Jennifer and Todd was hurried; they were going back to school for a rehearsal of the Christmas choral concert and for once did not deluge her with complaints about school or fog or how often she was away from home. “You'll wait for Annie to pick you up after rehearsal,” Katherine said as they were leaving.

“We really are old enough to walk home alone,” said Jennifer. “But if it makes you happy, we'll wait.”

“It makes me happy,” Katherine smiled. “Have a good time.”

“You too,” Jennifer said. “Don't be home too late, though.”

Wondering what that meant, Katherine told Leslie about it when she arrived. But Leslie was not listening. Head cocked critically, she was scrutinizing Katherine in her new dress. “Well, well,” she said at last, softly. “Very well indeed.”

The dress, found in the stockroom from last winter's Empire Room collection, reduced to one-eighth its original price, was of a timeless style and simplicity: a black cashmere sheath, as fine as silk, molding Katherine's slender figure, flared at the hem, long-sleeved, with a startingly deep V-neck edged in tiny scallops. Two black silk cords wound twice around her waist, ending in long fringes reaching almost to the hem.

But as elegant as the dress was, Leslie knew the real attraction was Katherine herself: eyes bright, face flushed as she studied her reflection, unconsciously standing straighter because the dress demanded it. Leslie gazed at the delicate lines of her friend's face and figure, disguised until now by worry or sadness, or the slouch of her shoulders, or clothes that had become too big for her when she lost weight after Craig disappeared. “Wonderful,” she murmured. “At least as a start. How about jewelry? You must have made a necklace in all those classes you've taken.”

Katherine shook her head. “I'm not ready to go public.”

“Well, then, the only thing left is makeup and your hair.”

“No!” Katherine stepped back. “Not now, Leslie. This is enough.” Enough change, she thought, astonished and a little disconcerted at the difference one dress could make. Putting up her hand, she blocked the reflection of her face and looked only at her graceful figure, almost as regal as Victoria's. Lowering her hand, she met her own eyes, pleased and shining, in
the mirror. She looked like a young girl, about to step into the outside world, instead of a thirty-five-year-old working woman with two children. And a husband, she added swiftly. And a husband.

Leslie was watching her. “Enough change for one day,” Katherine repeated. “It's only a party, after all; it's not so important.”

Leslie opened her mouth to argue, then nodded casually. “Fine by me. But I did bring my own contribution—” She opened a white box she had brought with her. “Just for tonight.”

“Oh, Leslie, I can't—!” Katherine began as Leslie took out her silver fox jacket and a black beaded evening bag.

“Yes you can, lady; don't argue. If I want to feel like a fairy godmother, the least you can do is let me feel like one. Someday you'll even let me finish the rest of you.”

Katherine hugged her. “You make me sound like a piece of furniture—but thank you.” Through the window, she saw Derek's car pull up. “Thank you, Leslie, you're wonderful,” she said, grabbing the jacket and evening bag, and was out of the building before Derek reached the door. It was one of her rules: he was not to step inside her apartment. She had seen his grandmother's; she had heard about his. She was ashamed of her own.

*  *  *

Norma Burton was celebrating her fourth divorce with a party for her closest friends. “How many does she have?” Katherine asked Derek. “Two or three hundred,” he answered, appraising the crowd as he checked Katherine's jacket in the cloak room. “If she likes you for more than ten minutes, she counts you in. Generous if not discriminating, and very much a child. Let me look at you.” He took Katherine's hand and contemplated her. “Do you know that you are a beautiful woman?”

She pulled her hand away. “No. I've never been beautiful. It would take more than a new dress . . .”

“Much more. Color in your face, the way you stand and hold your head, your eyes . . . Have you looked in a mirror?”

“Yes—”

“At your eyes?”

“Yes. Aren't we going to join the party?”

He took her hand again and pulled her to him, lifting her
chin. “Your eyes are magnificent: enormous and bright—” He paused. “And now they look alarmed, as if you've come to a precipice. What might you be afraid of? Come.” He tucked her hand beneath his arm and led her to the ballroom. “I'll introduce you to Norma's grab bag of friends; they are, after all, the evening's entertainment.”

By the time dinner was over and dancing began, the faces and names had blurred, like drifting confetti. Everyone eyed Katherine with open curiosity, the glances moving from Derek's hand on her arm to her dress and then to her face. Everyone asked where she came from and, when she answered “Vancouver,” how long she would be staying. Women maneuvered to see if she wore a wedding ring and, when they saw it, asked where her husband was. “On a business trip,” she answered—so many times she began to believe it. Many of the guests asked familiarly about Derek's new apartment and one couple tried to talk about a shopping complex in Daly City they wanted him to bid on. “I'll be in my office on Monday,” he said.

“Is your apartment new?” Katherine asked. “I didn't realize that, when you told me about it.”