Such a Pretty Face (45 page)

“I’m sorry. I thought, until recently, that they were too odd, too amateurish, that I was too odd and amateurish….”

“You’re not odd or amateurish at all.” He put his hand on a chair. “You’re creative, you’re funny, you’re colorful, you think and reflect, you see things differently, Stevie, than the rest of us. You’re insightful, smart, and I think you see a lot of good in the world. Your personality is reflected in your chairs.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Do you think so?”

“I know so,” he said, linking an arm around my waist. “But I also know that I need you to at least
try
to trust me. Make an attempt, honey.”

I leaned into him. “Okay. I will. Do you want to see the chair I made of Adam and Eve? I used real branches to form the apple tree….”

I worked until I couldn’t see straight to make my chairs as perfect as I could make them. Jake brought me dinner at night, and he chuckled and kissed me and then hung around while I worked so we could chat, and laugh, and he told me about his day as if we were two old married people who had been telling each other about their days for five decades.

He knew his way around all the saws I had, and when I didn’t need them, he used them. At the end of the week, he’d made me an arched bridge for my garden.
A bridge.

Together we carried it out and placed it by the blueberry bushes.

“Thank you, Jake. It’s…it’s spectacular.”

“Give me a kiss, that’s all the thanks I need.”

We took breaks, too, in the midst of all that work, and he kissed me in my kitchen once until my breathing was hard, but delicious, and he started to take off my shirt, and I held my shirt down tight and he stopped, his breathing labored like mine. “What is it?”

“I have a scar on my stomach. I have other scars, but the scar on my stomach is an anchor shape. It’s not that old, it’ll fade more, but it won’t go away, and I…can we turn the lights off?”

He nodded, and I could see he was holding himself reined in pretty tight, because we are so hot and heavy together. “We could, but we won’t, because I want to see all of you. I know you have scars. They’re part of who you are.”

“But they’re ugly.”

“Nothing on you is ugly.”

“It’s a long scar, remember. I told you, it’s an anchor.”

“I like anchors; they keep you steady. I like boats; you can have adventures on them. Now take your shirt off before I rip it off.” He smiled and kissed me and my anchor scar until I couldn’t think, or worry, about my anchor scar at all.

Lance showed Polly the newspaper ad when we visited her.

“I can’t say anything or I’ll cry!” Polly wept. “I’ll cry!” She patted her heart. “Thump for joy, heart, beat for joy for Stevie.”

“I know, I know!” Lance said, howling. “Our Stevie! Our Stevie is an artist! Oh, Stevie!”

We got all emotional together. Lance had brought a doll named Jelly Jasper—big boobs, tiny waist, pink and purple bathing suit with jelly beans—and the four of us got a good, wet hug in.

There was no wet hug for Herbert.

“Stevie.” Herbert’s voice had crackled on my answering machine with annoyance and displeasure the night before. “I was by your house the other day and the day before. I came on the weekend, too, and was not able to reach you. You must contact me. If you don’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to go through our lawyer, and I don’t want to do that.”

What on earth was he talking about?

“I want to know if you have heard from your aunt Janet.” There was a silence. “Call me directly.”

I had heard from Aunt Janet. “You have got to see the sun in Africa, Stevie…but the poverty. I can’t get by it…. I can’t sleep because of it. So much need for the basics that we take for granted, for food and clean water and medication and the children…. Those eyes keep me up all night. I want to help, that’s what I want to do. So does Virginia. It’s our calling.”

I knew Herbert was bluffing. There was nothing he could sue me for. I had no idea why he would need to call a lawyer about me.

I did not call him back.

When he pounded on my door I hid behind my garage and I ignored him till he scurried off. He is a cockroach.

Portland, Oregon

T
he morning of my Chair Fest, Zena, Cherie, Cherie’s four foster kids, Lance, and Jake came early and helped me set up the chairs. We used my front yard and backyard, and we put out balloons to advertise, though I was pretty darn sure no one would show up. I was exhausted. I knew no one would buy my chairs. I knew I was ridiculous. It was pathetic. I was pathetic.

I had hardly known how to price them. Maybe $50 each? $20? But Lance had known exactly what to do and had put prices on each one. “Price them as art and they’ll sell as art,” he said.

Zena set up the payment table.

A half hour before we were supposed to open, we had a line outside the white picket fence of my little green house with the white trim and burgundy door.

We opened at nine o’clock and were soon mobbed, much to my raw shock. Lance was the “bouncer,” he said. Zena and Cherie took the money. Her four smiling, shy foster kids acted as salespeople and loaded chairs.

In the middle of it, Mr. Pingle came up and gave me a hug. “Stevie,” he said grandly, waving a hand at a woman in her sixties with upswept white hair, a kind face, and innocent blue eyes. “Please meet my mother, Rayelle. She owns Aunt Bettadine’s.”

“How do you do?” she asked me.

“I do fine, fine, thank you,” I stumbled out. “Fine.” I hadn’t known Mr. Pingle was the son of the owner. I’d had no clue. “And you?”

“You’re a talent, young woman, a simply striking talent, and Aunt Bettadine’s is honored to have you in our employ. My son has sung your praises many times, and we are most appreciative of your dedication to our company. We’re family, you know, family!” She clasped my hands. “But, dear, I love these chairs. Love them. Especially the chicken chairs, no surprise there. I would love to commission you, Stevie. I want one giant chicken chair in each of our stores and in our executive offices. Could you build me twenty?”

I was speechless.

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

Mr. Pingle beamed and mimicked a chicken trying to fly. He was such a geek, and I loved that guy. “We’re keeping it all in the family! All in Aunt Bettadine’s family!”

His mother smiled, eager, earnest.

Since no words were forthcoming, all I could think to say was, “Cluck cluck! Cluck cluck!” I waved my chicken wings.

Oh, they were delighted.

They clucked and waved their chicken wings and I, Stevie Barrett, ex–extremely troubled person, was in business.

We were completely sold out by noon and closed up shop. Zena took personal orders from people for chairs. She had names and numbers and designs and down payments.

Cherie tallied up the money and said, “You’re rich, girlfriend.”

I took everyone who helped out to lunch for laughter. We went to an Italian café and ate pasta and drank wine. Zena and Lance sat next to each other, but I noticed they didn’t say a word, not a word. Zena was unaccountably quiet. Lance was blushing.

There had been seventy chairs. They sold for an average of $300 each.

I was able to pay off most of my medical bills.

Now, that was a glorious day. Glorious.

The only inglorious thing was that I knew I would have to quit my chicken job and that would upset Mr. Pingle.

Cluck cluck. Sad cluck.

I had a chance to talk with Polly by phone later on that night. “I finally am not seeing food as the enemy…. I know I’m going to be dealing with this forever, I get it…. This time I’m going to get control and stay in control…. I do want to live.
I do.
And I’m learning to like myself. I didn’t before.
…
I see Annie daily…. I like your garden, and being on the river in Lance’s boat, and all the laughing we do, and I like when we dance in the rain and drink champagne and hug Lance’s dolls and see your chairs…. I think I want to make a documentary film of what I’ve gone through and help other girls…and I’m sorry, Stevie, for hurting you with my problems…and I love you so much…and I’m finding that I do want to eat strawberries and ice cream and tacos. Want to come to my place soon for tacos?”

I did. I loved tacos!

I practiced over the next two weeks with the roller derby team. I was bruised and banged up. All the muscles in my body felt as if they’d been incinerated. My hair had been pulled, my left ear had been smashed with an elbow, my knees were swollen and purple, and my left buttock had a reddish, blackish bruise covering most of it. I could hardly walk.

I had never felt better.

“Ho ho,” Zena said as we ate lunch in Pioneer Courthouse Square. “You’ve found your moxie, haven’t you, Stevie? Where was it hiding? Your vagina?” She lifted up my skirt and tried to peer under it. I swatted her hand away.

“Yessiree, I think you found your moxie and it was between your legs.”

I laughed. I handed her cucumber slices from my garden.

She handed me some peanuts in a Baggie.

That night I sat in a chair by the trellises and ate chicken that I’d cooked up with peppers and onions from my garden.

I kept eating food right out of my garden. Peas, leeks, beans, radishes, tomatoes…I put them in new recipes that I found. Sometimes I ate them plain, sometimes with salt, sometimes with dip. Earthy, raw, natural, yum.

I watched my sunflowers grow in the sunny patch. They’re plant people. Any minute they could rip their own stalks from the ground, hop on over, and sit with you for tea at a table under a willow tree.

When I’d planted the seeds, I had done it halfheartedly. I had a vague image of sunshine, van Gogh, and my grandparents’ fields. And now, I got it. I got why sunflowers are so…magical.

It’s because they’re plant miracles. Think about them. Flowers with a face that make food.

Maybe they’re here to remind us to see them.
Really
see them. To take the time and stare at a sunflower. And be happy that you’re alive, and well enough, to do so.

I ran a finger over a petal. I was happy to be alive, and well enough, to do so.

“I’ve been going out with your cousin a lot, Stevie,” Zena said, scooting her swivel chair over to mine.

“Zena! Zena!” Schubert Nelson ran into our cubicle, puffing, red faced. “Did you remember to file the papers to the court about the water rights case in Washington? Oh, my God!”

She glared at him. “Yes, you river-dwelling, algae-sucking fish, I did. That’ll be a $50 gift card.”

He bent over, hands on knees, breathing heavily. “You’re a fucking saint.”

“Bad language,” she said. “That’s $75 now. Off you go. Ta-ta.”

The lawyer went off, leaning against a wall for support. Later that day I saw the gift card. $75. She bought me coffee, as usual.

“So, your cousin.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for the advice.”

I nodded. I had been very clever. I knew that knitting relaxed Lance, so I suggested to Zena that she ask him to help her start knitting.

“Knitting?” she’d said, derisive. “I’d rather poke my ass with the needles than knit.”

“Lance knits,” I said, watching her close.

She froze. “He does?” She blinked a few times. “Well, what idiot wants to poke their ass with needles anyhow?”

“Not me. Yarn is pretty, too.”

She blinked again. “Yes, it is.”

I patted her cheek and we went back to work.

“Your advice was good, Stevie,” Zena said. “I invited him to my place last night and I told him I wanted to learn how to knit. I thought the man would die of ecstasy. He came to my house with half a store of stuff.”

“Did you knit?”

“Oh, yeah, we knitted. He says I’m a natural. And while we knitted we talked. He finally talked. We were up until four in the morning. He slept on my couch.”

“Did you have a good time?”

Zena smiled, huge. It took up half her face. “Oh, yeah. We did. He’s beautiful, Stevie. Beautiful.”

I nodded. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to dance. I reached over and hugged her at the exact moment a chair sailed through the glass of the conference room, glass shattering everywhere.

“Pig!” A woman’s voice screamed. “You’re a rutting
pig!
”

“Oh, my goodness,” I said. Me and Zena both ran to help.

I got a call about ten o’clock a couple of nights later. I was designing all the chicken chairs I’d been hired to make for Aunt Bettadine’s. They would be six feet tall, with huge wingspans, friendly chicken faces…

“Hello? Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“Stevie, honey…”

It was Lance. He was whimpering. I knew he was trying to pull himself together.

Finally, finally he said, “Honey, she’s into knitting! She doesn’t think I’m a geek. She doesn’t think I’m strange, and I…”

“Yeeessss?” I drawled.

“I could talk to her. Same as I talk to you. Except—” He coughed. “Not exactly the same as I talk to you, because you know, well…”

“Because you don’t want to kiss me?” I giggled.

“Right. But Zena…” He sighed.

“She’s pretty kissable, isn’t she?”

“She’s so kissable…. But now, that makes me nervous and anxious, too…kissing her, I mean. How do I know
when
to kiss her? How do I know if she wants to be kissed? Do you think she’ll think I’m being pushy? That all I want is…is…
you know
…which I don’t…. Should I wait for her to tell me she wants a kiss?…Should I be a manly man…take charge…. What if she doesn’t want to kiss me? My ankle won’t stop twitching….”

We were on the phone a long time.

All for kissing.

I had to quit my chicken job, that was a given. I was exhausted from those extra hours. I’d paid off most of my medical loan, and I was making chicken chairs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pingle,” I said, taking off my chicken head for the last time.

He took the head, then bowed to me. “Stevie Barrett, you were the best chicken we’ve ever had. Anytime—” He paused, pinched the top of his nose. “Anytime.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Anytime.” He stopped. “Cluck, cluck, chicken. You know what I want to say, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Pingle, I do.” I gave him a hug, and we both cried a few tears. What can I say? The man had hired me. He had been honest from the start and treated me as someone with value. He had been kind. He had given me a raise.

He had brought his mother to my chair show, and she had hired me to make twenty chicken chairs.

“You’re a good man, Mr. Pingle.”

He stepped back and put both hands to his cheeks. “And you, Stevie, you are a woman to behold. A woman to behold.”

I invited him to the Portland Roller Derby Championship on Sunday night. He clucked right up with a smile.

Me and Zena also invited everybody at the office to the Portland Roller Derby Championship. Polly and Lance and Jake came, too, and cheered the whole time.

My skate name was, get this, Hell Fire, and I dressed in the fishnets, short black skirt, and red satin shirt as the other Break Your Neck Booties. I wanted to put my hands in front of myself and hide, but I resisted. I did not start, obviously, as a new, beginning skater. But I skated some, and as one after another of our players got hurt badly (the defense attorney broke her arm, the minister broke two fingers, and one of the full-time moms knocked a tooth out), I skated more. In the last bit I was in the whole time.

The noise was deafening, on and off the track, even when I was tackled and smashed into the floor, even when I got that girl back and smashed her. Even when we were all breathing hard to get around another curve and all those screeching women were swearing and trying to elbow and push. Who knew women could be so violent?

And when they were violent with me? Well, I pushed back. No more Miss Nice Guy.

And guess what? We won. As soon as we won, one of the Slice, Dice, and Win Derby team members tripped me and I landed smack on my boobs. I sat up and grabbed them. Yep. Still there.

I struggled to my feet but was tackled back down by Zena, who was so happy she lay flat down on me and hooted in my face. We were joined by our team, two of whom were still bleeding.

“Yadaleehoo!” Zena cried. “We knocked them out, we spat them to the ground, we smashed them till they couldn’t groove!”

And then, up on our feet, our trophy in hand, all our friends ran out to us. Mr. Pingle had worn my chicken head during most of the game “to show you my support!” The lawyers were positively giddy. This roller-skating violence was way out of their comfort zone. Cherie hugged me and Zena.

Jake kissed me, even though I was sweaty.

We won.

We had won.

And I, Stevie Barrett, had a dislocated shoulder to prove it.

Jake kissed it.

Afterward, I saw Lance and Zena together, on the way to Lance’s car. Lance hadn’t needed to worry about when or how to kiss Zena. Zena took things into her own hands. She leaned against his car, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down. Lance, thankfully, appeared to know what to do from that point on.

I saw his ankle twitching.

I talked to Aunt Janet. She had not changed her mind about divorcing Herbert. She loved Africa and had found her calling. “Sweetie, Virginia knew of a doctor from Portland who’s out here at a medical clinic who needed volunteers at the desk, and to comfort the patients, do basic filing and organizing, and so on, so me and Virginia volunteered! We’ve been here for two weeks and it’s already home. I love it. I have purpose to my day, I have a reason for being, and I love Dr. Dornshire! You will never find a more compassionate, competent doctor!”

Small world, folks.

“We’re going to have to say good-bye, Stevie, in about five minutes.”

It was raining and it was early morning.

Jake and I had been up all night talking, and now he had to scramble out of bed for a flight that would take him to Venice.

“Please come.”

“I can’t, Jake. What about my job? What about the orders for my chairs?”

“You have vacation time. Please, Stevie.”

I saw a sheen of tears in his eyes, through the sheen on mine, the early morning shadows swinging between us.