What Would Oprah Do (15 page)

Dear Oprah,

I was watching Dr. Oz yesterday. My God, could that man be any cuter? I hope he’s helping you with your thyroid problem, and I’m glad that you have access to the best. I know that must be stressful and difficult to cope with, just as I know how defeated anyone feels when they gain weight back. I just wanted to tell you that although I understand that you want to be the size you’re comfortable with, I think you look fabulous.
Really.

Regards,

Cates

Ps.
Do you still own a home in Georgia? I was just wondering.

I made breakfast the next morning, letting the smell of bacon and coffee permeate the house and wake them up as it has greeted me so many days when I’ve walked through the door here. We ate with very little conversation. I couldn’t tell if Kay and Lainey were tired or if it was the quiet of decisions yet to be made.

Not long after they left, I watered the garden, enjoying the time with Buddy by my side. When I came back in I remembered the trunk, and figured I might as well go through it now. I procrastinate enough at my own house.

Perhaps cleaning this out for Vivian will be counterproductive to the time I spent removing clutter from my own closet, but I know I can’t throw out the dress with the green chiffon. There are a few old wool coats, smelling lightly of cedar. They have big plastic brown buttons, probably the height of fashion when they were new. As much as I want to keep them, I have a coat and despite the pockets being worn through, someone else can use them to keep warm. Beneath the coats is a fabric bag, like the ones my beloved Kate Spade bags came in. In them are several pairs of dress shoes, short stiletto heels in metallic shades, all with very pointy toes. I squeeze my foot into one, unsure if it’s a size too small or if they’re just remarkably uncomfortable. There’s another fabric bag with small spools of lace, once white now dingy beige, a variety of buttons, and packets of clear plastic line, like you would see on fishing lures. I pull out the plastic line, thin as dental floss and wrap it around my pointer finger. It bends easily, but as soon as you let go of it, it returns to its original shape. I mindlessly string the buttons on it, wondering if Vivian used this to string popcorn as a Christmas tree decoration.

Then it hits me. This plastic line is what I should use to bead my jewelry. It’s so perfect I can’t believe I didn’t realize this the second I pulled it from the bag. I have to go and grab my book and beads from the car. I only packed them to humor myself, as if I truly intended to work on it while I was here. I had figured that most likely I would buckle down and finish them at the last minute, the way I had with almost every homework assignment I’d ever been given.

Buddy must feel my excitement, racing me to the car for the beads, then back inside. I rub his head in a circular motion as if he is the magic genie of beading. Within minutes I know this is going to work. After the hours I spent with the metal wire, I have the motions down pat. Without the metal tips constantly pricking my fingers, I can move quickly, tying and threading over and over again.

By the end of the day I have ten necklaces ready to go. I only need thirty, and I have five days. If I keep the same pace, and I know I can go faster, I will have all thirty hats done with two days to spare for finishing touches. I thank God for working in this mysterious way. I don’t have to feel guilty for procrastinating. I was meant to find this clear plastic thread, and it couldn’t have happened any other way, any sooner or later. This must be how God works when you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Preparation meets opportunity and it all falls into place. I fight temptation to celebrate, and push forward. By the time Vivian gets back, I have my thirty necklaces, and so much more. I have wraps of blue chiffon, layered around the hats. It’s bigger than I ever imagined, this idea of mine. There are scarves, delicately wrapped around the base of the hat, accentuating the beads.

I imagine myself talking to Oprah, explaining how I came up with the idea, when my hats are on
an OWN Favorite Things Christmas Spectacular. I can hear her saying how much she loves the concept, how she gave them to everyone on her staff. I’m sitting in one of her perfect chairs. I can picture Vivian beaming in the audience as I tell how her chiffon dress inspired the idea.

If Kay knew, she would be yelling at me, “You did WHAT?”
Not Oprah, Oprah knows The Secret. I can see her in all her wisdom, nodding as I explain how I had to take the chance, that I spent all but what would cover the next month’s bills when I bought the rolls of chiffon.

When I meet with
Lainey’s friend Rita, at her boutique, she is pleased. “Interesting…” she says, as I show her how the scarf can be pressed flat and worn around the hat under the jewelry with the clips I’ve sewn into the sides. This isn’t the level of excitement I had hoped for, but she likes the idea. I have over-delivered, which is a huge step up from the embarrassment of the blue cheese. When I leave there is a check in my hand, half upfront, the other half when the hats sell.

It doesn’t matter that half doesn’t quite cover the cost of the materials. It’s a start. This is no small victory, but the long awaited pay off from my beginning, my
AHA moment! More than a little relieved that my days of financial decline are soon going to be behind me, I pick up champagne and invite Kay over to celebrate.

“Oh
, Veuve Clicquot!” She says as soon as she sees the bottle. The first bottle goes quickly as I tell her that all thirty hats are at the boutique. Before she can ask, I tell her what she wants to know. She can’t help that she is the oldest, always true to birth order traits, wanting specifics and monetary breakdowns.

“I’ll turn a profit when sixty hats are sold.”
This must be satisfactory since there is no lecture about how much I spent on two bottles of champagne. I already feel worn out from my own excitement, like a kid who doesn’t sleep the night before Christmas. “How’s Lainey?” I ask.

Kay rolls her eyes. “You know what pisses me off?”

“People who don’t use their blinkers
.” I answer, proof that I was listening when she called while sitting in traffic on her way over.

“That after I listened for hours on end as Lainey went on and on about how she wanted a peaceful divorce, that she’s the one who made it ugly. She did this. And now that she’s jacked it all up, she wants me to help her figure out how to fix it.”

I uncork the other bottle
and listen instead of telling her what we already know, that people do stupid shit when they’re scared. “Sometimes it feels like she’s changed, like I don’t know her anymore.”

“You do.”
I answer, but the words feel hollow.

“I don’t know. Do you remember that song we used to sing in Brownies, the one that goes ‘make new
friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other’s gold’?”

I nod, humming the tune.

“They shouldn’t teach kids that shit. They should tell little girls the truth. Some of your friends will change. Sometimes you grow up and grow apart, and some become assholes.”

Her point isn’t lost on me. I remember vividly the day I figured out that Jennifer Pierce and I would not in fact be best friends forever. She had a slumber party, and I overheard her telling Michelle Baker that she wished they were going to camp together instead of her going with me. It was crushing. I spent the following weeks in private mourning, too embarrassed to even tell my mom why I didn’t want to go to camp anymore.

“What she did was bad,” I say, making sure Kay knows that I get it, “but she didn’t do it to you.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that the Lainey I know, or used to know, wouldn’t have done that to anyone. She wouldn’t have made up a lie, much less a big fat public lie, to get what she thinks she should have.”

“I’m not defending her, but it’s not like she’s proud of what she did.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not exactly in a hurry to make it right either.”

I laugh a little, even though it’s not funny. “Making it right is going to suck. If she tells Michael what she did, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to let his divorce attorney eat her alive.”

“And he’d have every right to. I don’t know what happened in their marriage. That’s between them and whomever they decide to share that with. What I do know is what didn’t happen, he didn’t cheat on her. If her lie ends up in some gossip blurb of the AJC, it’s there forever in online archives.”

“Wait, it’s not in print yet?” I grab my laptop and bring it on the balcony for a quick search. There is nothing.

This doesn’t seem to make Kay feel any better. “If it’s not there, it’s not because she didn’t try. It means she didn’t know the right people to tell.”

“Yeah, but when we succeed with luck, we let that count. Can’t it be enough that she failed with a little luck? She didn’t do what she set out to do, and this time that was a good thing.”

Kay sips her champagne, mulling this over. “If you talk to her, don’t tell her it’s not in the paper. Please.”

I nod in agreement. “How was your date?”
She hadn’t mentioned it since our spa night, so I figured it didn’t go well, but a change of subject seems in order.

Kay smiles.
“It went well, but I don’t want to talk about it. I know you can’t jinx it by talking about it, but just in case.”

The next morning, even though I wake up before my alarm goes off, Kay is already gone. This is part of the problem of living in a city without public transportation, if you’re out drinking; you have to spend the night. We have MARTA, which is sort of a joke since the city is so spread out and the trains have a very limited coverage area. You could call a cab to go
home, but you’d still have to deal with the hassle of getting your car in the morning.

I have two hours before I have to leave for Vivian’s, so I stay in bed. I don’t want to get up and make the coffee I have not
acclimated to. I miss the smell of the good coffee, the breakfast blend and the chocolate cherry and crème brulee, flavors I used to switch between. It won’t be long, I tell myself. Soon I will have the fancy coffee again.

My mind wanders to all the things I want but can’t afford. All the twenty bucks here, thirty there, items that I can’t justify now since I need that thirty, which wouldn’t be enough for an oil change if I didn’t have a coupon. Not to mention the slow drip coming from my kitchen sink that I can’t afford to repair. Hair cut, brow wax, hair
volumizing spray, the list could go on and on. And I miss my candles, the really good soy ones that permeate the room and burn for a long time. While these things could hardly be considered trappings of aristocracy, I miss them like the luxuries I now know they are.

After starting as an
advertising assistant at twenty-two, making eighteen thousand dollars a year, I want the things I worked so hard to have. I make a list and put it on my board, the board that has pictures of the things I want in life. I never imagined that I would need to put the little things on there. As soon as I turn a profit, I will have them again.

When I get to Vivian’s I’m glad that I didn’t bother with coffee at home. She has a pot on, and it smells incredible, rich like dark chocolate. “Just in time,” she
greets me. “I was going to sit down for coffee and a cigarette.” Only she can say this without the cigarette sounding trashy. She never smells like smoke, and her voice is clear, without the raspy sound of a smoker.

When I tell her this she says, “When I started smoking everything was different. There was an ad where an Olympic speed skater takes a break for a refreshing smoke. You saw cigarettes everywhere, not the dirty secret they are now. Lucille Ball smoked on her show, Dick Van Dyke did too. It was long before he was President, but even Ronald Reagan was in ads for Chesterfield’s. For my generation there was nothing rebellious about it. We thought it had benefits other than being glamorous, which at the time it was. Besides, you and I don’t smoke the same things.”
She goes inside and returns, handing me a pack of her cigarettes. I have never noticed them before. When she gets out more than one, they are usually in a silver case that matches her lighter.

“Additive free, 100% natural tobacco
.”  I read aloud.

“They add a bunch of chemicals to those,” she says, gesturing to my pack. “Indians have been smoking tobacco forever, without sounding like they’re going to cough up a lung. It’s the stuff they add that makes them burn fast, release more smoke, and makes them a lot worse for you.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Vivian shrugs. “Well it may not be a fact, but I’m eighty years old and have earned my right to theorize.”

Vivian shows me the seeds we have planted in what she calls “the incubator”, a plastic container, with pods of dirt and a clear lid. I can’t believe that what was just a mound of dirt last week is a thin green stalk, no thicker than a blade of grass, but tall enough to reach the lid.
“Your herbs!” She says to me, as if I did something more than the task she gave me.

With guidance from Vivian, I take the small delicate pods and plant some in pots, others in the ground. Under Buddy’s watchful eye, I complete Mojito Lane and wonder if Buddy thinks of himself as the audience or the foreman. It’s only as I’m driving back home that I realize I forgot to tell Vivian my good news, that I finished the hats.