Authors: Christina Schwarz
Later, when they were in bed, I crept into the addition with a flashlight and the bills, the mess from under the futon and two more that arrived today, still in their unopened envelopes. I’ve never added them up, not thoroughly, not with a calculator. we’d do it together, I thought. we’d lay it all out on the plywood; we’d face it side by side; we’d form a plan
.
But Michael had hauled the cushions from the club chairs up there while we’d been away and was sprawled over them, sleeping. I went down again with my pile of paper. Alone
.
And now I’m watching out the window as the Explorer is repossessed. As I type, a tow truck is jamming its hook under my bumper. I’m
relieved, glad even, to see it go, along with its “reasonable” monthly payments. Although—wait!
Thank God, I remembered Percy Penguin sitting innocently in the backseat! I also removed the car seats, an umbrella, my
Thomas Guide,
a partially consumed package of Altoids, a comb, three plastic fork/spoon combinations, and a handful of Handi Wipes—no sense giving them more than I owe. I left loose french fries, orange peels, gum wrappers, grocery receipts, and an empty Diet Coke can. The repo man accepted an Altoid and a wipe. It’s greasy work, hauling people’s cars away
.
An Acura Legend pulled into the driveway across the street while I was shuffling toward the house with my pitiful pile of worldly goods. Its driver looked over his shoulder, his chin grazing the leather bomber jacket he had hooked over one finger. “Car trouble?” he called across the road. We’ve not spoken before, but cars, like pets and children, bring people together. I nodded. And then I went into the house and shut the door
.
Still, I could hear the whine of the electric winch, pulling the cable taut
.
As it turns out, we’re not Explorer people. We can’t sit in spacious, climate-controlled leather interiors, and roll over the rough and rocky terrain of life as if it were merely grass
.
I sat down then with the bills and a glass of excellent bourbon. We have so much liquor left over from the party—such quality! such variety! The pages are creased like failed origami sculptures now from the weight of us on top of the weight of the futon. They look like garbage, like paper meant to be thrown away. But I spread them out
.
I’ve often told the kids—Marlo and Hunter, anyway, who are old enough to have homework—that when problems are clearly organized, they don’t seem so bad. On this theory, I sorted and piled, keeping only the most recent statements. The stack did look more manageable when I’d crumpled first notices whenever there were seconds, seconds when there
were thirds. It was only math, after all, and far easier math than I’d tackled with Marlo. And then I added the totals
.
It seems I’ve lied to my children. Sometimes when things are organized, they seem worse. That is because they are worse, worse than anyone could have imagined. As of October 10, we owe $145,685.64
.
I don’t understand. Michael makes so much money now—not as much as we expected, but still, so much. And I’ve been paying all along, paying and paying, tuition, mortgage, the dentist for Michael’s root canal. How could this have happened?
I have to go. I’m not sure where. To bed, possibly. I can’t go much farther than that, given that I no longer have a car
.
L
I knew how this had happened. Paging back through Lexie’s expenditures, I could clearly follow her ruinous trail. Of course I could. Had I not known that was where my story was going from the moment I began it, the moment Letty and Michael bought the house? Had I not, in fact, gently pushed my friend along that path, egging her on when she balked, choosing colors and applauding designs, encouraging her to pursue a life that would make her feel the equal of her friends and the better of her enemies, who, in the case of Jeanette, at least, often seemed to be the same person?
Margaret
,
I told Jeanette my car was “in the shop” today with some unspecified malady and she lent me one of hers, a Navigator, much nicer, actually, than the Explorer. Of course, our financial status is none of her business, but I was still surprised by how easy it was to lie. Tomorrow I will say the problem is still undiagnosed, the next day that the garage has ordered parts. The parts will take a long time to come. Then they will be the
wrong parts. This, in fact, has truly happened to me, so I know it’s believable
.
It’s three o’clock and I gather from the messages on the answering machine that Michael slept all morning. His assistant called at nine-twenty to remind him that he had a meeting at nine, and again at ten-fifty to ask if he should cancel another one at eleven. Michael left a note for me at noon: “I’ve gone to eat my free lunch.” In case you’re as worried as I was that this meant something too awful to consider, I’ve spoken to him at his office. He meant it literally
.
I am alone. The children are being shuttled by Ofelia to ancient Greek club/soccer/play date, respectively. Ivy is just being shuttled without destination. Peri has come and gone. Did I tell you I called her? I think we’ll have to sell the house. Although, according to Periwinkle Scott, it won’t do much good
.
She walked through, her mouth making a little moue of disapproval that I’d never noticed before, even when she took us through places with hideous gold-textured wallpaper and lime green shag carpeting. She wouldn’t even go into the master bedroom-en suite bathroom addition, just poked her head between the two-by-fours that make up the framework and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth
.
“Look,” she said, finally, when we were standing in the living room at the foot of the futon, “I’m happy to sell it for you, but I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t warn you that you’re not going to get what you paid for it
.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “What about the improvements we’ve made? What about the addition?”
“I told you to do it to code.”
I protested that “to code” ended up costing so much that we’d given up
.
“Well, you won’t get a penny of it back this way,” she said. “Look,”
she went on, “I can see it’s going to be fabulous when you’re done. If you finished all these things—the kitchen, the master, the floors, the landscaping
…”
She flapped her hand back and forth, indicating the various undesirable areas. “The bathroom,” I added. “Then,” she went on, “the place would be gorgeous. That would be a different story. But people don’t want to take on other people’s projects. You can understand that. Its … messy. “I’m only thinking of what’s best for you guys.” She launched a modified version of her old, perky smile toward me. “Why don’t you finish it up first? Think of it as an investment.”
I convinced her, finally, to put it on the market, “just to see.” “But, really,” she said, turning in the doorway, her sunglasses poised just below her chin, “you guys are going to lose a lot of money.”
L
M—
Michael is sleeping enough for both of us, which is a good thing, since I’m barely sleeping at all, what with my cache under the futon stabbing me in the gut all night. There is, however, very little gut left to stab, weight loss being an unanticipated benefit of intense and constant worry
.
I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on creating an “environment of heightened awareness and pleasure” for the Otis benefit when I despise that museum and all who wish it well. Mostly, all I think about now is numbers. If Marlo and Hunter quit their Saturday soccer leagues, how much will we save? If I stop buying presliced cheese for Ivy and Noah, how much will we save? Do they sell American cheese in blocks? It seems to be born individually wrapped. Although delis have it in blocks—maybe I could buy it wholesale. This is what takes up all the space in my mind. I get lost now. I try to go to Encino and end up in Reseda
.
This morning, while Michael slept with his head between two pillows, I vacuumed the Turkish carpet and removed an amoeba-shaped blob of some brown substance from its center. Marlo helped me to roll the carpet into a heavy tube and together we heaved it into Jeanette’s Navigator. “Is it because Noah spilled pudding?” she asked, as she climbed over the backseat, so as to tug while I shoved. “He won’t do it again. I promise.”
Mr. Wallace, proprietor of Eastern Carpets, similarly mistook my motive when I appeared in the doorway of his shop, bowing under the heavy roll. “Mrs. MacMillan,” he said, “so good to see you again!” He hurried to the front of the store, while motioning with one hand for his underlings
.
I’d found a parking spot only half a block away and had felt embarrassed to ask for help in lugging the carpet to the store, knowing the purpose of my errand, but my position now, I realized, with my face closing in on my toes and sweat beginning to make the back of my neck slippery, was far worse. My knees were trembling slightly from fatigue and hunger, my breakfast having been a scant handful of damp Cheerios stolen from Ivy’s high chair tray
.
“Here, here, let my men take that,” Mr. Wallace scolded, and his henchmen whisked it from my back, as if handling a duvet, and lowered it to the floor. Mr. Wallace himself bent to unroll a few feet of the carpet he’d sold me only two months ago. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. One of my favorites. Very wise of you to bring it in for special cleaning. I warned you,” he raised one finger playfully, “with the children, a special piece like this will need special cleaning!”
“I wish I were bringing it in for cleaning,” I said. “I mean, I’m sure you do an excellent job. But it’s not dirty.”
“No?” He scratched with one manicured nail at a dime-sized sticky circle I’d missed. “Have you brought it in as a guide for choosing an
other? In a complementary pattern? Perhaps for an adjoining room? Or sometimes people use two in one room. That’s a very sumptuous look, I think.”
“Yes,” I said, “that would indeed be sumptuous.”
“Good!” he said, clapping his hands. Last month this signal had prompted two assistants to leap about the room, selecting various carpets at Wallace’s behest, and unrolling them one on top of the other, but at angles, so that the corners still showed for the sake of comparison. Michael and I “oohed” and “aahed,” as each gorgeous rectangle was revealed, as if we were watching fireworks at our feet. We nibbled ginger cookies and sipped tea, while our friend Omar advised us about which carpets to prefer and dickered over the price
.
“No, no,” I said quickly, before the leaping could begin. “I can’t buy another carpet. I’m afraid we’re having some problems.”
Mr. Wallace frowned at me. I doubted that cookies would appear this time. “Well! I know you’re not having problems with the carpet! This is one of our very best carpets!” He smoothed his palm over the fibers, as if the rug may have been offended by my words and required soothing. Then he looked up at me, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head to indicate a question. “Unless, perhaps you would like to exchange? This one is perhaps too small for your space?”
“No, it’s perfect for my space,” I admitted. This was turning out to be more difficult than I’d imagined. I thought resentfully of Michael, a long lump beneath the covers
.
Mr. Wallace waited. He did not smile. He did not offer tea
.
“Mr. Wallace,” I said, “the problem actually is that we should not have bought this carpet. We thought we could afford it, but as it turns out, we can’t.”
“But, Mrs. MacMillan, that is why you used a credit card.” He
laughed, somewhat patronizingly. “So that you would pay only a little at a time.”
“Well, it turned out to be a lot at a time,” I said. “Too much
.”
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head and rerolled the length of carpet he’d undone. “But I can’t accept returns. I would like to help you personally, but, you understand, if I accepted returns, then everyone would buy, return, buy, return. Today, I need a blue carpet for my Picasso party” he said, assuming a false, high-pitched voice. “Tomorrow, the party is over; I return the carpet. Next week, my mother is visiting. She prefers a red carpet. Ah, now my mother has gone home; I will return the carpet. You see?” He smiled, a hateful smile. “I would have a library, not a business.” He held both his hands in the air
.
“No, I understand. I understand. You couldn’t make it a policy. But I hoped you might make an exception. For a special case.”
“No,” he said, firmly. “I can’t make an exception. Everyone, you know, would want to be an exception.” He mocked me, his voice rising again. “I am special. You must help me.”
His words on top of my meager portion of Cheerios made me feel physically ill. He was right; I had thought I was special. I wanted to grab up my carpet and run from the store, but I could not have lifted it again, and, in any case, his foot was resting on the roll now, holding it symbolically in place
.
“I would like to help you,” he said, resuming his old tone, now that he saw he could frighten me. “You are a friend of Omar’s, and Omar is my friend. Perhaps you would like me to buy the carpet back?”
“Yes.” I nodded eagerly. we’d paid almost ten thousand dollars for that carpet. I thought he was suggesting a return under another name. “Maybe you could buy it back.”
“First, I have to be sure you have not damaged it.” With two easy motions, he directed his men to carry our carpet to the middle of the floor
,
where they unrolled it briskly. Mr. Wallace paced up and down its lengthy bending now and then to touch the fibers
.
I have to admit, Margaret, that, beautiful as that carpet is, it looked slightly scruffy, exposed there, under Mr. Wallace’s scrutinizing eye
.
“I will give you,” he said finally, “three thousand dollars for it.”