critically at Ruth. “Have you been walking around like that?” she asked.
I thought, oh, God, don’t cry, Ruth, and she didn’t. She said, “Well, of course I’ve been walking around like this. Jesus Christ. What else? If I had a wig, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”
Yeah, I thought. Yeah! And then I thought, what is someone like that doing working in a place like this, where women with broken hearts come?
After she’d brought us to the fitting room, the woman left to get some sample wigs. Ruth was seated in a swivel chair before a huge mirror, a setup like those they have in beauty salons. There was a hand mirror there, too, so she’d be able to inspect the back of her head.
“I think that woman is premenstrual,” I said.
“I think she’s prehistoric. Did you see the wrinkles in her neck?”
“Yeah,” I said, though I hadn’t.
When the woman returned, she handed Ruth a hairnet. Ruth pulled it on, then turned her head this way and that, looking at herself in the mirror. “I look great,” she said. “Like a cafeteria worker.”
“Give me some of that, uh, American chop suey,” I said.
Ruth smiled. I smiled. The woman frowned and I wanted to drive something wide and sharp into her softest part. On the way out of the place, I asked her, “Why do you have to be such a bitch? Why do you have to make a hard thing harder?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked coldly.
“You should,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruth said, paying for the wig she’d ordered—a short, dark-brown one—with her MasterCard. “Rush this order, okay?” she said. “Put it on the next rocket. I just found out I’m not supposed to be walking around like this.”
I see a movement under Ruth’s covers, and then she sighs and turns over. “Ruth?” I whisper.
Nothing. I go back into the kitchen, turn the faucet on, but when the water hits the kettle, it is too loud. Back into the living room, I stand before the bookcase, looking for something to read. Ruth has different pieces of art mixed in with the books. There is pottery: a short, round vase the color of eggshell; a small box with a geranium leaf imprint; a deep-blue bowl holding dried rose petals, a purple shoe with unfurled wings at the heel. There are tiny oils of individual flowers. I find something that I made years ago, the one time I tried to use clay. I pick it up and hold it, close my eyes, think maybe all it requires is a certain kind of belief and you really can go back in time. I wish hard, and open myeyes. Naturally, I am nowhere else. I am actually sort of surprised.
I always think incipient miracles surround us, waiting only to see if our faith is strong enough. If I am standing at a traffic light before I cross a street, I stare at the people on the other side, thinking, why can’t we just concentrate, and change places? And I have a real belief that this kind of thing will eventually come to be, this convenient kind of transmigration. “Come over for dinner, why don’t you?” we will say into the phone to our friends in California when we are in Wisconsin. And moments later they will appear, shiny with star-dust, briefly shaken but mostly without memory of how it happened that they arrived. We won’t have to understand it; it will just work, like a beating heart, like love. Really, no matter how frightened and discouraged I may become about the future, I look forward to it. In spite of everything I see all around me every day, in spite of all the times I cry when I read the newspaper, I have a shaky assurance that everything will turn out fine. I don’t think I’m the only one. Why else would the phrase “Everything’s all right” ease a deep and troubled place in so many of us? We just don’t know, we never know so
much
, yet we have such faith. We hold our hands over our hurts and lean forward, full of yearning and forgiveness. It is how we keep on, this kind of hope.
I turn out the light, lie back down on the sofa,
I thought, oh, God, don’t cry, Ruth, and she didn’t. She said, “Well, of course I’ve been walking around like this. Jesus Christ. What else? If I had a wig, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”
Yeah, I thought. Yeah! And then I thought, what is someone like that doing working in a place like this, where women with broken hearts come?
After she’d brought us to the fitting room, the woman left to get some sample wigs. Ruth was seated in a swivel chair before a huge mirror, a setup like those they have in beauty salons. There was a hand mirror there, too, so she’d be able to inspect the back of her head.
“I think that woman is premenstrual,” I said.
“I think she’s prehistoric. Did you see the wrinkles in her neck?”
“Yeah,” I said, though I hadn’t.
When the woman returned, she handed Ruth a hairnet. Ruth pulled it on, then turned her head this way and that, looking at herself in the mirror. “I look great,” she said. “Like a cafeteria worker.”
“Give me some of that, uh, American chop suey,” I said.
Ruth smiled. I smiled. The woman frowned and I wanted to drive something wide and sharp into her softest part. On the way out of the place, I asked her, “Why do you have to be such a bitch? Why do you have to make a hard thing harder?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked coldly.
“You should,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruth said, paying for the wig she’d ordered—a short, dark-brown one—with her MasterCard. “Rush this order, okay?” she said. “Put it on the next rocket. I just found out I’m not supposed to be walking around like this.”
I see a movement under Ruth’s covers, and then she sighs and turns over. “Ruth?” I whisper.
Nothing. I go back into the kitchen, turn the faucet on, but when the water hits the kettle, it is too loud. Back into the living room, I stand before the bookcase, looking for something to read. Ruth has different pieces of art mixed in with the books. There is pottery: a short, round vase the color of eggshell; a small box with a geranium leaf imprint; a deep-blue bowl holding dried rose petals, a purple shoe with unfurled wings at the heel. There are tiny oils of individual flowers. I find something that I made years ago, the one time I tried to use clay. I pick it up and hold it, close my eyes, think maybe all it requires is a certain kind of belief and you really can go back in time. I wish hard, and open myeyes. Naturally, I am nowhere else. I am actually sort of surprised.
I always think incipient miracles surround us, waiting only to see if our faith is strong enough. If I am standing at a traffic light before I cross a street, I stare at the people on the other side, thinking, why can’t we just concentrate, and change places? And I have a real belief that this kind of thing will eventually come to be, this convenient kind of transmigration. “Come over for dinner, why don’t you?” we will say into the phone to our friends in California when we are in Wisconsin. And moments later they will appear, shiny with star-dust, briefly shaken but mostly without memory of how it happened that they arrived. We won’t have to understand it; it will just work, like a beating heart, like love. Really, no matter how frightened and discouraged I may become about the future, I look forward to it. In spite of everything I see all around me every day, in spite of all the times I cry when I read the newspaper, I have a shaky assurance that everything will turn out fine. I don’t think I’m the only one. Why else would the phrase “Everything’s all right” ease a deep and troubled place in so many of us? We just don’t know, we never know so
much
, yet we have such faith. We hold our hands over our hurts and lean forward, full of yearning and forgiveness. It is how we keep on, this kind of hope.
I turn out the light, lie back down on the sofa,
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