teeth and carry on, go right ahead. Have a good time. That’s really great for Travis, too.”
“I am not gnashing my teeth. I’m getting a job. And roommates.”
“Roommates?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to open your house to strangers? Oh, Lord.”
I hang up, refill the potato-chip bowl, and do not answer the phone when it rings again. I sit down with my list, add, LET MACHINE TAKE ALL CALLS.
6
I am at Franco’s, the small neighborhood grocery store walking distance from my house. It’s more expensive, but less overwhelming than the supermarket, and there are small touches that offer comfort everywhere. Free coffee. A recipe-exchange board. The soft sounds of classical music in the background, with no overly excited voice breaking in to describe unbelievable savings on London broil. The smell of turkey roasting in the back room.
The aisles are named for nearby streets, and their signs are hand painted in curly black script. Polite, high school–aged boys with neatly combed hair and clear complexions bag the groceries and, unless refused, bring them out to the car, no tipping allowed. This, of course, only makes customers more anxious to tip. But the boys steadfastly turn the money down, and on their way back into the store, they collect any stray carts and arrange them in a neat line outside the door. I can’t imagine where they find these young men. When they go home at night, it must be to the 1950s.
The older people who work in the store are department managers. They are vigilant, restacking pyramids of tomatoes, straightening cartons of cottage cheese, stirring up the pasta salad at the deli counter. I like to be checked out by Marie, the cashier who’s worked at Franco’s for thirty-one years, and I wait in line for her now, ignoring the other cashier whose register is free. I want to ask Marie where on the community bulletin board I should pin my sign; some spots might be better than others. I’ve seen ads for places for rent before, stuck between ads for free cats, baby-sitting, piano lessons, carpenters willing to do small jobs. I’ve carefully printed my message on an index card:
ROOMMATE WANTED
Large bedroom for rent in very nice house with single
woman and eleven-year-old son. No smoking. Pets or kids
okay. Must be employed and responsible. $500/mo.
It occurred to me, writing it, that it didn’t say enough. But I didn’t know how to add more. Please don’t be one of those types who never wears deodorant, I couldn’t say that. Please become my friend, I need a friend. I couldn’t say that either. No hospitalizations for psychosis, Rita had suggested. Neurotics okay.
Well, I’ll see who calls, that’s all; then interview them, take it from there. I trust my intuition. I know about people. Except for David. Please don’t be like David.
“Hey! Wake up,” Marie says, reaching over to pull my cart forward.
I smile, begin unloading my few groceries.
“What’s for dinner?” Marie asks, looking over her half glasses to see what I’ve selected. Then, “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, it’s just … I need to post a sign, Marie. Where’s a good spot on the board?”
“What are you selling?”
“I’m renting a room. In my house.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I need … a roommate.” The word is ridiculous. I am forty-two years old.
Marie hands me my change, tells the other check-out clerk that she’ll be right back. “Come with me,” she says, and leads me into the back room. Cases of soda are piled high; time cards are lined up on a rack on the wall. Get a job.
“What’s going on, hon?” she asks.
I shrug, sit down on a box full of seltzer bottles.
“You and your husband split up or something?”
I nod.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Marie sighs, leans back against the time clock, crosses her arms over her blue cotton smock. “Franco’s” is gaily embroidered over one breast; over the other she wears her name tag, pinned, as usual, at an odd angle. She doesn’t need a name tag, anyway. Everybody knows her; she is everyone’s surrogate something. She is in her late fifties, overweight in the deeply comforting way. She has compassionate blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, beautiful skin that she has told me she owes to mayonnaise masks. I’ve been exchanging mindless pleasantries with her for years: comments on the weather, criticism of the Red Sox, a shared interest in Travis’s growth. Marie was the first person outside the immediate family to hold Travis; I brought him to the store when he was three weeks old.
“When did this all happen?” Marie asks.
“A couple of