The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,72
the open Bible. I work the raised letters with the edge of my thumbnail the way an old Catholic like Deedee’s mother, Margaret, frets the beads of her rosary.
“What do you think?”
Holly stands before me in diaphanous silk, a decadent, clingy show-dress only appropriate for the kind of events I never find myself invited to. She looks good in it too. She should. While I ferry kids back and forth and do grocery runs, she meets her personal trainer for an hour of body sculpting. Whatever that is, it sounds like a lot of work.
“When they give you the Oscar, that’s the dress you should wear.”
She studies her reflection. Bites her lip. “So that’s a no.”
“Your uniform works for you. Why change it up?”
“Just so you know, I’m not leaving here with nothing. There’s one more outfit.”
While she’s busy, I wander through the shop, casting an eye on the shimmering dresses on their plush hangers. Behind the counter, one of the shopgirls is busily texting while the other rambles on about her Halloween costume from last year, and how this time she intends to go all out.
Halloween already?
Holly comes out in a strapless metallic number.
“You’re not serious,” I say. “Are you going to the prom on Jupiter or something?”
“You don’t like?”
“I was just thinking, we’re past the point of no return with Rick’s retreat. Closer to the end of October than the beginning.”
“He’s held out longer than I ever expected.” She turns in the mirror to get a look at the back of the dress. “You’re right. I’d never wear this.”
“Gregory said maybe this was my month, not Rick’s. It’s halfway gone, though, and what do I have to show for it? Some loose teeth from getting slapped.”
“And some civil disobedience.”
“And a stoner son. It’s not enough. I want to do something.”
Holly swishes toward me, eyes alight. “Something like what?”
“I don’t know—”
“You’ve still got Stacy’s keys, right? That’s what we should do. Serve our husbands right.”
“Not something like that,” I say. “I want to make a difference somehow.”
“Hold that thought.”
While she changes back into her tweed and denim, I head to the front of the store, gazing idly through the rain-streaked windows. In my pocket, the back of the pin works loose under the pressure of my thumb. I push the pad of my index finger ever so slightly forward, just enough to feel the point break skin. In the glass, my reflection stares forlornly, looking trapped. Not to mention transparent.
We have to run to Holly’s car to keep from getting soaked.
“I think I know what it is,” I say, pulling my seat belt on.
“Your meaningful thing?”
I nod. “The only problem is, if you go along with this, you might annoy that husband of yours.”
“Is that right?” she asks. “Tell me more.”
Eric Ringwald sees us through the glass wall separating his office from the secretary’s desk. He jogs over, smiling, then holds us up on the threshold to give Holly a kiss.
“Where have you girls been? Out shopping?”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t drain the bank account. It’s a good thing too. Beth here thinks it’s time for you to whip out your checkbook.”
Eric raises his eyebrows. “Oh boy. Maybe we should sit down.”
This is only the second time I’ve visited Eric’s lair. From the tour during my first visit, I recall that all the surfaces are exotic hardwoods, that the pictures on the walls are not reproductions, and that the little bronze head on the pedestal behind him is by a Frenchman named Minaux (which Eric pronounces like minnow) and was a gift from a famous international diplomat, whose name I would certainly recognize if only he were at liberty to say it aloud. Not that Eric is a great appreciator of art. “I’m not,” he insisted, “not at all. It’s the stories that matter to me, not the pieces themselves.”
Nevertheless, there are plenty of pieces.
Before I sit in one of Eric’s chairs, I pause to consider that it probably cost more than my car. (What am I talking about? Of course it cost more than the VW!) A scientist somewhere engineered the cushions to make people entering this office in search of donations especially uncomfortable. The back tilts too far to the rear, and there are no arms. If I don’t exert abdominal strength to hold my body upright, I’ll be staring at the ceiling.
“I was surprised to get your call,” Eric says to Holly. “Surprised and intrigued.”