A History of Forgetting (12 page)

As for Roxanne's views on love, they were decidedly peculiar. She explained them to Alison one day when they went shopping with Donna after work. ‘What's your boyfriend like?' she asked. ‘Christian says he's a genius or something. He has, like, a Ph.D?'

‘That's next, I guess. He's actually taking a break right now and working in a lab at the university.'

‘How long have you lived together?'

‘About a year.'

Donna appeared on the other side of the rack and held up two identical copper-coloured flower-speckled dresses.

‘Put these on. You'll look like twins.'

‘Twins?' Alison scoffed, but Roxanne said, ‘Come on, Ali.'

It was a Friday after work, the store crowded, and only one dressing room was free. Roxanne stepped into it, then stood holding the door for Alison. ‘Come on.'

They were all so uninhibited, none of them self-conscious in the least, the salon filled with half-naked plaster statuary and frescoed nudes. Once Donna had taken off her shirt in the back room so that Thi could sew on a button, then sat on the back steps brazenly smoking a cigarette in her bra. They would tease her about her modesty if she didn't change with Roxanne. Everyone back at Vitae would hear about it. But Alison wasn't sure what she dreaded most: to take her clothes off in front of Roxanne, or to see Roxanne without hers.

Roxanne didn't wear a bra, Alison saw right away as Roxanne was pulling her T-shirt over her head. Her hair got stuck in the neckband. No, it was her ears. Along the edges, her ears looked brass-tacked, as if she were upholstered. In the lobes were grommets that made holes large enough to see through. All of this was concealed by her hair, as the nipple ring was the secret under her clothes. And the navel ring. And the grooves between her ribs, the bumpy plate of her breastbone bigger than the blebs that were her breasts.

‘Why the right one?' asked Alison.

Roxanne turned to look at herself in the mirror, at the steel ring swinging from the centre of her petal-pink areola. She shrugged. ‘I don't know. That's the side I'd wear a brooch?'

‘It's for sex, right?' That was what Alison had read.

Roxanne shuddered. ‘I don't like sex.' She dropped her voice so they couldn't be heard in the next dressing room, leaning into Alison as she whispered, Alison smelling the mouldering odour of Roxanne's breath. She always smelled of coffee or bile or this faintly rotting scent. ‘Do you?'

‘Sure,' said Alison, suppressing a smile, thinking of the night before. Billy had dragged their futon into the kitchen. It was larger than the surface area of the floor so he had to roll the sides, forming a padded chute against the cupboard doors and fridge and stove. Their Half-Tunnel of Love, he called it afterward.

All Alison's life she'd been told she was a good girl. That she was helpful and unselfish, with a sunny disposition. That was not necessarily the opposite of someone who liked sex, yet somehow she always felt strangely embarrassed afterwards, as if it wasn't really her who did those things.

‘Jamie and I are in love, did he tell you?' Roxanne asked.

‘No.'

‘It's hopeless.'

Alison nodded. Roxanne was brunette.

‘I don't like to be touched, so we're just friends. Still, when I see him with other women, it just kills me.'

‘Why don't you like to be touched?' Alison asked.

A sharp rap sounded on the door. ‘What are you two whispering about in there?' asked Donna.

‘Love,' Roxanne answered.

‘Oh,
that.
Hurry up.'

‘Once I saw him kissing a girl,' Roxanne continued hushedly as she unzipped and stepped out of her jeans.

‘Necking in the car. That's when I did this.' She stuck her tongue out, the stud nestled there, as on a velvet cushion. It was Alison's turn to shudder. ‘Anyway, I have to accept it. It's the way it's got to be. Except for Jamie, all my men friends are gay. You can trust them.'

Alison didn't know about that, but she did think it was cool that now she actually knew a few homosexuals personally.

‘I like you, Ali. You always listen.' She reached out with her bony arm, slinging it limply over Alison's shoulder and
turning to face the mirror. Before them was a picture of two women of equal height, one hipless with very thin, slightly bowed legs, a shrunken chest and voluminous hair; the other not exactly fat, but much, much fuller—rounded, fleshy. With Roxanne's skinny arms around her neck, their heads together, it was strangely clear to Alison that both of them felt they came out ahead in the comparison.

 

 

 

5

 

‘Mrs. Soloff,' Alison said, ‘I'll take you back first because I know Malcolm likes to shampoo you himself.'

She held out her arm for Mrs. Soloff to clutch, drew back the red velvet curtain. Then, after a respectful lapse of time, she asked, ‘Are you all right? Would you like my help?'

‘Yes, dear.'

She came in smiling and holding out the smock. It seemed to hurt Mrs. Soloff to creak her arms back; she stiffened halfway, waiting for Alison to bring the sleeves to her instead, and in that moment Alison noticed something written in blue on the inside of her arm near her wrist. Numbers.

‘Oh, Mrs. Soloff. Is that a
tattoo
?'

Mrs. Soloff stopped. She let go of Alison's arm, so Alison knew she'd made a mistake and that it was worse than falling on faux marble and shattering a hip. The numbers meant she'd been in a camp. A concentration camp. Mrs. Soloff? Alison shouldn't have blurted it like that. She pulled aside the curtain to let Mrs. Soloff through.

And Mrs. Soloff, bracing herself against the column, not even looking at Alison, said clearly, though not loudly enough for anyone else to hear, ‘You are a very stupid girl.'

Alison just stood there, stricken. She watched Malcolm sweep over to help Mrs. Soloff, saw him settle her in the chair and, taking a towel, wrap it dotingly around her diminished shoulders. Though she couldn't hear him across the gallery for the music, Alison knew that when he paused and bent close to Mrs. Soloff, he was asking in a concerned whisper if anything was wrong.

Alison wanted to cry. She took hold of her own hair with both hands and pulled until it stung more than Mrs. Soloff's words, until that, instead of her confusion, was the reason for her eyes welling up with tears. Turning, she went back to the reception area. The woman who had been waiting when Alison first arrived was still there. On any other day, Alison would have offered her a coffee. ‘Who are you here to see?' she asked dully.

‘Christian.'

‘He should be here any minute. Come with me and I'll get you shampooed.'

The woman rose and came to Alison, but Alison didn't move. She looked back distractedly at Mrs. Soloff. Then she was sobbing, sobbing with shame.

In walked Christian, right on cue. He didn't say anything to Alison, simply took her hand and, looking at his client said, ‘We have an
emergency
here, as you can see. I'm going to be later than usual.'

‘I'll wait,' said the woman.

‘Sal, you are a
dear.'

He whisked Alison out the door. Embracing her on the pavement, he soothed her all the more for being small; Alison, who hadn't felt so rebuked since childhood, clutched Christian like a doll. In her arms, he felt sinewy and compact and good.

‘I said a stupid thing to Mrs. Soloff.'

‘Mrs. Soloff is an empress. It will be all right.'

‘Really
stupid.'

‘Come,' he said, leading her into the deli.

He sat her in the corner, away from the window, and, taking a handful of napkins out of the chalet holder, pressed them in her hand. She blew her nose and dried her eyes and Christian brought her a glass of water. Sitting down himself, squinting, he waited for her to speak.

‘Mrs. Soloff has a number tattooed on her arm.' When he nodded, Alison felt worse.

‘I wasn't thinking when I said it.' Alison covered her cringing face with both her hands. ‘I knew what it meant. I was just—'

‘It was a mistake.'

‘Now she hates me.'

He pulled on her hand, took it off her burning face and patted it. ‘She doesn't hate you. She's just upset. In a few days you'll be her favourite little
shiksa
again.'

‘She hates me.'

‘Believe me. I have been
countless
times in Mrs. Soloff's position. People say things to me. Thoughtless things. “Ever heard of plastic surgery?”'

‘They don't say that,' said Alison, appalled.

‘They
do.
And
worse.'

‘What do you say?'

‘I say, “I've
had
plastic surgery, but when are you getting your tact fixed.” There's nothing
to
do but cool off. People are stupid. I forgive them. If I didn't, I wouldn't have any clients. It's the ones that
mean
it who get to me.'

She stared at him. ‘Who? Who would say something like that and mean it?'

‘Sweetie.' He chirred laugh. ‘We have enemies.'

Who? Alison was about to ask. Who do you mean? But the deli man approached just then to ask if everything was okay. Christian turned to him. ‘Tell me. Could anyone hate
her?'

He looked at Alison, dimple flashing. ‘I couldn't.'

‘See?' said Christian. ‘I have to get to work. Why don't you take the day off? I'll get your coat.'

She waited on the sidewalk outside and, through Vitae's window, saw Christian coming up from the gallery with her coat over his arm, then stopping at the desk to use the phone. He opened the door and handed Alison a ten-dollar bill along with the coat.

‘Don't worry. We'll manage without you somehow.' He kissed her cheek. ‘I just called you a cab.'

 

She was still in bed when Billy got home from work. ‘What's the matter?' he asked. ‘Are you sick?'

‘No. I'm stupid.' She told him what had happened.

‘Christ,' he said and, sitting at the end of the bed, squeezed her foot through the covers and called her Shit-for-Brains.

‘When was the war exactly?' Alison asked.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Which one?'

‘You know.'

‘Nineteen thirty-nine to nineteen forty-five.'

In high school she hadn't been much of a student, especially not in Socials. The events seemed so removed. But if she'd known Mrs. Soloff then? Of course she would have paid attention.

That evening Christian called to see how she was feeling.
Billy handed her the phone, eyebrows converging in disap
proval. ‘Some guy for you.'

‘I'm okay,' she told Christian.

‘Was that
Billy?'

‘Yes.'

‘I
like
his voice.'

‘I'll tell him.'

‘Do. Listen. I've written something and want you to hear
it.' A papery rustle, then Christian cleared his throat.
“Mein Lieber Herr.”

‘What?'

‘“Long have I sat gazing at your
Wurst
which dangles so comestibly. Across your groaning board, would I lay me
down. Make me your
Vorspeise,
I do beg.”' A raspy pause, then he asked, ‘Well? What do you think?'

Alison giggled.

 

 

 

6

 

Alison wanted to tell Mrs. Soloff she was sorry, but she worried it would only remind her of her mistake and cause her more pain. So she said nothing the next week when Mrs. Soloff came in. Instead, Mrs. Soloff initiated the reconciliation. As she was paying, she took Alison's hand, enclosed it in her own. ‘You're a good girl,' she said and Alison, truly grateful, squeezed back.

What Alison learned from the episode with Mrs. Soloff was that people had a past, but unless they told you, you
could never guess it. She tried to look with new eyes at everyone in the salon, especially Malcolm's clients. What had they seen and lived through? Malcolm himself was an enigma, his clothes picked out of a dress-up trunk. And why was Roxanne starving herself? Who were the enemies Christian had mentioned? She saw her co-workers every day, yet only now did she realize that how little she knew about them.

She was quieter, more reflective. Everyone started asking her what the matter was. ‘Nothing,' she told them.

‘You seem sad,' they said.

‘Did you make up with Mrs. Soloff?' Christian asked.