Paulina & Fran (15 page)

“No, no, that’s okay,” Fran said. “We’d have nothing to say to each other.” She was careful not to say anything more about Paulina for the rest of the weekend. But she found herself looking at each object in Julian’s house—the ladybug caught between windows, the big crystal paperweight, the dirty inside of the microwave—wondering what Paulina thought about it. In the bathroom, Fran looked at herself in the dusty mirror and wondered what Paulina would think of her. With her finger she wrote “Hi” in the dust.

“I don’t understand,” Paulina said, toying with her new dress. Harvey paced in front of his office window. Paulina watched the sharp lines of his suit as he pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at it, then slid it back.

“With the rise of Luxene, we’ve been considering offers we haven’t considered before.” Luxene was Johnson and Johnson’s new curl line. The women in marketing were stressed about it, but Paulina wasn’t afraid of competition. Harvey yanked up his venetian blinds, revealing a sunset
over New Jersey. “You don’t go to the meetings, so it’s hard to catch you up.”

“I’ve been busy,” Paulina said, picking up a stray hair and letting it fall on the floor. “Are you seriously considering selling?” she asked as her phone vibrated in her hand. “Because that would be ridiculous,” Paulina said, peeking at Luca’s text.

“I’m trying to be reasonable with you, but after much consideration—”

“I refuse to step down and I won’t be bought out.”

Harvey sighed. “The incident,” he began. Harvey’s secretary appeared momentarily in the door’s window, but Harvey waved her off. Paulina sweated in her new dress. Weeks ago, at a benefit for something or other, when an attractive man asked if she would donate to the charity he managed, she agreed immediately. She was just going to give money, but then thought of how hair products could improve the lives of the homeless. The next day she put in a bulk order for them. It was all good-natured, she told herself again. Her actions had been grossly misunderstood. The charity leaked the details to a newspaper. Harvey and everyone had gotten so moralistic on her. What had they ever done for the homeless?!

“Can’t you ever get past that?” Paulina asked with much restraint, her phone buzzing again.

Harvey wore his anger neatly. “You fucked up. You went
over my head. You didn’t talk to Garrett like you’re supposed to. It caused a lot of bad press.”

Paulina had heard this speech many times before, but this time she didn’t interrupt him. Usually when he scolded her, she fantasized about murdering him, poisoning him, drowning him, establishing her alibi, but this time she forced herself to listen to him, to look at him plainly, as if there weren’t a war inside her.

“
Vogue
pulled our ads.
Hair Monthly
postponed our article. Sometimes you hurt this company more than you realize.”

Paulina tried to channel her hatred and fear into something more effective. She smoothed her hair back and gave Harvey a smile.
Remember that time Garrett left his browser tabs up on his laptop?
she wanted to say, but now that felt like so long ago. She’d barely seen Harvey in the past few months. He had some overseas Botox deal he was developing. He hadn’t invited her anywhere in a long time. She was no longer listening to what he was saying. She found herself longing for Fran again, but couldn’t bear to ask Julian for her number.

“Some people think it might be easier if you were less involved.”

Paulina tried to comprehend this. She took a breath and zoomed out, saw them momentarily like two dolls in a play office. But it was ludicrous! She’d been doing a good deed!

“I refuse to step down and I won’t be bought out.”

“Your contract has a clause in it to cover situations like this. It might simplify things. You’d get paid plenty you know.” Harvey sat in his chair again. He had her, and he’d finally managed to tell her without being interrupted.

Paulina was speechless. She would lock him in a tomb! Take him on a long drive and then leave him on the highway. She wanted to tie him to a tree and then shoot arrows at him. She could take him to court! She would sway the jury. Or maybe just trash his office. Wreck his car. At the very least, delete him from her phone—the phone
SUPERCURL
had bought her. Paulina stared at the puny Newark skyline feeling sentimental.

“I’m truly sorry,” she managed, after a long pause. “I acted impulsively, and then some might say defensively. But I feel so much a part of this company, and I’ll start going to meetings again, and try to think big picture, and consider whatever deals you’re thinking about.”

Harvey’s adrenaline slowed as Paulina spoke, leaving a queasy feeling in its wake. It was one of her best apologies. He had finally scared some sense into her. Deep down, he liked her. She kept things exciting. But this was his chance to cut free. If he didn’t do it, Viv would say, “I told you so.” She’d bring it all up again: the Pantene confidentiality leak, the birthday party she’d ruined with her obnoxious date. She’d say that Paulina discriminated against people with straight
hair. Suddenly Harvey remembered Paulina’s drunken speech at the Milan opening, and almost smiled.

“Well,” he mumbled uncertainly. “If you really will cooperate . . .” Something soft and good was rising within him. Viv would kill him when she found out. But he liked this unexpected feeling. It kept telling him how reasonable he was, how totally unlike his father he’d become. How generous, how honorable.

“We could give you a lesser role,” Harvey heard himself saying. “You could still keep your office. You would still be one of the founders.”

Tears formed, but Paulina willed them back in her eyes. She didn’t need any favors! She and Luca would start their Curl Institute. She had so much money. She had so much style! But she couldn’t bear to watch
SUPERCURL
burn on without her. She pictured some fool in her office. She could see it now—Harvey’s new Wave Line products, already stupid, paving the way for Straight Line products.

“Okay,” Paulina said.

Harvey looked defeated. They stared at each other. Harvey waited for Paulina to thank him. Paulina waited for him to apologize.

“Remember that time we saw Garrett’s computer,” Paulina said, “and he’d written in to that medical site asking about his rash, and in another window he had a cat adoption site open,
and a dating site, and some article on how to get gum out of denim?”

Harvey smiled.

“You’ll be glad you kept me on,” Paulina said. “Really.” She wanted him to beam with joy. “Truly,” she said, looking hard at his face.

“Good,” he said, waving his secretary in. The woman gave Paulina a pitying look, then immediately started talking about Luxene. Paulina listened, keeping her opinions to herself.

“Like a trip?” Fran asked. Julian nodded. All weekend, Fran had looked for signs of Paulina and found none. The mirror had been cleaned, her sad, dusty “Hi” now gone. There were no tampon wrappers in the garbage, no lotions by the sink.

“A romantic getaway,” Julian said, pleased.

“What’s wrong with here?”

“Nothing. But this will be somewhere new, somewhere neither of us have been. I’ve heard it’s really beautiful.” He ran his finger down her arm.

“In Lancaster?” Fran asked.

“Near it. If you take the train here Friday night, we can drive up. I rented a car.” She tried to imagine this. Would there be a little shack by the lake? Would she wear a little nightie thing, like she was losing her virginity?

She searched the room again for anything new. The night
stand, the closed blinds, the dresser. She saw that the spider had abandoned his web; the sagging threads were now coated with dust. There was a pile of thick novels by Russian writers, some dollars crumpled on dirty socks, the broken plastic laundry bin. “Whose umbrella is that?” Fran asked. It was elegant, black.

“Joel’s. I had to borrow it.” Julian touched her cheek. “Kids and all that. Do you still want them?”

“Do you?”

“I could have some kids, if you wanted some. Where did you want to move again? Canada? I could move to Canada,” he said. Her old dreams sounded dreary and difficult now.
Canada?
The coughing started up again. There was a sound of a chair pushing against the floor. Fran and Julian looked to the wall, while the coughing continued.

“Should we call a doctor?” Fran asked.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” Julian asked, looking around. Fran laughed and grabbed him.

“What about the movies? Weren’t you going to make films?” Fran asked. The coughing spell continued. Julian waited for it to finish, then walked to the bathroom. As she watched him, she thought she saw something on his butt—a tattoo or something. “What is that?”

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Fran said. She’d probably imagined it. She
pictured next weekend, in Lancaster,
near
Lancaster. But, no, she’d seen something there, on the back of him. She tried to put it out of her mind while he hummed in the bathroom. She saw herself pregnant with his child, standing near a big picture window, looking out at a yard. She saw her pregnant self near the Canadian window, holding something . . . a cup of tea? She didn’t really drink tea. She stared at the wall Julian shared with Alma. Fran had seen her once in the hallway. The old woman was tiny. She probably hadn’t started out that size. People shrank, grew inward.

When he was asleep, Fran turned on his book lamp. He slept soundly on his side, his head facing away from her. She gently pulled the sheet down. “Love you,” he murmured, then snored at her. She wanted to laugh. She pulled the sheet to his thighs and examined his long torso. On one of his lean butt cheeks, in faint pen, she saw Paulina’s handwriting:

215 grand st. apt #11

10 next friday

F
ran stared at the Post-it where she’d copied down the address. On her work computer, she looked up what subways were near there. What did Paulina want with her anyway? Fran wasn’t going to fly all the way to New York just to have Paulina insult her and make her promise never to see Julian again. Paulina was like that. If you took something of hers, it was never forgotten. You were never free.

“Fran, we need more questions about art careers. Jane wrote a few good ones, but we need at least ten for the standard,” Meryl said, leaning over the divider of Fran’s cube. “There’s a bunch of books that might help in the library, but this should help too.” She handed Fran an overstuffed folder of printouts and pamphlets.

Fran wouldn’t give Paulina the satisfaction. Instead she’d be in Julian’s arms somewhere near Lancaster on a
romantic getaway
, which must mean “sex in a new place.” In the cube across from her, Ray, who worked in the history department,
was bragging to another man about a streak of “hits” he’d had. A hit was a test question that was conceived, written, and accepted for use in one pass.

“I had like twenty hits, my longest streak, in ’97,” Ray said. “Do you remember that?” The other man murmured. Ray whistled. “You know what? Crazy thing is that was right in the middle of my divorce.” The men were silent.

“Hits can be like that,” the other man said. “The brain works better in times of upheaval. Men are at their most creative.”

Fran rolled her eyes. Levrett-Mercer was filled with the most boring men alive. People who took too much pleasure in being right. “Let’s look it up!” they exclaimed at the first sign of disagreement.

Jane poked her head into Fran’s cube. “Aren’t the career questions weird?”

“How do you mean?” Fran asked. Now that Fran knew Jane liked girls, it seemed obvious. But why didn’t Jane like
her
? Fran couldn’t help but envy her. Jane went home to her girlfriend every day. Jane went to her
art studio
. She no longer invited Fran to hang out after work, and now Fran wanted to. Fran wanted to see Jane and Deena, what kind of life they made together. Did they have a beautifully designed apartment, with modern furniture and dustless surfaces? Or did they live in a kind of lesbian squalor, with
ratty tapestries on the floor, bras by the bed, and weed on the table?

“Just, like, how
this
is a career in the visual arts—writing questions at L-M. It’s sort of meta,” Jane said.

“Ha. Yeah. I guess I don’t think of this as a visual arts career,” Fran said. “It’s just a job with a visual arts
theme
.”

“Well, look through the pamphlet. Let me know if you find something better,” Jane said.

“I will!” Fran got excited. Levrett-Mercer was paying her to research a better job! She opened the folder. There were a series of flyers with grim statistics. She flipped through a few photocopied articles. One of them, titled “Before You Choose a Visual Arts Career,” was a cautionary tale written by a self-important watercolor artist.

It was someone’s birthday in the Math Department, and from across the hall Fran could hear a small crowd of voices going through the dragging birthday song. She found a packet called
Careers in the Visual Arts
. In the back was a list of all the possible art careers.

Advertising Editor

Animator

Architect

Art Auctioneer

Art Critic

Art Historian

Art Restorer

Art Teacher

Art Therapist

Bookbinder

Calligrapher

Candlemaker

Caricature Artist

Ceramist

Costume Designer

Enamelist

Fabric Draper

Florist

Gallery Owner

Gift Wrapper

Glassblower

Graphic Designer

Hair Stylist

House Painter

Illustrator

Industrial Designer

Interior Decorator

Jeweler

Letterer

Makeup Artist

Medical Illustrator

Muralist

Museum Curator

Paperhanger

Parade Float

Photographer

Printmaker

Sculptor

Set Designer

Silversmith

Stained Glass Restorer

Stone Mason

T-shirt Designer

Tattoo Artist

Textiles Designer

Theater Director

Weaver

Window Decorator

Woodworker

Parade Float?
What the fuck. How was that an option? It seemed like an insult, a spectacle of failure and self-promotion. Decorating oneself lavishly like a fool, or getting fat and dropping out of society. Also—
gift wrapper?!
That was not an art. Where was
painter?

“Look at this! It’s so fucked up,” Fran said, shaking the pamphlet at Jane.

Jane scanned it, amused. “I don’t get it. Glassblower, graphic designer. Looks okay to me.” Jane handed it back.

“No, here,” Fran emphatically circled Parade Float.

Jane cracked up. “That’s just a typo. They mean ‘parade float designer,’” Jane said. Fran sighed. “What? It’s a real thing.”

“It feels demoralizing. Everything is hopeless. I’m going to quit today,” Fran said. She stared at Jane and imagined she was Jane’s lover, lying with her under the covers, going grocery shopping. Whatever Jane and Deena did together—hosting game nights? watching awards shows?—Fran would be good at that. Or, better yet, she could be Deena’s lover. Lie in Deena’s arms. Brush Deena’s long straight hair away from her face.

“Are you sure? You’re probably just having a bad day. Tell Meryl you’re sick and go home early.”

“I’m a painter. Not a writer of test questions. I hate tests. I hate questions.” Fran ran her hand through her hair. “Ugh! This job has ruined my hair. It’s like straw, touch it.”

Jane touched it. “It’s not that bad, Fran.” Tears waited in Fran’s eyes. “You can’t quit,” Jane said, but Fran was already walking to Meryl’s desk. In no time at all, she had quit Levrett-Mercer, signed the forms, and handed in her key card.

Fran stood triumphantly outside Levrett-Mercer in a drizzly rain. She was like a bug who’d been trapped in a window for days, but had finally located the tear in the screen.

“Fran, wait,” Jane called, walking out the door without a jacket.

Fran, wait, I love you
, Fran thought.
I’m very attracted to you. Me and Deena both. We’ve been meaning to ask you . . .

“What will you do for money?” Jane asked.

Fran looked at the bus stop a few yards away, where she’d spend the next thirty minutes waiting on a metal bench. “I’ll live with Julian. I’ll borrow money from Paulina.”

“Who’s Julian?” Jane asked.

“My boyfriend,” Fran said. “He’s taking me to Lancaster this weekend,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Wow! I had no idea you were seeing someone. Since when?”

“Junior year of college.”

“Oh my god, Fran! You’re practically married,” Jane said.

“What? No. It’s not like that.”

“We should go on a double date. Me and Deena will cook you dinner.”

Fran smiled at her. “I would love that. I really liked Deena.”

Fran hugged Jane. She liked how Jane smelled. She imagined a perfume called Lesbian Squalor. Maybe that’s how Deena smelled. Maybe she’d find out.

The hairdresser touched Fran’s hair and recoiled. “I know it’s really dry,” Fran said. “That’s why I came in. Can’t you give me a strong conditioner or something?” The salon had that plastic smell of vanity and fear. It was decorated with black-and-white photos of models. Silver blow dryers sat out on the counters like big flamboyant guns. Fran usually cut her own hair.

The hairdresser was a thin European. He furrowed his brow. His accent made Fran feel ordinary. He fluffed her hair with distaste. “Well, I can use these new products we just got in,” he said, pointing to a bottle labeled
SUPERCURL
. The logo was written in scribbly letters above a line drawing of a woman’s wild curls. Below her was a drawing of a man who looked exactly like Marvin. Fran examined his sweet, sweet face. They had captured it and now it was everyone’s.

Fran stared at the sleek, simple hair of the models in the photos on the wall.

“Can you just straighten it? That’s what I want.”

“Are you
sure?
We have a chemical called KillKurl, but it’s
permanent. It’s harsh on hair, and yours is already so dry. The
SUPERCURL
deep conditioner would revitalize it. You’ve got such beautiful curls—”

“Straighten it.”

The hairdresser looked at her with disdain. His own hair was tightly cropped to his head, but he moved with inherent style. “It’s a long, intense process. I’d have to apply it, let it sit, do my eleven o’clock, and then rinse it off. It breaks the natural bonds of the hair. It erases your hair’s memory.”

It smelled like burning. Fran sat under a dryer, her hair bundled and clipped in foil, fighting nature. Looking at the glossy fashion magazines on the table, Fran was stunned to see Paulina on the cover of
Hair Monthly
. Paulina had grown into the sophistication of her face, like it had been her face’s great plan all along. Fran ducked under the dryer to reach for the magazine. She found the article and started to read.

Paulina Hermanowitz, 26, is the young entrepreneur behind the curly hair revolution. The past two years have seen
SUPERCURL
double in revenue and become a salon favorite.
SUPERCURL
has deviated from industry standards with their new male campaign “Curls aren’t just for girls,” which has introduced their products to the other half of the population.
Graphic designer Gretchen Peterson designed
SUPERCURL
’s new curlyboy logo.

Things haven’t always been easy for the new company. Hermanowitz was widely criticized last fall when she donated
SUPERCURL
products to the homeless in lieu of a monetary contribution.

Fran didn’t want to know any more. Things had wound themselves together too tightly. Fran flipped to the next article, detailing the ways hair changes during pregnancy. She spent a few minutes looking at an illustrated timeline of the history of braiding.

The dryer droned on. It warmed her ears until they stung. Fran could feel the chemical working. It was undoing all the senseless coils. Unconsciously, she started to compose a montage of hair memories—boys in middle school playing with her curls, pulling them and letting them bounce up, strangers stopping her on the street telling her how jealous they were.

Fran felt deserted under the dryer. The salon filled with gaudy suburban moms. The European hairdresser drifted about, teasing everyone, kissing customers good-bye on both cheeks. His eleven o’clock arrived—a teenage girl with thick, unruly curls. The hairdresser applied
SUPERCURL
Deep Conditioner while the girl’s mother looked on, relieved.

Finally the hairdresser raised the dryer’s head, took off
the plastic shower cap, and led Fran to the sinks. “Rinse her, Amy,” he said, and the water started. The woman’s hands caressed Fran’s scalp. Fran remembered the time in the bathroom in college, exhausted from dancing. She thought about what train she would take, the J or the 6. Then it was back under the dryer. The hair dryer worked its anger at her.
Don’t go to New York
, it said. She had already quit Levrett-Mercer. Quitting Julian would leave her with nothing.

Fran’s new hair fell flatly away from her face. Instead of clinging together, it feathered out, escaping her. The hairdresser tried to act enthusiastic, but even he seemed to know that Fran had been condemned. “Give it a few days. The hair needs time to recover from the shock.” His phone chirped from his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, laughing quietly. He unsnapped the salon gown from Fran’s neck, releasing her from his responsibility. He talked cheerfully with the other customers while she fumbled with her wallet. The worst part was, she had to pay him for it. She had to
tip
him!

The next morning, Fran woke up hung over, thinking of Julian. Gradually, she recalled the small details of her life. It was Friday. She didn’t have to go to Levrett-Mercer. Fran wanted to rejoice! She got out of bed and started her morning routine. She would take an early train to Pittsburgh. If she
got there early enough, she could cab to Julian’s and surprise him before he started work around lunchtime. This energized her. She started to throw socks and underwear into the old patchwork backpack.
What was the weather in Lancaster this weekend?
Fran didn’t have time to check.

The mirror stilled her. She took Paulina’s hair clip from her bureau and pinned back a section of limp hair. It didn’t improve it. Fran undid the clip and put it in her pocket. She wanted to scream. She wet her hair in the sink and it hung even straighter. She’d figure out something on the train.

Fran stood in front of the long bathroom mirror in Pittsburgh’s Penn Station. On one side of her, a young girl expertly applied lipstick. On the other side, a homeless woman rinsed her mouth. Fran tried ineffectually to twirl her damp hair into curls. The young girl watched with interest, before following her mother’s voice away from the sinks. Fran wet her hair down again and combed it out with her fingers.

She looked like an animal that had fallen in a pool. This was not ideal for a romantic getaway. She would have to get a perm somewhere. She had to get a perm now. She wandered through the station, pausing to think under the stunning rotunda, looking for a stranger who would let her use his phone. Strangers walked in every direction, but Fran hesitated, unable to stop them. They passed her silently. Some turned
back to look at her, sensing that she wanted something from them. Couples passed hand in hand. Fran would never interrupt a couple. Couples were on their own journeys.

Finally, Fran saw a teenage girl pulling a rolling suitcase. The girl had short spiky hair. Fran approached her smiling. The girl listened reluctantly.

“I’m sick,” Fran said to Julian.

“Oh, baby, that’s horrible. What’s this number you’re calling me from?” She could tell she’d awakened him. She pictured how the light hit his bed in long stripes at this time of day.