Waltzing at Midnight (3 page)

friendship, for the only friendship that I had kept from high school, I finally relented and agreed to work a couple of hours a week for the Rosie campaign.

That couple of hours a week had turned into a full-time commitment. No, I wasn’t earning any money, but I was definitely having fun. The best part was that it wasn’t just something for me, like a hobby. It was something important. I felt different. I felt renewed, as if on the verge of a whole new life, a life that would be so much more meaningful than what had come before it.

1

During lunch, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me, eaten between phone calls, Rosie called me into her office. “How’s it going?” she asked, looking up at me with the expectation of good news.

“Great.”

“Glad to hear it. Jean, I need a favor. I’m speaking this afternoon at the Women’s Center, and I’ve dribbled coffee on my scarf.” She showed me a small stain on the cherry-colored silk scarf around her neck. “I hate to ask, but do you think you could get it cleaned by two?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’d probably be better spent here, but Tina’s out and I’ve got another meeting in a few minutes.”

“I don’t mind. You can’t give a speech with a coffee dribble.

We want you to look your best at all times.”

She untied the scarf and handed it to me. “Other than that, how do I look?”

She stood before me in a black and tan suit, black slacks, 20

two-tone jacket with gold buttons, cream-colored shell, a string of colored glass rectangles on her chest—red, pink and clear iridescent tablets that sparkled as she moved. “Fantastic,” I said.

“I’ll be glad when this election is over so I can relax a little bit about my appearance. Clark almost had a stroke the other day when he saw my earrings were on the wrong ears.”

I knew Rosie was taking special pains to look good all the time these days. In the two months that I had known her, I hadn’t once seen her looking anything less than meticulous, every hour of the day and night. “Compared to me, you always look like you just walked out of a magazine,” I said.

“You haven’t seen me at home with the horses, Jean. Besides, I think you’re very attractive. You have the sort of figure and features that don’t need a lot of enhancement, a quite natural beauty.” She looked into my eyes momentarily, then clapped her hands together, saying, “Well, let’s get going. I’ll be back for the scarf at one thirty.”

“Right,” I said. I flew out to a dry cleaners and waited while they cleaned the scarf, arriving back in time to tie it around Rosie’s neck before she left. I arranged it carefully, puffing it up, leaning it toward the right so that it draped gracefully over her shoulder and covered the top of the jacket lapel. She stood about two inches taller than me, about five-seven. I caught her scent momentarily, light, floral, perfectly subtle. Soap, I thought, or body wash, even shampoo. Not perfume. It was too faint. When I had finished with the scarf, I noticed Rosie’s amused expression.

“You do that very well, Jean,” she said. “And very thoroughly.

Thanks. Leave me a note so I’ll remember to pay you back for the cleaning.” To the office at large, she said, “Well, gang, I’m off on another vote-gathering safari. Keep up the good work.

There’s no stopping us now.”

At four o’clock, Clark asked me to go to the mall to take over the booth for a couple hours. I called home before leaving. Amy answered. “I have to work late,” I said. “Do you think you can make something for your dad’s dinner?”

“Well, I could call out for pizza.”

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“There’s a package of chicken breasts in the refrigerator.

How about baking them?”

“I could pick up Chinese,” she suggested.

“Just put them in a dish and turn on the oven. You don’t even have to put anything on them.”

“But I’ve got to touch them.”

“Yes. Rinse them off and pat them dry with a paper towel.

Then maybe sprinkle a little soy sauce on, or Italian dressing. Be creative.”

“Now, Mom, you just said all I had to do was put them in a dish.”

“Come on, Amy, help me out. You can use the bag of salad in the fridge too.”

“All right, all right.” In a puckery British voice she said, “And then I’ll whip up a cherries jubilee for dessert, dah-ling. And what would you say, my dear, to an unassuming little California fumé blanc, Kenwood perhaps, or Beringer?”

“Thank you, dah-ling,” I said, then hung up.

The booth at the mall was decorated with red, blue and white paper streamers. While in it, I wore a white straw hat with a blue and red ribbon trim. On the front of the booth was a picture of Rosie, the one with the broad, teeth-flashing smile. I was talking to a young man and his wife when Faye came along to relieve me.

The couple had asked about Rosie’s plan for revitalizing their downtown neighborhood.

“Rosie plans to offer low-interest loans and tax incentives for new businesses and renovation of existing ones,” I said, “and she’ll expand the Neighborhood Pride program into downtown shopping areas and the waterfront. But let me ask you a question.

Why are you shopping here instead of downtown, closer to home?”

The two of them looked at each other and then back to me.

“I don’t feel safe downtown at night,” the woman said.

I noticed Faye leaning against the table, pushing her white hat on over her dark brown curls and grinning at me.

“That’s one of the biggest problems,” I said. “A small business 22

downtown can expect to get burglarized on a regular basis, and the crime level discourages customers. Rosie has a plan that unites the local residents and business owners in creating enclaves of well-lit, well-patrolled, clean shopping areas like small town Main Streets.” The idea of an old-fashioned Main Street made them smile. I spoke to them a few minutes more, then sent them away with visions of malt shops and dime stores, certain of their vote. I removed my hat and smoothed my hair.

Faye, who owned a travel agency, did what she could for Rosie’s campaign during her slow times and off hours.

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” Faye said, pulling up the folding chair beside me. She slipped her shoes off under the table and sighed.

“Rough day?” I asked.

“No, just the shoes. Obviously, men design women’s shoes to keep us in our place. How can we possibly excel at anything with crippled feet?”

I pointed to my sneakers. “You’re a modern woman. It’s your choice.”

She nodded. “Depends. You’re married. You can afford to be good to your feet. For those of us still prowling through the jungle hooting out the mating call, all the plumage is strictly necessary.”

“Mating call?” I scoffed. “Since when? You’ve already turned down everybody in town.”

She shrugged. “I’m getting old.”

Since Faye was exactly the same age I was, I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that, but, at forty, she probably was having to reassess her lifestyle a bit. She’d never been married and had no children. She’d had a lot of fun, at least that’s what she claimed, but maybe it was getting tiresome. One thing I did envy about Faye’s lifestyle was how much traveling she’d gotten to do. That was the point of being a travel agent, she’d told me. She had been all over the world, literally, to every continent except Antarctica.

And now she was talking about that as well, just to complete the list. She had arranged a few trips for me and Jerry, twice to 23

Mexico, once to Hawaii, but that was the extent of our travels.

I wasn’t sure why. Lack of energy was about the only excuse I could come up with.

“I guess you can run along now,” Faye said, “as much as you seem to be enjoying yourself. Which I am glad to see, by the way.

It’s put some life into you, this work.”

“Yes, so people keep telling me. I’m beginning to wonder if I was one of the living dead before.”

Faye laughed. “Well, it wasn’t that bad, I’m sure. I just meant that you seem really involved, you know. You sounded just now like you really care about this election.”

“Well, I do care, actually. More than we could have guessed.

It’s Rosie, of course. She’s such an inspiration.”

“Oh, sure. I told you you’d like her.”

Faye had known Rosie about five years. Their businesses brought them into some of the same circles. And, like Rosie, Faye had it in for Kiester. It was, in fact, originally Faye’s idea to run Rosie for mayor against him. They had started talking about it almost as soon as he was elected, as a sort of joke at first, but eventually in a serious mode, because the more people she mentioned it to, the more support the idea received. Other people with money and influence started taking up the idea. And now here we were, turning it into reality.

“Are you on your way home, then?” Faye asked.

“I think I’ll look around a while. Amy’s cooking dinner, more or less. Can I get you something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I stopped at the food court on the way in.”

I went browsing through the stores and ended up in Macy’s where I tried on several pairs of tailored pants, jackets and blouses, the sort of clothes I had so little of. I’d never needed this kind of smart business clothing before. I guess I didn’t really need it now, either, because the attire for the campaigners was extremely casual. But Rosie, with her elegant wardrobe, was making an impression. I ended up buying a wool jacket in a fine, patterned weave of wheat and tan. And, in an adventurous mood, I bought a scarf to accessorize it.

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In the full-length mirror of the dressing room, I tried the jacket on over my white blouse, which didn’t work at all, so I bought a new blouse as well. Then I surveyed myself in this chic, conservative outfit, pleased with the professional look. I should probably cut my hair shorter, I thought. It was stylish, though, chin-length, nice highlights. But even with this part on the side, the bangs wouldn’t stay behind my ear. I was forever sweeping them back. How would you look in a style like Rosie’s, I asked myself. Something shorter, neat, requiring no fuss. Or maybe just parted in the middle. I ran my fingers through the center of my hair, creating a new part and adding a little unintentional mess in the process. There, I thought, now I look like Meg Ryan. Well, that wasn’t half bad.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I had that feeling again, that gripping anxiety that clutched at my throat. I shook it off and made my purchases.

The next day I wore my new jacket and blouse, my navy slacks, navy pumps and the silk scarf around my neck. I put my makeup on with more than the usual care, not wanting to waste the effect of my new and extravagantly expensive clothes. I parted my hair in the middle and gave it a bit of a tousled look with some gel.

When Jerry came in to say good-bye, he said, “You look great. A special occasion?”

“Well, you know,” I said, “meeting the public. Representing the candidate. Want to make a good impression.”

“You’ve changed your hair.”

“A little.”

“Lookin’ good,” Jerry said approvingly.

I realized I was not intending to be out meeting the public this particular day, but if a girl’s got new clothes, she’s going to wear them.

Rosie, in a rush as usual, came through the office twice during the morning. The second time, as she signed some papers on Clark’s desk, she glanced at me and smiled. “Jean, you look very nice today.”

“Thank you,” I replied, pleased that, as busy as she was, she’d 25

noticed.

“Yes, I love that jacket. And I like your hair that way. Really cute.”

I felt a hot rush in the face. A blush? How silly.

Clark got off the phone and said, “Rosie, the public employees’

union has endorsed you.”

“All right!” Rosie said, slapping his outstretched hand. “I’m a locomotive.” She chugged into her office, pulling the handle on an invisible whistle, euphoric. It was contagious, Rosie’s joy. We were all grinning.

Saturday I took Amy with me to Elmwood Park to work the crowd that came out for the free lunch and jazz concert we sponsored. Faye, under a chef’s hat, grilled hotdogs. I sent Amy to pass out buttons while I gave out slogan balloons to the children. Because it was the weekend, we had several volunteers available to work the crowd. Ginny, the UPS driver, had signed on to work, as well as Clark, and a couple of others.

Five musicians sat on a portable stage under the oak trees, belting out Dixieland jazz. Rosie, in one of our white straw hats, climbed up on stage with them during their third number. She spoke into the microphone. “Welcome, everybody,” she said. “I’m Rosie Monroe and I’m running for mayor! Don’t worry, I’m not going to make any speeches. I just wanted you to know who’s paying for lunch. Enjoy the music and be sure to vote.”

After Rosie replaced the microphone, the bandleader took her by the arm and handed her his saxophone, entreating her to play. She waved him away, but he persisted, and a few moments later she was blowing away along with the others through a bouncy rendition of “Brown Sugar Baby.”

“Wow, she’s really good,” I said to Faye.

“Yes, I’ve heard her play before. I think she might even be in a band.” Faye served up another hotdog, chips and beans lunch to a potential voter.

Ginny walked up while Rosie was still playing, followed by a girl in jeans, a denim vest with a black tank top under it, an extremely close-cropped, boyish haircut and a multitude of 26

earrings in each of her ears. “Hi, guys,” said Ginny, her ponytail threaded through an Oakland A’s baseball cap. “Sorry I’m late.

Give me something to do. I brought my girlfriend, Aura, to help out.”Faye and I looked at each other with the same implied question about the name Aura, then Faye said, “You could really help if you’d do a little clean up detail, like empty the trash cans and keep the picnic tables clear. Put on these Tshirts, though, okay?” Faye indicated the Rosie for Mayor Tshirts at the end of the table.