Lucky Seven: Broken Glass
by M. A. Tally
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Cathy and Gretchen sat at their favorite H Street
neighborhood bistro, sipping pineapple-infused vodka martinis and giggling like
schoolgirls. Both women were at a
crossroads in their lives, with Cathy having quit her dead-end job as a
mid-level manager in retail, and resumed the expression of her passion for
modern dance, while Gretchen was still adjusting to the passing of her mother,
for whom she’d provided care for the last five years, as she’d contracted
Alzheimer’s disease and suffered from dementia. Their respective transformations had left both ladies eager
to find love.
“Cathy, do you believe in fate?” asked Gretchen.
“I didn’t until I came across this book, Wink from the Divine: Pursuing Your Passions with Inner Strength,
Faith & Confidence from the Unseen. Reading it changed my life. I’m definitely a believer now,” affirmed Cathy.
“Oh my God, would you believe I read that book six years ago? And I swore I was the only person that
had read it. Well, you’re going to
understand just where I’m coming from then,” confided Gretchen.
Fate had interceded on her behalf, as she’d shared with
Cathy over martini #4 that she wanted to start dating again. Having been so focused on the care of
her mother, she’d neglected her own upkeep, still donning fashions from nearly
two decades prior. She reasoned
with herself that in five years more they’d return to the fashion forefront,
yet it was merely a cover for her dread of looking at herself in the mirror,
and trying on clothes. Updating
her wardrobe and hair would be key elements in attracting a new special someone
in her life. Gretchen proceeded to
tell Cathy about the promotional flyer she discovered on her car after they’d
parted that afternoon.
“Right after we parted, I got back to my car, just after
telling you how I want to meet someone special and there was a flyer on my
window for this speed dating service.”
“Been there, done that, sweetie. Bought the t-shirt and the hat,” countered Cathy.
“Now just hear me.
This isn’t like that dating fiasco you tried to drag me out to in
2008. This service is a little
different. Instead of meeting
twenty-one men in twenty-one minutes like your t-shirt slogan and matching hat,
you are booked on twenty-one dates over a three-week period,“ reasoned
Gretchen.
“Hmmm, now that actually sounds interesting. Do you think you’re ready for twenty-one
consecutive dates though? Come on now, Gretchen.”
“Well, no, but they have an introductory special, called,
“No Harm, No Foul,” where you’re booked on seven consecutive dates, with seven
different men for seven dollars.”
“Seven dollars just sounds too good to be true.”
“Well, the fine print is that you pay seventy dollars if you
want to go out with one of your dates again—whether the paramour wants to paint
the town with you again or not.”
“Aha! I knew
there was something. But, I have
to admit it does sound reasonable.
I think you should go for it, Gretch.”
“I’ve already called, and given them my credit card
information, and I have my first date set for Sunday.”
“Talk about Inner Strength, Faith and Confidence, I
definitely think this is a wink from the Divine. I’ll call you on Monday morning to get the low-down.”
“Wait, don’t go yet.
I need you to help me find something to wear.”
“Okay, well, meet me at my old store tomorrow at 2. We can get Marshall to help us. You’re going to need seven different outfits,
right—and we can use his discount.”
Gretchen hung up anxiously, simultaneously fearing the
unknown and dreading spending her money frivolously. She vividly heard the voice of her deceased mother in the
back of her mind, recanting the proverb, “A fool and his money are soon parted.”
She feared the insurance money she’d collected from her mother’s passing would expire
if she kept spending at the same rate.
Thoughts of martini lunches, wardrobe changes and insufficient funds
fees lulled her to sleep.
FRIDAY MORNING – 3AM
“Do you have another card, ma’am? This one has been declined. You should probably reach out to your bank,” said the
salesman.
“Oh, there must be some sort of a mistake. Do excuse me for just a moment,”
replied Gretchen, as she dug in her purse, searching for her iPhone, as she
stepped aside to allow the next customer to jump ahead and complete their purchase. Gretchen’s ears burned as she overheard
the salesman say to the woman, “You would think in this day and age, where
there’s an app for just about anything, someone would check their bank account
to make sure they have enough money to pay BEFORE they get in line with
a thousand dollars worth of merchandise. Ugh. Some people.
Who’s going to put all this stuff back? Let me take a wild guess. Me.” The woman,
who bore a striking resemblance to her mother, turned around to face Gretchen,
and slowly shook her head, eyes narrowed and disapproving, stretched forth her
index finger, and wagged it slowly in Gretchen’s face. Gretchen pulled out her iPhone, eager to
show both the woman and the judgmental salesman that she did have the funding,
only to discover that all of her accounts were in the red.
Gretchen awoke with a start, panic-stricken, with the sound
of register tape ringing in her ears.
Her heart raced as she reached for her phone on her nightstand, and
called Cathy.
“Cathy, I can’t.
I can’t do it,” she said breathily. “I don’t know what I was thinking, calling this
service. This is just stupid and
it’s going to cost me too much money.
A fool and his money soon part ways and I don’t—“
“Gretchen, just what are you talking about? It’s three in the morning, and I have
company. You’re going to get me in
trouble with the Mister.”
Although Cathy had separated from the retail job, she still
maintained her strictly sexual relationship with the senior manager, Samson
Young, who’d strung her along for three years, having dangled the carrots of
union and companionship in her face, all the while compensating as he played
the role of the devoted husband to his unsuspecting wife. Despite Cathy’s hard work and
dedication to her duties, she was well aware that it was her closeted
relationship with Young that had gotten her the visibility she needed to
advance from floor sales to her immediate past position of mid-level
manager. When Young was being
investigated as a possible link to the ring of Armenian women that routinely
raided the store, Cathy viewed the investigation as a wink of the Divine, and
promptly submitted her two-week notice.
She’d also grown increasingly paranoid that her former co-workers—two of
the floor salespeople in the juniors department and their lunch buddies, three
ladies on the visual merchandising team, were aware of her relationship with
Young. Although she and her
reputation had gotten away unscathed, thoughts of Young and their physical pleasures
tugged at her memory, and kept his number on speed dial.
“Don’t tell me you’re still seeing him, Cathy. You conveniently left that out over
lunch this afternoon,” chided Gretchen.
“Look, you called me, didn’t you? I thought it was an emergency at three A-M and—,” snarled
Cathy.
“Just forget it.
Just forget this whole stupid thing,” interrupted Gretchen, and hung up
the phone.
Haunted by her night-vision of pennilessness, Gretchen found
herself unable to return to sleep.
She wrung her hands in frustration, nervously scanning her bedroom for a
sign of sorts, something, anything to support her decision to cancel the dating
adventure and its preparation, yet nothing came save darkness. Even the chiding voice of her mother
would serve as a welcome interruption.
After more than two hours, about five-thirty, Gretchen heard the sound
of a still, small voice come from within, say, “Rest, Gretchen. This you can do,” and her eyes closed
peacefully.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON – 1230P
“Gretchen, I called to tell you that I’m sorry I snapped at
you this morning. I was irritated
because of him and, well, also, I felt like you were judging me. Please go through with your
preparations and your dates. I
feel like you’re onto something here,” apologized Cathy on voice mail message #1.
“Gretch, I don’t want you to be angry with me. Please pick up. Let’s talk about this,” pleaded Cathy
on voice mail message #2.
“Gretchen.
Gretchen. Are you alright? This just isn’t like you not to pick
up. If you’re mad at me, okay, I
get that, and if you don’t want to talk to me, just send me a text to let me
know you’re alright. I’m getting worried,” bargained Cathy on voice mail
message #3.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON – 115P
Gretchen opened her eyes slowly and smiled, feeling renewed
and relaxed after hearing that voice of reassurance within. She stretched and reached for her
phone, still charging at her bedside on her nightstand. Her eyes widened in shock seeing the
time of 1:18 PM on her phone. She
was due to meet Cathy in less than forty-five minutes, and the drive to
Columbia, MD, was at least thirty minutes. She’d noticed that Cathy had called three times, leaving as
many voice mails. She opted to
listen to them en route, and scrambled to her closet to find something to wear,
in order to find something else to wear.
She laughed to herself as she thought of the irony of finding the
perfect outfit just to find the perfect
outfit. She reminded herself to tell Cathy about it on their excursion this
afternoon, and instantly recalled her early morning tiff with Cathy.
“Gretchen,” she reasoned with herself, “even if Cathy is a
no show, it doesn’t matter. She
already said talk with Marshall, and he will be able to coach us through
this. Even if I have to do this on
my own, I can do this.”
Gretchen opted for a calf-length black, bowed, sleeveless
v-neck dress, and under it, a long-sleeved black mock turtleneck, paired with badly
worn black ballet flats. The
choices were sparse, for everything in her closet was black. Black had become her armor during the
five years she cared for her mother.
It protected her from the piercing words her mother uttered, especially
during a bout with dementia. “You ain’t
nothing but a dog! Don’t come
back! Don’t you touch me. You, you dog! Help! Get off
of me! Don’t touch me you dog!” Her
black clothing allowed her to be physically present while shrouding her
emotions of hurt and anger. The
black cloth could absorb the verbal assault and suppress the response that so
desperately wanted to escape her lips in self-defense during these
episodes. Perhaps the black cloth
knew the identity of the person her mother thought she was at that moment. The black cloth would cover, comfort
and assuage the wounds. The black
cloth would also hide the nearly sixty-eight pounds she’d gained, unevenly
distributed between the pouch on her abdomen, the love-handles on her sides,
and the lumps on her bottom, whose peculiar arrival and extended stay were
reserved, maintained and calculated in the currency of stretch marks. It seemed that their interest had
compounded daily.
Having heard the sound of fibers tearing, after stretching
the mock turtleneck over her arms and head, Gretchen arduously pulled on the
v-neck dress. She purposely
avoided her own gaze in the closet mirror. She unrolled her tattered ballet flats and stretched them
around her mildly swollen feet. She
hurriedly grabbed her purse, phone and car keys, ushering herself out of the
door, all before her mind could convince her to do an about-face, and retreat to
the refrigerator, where a half-eaten, half-gallon of ice cream remained from
her weekend binge, and patiently awaited her return.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON – 200P
“Thank God you picked up, Gretchen. I’ve called you three times this
morning, and I was going to call the authorities, and fill out a missing
persons report if I didn’t hear from you by four,” said Cathy. “Why didn’t you
call me back to let me know you were okay?”
“Cathy, I didn’t get back to bed until nearly 6 this
morning, after I talked to you. I
would’ve called, but I didn’t wake up until a quarter-past-one and—,” Gretchen
countered.
“Gretch,” interrupted Cathy, “I’m really sorry for how I
sniped at you earlier. Samson and
I had just our signature ‘what about us’ argument, and I took it out on
you. I also didn’t like your
tone. But worse of all,” quietly
admitted Cathy, “I was embarrassed to admit that I am still seeing him.”
“Cathy, I wasn’t calling to judge you. I was freaking out about a nightmare I
had and—look, let’s just forget it.
I’m five minutes away, so I’ll meet you inside,” resolved Gretchen, and
abruptly hung up the phone.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON – 218P
Now face-to-face, the two women eyed each other warily, both
hesitant to speak. Still stunned by Gretchen’s resolve and deliberate termination
of their conversation, Cathy was taken aback. Despite Gretchen’s noticeably worn attire, her eyes belied
strength. Gretchen discovered her
annoyance with Cathy’s constant interruption of her, and her disdain for
Cathy’s expectation of having to report her whereabouts.
As Cathy parted her lips to break the silence, she found
herself interrupted by the chiding of Marshall, salesman extraordinaire,
regarding the eighteen-minute time delay.
“Honey, what took you so long?
You know I’m on a strict schedule.
I put you on my book late in the week, and I was already full, so I’m
working you in. Now you know I—“
Although Marshall generated a sizable income from his commissions, he routinely
gave his earnings back to the store, buying clothing, while routinely negating
his other financial obligations, such as rent and student loans.
“Marshall, this is my dear friend, Gretchen, and she has
seven dates scheduled for the next seven days,” said Cathy, introducing
Gretchen and the purpose of their visit.
“Her first one is Sunday, and I need you to work your magic, and put
this one on your house charge card.
Before you even say anything, yes, I’ve got it covered—including the
finance charges. I still have your
bank account info saved from that rental situation you needed help with, and
I’ll transfer the money to you.“
“Three-fifty should cover it,” deadpanned Marshall.
“Three-fifty?
Let’s not be ridiculous, okay?” cautioned Cathy.
“That includes my finders’ fee, personal shopping service
charge, house charge card absorption fee, and the nineteen-and-one-half
gratuity percentage fee,” summarized Marshall. “Oh, and the late fee,” he said, delightfully saving his
favorite fee for last, “I charge by the minute, honey.”
Now turning his attentions to Gretchen, Marshall perked,
saying “Well in that case, we’re going to make sure you sizzle on Sunday then,
honey. But first, we have got to
ditch this whole black-black-black thing.
This is simply a black-on-black crime, and an absolute tragedy. Oh, the horror!” Marshall’s criticism
promptly subsided when he noticed Gretchen’s quivering lips. Tears streaked her face as she whispered,
“I’m afraid to go in there. I’m
scared to see how I look. That
mirror.”
Witnessing Gretchen’s vulnerability touched Marshall
tenderly, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her, hugging her
compassionately. “Gretchen, I know
this a big step for you. We’re going
to do this together. I’m here for
you.”
“But what about all those service fees and house charges—and
what happened to your voice?” whispered Gretchen.
“I’m an artist and a scientist, honey, and this is called
research and development.”
“What?”
“Both are the result of a two-week study I conducted. Variable one, fees. I discovered a direct proportional
increase between the number of fees I assessed and the number of personal
shopper clients I booked each week—a rate of 20.4%. With variable two, the voice, I spoke in my regular voice
for the first week, and spoke with my ‘gaccent’ for the duration of the
following week. My commissions had
more than tripled in week two,” revealed Marshall. “Need I say more?”
“I told you he was the best,” chimed Cathy.
“Now let’s get you ready for your first date on Sunday. I already have created some looks for
you, and reserved in your fitting room.
You have a pear shape, so I’m thinking the wrap dresses will be
extremely flattering on your figure and show off your marvelous curves.”
Gretchen’s tear streaked face was luminous to Marshall, and
had left an indelible impression upon both his mind and heart. He found himself seized with the desire
to once again hold her in his arms.
He wanted not only to see her on Sunday, fully adorned by the work of
his hands, he envied the gentleman that would sit across from her and have the
pleasure of admiring her radiance.
He drew back the curtain, and upheld his professional veneer. “Gretchen,
remember I’m here for you. I’m
right out here if you need me, okay?” “We both are,” chimed Cathy.
The selections that Marshall had created for her were
lovely, striking even, yet they were foreign and strange. They were so different from her black
cloaks, and would dissolve her anonymity.
As she stared at a group of ethnic prints, her back purposely facing the
mirror, she distinctly heard the beat of drums, warning her of an encroaching
enemy. Gretchen slowly turned to
face the mirror, her heart racing in terror. She said to her reflection, “Why would any man want
you? Just look at yourself. You don’t fix yourself up. If you look
like you don’t care about your own damned self, why should anybody else?” Just
then, the still, small voice she’d heard in the wee hours of the morning,
interceded saying, “Break the glass.”
Gretchen balled up her fists and slammed them repeatedly into the
mirror. The mirror dissolved into
a myriad of fragments of cracked glass before her. Marshall threw back the curtain and he and Cathy rushed
inside. “Gretchen, just what is—“
“I’ll take them.
Cathy, I’ll take every last one.”
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