nothing-color carpet. For the first month we rolled out our sleeping bags every night. When my next quarterly check from my trust fund finally arrived, we bought twin beds. With her first paycheck and the attached confidence, Cyd added a couch to her credit card. It was long and soft and gray because Cyd loved gray. I bought throw pillows in a mismatch of colors.
Cyd had stood in the center of the room staring at them, the day I came home from a shopping trip with Tom. He followed obediently behind me, his arms so full he could hardly see around the packages. We made a game of ripping off the plastic coverings, dropping them on the floor, and laughed our way into silliness while tossing the pillows at each other and then onto the couch.
And then we noticed silent Cyd.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like them?”
She said slowly, “The velvet is nice. But you have one green pillow and a gold bolster and a red cushion and a whatever that is --”
“Halfway between blue and purple,” I said.
“Uh huh. And navy and wine. Plus they are all different shapes and sizes. Why?”
Hadn’t she looked at the rod that ran the width of our bedroom? Half of it was hangers with neat gray stuff and the other half was hangers with every color ever invented. At least I was good about keeping my stuff on my side.
“Okay, we can take them back,” I said.
“Can we?” Tom asked. “We’ve torn off the plastic.”
“No, no,” Cyd said quickly, “they’re fine, really.” She had this determined expression on her face, the one she wore when it was time to clean the bathroom. I guess it worked, I guess she decided she could live with the cushions because she never mentioned them again.
Next, Mac had scrounged up table and chairs from somewhere. He was the one who liked to sit on a chair and eat from a table rather than sitting on the floor yoga-style.
Now, with the TV blocking out thinking, I made myself a nest of the velvet cushions on the floor beneath the bay window and worked slowly on a manicure. The concentration I applied to matching the curve of each nail to the other nails kept me comfortably brain dead.
Macbeth banged twice on the front door with his closed fist, causing the door to rattle, and then, in case I might possibly know anyone else who knocked that way, he shouted, “April, it’s me!”
“Come on in!” I shouted back.
He used his key. We were always losing ours. Macbeth was our backup in so many ways. And being Macbeth, he flipped on the overhead light as soon as he entered. Tom would have stumbled around in the gloom, no more aware that dusk had settled than I was, but Macbeth always knew where he was, what he was doing, and how it related to the rest of the world.
“What’s with sitting in the dark, babe?”
“I’m not reading, mother, so it’s okay, I won’t strain my eyes.”
Grabbing another cushion as he crossed the room, he settled himself on the floor beside me. “Cyd phoned. She’ll be working late. She sent me over because she’s worried about you. Something about a bummer day.”
Ceiling lights suited Macbeth, have to admit, accenting the neat haircut, clean profile, tailored sports coat, dark slacks. I leaned my head back against the windowsill and treated him like eye candy, not that I would ever tell him so. He was Cyd’s guy.
“I’m okay.”
“Not coming down with anything?” He pressed the back of his hand against my forehead.
“A hangnail, maybe.”
“Cyd said you skipped an interview this afternoon.”
“How could I go with a hangnail?”
“You’re probably the last female on earth who can spend two hours pushing back her cuticles.”
I said, “Nobody loves a smartass.”
He smiled a quick smile that showed the gap between his front teeth and softened his face. “Babe, you’ve skipped three appointments
Cyd had stood in the center of the room staring at them, the day I came home from a shopping trip with Tom. He followed obediently behind me, his arms so full he could hardly see around the packages. We made a game of ripping off the plastic coverings, dropping them on the floor, and laughed our way into silliness while tossing the pillows at each other and then onto the couch.
And then we noticed silent Cyd.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like them?”
She said slowly, “The velvet is nice. But you have one green pillow and a gold bolster and a red cushion and a whatever that is --”
“Halfway between blue and purple,” I said.
“Uh huh. And navy and wine. Plus they are all different shapes and sizes. Why?”
Hadn’t she looked at the rod that ran the width of our bedroom? Half of it was hangers with neat gray stuff and the other half was hangers with every color ever invented. At least I was good about keeping my stuff on my side.
“Okay, we can take them back,” I said.
“Can we?” Tom asked. “We’ve torn off the plastic.”
“No, no,” Cyd said quickly, “they’re fine, really.” She had this determined expression on her face, the one she wore when it was time to clean the bathroom. I guess it worked, I guess she decided she could live with the cushions because she never mentioned them again.
Next, Mac had scrounged up table and chairs from somewhere. He was the one who liked to sit on a chair and eat from a table rather than sitting on the floor yoga-style.
Now, with the TV blocking out thinking, I made myself a nest of the velvet cushions on the floor beneath the bay window and worked slowly on a manicure. The concentration I applied to matching the curve of each nail to the other nails kept me comfortably brain dead.
Macbeth banged twice on the front door with his closed fist, causing the door to rattle, and then, in case I might possibly know anyone else who knocked that way, he shouted, “April, it’s me!”
“Come on in!” I shouted back.
He used his key. We were always losing ours. Macbeth was our backup in so many ways. And being Macbeth, he flipped on the overhead light as soon as he entered. Tom would have stumbled around in the gloom, no more aware that dusk had settled than I was, but Macbeth always knew where he was, what he was doing, and how it related to the rest of the world.
“What’s with sitting in the dark, babe?”
“I’m not reading, mother, so it’s okay, I won’t strain my eyes.”
Grabbing another cushion as he crossed the room, he settled himself on the floor beside me. “Cyd phoned. She’ll be working late. She sent me over because she’s worried about you. Something about a bummer day.”
Ceiling lights suited Macbeth, have to admit, accenting the neat haircut, clean profile, tailored sports coat, dark slacks. I leaned my head back against the windowsill and treated him like eye candy, not that I would ever tell him so. He was Cyd’s guy.
“I’m okay.”
“Not coming down with anything?” He pressed the back of his hand against my forehead.
“A hangnail, maybe.”
“Cyd said you skipped an interview this afternoon.”
“How could I go with a hangnail?”
“You’re probably the last female on earth who can spend two hours pushing back her cuticles.”
I said, “Nobody loves a smartass.”
He smiled a quick smile that showed the gap between his front teeth and softened his face. “Babe, you’ve skipped three appointments
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