Cosmopolitan Magazine taught me that every woman of taste and sophistication has a signature fragrance, a signature color, a signature lipstick, a signature signature if she can pull it off, and—the ultimate je ne sais quoi—a signature piece of jewelry.
Forty years ago, I was a socially hungry teenager in a strict, repressive home. I secretly read Cosmopolitan magazine, scared to death my mother would find me with it. I lived the life of a shy, studious bookworm, but oh, how I longed to be a Cosmo girl.
Gracie not only had a signature brooch, but a signature style of wearing it. The brooch itself was a reptile of some sort, a caiman or an iguana. I was never sure. She always wore it pinned to the back of her suit jacket, resting just so on her left scapula.
Her regular pew at the old Episcopal Church downtown was third row from the front, left center, beside her plaid-clad husband, Morris. Gracie's flat brown hair was styled in a modified pixie cut, and with her diminutive features, she resembled a well-tailored mouse. I stared at her tiny, sharp nose whenever I would catch her profile during the reading of the Word.
Gracie had flair. Her signature brooch caught on with some of the other elderly Episcopalian women in the congregation. I noticed with amusement when some new enamel or bejeweled reptile found a home on yet another boucle jacket, gradually forming a zigzag line behind Gracie's pew. It was more than a fashion statement; rather, an idiosyncratic language whose symbols I did not understand.
I observed this menagerie for several years with curiosity, but had never met Gracie. Not, that is, until my husband, Harry, accidentally signed us up to participate in the parish supper club.
On the way home from church that day, Harry said, "I think I may have gotten us involved in something."
"Oh? What is it?" The Catholics and Baptists had just let out, too, and I was people watching; only halfway listening.
"Well, you left me for a minute to talk to someone," he began, "and old Patsy Littleton made a bee line for me. She started talking so fast in that high-pitched voice of hers; I couldn't understand all of what she was saying. I could tell she wanted me to do something, and I guess my head was nodding in the right direction. Before I knew what was happening, she said, 'Wonderful! We're so glad you and Robyn are joining the group! I'll E-mail Robyn an updated list!' She handed me this paper and rushed off." He ruefully pulled a folded up sheet of paper from his suit pocket and proffered it in my direction.
I unfolded it. "Parish Supper Club Group Spring List" was the heading.
"Oh, my," I murmured and then sighed. "Well, it's too late, now. We're in."
Looking over the list, I realized we didn't know a soul on it. There were three other couples besides us: Jane and Bob, Sandy and Tim, and Gracie and Morris. Gracie and Morris! Huh. I got a little more interested, knowing I would finally meet a lady who knew something about creating a signature, a true Cosmo woman.
Some of the parish dinner groups met at various restaurants, but ours was organized to have a supper gathering at each couple's home. The host was to provide a main course, with hors d'oeuvres, salad and dessert assigned to others within the group. The first dinner of the season was originally supposed to be hosted by Sandy and Tim, but when another member of the group, Bob, fell off his new Harley Davidson motorcycle and broke a leg, it was rescheduled from Sandy and Tim's 3-story beach house to Gracie and Morris's elevator-equipped Bay front condominium.
Sandy wanted to be helpful to Gracie, so she coordinated with the rest of us on who would bring the appetizer, salad and dessert.
It was a lovely June evening when we converged onto the parking lot of the high-rise building and rode up the elevator together, juggling containers of salad, cheese, crackers and pie, trying not to jostle Bob as he balanced on a pair of crutches.
We found the right door and pressed the chiming doorbell. Gracie looked a little startled when she opened the door, and stood there for a beat or two, as if deciding whether to let us in. Sandy spoke up, "Hi, Gracie. We're all here!"
With that, Gracie lit right up with a big smile and waved us in through the foyer. There were greetings and introductions as Sandy, Jane and I made our way to the kitchen, sweeping Gracie along with us. Along the way, I noticed the table was set for seven.
"Where's Morris?" Jane asked.
"Oh," Gracie waggled a hand and made a shrugging movement with her shoulders. "Morris. Uh, Morris had to go, you know, to the jail ministry retreat. It's tonight. He was here earlier. He set the table and fixed up the bar. I don't really know what he was doing. But he had to go. He's gone."
By this time, all the women were in Gracie's small condo kitchen. The square, free-standing island workspace had been turned into a bar with an odd mishmash of partial bottles of vodka, gin, and a yellowish, vile looking container labeled "dandelion wine."
Sandy cocked her head like a bird hearing a secret whistle. Jane and I had also begun to realize something was amiss. There were no cooking smells in the kitchen. "Gracie?" Jane began. "Do you think it's time to put your roast in the oven?"
Gracie looked totally blank. She gestured to the cold oven. "Well, here's the oven."
It was too much for Jane, who fled the kitchen. Sandy and I, at least a head taller than the diminutive Gracie, exchanged a meaningful look.
One of the other couples had brought a large jug of white wine. Now seemed like the time to pour some, which I proceeded to do. "Gracie! How about a glass of wine?"
"Oh, yes. I would like that," she said.
"Great. Would you excuse Sandy and me for just a minute? We'll be right back."
"Okay," Gracie nodded, sipping from her glass.
"Oh God," Sandy began, once we were out of ear shot. "Oh God, oh God, oh God. There's no dinner. I called her yesterday to remind her. She said she was going to the store for a roast. Oh God."
"Sandy," I said, but she kept muttering and had begun wringing her hands. "Sandy!" I took hold of her hands. "Get a grip. Something is obviously going on with Gracie. Her husband must have known we were coming, but Gracie has no memory of it. Harry and I will go to that little market just down the road and come back with some of their roasted chickens and potato salad. Meanwhile, keep the wine flowing."
Sandy's eyes assumed a wide, fixed look and her pupils quivered. After a moment, her training as a registered nurse took over, and she began to move as if on automatic pilot to play hostess, pour wine and act like nothing was wrong.
I called Harry over from where the men were standing in the living room, poor dears oblivious to the crisis. "Harry. We need to go to the store."
"Now?" Harry looked at me as incredulously.
"Yes, sweetie. Right now." Taking him firmly by the elbow, and pushing toward the door, he looked at me sharply, saw the expression on my face, and then stopped resisting.
I explained the situation in the elevator, and on the way to the store. Harry's kindly face looked distressed. "Robyn?" he asked. "How could this have happened? Does Gracie have Alzheimer's?"
Harry and I stood close together in the light of the parking lot before going into the store. "I don't know," I answered, "but based on what we've seen tonight, I'm afraid she may. Morris has to know. Why on earth would he have left her to face our supper club group all alone?"
Harry gripped my shoulder, looking fierce. "I'd like the answer to that, myself. What kind of a guy would do that?"
I sighed and shook my head. "Well, sweet baby, I'll see what I can find out about the situation on Monday and talk to the Rector confidentially. Let's get the food now and hurry on back."
Harry filled one basket with hot lemon pepper roasted chickens, while I filled another with potato salad. I pulled a half gallon of jug wine from a cooler to augment the bar, and then we checked out and headed back to the condo.
By the time we returned, the group was already fairly well lubricated. Word of the dinnerless dinner party had quietly spread, and so everyone except for Gracie had a touch of anxiety and wine-produced giddiness.
Harry and I quickly deposited our purchases in the kitchen, poured a drink and joined the others in the quirky living room for some crackers and cheese, where Gracie introduced us to her tiny Chihuahua, Augustine. She and her dog looked remarkably alike.
Jane slipped into the kitchen to toss her salad and summoned us all to the table. One of the men held Gracie's chair and we all stood until she was seated. We held hands as Bob said the blessing. Gracie beamed like the guest of honor, and the moment was suddenly sweet.
There was nothing wrong with Gracie's long term memory. She talked through the lettuce, the chicken and potato salad, and the pie. She told us about working as a WAVE during World War II as a member of an elite group of women who served as navigation instructors for the male pilots.
"Sometimes late at night when we were off duty, we girls would go swimming in the officers' pool," Gracie confided, "and sometimes, we wouldn't wear our suits. No one seemed to mind!"
Harry asked her how long she and Morris had been married. Gracie spoke rather loudly, "Sixty three years!" The number seemed to astonish her. She stopped talking and looked down at her plate for a long moment, turning a spoon over and over in one hand. Then she solemnly fixed Harry with watery, blue eyes, and said, very slowly, "Sixty three years. That's a long, long time."
Gracie's diminutive dog lay quietly in her lap throughout dinner. We were almost finished with dessert, when Gracie spoke to Augustine in a stage whisper. "Maybe if they would leave, you could take a nap."
Almost as one, we popped up from the table, did our best to quickly clear the table, load the dishwasher and clear away any residual debris.
Gracie walked us to the elevator. Bob was at the back, leaning on his crutches. Jane was nearest to the elevator control panel. Several times, Jane pushed the button to take us to the lobby. Each time, just as the doors began to close, Gracie would wave again, sticking her hand inside the elevator car just far enough to cause the doors to reopen. After about the third time this happened, we began to get a little giggly, and then Gracie leaned into the elevator car, looked sternly at Jane and said, "Dear, if you will push the button, the elevator doors will close and you may leave."
From the back, Bob muttered, "Oh, help me, Lord."
Thank goodness, that time the doors fully closed. We descended quickly to the lobby floor, and then spilled from the elevator into the parking lot on a wave of nervous laughter. We stood in a circle, near our cars, and laughed hard until the tide threatened to turn to tears. Finally, we solemnly bid each other goodnight, eyes wide from seeing too much.
I saw Gracie one final time, at communion, but the signature brooch was missing from her jacket. She sat unmoving on the worn, wooden pew. Morris, the husband who had abandoned Gracie at the dinner party, sat beside her that morning, a vision in flamboyant plaid, matching petechia blooms on each cheek.
The missing brooch troubled me. I feared she had finally, irretrievably come unpinned. Seeing this, something shifted hard in my own tectonic plates, and I could feel my soul slipping from its comfortable moorings.
When I go to communion these days, I continue to see reptiles perched on stooped shoulders, but I no longer see Gracie there. I can barely stand to go myself. When I do, I kneel at the rail and partake bleakly.
"The Body of Christ, the bread of heaven." The eager salivary glands of youth have deserted me. The dry wafer sticks to my tongue.
"The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation." I guide the novice chalice bearer's hand to bring the goblet surely to my mouth for a thirsty woman's gulp of sacramental wine.
In the end, Gracie, the signature woman, could no longer even remember her own name. That just breaks my heart. And it scares the living Hell out of me.
Elizabeth Westmark's essays have appeared in Prick of the Spindle, Brevity Magazine, Girls with Insurance, Road Trip Journal, The Binnacle Ultra-Short 2009, Camroc Press Review, and Dead Mule, among others. She maintains two story-telling/memoir blogs, a food blog, and a microessay blog from her home in a Longleaf pine preserve near Pensacola, Florida, where she is writing the memoir of a small forest, essays and short stories.
She'll be reading at the Prick of the Spindle - Dogzplot Reading in Pensacola on June 19, along with J. Bradley, Dawn Corrigan, Benjamin Lowenkron, Erin McKnight, Cynthia Reeser, and Amy Riddell. Dogzplot's Barry Graham, author of The National Virginity Pledge, will be videotaping the event.
Archived at http://www.girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/poetry/42-poetry/232-ew-0610-woman and shortlinked at http://frsh.in/c4
