The Beautiful Misfits, page 5
Josie thought of all those years in television and the excruciating daily workouts, an unspoken requirement for her job. That’s one thing she didn’t miss.
“Are you weighing yourself daily? I find that’s a must in keeping firm control of the weight witch. Too many girls today are just sitting around on their phones letting the pounds pile up.”
The nerve of this woman. Josie had quit stepping on the scales the day after her little (okay, huge) on-air catastrophe. “I used to weigh every day,” she said. “I didn’t realize how such a single act had all that power. Setting the tone for the day. I gave my scales to charity, along with my ironing board. Getting rid of those two menaces has been liberating.”
Just as the woman started to reply, something heavy hit the counter, followed by huffing and grunting. Pauline had flown in on her broom and dropped a box of stock.
“I can take over from here,” she said, her voice raising the hair on Josie’s neck. Pauline clutched her saline-maxed chest and panted as she pulled Josie to the side. “You have an emergency call. Did you not hear the store paging you?”
“No, I—I’ve been busy matching up this—” She froze, wondering who could be calling her.
“It’s probably a cop. No doubt your son again. I left the number at the register. And by the way, you have a nasty hole in your leggings.”
Josie felt as if she’d been punched. “How do you know anything about my son?”
“It’s not like nobody knows who you are around this place. We all know about Josette Nickels and her sordid little past. Why do you think you were hired?” Pauline cast her eyes from Josie and focused on the woman in the chair squirting all kinds of shades onto her forearms. “D-grade former celebs are good for business. Lancôme hired that Philly freak years ago and their sales are through the roof. Chanel, too. They have their own personal train wreck.”
Josie took a deep breath and willed her heart to stop flitting. This emergency call didn’t floor her as it would have years ago before collect calls from jails, hospitals, and even psych wards seemed the norm. Before her ex had posed as the emergency on the other line to extort more money from her. Still, her nerves kicked up as there was always the chance the call was related to Finley. But he’d just texted her half an hour ago.
She pushed a fist into her diaphragm to avert a panic attack. If you own your breath, no one can steal your peace, Ruby was fond of saying. Everything’s fine, and this is another of Frank’s crying-wolf schemes to con her out of the remaining fumes of her savings and the carcass of her 401(k).
“I’ll finish up with the client, then return the call,” she said.
Pauline slammed a fist on the counter. “This sounds serious. Just another day in Josie’s House O’ Drama.” She tried to frown but the Botox proved fatal. “I’ll handle this client. She’s mine anyway. Technically you aren’t supposed to give full makeovers until you’re certified. If you don’t pass…well, I guess you won’t have a job.”
Josie clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes. She started to speak, then decided she’d deal with Pauline another day. Instead, she thought of all the previous phone calls—some from Frank but others from cops—concerning Finley and his eight years of run-ins with the law, little crimes that started slowly before rapidly accelerating and giving Josie emotional whiplash. One minute he was acing his serve on the tennis courts and the next he was stealing a neighbor’s washing machine to buy dope. A washing machine, of all things. Ruining his future on a front-loading Maytag.
Pauline circled Josie as if sizing up her prey. “Go. This is my client, remember?” Her eyes flew to the woman who had made a huge mess. “I’ve warned you plenty of times not to take my best customers. Nobody wants a woman half put together working on them, and until you’re officially certified—”
“I heard you.”
Pauline continued her tirade. “Every day there’s a major flaw with your appearance. Yesterday it was the sole of one shoe flopping out like you pulled them from the Goodwill bins. Last week it was blobs of foundation all over your shirt. I don’t know how you ever made it on television. Big-shot news anchor with runs in your pantyhose.”
Josie saw something strangely familiar in Pauline’s face, and she straightened as if a metal rod had fused her spine. She felt a fleeting déjà vu spread like smoke.
She gathered her banged-up Kate Spade and entered the vacant store manager’s office where the sickly smell of cologne and defeat overpowered her. She lifted the receiver, and with a trembling finger, punched in a number she didn’t recognize.
On the third ring, Frank answered, his voice pitched high and his words coming fast.
“You need to send your son money,” he said. “He got busted last week in Florida and I had to make bail to get him out. How come it’s me always paying bail?”
“Because after I paid it once, I told you I wasn’t going to do it again.” She was relieved Frank had found him, and that even though he had been arrested, he was at least safe. For now.
“So, you wanted him to die there with all those hardcores?”
“I wanted him to learn in there. Learn not to keep making the same mistakes.”
“He’s never going to let you back in his life if you don’t support him.”
Josie’s head throbbed. “He’s never going to let me in as long as you keep telling him I abandoned him.”
“Well, you did.”
“You gave me no other choice. When you said you couldn’t handle raising Dottie and that I needed to put her in a home, I saw the face of a stranger. Not the man I married.”
“You’re horrible. PayPal him some money now!”
“I was told this was an emergency call?”
“I had to call the store because you weren’t answering your cell. You haven’t sent Finn money in over a month.”
Here we go again. “Every time I’ve sent money, he relapses. I’m done buying his drugs. I told you and him I would pay every cent of rehab, but neither of you seems to think he needs it.”
“He’s broke and trying to get a job, but no one will hire him with these bogus charges.”
“What was he charged with this time?” Josie asked. Frank always covered for Finley. On rare sober days, Finley confessed to Josie as if she were a priest. That’s when she’d hear all the I love yous and Mom, I never blamed you for any of this. And even, “I miss you and my sister and want us to be a family again.”
“They said he stole a truck.”
“And? Last I heard that is a felony.”
“It was a guy he knows. The dude said he could borrow it, then called the cops on him.”
“Let me speak to him,” Josie said, tears stinging. “Please, Frank. You can’t keep doing this to me. He’s my son. You could at least have him unblock me from his phone.”
“You have my number and I expect you to PayPal me a couple of thousand today. We owe a lawyer at least a grand and this Florida nightmare wasn’t free.”
Josie shook her head, floored by his requests. She gazed at the ceiling as if searching the heavens for wisdom. “I don’t have that kind of money, Frank, and you—” Before she could say, You can give up the free-loading life and use your damned doctorate of dental surgery degree, the phone went dead.
It wasn’t Josie’s fault he threw it away to create and schlep sculpture when the mood struck. He’d spent more than ten years making good money on bad mouths and then decided dentistry was beneath his God-given talents. Josie’s career had provided more than enough for an excellent standard of living back then. Key word: then.
She wiped her teary eyes with her sleeve. This man had been her world at one time, but people are always changing. And marriages often slide through phases just like moons.
Her cell buzzed again. She saw Frank’s number and eased her thumb over the red decline button.
4
Josie had been at work half an hour, ringing up the odd eyeliner and a couple of mascaras, when Pauline arrived wearing a rubberish skirt that nearly showed her religion and denomination.
“I have several clients coming to see me today for their pre–Mother’s Day makeovers,” she said, eyeing the towering cart packed with perfume and skincare sets for the moms or clueless husbands searching for last-minute gifts. “Why have you not set these out?”
Mother’s Day. Josie’s chest tightened. She wondered if she’d hear from Finley on Sunday, if he’d be mad she sent self-help books instead of PayPal dollars when he’d surfaced from his Florida “vacation” with a brand-new charge on his ever-lengthening record. She thought of the clay handprint he made for her in kindergarten, how he’d picked flowering weeds, squeezed limp and damp in his little hand, and had given them to her while shyly looking at his feet. Last year the day had passed without a word—the first Mother’s Day he hadn’t acknowledged her.
“Did you not hear me?” Pauline asked, scowling. “I’m going to prepare for my appointments, and you need to have all these sets out immediately.”
Josie started to speak and stopped, figuring she’d pick her battles. For the next hour, she arranged the front, side, and back counters with the gift sets, wrapping them in lapis-blue bows, La Belleza’s official color. As she was finishing, an over-accessorized elderly woman tapped her arm. “Do you mind helping me?” she asked, her glassy eyes reminding Josie of jellyfish.
La Belleza had two areas for consultations—a couple of chairs up front and two more on the back side where Pauline wouldn’t see her working. “Of course. Have a seat,” Josie said. “Have you used our products before?”
“No, I’ve always used Noxzema and Ivory soap,” she said, trying to get settled in the chair which was too high for her petite frame. “I’ve been wanting to try this stuff after seeing Sergio on QVC. What a fine ass he has!”
Josie cracked up. Sergio, jazz-hand waving, rainbow hottie that he was, certainly got the older women fired up and eager to try this line. This type of bawdy lady is exactly what she needed today to take her mind off Finley. “I’ll just gather up my weapons of choice and we’ll get started,” she said.
At the station where Pauline worked, she asked to borrow cotton rounds and cleanser.
“Excuse me, Chelsea,” Pauline said to her client who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “This will only take a moment.” She turned to Josie. “Until you’re certified, I don’t want to see you touch another face. Is that understood?”
“You’re busy and La Belleza stresses that we shouldn’t make our clients wait.” Josie looked over her shoulder to make sure her customer hadn’t left.
“Stall her until I’m done here. These teenagers,” she whispered, “are nothing but a waste of time. They never buy. Start off with a hand massage and when I finish with Chelsea, I’ll do the consult and makeover.” She was like a teacher barking orders, but Josie wasn’t wasting what energy she had on Pauline today. She’d start with the hand massage and go from there.
The client’s eyes were closed when she returned, and snores puttered from her lips. “Ma’am?” Josie tapped her shoulder. The woman startled. “Sorry. Hope it was a good dream.”
“Oh yes,” she moaned. “I was laying on the beach without a stitch of clothing, and along comes this glorious naked man who—I better shut my mouth.”
“Maybe I ought to let you go back to sleep,” Josie said, smiling as she set the cotton pads, cleanser, and face chart on the small island counter. “Do you mind giving me your name? We can go over this how-to guide once we have you looking young as a coed.”
“Wilma. Mrs. Wilma Youngblood, widowed and ready for romance.” She popped open her mouth as if shocked by her own words. “I’m almost ninety and let me tell you, a woman’s needs don’t disappear. Ye Olde Thatched Cottage doesn’t seal its roof if you know what I’m saying.” She slapped her thigh and laughed.
Josie fell in love with Wilma Youngblood on the spot. “If you’re going to start trolling for men, let’s get those hands soft as kittens. I’m going to give you a heavenly hand massage.”
“I’d rather be giving a handsome fellow a heavenly hand job,” she said. Josie heard a honk of laughter. Monica had returned from lunch and decided Mrs. Youngblood was far more entertaining than trying to sell Moisture Surge. They exchanged a wide-eyed glance, the kind that says, Stick around. We’re about to get a show here.
Josie needed to steer Wilma down another lane before a lower-level manager called security on the woman. “That’s a wonderful handbag,” she said of Wilma’s vintage crocodile purse, which she clutched as if protecting a baby. “I’ll need to put it somewhere safe before we start.”
After storing the bag, Josie mixed Manos Suaves with a spritz of the En Flor perfume, heavy and cloying with the scent of gardenias. “The hands have lots of nerves and pleasure points. I’m going to treat you today before we start on your face.”
She held out her ancient arm clanking with bracelets and waved her gnarled fingers strangled in diamonds. “It’s like that church I used to go to where they always wanted to wash my feet. I’d just as soon show people my little cottage as my goat hooves.”
Josie heard Monica laughing nearby, as she squeezed the lotion bottle so hard a glob shot out, pale pink cream landing on Wilma’s silk scarf. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. Let me blot that for you or you can take it off and I’ll have it laundered for you.”
“You think I’m going to yank this off and show you my traffic stoppers? I wear scarves so the men don’t stare at my offerings.” She shimmied her chest like an adult dancer.
Josie unleashed a bemused snort but didn’t respond, not wanting to encourage this. She dabbed the woman’s ruined scarf, took her hand, and massaged the arthritic knots. Mrs. Youngblood tipped her head and closed her eyes, probably imagining Sergio had swept her up and forgotten for a moment his gayness or that she was older than the automobile.
This was why Josie preferred working weekdays. It was quieter, or at least more entertaining. Women shopping during business hours had such charming, no-nonsense demeanors. Maybe because they weren’t trapped at a desk nine-to-five, racing home during rush hour to get a meat and two sides on the table. Then there were these older women who either loved what she’d done to their faces or were too many cataracts away from caring.
When Josie reached for Mrs. Youngblood’s other hand, she stopped her. “I don’t see a ring on that finger,” she said, pointing at Josie’s left hand. “Pretty thing like you ought’n be single.”
“I was married for almost twenty years,” Josie said. Gosh, that was almost half her life with Frank. “I promised myself no more men until I got a few things straight with myself first.”
“Was it the sex?” Wilma asked and Josie colored. No, she wanted to say. That was the only part that worked. “You young people need to realize exactly how we oldies made even the impossible work in our day. Let me tell you this in case you happen upon another fellow.” She reached for Josie’s arm and drew her closer. “Never turn your husband away. I don’t care how tired you are or how many dishes are gathering flies in the sink. I don’t care if the cat box is full or if the baby’s diaper weighs more than the television. You all need to realize that men are simple and need only three things.”
“And what are those, Mrs. Youngblood?” Josie figured she’d say something along the lines of “The good Lord, a good woman, and the need to be right.”
“The three essential things a real man needs,” she said, her voice building, “are food, fucks, and a TV turned to ballgames.” Her face lit up and she seemed to enjoy the anything-goes speech that’s afforded the elderly.
Josie held a hand over her mouth to suppress laughter. A customer stopped in her tracks, looking appalled. When Josie saw Monica’s astonished face in her peripheral vision, she lost control and laughed so hard a trickle warmed her Lane Bryants.
She thought about the types of laughs: polite and restrained, genuine but not mind-blowing, and her favorite, the kind so deep it brought tears. She wiped her eyes as Pauline hot-footed over and led her toward the escalator.
“Get a friggin’ grip,” she said. “She is one of our biggest spenders, you idiot. Did you see her handbag? That’s real alligator. I’ll take over now with Mrs. Palmer.”
“Her name is Mrs. Youngblood and you can’t possibly know her. She’s never been to this counter in her life.”
Pauline sashayed up to Mrs. Youngblood and placed a territorial hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Take your hands off me,” Wilma shouted. “I’m having the time of my life with that other woman there.” She flicked her hand at Pauline. “Shoo, fly, shoo. Go on now, ya hear me?”
“Josie isn’t certified. I’ll be taking over now.”
Wilma leapt with surprising agility from the chair. “I don’t care if she doesn’t know shit from Shinola. This is my business I’m bringing to this department store and I’ll—”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Youngblood. Pauline has lots more experience than I do. Be sure and come say bye before leaving. I want to see that makeover Pauline does on you.”
“Well, for shit’s sake. I hope I don’t leave this store looking like she does. You know how every time you go to the beautician, you come out with the same haircut she has? All these beauty sorts do is turn you into a version of themselves. I can already tell by looking at her she’s a wet rag. Looks like a scrawny crow, I’d say. Like if she can’t find a hamburger soon, she won’t live another day.”
Pauline, hands on hips, stupid grin on her face, seemed unshaken by these comments. Probably because she wasn’t half listening.
Wilma’s eyes twinkled as she faced me. “Now don’t you forget my advice about the menfolk. I had a sister whose seventy-nine-year-old husband shot her in the ass for refusing sex. These men take it seriously, honey, wrong as that rascal was.”
“Are you weighing yourself daily? I find that’s a must in keeping firm control of the weight witch. Too many girls today are just sitting around on their phones letting the pounds pile up.”
The nerve of this woman. Josie had quit stepping on the scales the day after her little (okay, huge) on-air catastrophe. “I used to weigh every day,” she said. “I didn’t realize how such a single act had all that power. Setting the tone for the day. I gave my scales to charity, along with my ironing board. Getting rid of those two menaces has been liberating.”
Just as the woman started to reply, something heavy hit the counter, followed by huffing and grunting. Pauline had flown in on her broom and dropped a box of stock.
“I can take over from here,” she said, her voice raising the hair on Josie’s neck. Pauline clutched her saline-maxed chest and panted as she pulled Josie to the side. “You have an emergency call. Did you not hear the store paging you?”
“No, I—I’ve been busy matching up this—” She froze, wondering who could be calling her.
“It’s probably a cop. No doubt your son again. I left the number at the register. And by the way, you have a nasty hole in your leggings.”
Josie felt as if she’d been punched. “How do you know anything about my son?”
“It’s not like nobody knows who you are around this place. We all know about Josette Nickels and her sordid little past. Why do you think you were hired?” Pauline cast her eyes from Josie and focused on the woman in the chair squirting all kinds of shades onto her forearms. “D-grade former celebs are good for business. Lancôme hired that Philly freak years ago and their sales are through the roof. Chanel, too. They have their own personal train wreck.”
Josie took a deep breath and willed her heart to stop flitting. This emergency call didn’t floor her as it would have years ago before collect calls from jails, hospitals, and even psych wards seemed the norm. Before her ex had posed as the emergency on the other line to extort more money from her. Still, her nerves kicked up as there was always the chance the call was related to Finley. But he’d just texted her half an hour ago.
She pushed a fist into her diaphragm to avert a panic attack. If you own your breath, no one can steal your peace, Ruby was fond of saying. Everything’s fine, and this is another of Frank’s crying-wolf schemes to con her out of the remaining fumes of her savings and the carcass of her 401(k).
“I’ll finish up with the client, then return the call,” she said.
Pauline slammed a fist on the counter. “This sounds serious. Just another day in Josie’s House O’ Drama.” She tried to frown but the Botox proved fatal. “I’ll handle this client. She’s mine anyway. Technically you aren’t supposed to give full makeovers until you’re certified. If you don’t pass…well, I guess you won’t have a job.”
Josie clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes. She started to speak, then decided she’d deal with Pauline another day. Instead, she thought of all the previous phone calls—some from Frank but others from cops—concerning Finley and his eight years of run-ins with the law, little crimes that started slowly before rapidly accelerating and giving Josie emotional whiplash. One minute he was acing his serve on the tennis courts and the next he was stealing a neighbor’s washing machine to buy dope. A washing machine, of all things. Ruining his future on a front-loading Maytag.
Pauline circled Josie as if sizing up her prey. “Go. This is my client, remember?” Her eyes flew to the woman who had made a huge mess. “I’ve warned you plenty of times not to take my best customers. Nobody wants a woman half put together working on them, and until you’re officially certified—”
“I heard you.”
Pauline continued her tirade. “Every day there’s a major flaw with your appearance. Yesterday it was the sole of one shoe flopping out like you pulled them from the Goodwill bins. Last week it was blobs of foundation all over your shirt. I don’t know how you ever made it on television. Big-shot news anchor with runs in your pantyhose.”
Josie saw something strangely familiar in Pauline’s face, and she straightened as if a metal rod had fused her spine. She felt a fleeting déjà vu spread like smoke.
She gathered her banged-up Kate Spade and entered the vacant store manager’s office where the sickly smell of cologne and defeat overpowered her. She lifted the receiver, and with a trembling finger, punched in a number she didn’t recognize.
On the third ring, Frank answered, his voice pitched high and his words coming fast.
“You need to send your son money,” he said. “He got busted last week in Florida and I had to make bail to get him out. How come it’s me always paying bail?”
“Because after I paid it once, I told you I wasn’t going to do it again.” She was relieved Frank had found him, and that even though he had been arrested, he was at least safe. For now.
“So, you wanted him to die there with all those hardcores?”
“I wanted him to learn in there. Learn not to keep making the same mistakes.”
“He’s never going to let you back in his life if you don’t support him.”
Josie’s head throbbed. “He’s never going to let me in as long as you keep telling him I abandoned him.”
“Well, you did.”
“You gave me no other choice. When you said you couldn’t handle raising Dottie and that I needed to put her in a home, I saw the face of a stranger. Not the man I married.”
“You’re horrible. PayPal him some money now!”
“I was told this was an emergency call?”
“I had to call the store because you weren’t answering your cell. You haven’t sent Finn money in over a month.”
Here we go again. “Every time I’ve sent money, he relapses. I’m done buying his drugs. I told you and him I would pay every cent of rehab, but neither of you seems to think he needs it.”
“He’s broke and trying to get a job, but no one will hire him with these bogus charges.”
“What was he charged with this time?” Josie asked. Frank always covered for Finley. On rare sober days, Finley confessed to Josie as if she were a priest. That’s when she’d hear all the I love yous and Mom, I never blamed you for any of this. And even, “I miss you and my sister and want us to be a family again.”
“They said he stole a truck.”
“And? Last I heard that is a felony.”
“It was a guy he knows. The dude said he could borrow it, then called the cops on him.”
“Let me speak to him,” Josie said, tears stinging. “Please, Frank. You can’t keep doing this to me. He’s my son. You could at least have him unblock me from his phone.”
“You have my number and I expect you to PayPal me a couple of thousand today. We owe a lawyer at least a grand and this Florida nightmare wasn’t free.”
Josie shook her head, floored by his requests. She gazed at the ceiling as if searching the heavens for wisdom. “I don’t have that kind of money, Frank, and you—” Before she could say, You can give up the free-loading life and use your damned doctorate of dental surgery degree, the phone went dead.
It wasn’t Josie’s fault he threw it away to create and schlep sculpture when the mood struck. He’d spent more than ten years making good money on bad mouths and then decided dentistry was beneath his God-given talents. Josie’s career had provided more than enough for an excellent standard of living back then. Key word: then.
She wiped her teary eyes with her sleeve. This man had been her world at one time, but people are always changing. And marriages often slide through phases just like moons.
Her cell buzzed again. She saw Frank’s number and eased her thumb over the red decline button.
4
Josie had been at work half an hour, ringing up the odd eyeliner and a couple of mascaras, when Pauline arrived wearing a rubberish skirt that nearly showed her religion and denomination.
“I have several clients coming to see me today for their pre–Mother’s Day makeovers,” she said, eyeing the towering cart packed with perfume and skincare sets for the moms or clueless husbands searching for last-minute gifts. “Why have you not set these out?”
Mother’s Day. Josie’s chest tightened. She wondered if she’d hear from Finley on Sunday, if he’d be mad she sent self-help books instead of PayPal dollars when he’d surfaced from his Florida “vacation” with a brand-new charge on his ever-lengthening record. She thought of the clay handprint he made for her in kindergarten, how he’d picked flowering weeds, squeezed limp and damp in his little hand, and had given them to her while shyly looking at his feet. Last year the day had passed without a word—the first Mother’s Day he hadn’t acknowledged her.
“Did you not hear me?” Pauline asked, scowling. “I’m going to prepare for my appointments, and you need to have all these sets out immediately.”
Josie started to speak and stopped, figuring she’d pick her battles. For the next hour, she arranged the front, side, and back counters with the gift sets, wrapping them in lapis-blue bows, La Belleza’s official color. As she was finishing, an over-accessorized elderly woman tapped her arm. “Do you mind helping me?” she asked, her glassy eyes reminding Josie of jellyfish.
La Belleza had two areas for consultations—a couple of chairs up front and two more on the back side where Pauline wouldn’t see her working. “Of course. Have a seat,” Josie said. “Have you used our products before?”
“No, I’ve always used Noxzema and Ivory soap,” she said, trying to get settled in the chair which was too high for her petite frame. “I’ve been wanting to try this stuff after seeing Sergio on QVC. What a fine ass he has!”
Josie cracked up. Sergio, jazz-hand waving, rainbow hottie that he was, certainly got the older women fired up and eager to try this line. This type of bawdy lady is exactly what she needed today to take her mind off Finley. “I’ll just gather up my weapons of choice and we’ll get started,” she said.
At the station where Pauline worked, she asked to borrow cotton rounds and cleanser.
“Excuse me, Chelsea,” Pauline said to her client who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. “This will only take a moment.” She turned to Josie. “Until you’re certified, I don’t want to see you touch another face. Is that understood?”
“You’re busy and La Belleza stresses that we shouldn’t make our clients wait.” Josie looked over her shoulder to make sure her customer hadn’t left.
“Stall her until I’m done here. These teenagers,” she whispered, “are nothing but a waste of time. They never buy. Start off with a hand massage and when I finish with Chelsea, I’ll do the consult and makeover.” She was like a teacher barking orders, but Josie wasn’t wasting what energy she had on Pauline today. She’d start with the hand massage and go from there.
The client’s eyes were closed when she returned, and snores puttered from her lips. “Ma’am?” Josie tapped her shoulder. The woman startled. “Sorry. Hope it was a good dream.”
“Oh yes,” she moaned. “I was laying on the beach without a stitch of clothing, and along comes this glorious naked man who—I better shut my mouth.”
“Maybe I ought to let you go back to sleep,” Josie said, smiling as she set the cotton pads, cleanser, and face chart on the small island counter. “Do you mind giving me your name? We can go over this how-to guide once we have you looking young as a coed.”
“Wilma. Mrs. Wilma Youngblood, widowed and ready for romance.” She popped open her mouth as if shocked by her own words. “I’m almost ninety and let me tell you, a woman’s needs don’t disappear. Ye Olde Thatched Cottage doesn’t seal its roof if you know what I’m saying.” She slapped her thigh and laughed.
Josie fell in love with Wilma Youngblood on the spot. “If you’re going to start trolling for men, let’s get those hands soft as kittens. I’m going to give you a heavenly hand massage.”
“I’d rather be giving a handsome fellow a heavenly hand job,” she said. Josie heard a honk of laughter. Monica had returned from lunch and decided Mrs. Youngblood was far more entertaining than trying to sell Moisture Surge. They exchanged a wide-eyed glance, the kind that says, Stick around. We’re about to get a show here.
Josie needed to steer Wilma down another lane before a lower-level manager called security on the woman. “That’s a wonderful handbag,” she said of Wilma’s vintage crocodile purse, which she clutched as if protecting a baby. “I’ll need to put it somewhere safe before we start.”
After storing the bag, Josie mixed Manos Suaves with a spritz of the En Flor perfume, heavy and cloying with the scent of gardenias. “The hands have lots of nerves and pleasure points. I’m going to treat you today before we start on your face.”
She held out her ancient arm clanking with bracelets and waved her gnarled fingers strangled in diamonds. “It’s like that church I used to go to where they always wanted to wash my feet. I’d just as soon show people my little cottage as my goat hooves.”
Josie heard Monica laughing nearby, as she squeezed the lotion bottle so hard a glob shot out, pale pink cream landing on Wilma’s silk scarf. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. Let me blot that for you or you can take it off and I’ll have it laundered for you.”
“You think I’m going to yank this off and show you my traffic stoppers? I wear scarves so the men don’t stare at my offerings.” She shimmied her chest like an adult dancer.
Josie unleashed a bemused snort but didn’t respond, not wanting to encourage this. She dabbed the woman’s ruined scarf, took her hand, and massaged the arthritic knots. Mrs. Youngblood tipped her head and closed her eyes, probably imagining Sergio had swept her up and forgotten for a moment his gayness or that she was older than the automobile.
This was why Josie preferred working weekdays. It was quieter, or at least more entertaining. Women shopping during business hours had such charming, no-nonsense demeanors. Maybe because they weren’t trapped at a desk nine-to-five, racing home during rush hour to get a meat and two sides on the table. Then there were these older women who either loved what she’d done to their faces or were too many cataracts away from caring.
When Josie reached for Mrs. Youngblood’s other hand, she stopped her. “I don’t see a ring on that finger,” she said, pointing at Josie’s left hand. “Pretty thing like you ought’n be single.”
“I was married for almost twenty years,” Josie said. Gosh, that was almost half her life with Frank. “I promised myself no more men until I got a few things straight with myself first.”
“Was it the sex?” Wilma asked and Josie colored. No, she wanted to say. That was the only part that worked. “You young people need to realize exactly how we oldies made even the impossible work in our day. Let me tell you this in case you happen upon another fellow.” She reached for Josie’s arm and drew her closer. “Never turn your husband away. I don’t care how tired you are or how many dishes are gathering flies in the sink. I don’t care if the cat box is full or if the baby’s diaper weighs more than the television. You all need to realize that men are simple and need only three things.”
“And what are those, Mrs. Youngblood?” Josie figured she’d say something along the lines of “The good Lord, a good woman, and the need to be right.”
“The three essential things a real man needs,” she said, her voice building, “are food, fucks, and a TV turned to ballgames.” Her face lit up and she seemed to enjoy the anything-goes speech that’s afforded the elderly.
Josie held a hand over her mouth to suppress laughter. A customer stopped in her tracks, looking appalled. When Josie saw Monica’s astonished face in her peripheral vision, she lost control and laughed so hard a trickle warmed her Lane Bryants.
She thought about the types of laughs: polite and restrained, genuine but not mind-blowing, and her favorite, the kind so deep it brought tears. She wiped her eyes as Pauline hot-footed over and led her toward the escalator.
“Get a friggin’ grip,” she said. “She is one of our biggest spenders, you idiot. Did you see her handbag? That’s real alligator. I’ll take over now with Mrs. Palmer.”
“Her name is Mrs. Youngblood and you can’t possibly know her. She’s never been to this counter in her life.”
Pauline sashayed up to Mrs. Youngblood and placed a territorial hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Take your hands off me,” Wilma shouted. “I’m having the time of my life with that other woman there.” She flicked her hand at Pauline. “Shoo, fly, shoo. Go on now, ya hear me?”
“Josie isn’t certified. I’ll be taking over now.”
Wilma leapt with surprising agility from the chair. “I don’t care if she doesn’t know shit from Shinola. This is my business I’m bringing to this department store and I’ll—”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Youngblood. Pauline has lots more experience than I do. Be sure and come say bye before leaving. I want to see that makeover Pauline does on you.”
“Well, for shit’s sake. I hope I don’t leave this store looking like she does. You know how every time you go to the beautician, you come out with the same haircut she has? All these beauty sorts do is turn you into a version of themselves. I can already tell by looking at her she’s a wet rag. Looks like a scrawny crow, I’d say. Like if she can’t find a hamburger soon, she won’t live another day.”
Pauline, hands on hips, stupid grin on her face, seemed unshaken by these comments. Probably because she wasn’t half listening.
Wilma’s eyes twinkled as she faced me. “Now don’t you forget my advice about the menfolk. I had a sister whose seventy-nine-year-old husband shot her in the ass for refusing sex. These men take it seriously, honey, wrong as that rascal was.”
