Free Durable Goods by Elizabeth Berg Page A

that one?” “Well, of course, if
you
do, dear.” Yes, and an ashtrayfor guests who smoke, and a candy dish, all with wrapped-up toffees.
    In the mornings I would have my friends over. There would be a big blue plate of doughnuts, powdered sugar and whatever else they wanted, and we would talk about what we were going to do that day. “Well, he is taking me somewhere tonight, but I sure don’t know where,” I would say, and my friends would rustle a bit, excited and glad for me to have a romantic husband. Millions of times I would tell them it wasn’t always so easy for me. “Oh!” They’d wave their hands. “You are just so lucky! You have always been so lucky!”
    “Well,” I would say, “I know it seems so.”
    I would vacuum with a new loud cleaner, wash clothes and hang them out on my own rope lines. I would be a mother to beautiful children I would fold into my skirts and keep safe. At night we would all watch our favorite TV shows and if someone wanted to talk, well fine let them.
    I sit in the black chair, close my eyes. This makes me dizzy, so I open them again. I hear someonecoming down the hall and I stand up. Diane comes into the room, smiles at me. “Sorry.”
    “For what?”
    She leans closer. “Did you drink that whole beer?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Shit!” She starts to laugh.
    “Shit!” I say, too. It’s easy as pie.
    I start to march around the room. “I shit, you shit, he shits,” I say. Then, confidentially, “Conjugation.”
    “My God, Dickie,” Diane says, “look what you did.”
    “Oh, no, Diane,” I say. “This is
me
talking.”
    Dickie comes into the living room, tucking in his shirt. Then he pulls a comb out of his pocket, pulls it expertly through his hair. He looks at me for a minute, then smiles. “Hell, she’s shit-faced.”
    Diane is suddenly serious. “This is bad, Dickie. Jesus. We can’t take her home like this.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “She doesn’t have to go home. Let’s take her out to dinner with us.”
    Diane looks at me, hands on hips. “You want to come?”
    I am their pet girl. They are having a good time with me. “I can make us dinner,” I say. “I’m a good cook.” A vision: us at the table, an embroidered cloth in place, pastel bowls of potatoes, corn, green beans, a square meat loaf, apple pie waiting on the side. Me saying, “Pass me another beer, will you?” and Dickie saying, “Damn, she
is
a good cook, Diane!” and Diane getting, oh, yes, just a teensy bit jealous. Diane is beautiful, but all she makes are brown-sugar sandwiches.
    “Let’s go to A&W,” Dickie says.
    Well, that’s fine, too, of course. My contentment is thick and lasting, like butter on bread. A&W is fine.
    B y the time we arrive home, I am sober again. It is seven in the evening. Dickie and Diane let me off, then drive away. I regret their going, though I knew, of course, it would come to this. I stand by the side of the road, sighing. The sun is low in the sky, deep red.
    “Katie!” I hear Cherylanne calling me from her bedroom window. “Hey, Katie!” Then, as I get closer, “Where have you
been?”
    I go into her house, climb the stairs slowly. She is waiting in her bedroom, dressed in a flowered bathrobe and her pink fuzzy slippers. She has silver clips on either side of her head, to make spit curls. There is a thin layer of cold cream on her face, making her appear slightly ill.
    “Where are you going?” I ask.
    “Where have you been?” she answers.
    I lie down on her bed, stretch out luxuriously. “Drinking with Dickie and Diane. Drinking beer.”
    She stands still, then offers, as though offended, “I doubt it.”
    I shrug. “Doubt it. That’s where I’ve been. I had Lone Star beer. I bet you can smell it on my breath.”
    She steps closer, leans in, sniffs delicately. “All I smell is onions. You’d better eat some parsley right away.” That tip she got from watching
Miss America
, I know.
    “I don’t care if I smell like onions,” I