Love Always

23

WHEN Andrew got back to the inn, Lillian was out. When she did return from shopping, though, she had quite a story to tell him. She had been browsing through Sweet Sincerity, a shop that carried cotton nightgowns and bed jackets from the 1920s, fans, and other pretty, old-fashioned ephemera. Lillian and one other woman were the only customers. They were both flipping through the racks of clothes when two women came into the store, asked the woman behind the cash register whether she was the owner, then suggested that she stock useful things for the contemporary woman, such as thermal underwear, body-building devices, hiking boots, and Mace.

“Women must provide for women,” one of the women said. “The day of the damsel is gone. We should not nourish ourselves with refined sugar,” she said, pointing to the gold boxes of Godiva chocolates stacked by the cash register, “but with healthy proteins and carbohydrates that will be transformed into healthy body power.”

“Give me a break,” the woman behind the cash register said. She was in her twenties, with a pink streak painted in her short, curly hair and cheeks heavily rouged a deeper pink than her hair.

“The enlightenment of women can allow for a new radiance in our society. Pectoral power, not penis envy,” the woman said, hitting the counter. “I would suggest that in place of those Debbie Harry and Annie Lennox stills, you hang pictures of women such as Margaret Bourke-White and Dr. Helen Caldicott.”

“Oh, shit,” the saleswoman said. “I left the Upper West Side to hear this hysterical shit?”

The woman who stood beside the woman lecturing the store owner stepped forward. “Maybe you could put up a picture of Margaret Mead,” she said.

“Listen,” the owner said, a pink curl falling over her forehead, “I busted my ass to get the kind of store that I want, and suggestions about how I decorate it are really out of line.”

“It is never too late to change your thinking,” the first woman said. “Inner power will provide outer beauty. Consider Helen Hooven Santmyer.” She turned toward the woman who stood beside her and raised her eyebrows.

“Sophia Loren,” the woman said.

“Sophia Loren,” the older woman said. “How would she be an example?”

“She’s a businesswoman. She sells Sophia perfume.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the older woman said. “She’s a pawn of the media. She’s a terrible example.”

“I don’t believe this,” the owner said. “In New York they just come in and tie you up and take the money and then shoot you or not. Here, I’ve got to die of boredom.”

A woman who had been flipping through the rows of nightgowns and who had averted her eyes through the confrontation started to move toward the front of the store. “My name is Davina Cole,” the older woman said, reaching out to stop her. “I notice that you are pregnant. I hope that if the child you are carrying is female, that it will be all-powerful. You may communicate more power to the child by wearing Extra Large camouflage shirts as nightgowns, rather than purchasing any of this silly frippery.”

“I’m calling the cops,” the owner said. Her nails were so long that she dialed the phone with the back of a pencil.

Police Officer Brown’s wife, as she walked out of the store, knew just what she was escaping. The shop owner would live to regret calling for help; she could hardy wait to hear his version of what happened when he got home.

There were only a few seconds in which Lillian was the only other customer in the shop. When the owner began talking to the police about the women who were causing a disturbance in her store, Lillian moved toward the front of the store to leave. Myra DeVane walked in just then, hoping to find something suitable to wear to her rendezvous with Edward at the Plaza. Almost at once she realized that there was a problem — but it was also a problem that interested her: the woman who was stacking pamphlets on the counter had to be Davina Cole.

“Masculine tumescence has caused mind-boggling tragedy,” Davina Cole said to the owner.

Lillian began to wonder about her notions of easygoing, small-town life.

Myra DeVane took out her wallet and flashed her Press card. “Tell me what you’re here to protest,” she said.

“The subversion of women through sentimental desensitizing,” Davina Cole said. “Misogyny will be overcome when women wear the mantle of power.”

“My long-suffering ass,” the owner said. “Everybody else closes this time of year, and I stay open. Then two dykes walk in and want to make a Christmas tree ornament into a cannon-ball. Where the hell are those cops?”

“And who are you?” Myra said, writing.

“Maureen Hildon,” the other woman said.

Myra looked up. “I just interviewed your husband,” she said.

“Her husband is involved in masculine-dominated, oppressive capitalism,” Davina said.

“Is that right?” Myra said to Maureen, fishing in her purse for her recorder.

“Well,” Maureen said, “the number of women on his staff is not representative.”

“Have you spoken to your husband about that?” Myra said, putting her recorder on the counter, next to the pamphlets and candy boxes.

“They no longer communicate,” Davina Cole said. “With new-found power, Maureen is devoting herself to maximizing her strength so that the enemy can be subverted.”

“That’s right,” Maureen said. “But don’t think of me as Sophia Loren.”

“Sophia Loren?” Myra said.

“A token,” Maureen said. “A creation of the male-dominated media.”

At that point, Officer Pasani opened the door and, with his partner, walked into the store. Myra suddenly stiffened into the reporter who is all eyes and ears. Caught under the heel of Officer Brown’s regulation black shoe was a wadded-up, regulation size McDonald’s french-fry bag. “Okay,” Brown said, hitching up his pants. “What’s the problem on this lovely day, ladies?”

Officer Pasani removed his hat and held it over his heart, as if the National Anthem had just been struck up.