A Bright Soothing Noise

The Blue Carriage

69 The Blue Carriage Joanie rode the E into Manhattan three Saturdays in a row but found nothing good and no one helpful . On the fourth Saturday, she laid on the bright blood-colored lipstick, lashed her hair into a gleaming bun, put on her pinstripe suit, her paisley neckerchief and her heels. Now when she walked into the stores in midtown, the clerks either scattered or ran towards her. She asked a few sharp questions at Macy’s and a sales manager made three calls and sent her to Albee’s uptown. At Albee’s the salesman, with a pencil behind his ear and the name Morris embroidered on his apron, was too old and bored to be intimidated by the outfit. She pointed a pencil at him and then at her list of questions, but he had already walked away. He pointed down the aisle: he meant to show her the models that were moving fast. First was the TrèsChic line from Montreal, which was in his opinion more popular, et cetera, than the rest. One in the window had blue patent-leather mudflaps and a blue parasol printed with white lollipops. The Hans Solo model had Nerf-rocket launchers on either side and was a hot ticket too, he said, with the Upper West Side types. Joanie, who admitted she knew nothing, argued anyway for a more conventional model and color, something blue or yellow or even neutral. 70 A BRIGHT SOOTHING NOISE “Neutral?” said Morris. She asked about a blue one that looked reasonable, with a reasonable price, but Morris took her too firmly by the elbow, like an errant child, to show her what he had in back. He said almost all the popular ones had the lock-and-catch. Some collapsed sideways like an accordion or forward like a jackknife and each horrified Joanie, who imagined her little sister’s tiny daughter crushed to death in some desolating accident Joanie would forever take the guilt for. Morris smiled. He repeated himself over and over, moving his big finger back and forth in front of her face, as if to hypnotize her. Then he waved at each of the carriages, asking her to imagine an adorable little baby inside. He smiled at her again, showing his lousy teeth, like a carnie who would offer her anything off his shelf of teddy bears, only two bits a shot. The carriage her sister had now was filthy, the canvas ragged at the seams. According to her mom, a disgrace. And now that the baby, Louisa, was eleven months, Rachel was pregnant again. On the phone Ma said Rachel had made her promise up and down she would not tell Joanie. Rachel wanted to surprise Joanie when she came home at Christmastime and would kill her (Ma became more and more upset as she said this) if she found out Ma had let on. “But,” her mother had managed to say, through all the emotion, “the carriage for Louisa is a sure bet.” Joanie broke away a minute, walking off and ignoring Morris, though for a few seconds he failed to notice. She wandered the row of four- and eight-wheelers, replaying her mom’s aggression on the phone. Joanie had thanked her for the idea, whereby Ma opened her attack. How can you thank me for breaking a promise ? What if Rachel finds out? And you! Some big sister! How come you never talk to her? Where has this family gone wrong? What has become of your life? How come you never had your own children? You’re too sophisticated for children. The Blue Carriage 71 Morris followed her, saying nothing. Once he caught her attention again he started right in. He waved all his fingers at her now and when she closed her eyes she saw them, a whole long string of dancing sausages under a spell designed to levitate the MasterCard from her purse or else cause her to disappear in a blue tuft of smoke. Joanie opened her eyes and watched him talk and understood that under his endless pitch and pushiness he was a simple old man who only wanted to get back to his newspaper, his cigarette, his coffee. She heard nothing of what he said, only the inner demon who hissed at her, reminding her that maybe Ma was right, she had wasted her life, that she regretted...