Dating Without Novocaine. Lisa Cach

mind someday being Ms. DeFrang. She was in her late forties, fit in that spalike way wealthy women look fit, but without the usual accompanying manacles of gold and diamonds on wrists and fingers. Her hair was cut in a bob similar to mine, and she wore minimal makeup. Her clothes were simple and obviously expensive, and I knew it would be beneath her dignity to show the name of a designer, or to sport a style that showed a hint of trendiness.

      How she’d ended up in that nouveau neighborhood, I don’t know. She seemed too good for it.

      She was too good for me, too, but she was the type who would consider it a mark of bad breeding if she ever let her awareness of that show.

      I’d felt like a tacky frump following her around her house, my shoes looking like the discount store copies they were, my pantyhose showing the coarseness of knit available only at the grocery store. My blouse I’d made myself, copying one I’d seen at Saks, but with its sleeves that belled at the wrist and the ruffle at the surplice neckline, it felt gauche when confronted with Ms. DeFrang’s timelessness.

      “She wouldn’t be caught dead here,” I said.

      “Huh?”

      “Ms. DeFrang. But if she had to come here, she’d make it look like she was pleased to be invited.”

      “Then she has more grace than I do. Why did I let you talk me into this? Remind me?”

      “Ah, come on. You need new experiences,” I said as we shoved our way into the theater and fought our way to our seats.

      “No, I don’t.”

      “You’ll have a great story to tell,” I said.

      “If I survive.”

      “There are dads with their kids here. It’s family fun!”

      “They’ll all grow up to be murderers.”

      We sat down, and I tucked between my feet the paper bag with the costume I was going to deliver.

      “So she wants you to copy the entire master suite?” Louise asked, going back to Ms. DeFrang.

      “The entire thing, only in different fabrics that she’s ordering from her decorator. She and her husband have a house on Orcas Island, up in Puget Sound, with the same basic layout as the one in Camas. And she wants me to do the guest bedroom up there, too, that her mother-in-law uses.”

      “So, what is it, dust ruffles and duvets?”

      “And about a dozen decorative pillows, and hangings for the beds. A lot of it is simple stuff, but the pillows are going to be a little tricky. They’ve got contrasting striped borders, piping that I have to make myself, mitred corners. They’re going to be a pain. And I have to order the pillow forms myself, from a wholesaler.”

      “But that’s why you get the big bucks.”

      “Oh, yeah, I’m rolling in it.”

      The announcer came out, a late middle-aged man with a belly and light brown hair in a pompadour, his skin craggy and mottled. He started his spiel, trying—vainly, I thought—to add drama to the lineup of local wrestlers.

      “The Logger, straight from the backwoods where they eat owls for dinner,” he said, to a mix of cheers and boos from the crowd. “The Body Bag, and you know why he’s called that—”

      “He sends them home in a bag!” a kid to our right yelled.

      “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Louise said.

      “We’ll just wait until Elroy has his match, then go down to the dressing room.” Elroy was my client, whose new spandex pants I had in the bag between my feet. I’d done costumes for a couple wrestlers down in Eugene when I’d worked at the alterations shop, and they’d passed my name along.

      There was something perverse about it, but I had a bit of a thing for wrestlers. Not these locals sorts so much, but the ones on the WWF had a way of catching my eye. Those greased-up, muscled bodies throwing each other around called to something primal within me.

      Not that I could see myself married to one of them. They were the toys of my imagination, and I was happy to keep them there, where their oiled locks wouldn’t stain my pillows. Although maybe just once…

      A round of cheers went up as the first wrestlers came out, one of them flanked by two women who looked as though they lived under a bar. The wrestlers were no more appealing, their bulk in their barrel chests coated with a layer of fat.

      “My butt has better muscle tone than either of theirs,” Louise said. “Don’t these guys work out?”

      “They always start the evening with the unknowns. The later guys will be a little more interesting.”

      “I can hardly wait.”

      Some of the young boys in the audience were getting excited by the match, shouting and booing, and there were some drunk college-age guys being obnoxious a few rows down. The rest of the house had a tired feel to it, as if seeing a porky guy in lace-up red boots being thrown onto a wrestling mat wasn’t fine entertainment.

      “I want to see some blood,” Louise said. “Blood!” she said in a half shout.

      The kid next to us heard her, and took up the cry. “Blood! Blood! Bust him open!”

      The boy’s father leaned around his son and gave us a dirty look. I shrugged helplessly, trying to look innocent. He shook his head and leaned back.