Arts
Fiction: The Bra Store
The
Bra Store
by Inga Singer
Ed
is the one who told her I needed new bras. I thought I ought to - to go
with him, my new husband. You couldn't get them in Vermont easily, except
at the general stores, and I like to try mine on first. I must have mentioned
this to Ed. So Ed told his mom, because we were visiting her in Brooklyn,
and she likes to feel useful – that's what Ed said. She immediately
thought of Miss Pauline's, but couldn't remember the name, so she looked
in the phone book. Mom looked under lingerie first. She said lingerie
so the i's sound like mystery. She's my mother-in-law, of course, but
she is accustomed to being called mom, and I am trying to show deference.
Why? It's so un-American. Wait, maybe not. Wait, maybe. Anyway, I don't
mean to be political. You can think about it later. My father escaped
the Nazi invasion of Hungary, and my mother was an addict. They shared
and kept these secrets, and taught me how to pronounce lingerie instead.
Sure, thanks. Back at the phone book, Ed and mom were gaining momentum,
while I was rolling in memories and why does that sometimes feel as if
one is losing ground? Now I know, and you do, too, that you will find
Miss Pauline's in the yellow pages under corsets, not lingerie.
We took the car and mom dropped me off in
front of Miss Pauline's while she looked for a parking space. When Ed
was a little boy, he once told me, his mom would take him with her while
she shopped for this thing, this lingerie. He would try desperately to
seem preoccupied as long as they were in the store. Oh yeah, a boy thing.
Then what was making me feel funny? I was still trying to win his mother's
approval, but did good Jewish girls have to go shopping for underwear
with their mother-in-laws?
The place was tight and narrow – an
unpolished hardwood floor trodden into pale paths, a glass-topped counter
on each side, slightly dull, their contents obscured by bits of satin
and lace. A tall display on top dangled a scanty red spandex bra and pants.
Phew. Phew, repeated a tiny voice inside me. An equally tiny spark of
panic shot through me, but I couldn't figure out why.
All the other goods, I assumed, were hidden
in the hundreds of little boxes in the hundreds of little shelves covering
three of the walls, floor to ceiling. Every box was either pink or white.
Above the entrance door, on the fourth wall, were posters of lovely young
women with lovely young figures wearing enticingly lovely lacey things,
and satiny things, stretchy things, pushy things, revealing things. Blouses
or soft robes thrown passionately back over their shoulders, love in their
eyes. One is seated, long thighs parted just so. That one, I thought;
I wonder how she is in bed, and went on as if no great insight had jumped
up, waving its hand. With me, a little voice inside me was shouting, with
me! I didn't recognize the voice, but the spark of panic was fanning hotter.
I had to wait for one of the sales ladies,
since they were all occupied with clients. Miss Pauline -- it could only
be her -- was fifty-ish with a red-glo coiffure, black rim glasses and
a heavy bust. She wore a brown dress and probably was unable to see her
feet looking down, which could explain the shoes. Then again, all her
clients had her racing around that tiny store, climbing ladders to reach
those little white or pink boxes shelved up so high. There were two other
sales ladies. One was younger and wore her hair down. She was in a sweatshirt
and thin, tight bluejeans. I was assigned to her, but had to wait because
at first they were all busy attending.
The youngest client had you're-so-blonde
bangs and a short blunt cut, long black nylon eyelashes, a fur coat, big
diamond rings, grey sweat pants and sneakers. She fondled a beige satin
bra, eyes half-closed, and waited for her bill. The cash register was
antique. So was an old Pfaff sewing machine standing in the corner.
Miss Pauline asked me in passing, “Whaddaya
looking for?”
I had no idea where to start. My chest was
pounding now. My ears were ringing.
"Oh," flailing, flailing, "cotton, please, and uh, 34B."
I whispered the size, overwhelmed by the feminine surrounding. Could I
be a part of this? And tell me, is that a hope, a wish, a rhetorical question
or did I need an answer? Hello-o, said the little voice inside me, waving
its hand, I know! I didn't acknowledge it.
Mom came in and sat down in a very
small chair next to the register and chatted with Miss Pauline. They seemed
so cozy. I could barely look at them. I didn't know where to look. Born
and raised in Manhattan and I didn't know where to look. When had my city
haught left me? I've changed since I moved to Vermont. I make up new words.
I'm getting to know myself. Slowly.
The sales lady tossed some flimsy things
on the counter for me and I snatched them up and escaped to the dressing
room, to hide. On the way in, half-closed curtains offered alarming glimpses
of pale, rolling flesh and hands pushing and pulling at corsets. Black
satin, lace trim corsets. I drew a pink curtain closed behind me and tried
to catch my breath. How was it that they were so shameless, and I, so
shamed? How could they be so accepting of themselves, I wondered. Why
can’t I breathe, I wondered. I don’t belong here, I thought.
Well, keep going, anyway, I thought.
I was barely into the second bra when the
sales lady threw open my curtain and tossed in a couple more.
"Whaddaya think?"
"Oh," I said, "thanks, uh."
I heard her in the front of the store, talking
to mom.
"What is she looking for?" Naturally
the sales lady was confused by my response. "Is she getting married?"
"No!" mom said, or shouted, rather.
"She just did get married. She wants something sexy!" Oh? That
one with the thighs on the poster -- that's sexy, I thought. You're getting
warmer! said my little voice.
"Oohhhh!" said the sales lady,
"something sexy!"
The next bras that came flying through the
pink curtain were sexy. And the sexier they were, the worse I felt. Delicate
black lace and tiny pearls. Pretty. Satin, shimmery sheer pink. Lace on
top and satin below. Now how does this one go on? The sales lady came
back and looked at the bra I was in.
"It doesn't fit," I said, overcome.
"Sure it does," she said, and
she started pinching at the fabric, touching my breasts, telling me they
could make a little adjustment here, or here. An adjustment? I thought,
that's an understatement. Argh! the voice was making my chest hurt, You're
right on it! Come on! I'm getting laryngitis here!
"It doesn't fit," I said again,
although the bra was fine, really. The tiny closet of a dressing room
was stifling.
Meanwhile a conversation from the front
of the store rose in volume. And now the whole store was talking, from
the front of the store, from each of the dressing rooms.
"She just got married," someone
said. "That's when it matters. She should wear something sexy."
"It doesn't last – it doesn't
matter after a while. Twenty years I'm married and I know, it doesn't
matter."
"It doesn't matter?! It ALWAYS matters!"
came the thundering last word.
"Oh, you're out!" mom shouted.
"Not yet," sighed the voice.
"What did you get?" mom wanted
to know. I showed her one white, one pink, and one black.
"Good," mom said, and that was all.
Thank God, I thought.
"All imported," the sales lady
was saying, "25 percent discount every day."
Writer "Inga Singer" is a mother of four, earned an MFA
and a law degree, and has lived in Vermont since 1992.