Something in Red

By Rita Plush

Was it being passed over at work, again? A date who didn’t call back, again? One thing was certain: Allison was in a funk, and neither her new juicer nor the spin class everyone had raved about was able to pry her out of it. Nor was staring at the window in her pjs, this fine spring morning. 

She dug into her closet for something to wear. Beige and gray, gray and beige, her neutral, non-commital go-tos; she surely wouldn’t find the lift she was looking for in there. She needed to cut loose! Be bold for a change! Red! Allison suddenly thought, taking in her dreary wardrobe. That’s what she needed to put some life in her life. And not just any red. A daring—Hester Prynne-where-are-you?—scarlet red. A magical, click-three-times-and-I’m-home-Judy Garland-ruby-red. Emboldened, she set out for the mall. 

Pickings there were slim; red, she discovered, was not an in color, and if she did chance upon the odd item—you call this red?—the fit was wrong.  

But wait! Maybe here, she thought on the way home; that little consignment shop shouldered between a drycleaner and a shoe repair. She found a spot out front and parked.

The storefront was deceiving, dark and bare; she had to edge your way into the door. But inside, the space spanned out light and airy, the stock, neatly arranged on shelves, in see-through bins and hung on rods, color-wise. Allison had never seen a shop arranged according to color. 

“Hel-oh-oh… Anybody home?” Nothing. She waited a beat then had herself a look around. There was blue, there was green, there was yellow and there was pink. She went through the stock methodically, but nowhere in this color wheel of a store could she find anything that she’d label red. 

About to head for the door, Allison saw an elderly woman, hair in pin curls, a faded plaid bathrobe and men’s backless house slippers shuffling toward her.

“Watcha lookin’ fer, dearie?” 

The woman’s upper teeth were missing. But not for long. She fished around in the pockets of her bathrobe, reeled in what she was looking for, clicked the choppers in place and flashed Allison a gleaming, porcelain smile. This is a shopkeeper?  This is grannie, circa 1950’s, rolled right out of Central Casting. “Something in red?” Allison asked, trying to cover her surprise.  

“Don’t have hardly nothin in red. No call for it these days. What you want with red anyways?” The woman raised one arm doggie style, and with the opposite hand gave the underside a long lazy scratch.

Too self-conscious to talk about her blue mood, Allison said she was looking for a gift.

“Makes more sense, that does.” The woman gave the shopper the onceover. “You don’t look the red type.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I couldn’t pull that color off if I wanted to.”

“With your shoulders slumped down around your toes and your eyebrows knit like you was callin up that Frieda Kahlo painter? You gotta be red before you wear it. You gotta put that fire inside you. Inside…” the woman repeated, tapping her own chest. “To outside.” And poked a finger at Allison. “That’s the way it works, dearie. And why you such a scaredy-cat anyways, with that pretty face a yours and them green eyes?”

“Well, my mother told me…”

“My mama done told me when I was in pigtails…” sultry-voiced and singing the blues, the woman belted it out like she was Ella Fitzgerald herself. “My mama done told meee… uuhm… A man’s gonna sweet talk and give you the big aii…“ then, “Pardon my pardon, but I get carried away sometimes. You ever do that? Get a feelin to break outta your own self and don’t care what nobody says or does about it?” 

“Does coming in here to buy something red count?” Allison said in her shy way, then uneasy talking about herself, “You have such a beautiful voice. Did you ever sing professionally?”  

“Had a run with it back in the day, but let’s talk some business bout you. What you want and how you’re gonna get it. You how old?”

“Thirty-two?”

“You either is or you ain’t! I ask a question, don’t be answerin’ with another. You sound like you don’t know wind from rain. Maybe is why some dumb ninny got that pro-motion stead a you.” 

“How do you know?!”

The woman swatted the remark away as she would a pesky fly. “Don’t know nothin that one, but she say it like she do. She walk into a wall folks run to it because they think she knowthe way. Con-fi-dence, dearie. Con-fi-dence! You gottcha self a fella?”

“Well, no. I… they…”

“What your mama tell you bout them boys anyways? Don’t let them touch ya here. Don’t let them touch ya there?” She patted her old bathrobe here and there respectively. “Thirty-two and you still listen to your mama.” The woman flashed a look so strong it left a mark. “She a scaredy cat like you? She done you any good with all your listenin’?” 

“Well, no, but I…” 

“Well, no, but I…” the woman mimicked and not in a kind way. “Speak up, girl! You got words inside-ya, let em out for mercy’s sake!” 

“That’s the trouble; I’m no good at it.” 

“That because you don’t ever do it!” You gotta do and do and do! That how you get good at a thing. Not by lookin’ at it! Thinkin’ and cryin’ ‘bout it! Words ‘pilin’ up inside a ya, stoppin’ yaup, gottcha all rounded over like a itty-bitty babe growin inside its mama. Land sakes, girl! I gotta teach ya everythin? Open that mouth a’yours, let them words out. But not all’a them; bore the livin’ daylights outta folks you tell em everthin on your mind. Specially with them fellas. There ya gotta go a little easy. Some like a clever woman, but not too clever. So you feel your way with those type. Let them be the smarty pants and you’ll be fillin’ up that dance card a’yours no time flat.” 

And with that the woman started to sway and turn, lift a leg—grannie’s got legs!—raise up an arm. A slap of hands, a snap of fingers, a stomp step, a drop step, with all the grace of a Ginger Rogers, humming along as she flitted among the bins and rods of her consignment goods in her faded plaid robe. “Pardon my pardon,” she said arriving beside Allison once again, nary a breath out of place. “Like I said, sometimes I get carried away.” 

Allison too was carried away—by all she had heard from this strange woman who seemed to know so much about her. Though she didn’t have any idea of what she was going to do about any of it, when she left the shop, her back was a little straighter, her brow a little smoother.

She began to have a say at work. To comment on the weekly memos. The more she spoke her mind, the more her mind spoke up. Why, just last week after the dumb ninny (Allison did like that soubriquet) nattered on at a department meeting, Allison thoughtfully offered, “That could work… but maybe we could try it this way.” And she laid out a more innovative plan by which the company could save both money and time. “Nice work, Allison,” said the section manager. “Very nice.” 

Dating was more of a challenge. One-on-one with a man made her self-conscious. Was she saying the right thing? Talking enough, but not too much? …clever… but not too clever. Yet, over time, she became more relaxed with men, more focused on her dates themselves—maybe because she was do-do-doing it—than making a good impression. 

One night, excited about the book she was reading, she told a new fellow: “The foreshadowing was there, but still… that ending… a real punch-in-the-gut!” She gave the air a little bump. “I never expected that to happen!” Surprised with the ease and pleasure that came from expressing herself. 

“Interesting,” he said, staring at her, taking her in. “But tell me. Your dress; what color is that?”

“Jade.” Allison had been adding color to her wardrobe. “Do you like it?”

“Love it! It brings out your eyes. Do you know, you have the most amazing green eyes?”

Her? Amazing eyes? Allison had never thought anything about herself was amazing. And then—she sang! “Those cool and limpid green eyes,” à la Helen O’Connell. Did she even know who Helen O’Connell was? “A pool wherein my love liiies…” Where had that come from? That abandon? That impulsive devil-may-care display? Had someone taken over her mind and her mouth? But she couldn’t stop. “They will ever taunt meee…  all through my life they’ll haunt meee… Huh! Oh my God,” she said as if suddenly brought out of a trance. “I’m so mortified! You must think I’m a fool.” 

​ “A fool? No way!” He reached for her hand and held it. “I like that you just came out with it. You felt like singing, you sang! When can I see you again? Is tomorrow too soon?” 

“Not soon enough,” she said, all reckless and brazen. You can come up to my place and touch me all over. Outta my way, Mom. You had your say; it’s mine turn now! 

Allison was feeling good about herself. Her life didn’t seem so dead-endish anymore, but filled with possibility. Allison had an idea who was responsible for the changes. She wanted to thank the woman, and so on her next free day, off she went down town. 

That’s odd, she thought, spotting the drycleaner; it butted up to the shoe repair. She was sure she was on the right street. But where was the consignment shop? 

“Excuse me,” she said to the man behind the counter sorting a jumble of blouses, skirts and jackets. “The woman’s consignment shop next door. Did it go out of business? Did you take over the space?” 

He looked at her in a quizzical way. 

“Next door!” she repeated with emphasis. “A little shop!” She brought her hands close. “Between you and the shoe repair!” She could hear the agitation in her voice, but she knew the shop had been there. “An old lady! Pin curls! In a bathrobe!” giving as much detail as she could, while the man stared at her as if she was speaking in tongues. 

“Sorry,” he finally said, tagging an order. “No old lady. No pin curls. And no bathrobe.” In a bored way he pushed the sorted clothing to one side and dumped out another batch to work on. 

She took in the entire inventory, as if the plastic-bundled clothing might yield some clue as to how a shop right next door just months ago could vanish, then “That!” head up, finger high. “What’s that up there?”

The man took note, unenthused. “Beats me.” He worked a button under the counter. The conveyer looped along, down and around its clickety-clack route. The garment inside its dusty shield flipped and turned, jerking its empty arms as of someone inside was trying to break free, till it came to an abrupt halt and all was still. He undid the item from its slot, laid it across his workspace. “What’s his old thing?” He flicked it dismissively with the back of his hand.

“Oh!” Allison said as if she had been flicked.

The robe was old, and worn, and plaid. A chill ran through her. Could it be? But how? Allison didn’t know, but she  knew she had to have it. “Sell it to me!” 

“Sell?” He inspected the plastic wrap. “No ticket. No name.” He pushed the reject at her. “It’s yours.”

Home, she tore open the plastic, slipped on the robe. Sizes too big for her small frame, it puddled on the floor; the sleeves reached her fingertips. And yet she felt as if the garment was made for her. She reached her hands into the pockets. What’s this?

A note of some kind, folded and refolded, dried crumbling paper. Carefully, she unwrapped it; bits flaked off, tumbling down onto the carpet. 

Faded by time was a handwritten list of names, jottings next to each as if they had been graded. There were As and Bs, Pass and Fail. Here and there a Could Do Better. Her eyes moved down the list to the last name. Allison: B+. 

The strangeness of it all; what could it mean? She stood there for some time, hands deep in the pockets of the old robe, trying to think, but no thoughts came to her. Then she heard “Go!” She turned. She was alone, then in her closet without remembering how she got there and why. But there she was, grouping blues with blues, greens with greens, maroon to pink, orange to yellow, arranging her wardrobe color-wise. No red? Allison didn’t have to wear red. Allison wasred!

Whoops! A cute new blouse slid off its hanger and dropped to the floor. When she reached down to get the little number, the note fell out of her pocket. She picked up the paper. The B+ beside her name had been crossed out. Now there was an A.

​​​​End

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author of the novels Lily Steps Out and Feminine Products, and the short story collection Alterations, Rita Plush is the book reviewer for Fire Island News. Her stories and essays have been published in The Alaska Quarterly Review, MacGuffin, The Iconoclast, Art Times, The Sun, The Jewish Writing Project, The Jewish Literary Journal, Kveller, Jewish Week, Newtown Literary Review, Down in the Dirt, and Down in the Dirt Collected Stories, 2021, Potato Soup and The Best of Potato Soup, 2021. Flash Fiction Magazine, Broadkill Review, Backchannels, Persimmon Tree, LochRaven, Avalon Literary Review, Chicken Soup For The Soul, Sanctuary Magazine, and upcoming in Hadassah Magazine, Delmarva Review and Writers Write,  http://www.ritaplush.com