The Painted Table(73)

“The flowers you got me . . . Look! . . . Brown, ugly carnations! Dead! . . . I saw the gorgeous orchids you got for Jack’s mother! Shows what you think of me! . . .”

“Saffee?”

Saffee looks up at Gail and realizes she’s asked a question. “I’m sorry, Gail. What’s that?”

“Your wedding cake, when you got married, what was it like? Who made it?”

Embarrassed, and trying not to sound it, Saffee explains to Gail that the church secretary put her in contact with the special events committee who took care of all the details. She must have sounded like an idiot. She doesn’t suppose that other brides pass on decisions to strangers. At the time, however, she had been grateful.

“Oh! Well, that’s one way to get married, I guess.” Gail sounds surprised, but not critical. “Bet you had classical music,” she says, nodding toward the radio that plays a dramatic piece suddenly unsuitable for garage background music. Saffee turns it a notch lower.

She tells Gail that there had been a trumpet and organ processional.

“Trumpet? Cool!” says Gail. “I’ll have to remember that for Jenny Rose’s wedding.”

Saffee, with a change of heart, flashes a smile at her neighbor. Gail’s good-humored banter is entertaining, taking attention off her stiff hands. She scrapes with renewed energy.




It becomes Saffee’s routine to coax paint off the Norway table for about two hours each morning before she catches the bus for work at noon. Returning to the duplex about 8:00 p.m., she usually finds Jack studying dull-looking graphs and formulas as he prepares for exams late into the night. She decides that it is good they both have challenging projects.

Gail’s husband, Bill, occasionally persuades Jack to leave his books long enough to take in an evening baseball game. They are becoming good friends. Saffee has proved to be what every talkative female needs—a good listener—and somehow Gail seems to know when Saffee is in the garage. With Jenny Rose in a preschool two mornings a week, and pregnancy sapping her energy, she seems to relish spontaneous forays next door. Saffee’s mother’s word for Gail would be loquacious, and Joann’s voice whispers the label every time Gail appears.

One day, as Saffee vigorously rubs a rough surface with sandpaper, Gail interrupts her own monologue to ask why Saffee doesn’t rent an electric sander.

“Guess that would make the job easier,” Saffee says, considering. “But for some reason, I just need, well, I mean, I have to put my own sweat into this project.”

Another day Gail asks sweepingly about Saffee’s childhood. Saffee remembers childhood in moments, disquieting, specific moments she does not want to share. Since the inquiry was not about moments, she replies in kind.

“Fine,” she says with a warm smile in hopes to disarm Gail. “It was fine.” She wonders how much trust is needed in a girlfriend relationship before she can speak freely about moments. It might be soon.

“You know, Gail, how I always have the radio tuned to a classical station when you come by, and then after a while I turn it off?”

“Yeah, I guess you do,” Gail says. “How come?”

“Because having you here is never a Mozart moment—you always put me in a rock ’n’ roll mood.”

Gail sputters apologetically and Saffee clarifies, “Don’t worry, Gail, rock ’n’ roll is always more fun. It’s definitely a compliment.”




The demonstration draws to a close. Party guests complete their orders for Tupperware essentials that perky saleswoman Lucy has convinced them no kitchen is functional without. More than bowls and such, Lucy’s effervescence and bouffant hairdo, purple miniskirt befitting a slimmer woman, and white go-go boots have held the roomful of young women in her spell for the last hour.

Gail had invited Saffee to the event, which is hosted by Gail’s cousin. Seated beside her neighbor-become-friend, Saffee checks “Large Mixing Bowl Set,” turns in her order form, and waits for the others to finish. She watches Gail’s attractive cousin carefully arranging multicolored napkins into a fan design on the refreshment table. The young woman wears a satisfied expression as she surveys a stunning floral centerpiece and tiered serving plates piled with dainty confections.

“All right, ladies, are we ready?” Lucy inquires, collecting the last of the order forms. “Before refreshments, it’s that time we’ve all been waiting for—the drawing for the door prize!” The guests, still atwitter under Lucy’s spell, admire an arrangement of gifts from which a lucky one will choose her prize. Saffee eyes a set of red gelatin molds. They would be perfect to shape Christmas tree salads, a Kvaale tradition she thinks she can comfortably carry forth.