But there is a “catch” to the drawing. The winner not only goes home with a gift but also promises to host a Tupperware party within the next three months. For Saffee, this is out of the question. Host a party? She has almost no one to invite, she doesn’t have any experience baking, and she can’t accommodate a group in her small living room. Those guests who for some reason are unable to host a party are asked not to draw. Saffee counts the women present and notes she has a one in thirteen chance of being the winner. The odds are good. Why not at least play along for the fun of it? And who knows, maybe if she wins, Lucy might let her keep . . . without . . .
The slips of paper are randomly selected. Saffee’s is marked “Winner!” There are “ohs,” “ahs,” and expressions of disappointment.
“Ladies”—Lucy squints at the winner’s name tag—“Sapphire here is the next Tupperware hostess!” There is a polite clap. “And here are your lovely Jell-O molds, dear, just sign the date of your party on this clipboard.”
“Oh. Well . . .” Saffee stretches upward in her chair toward Lucy’s ear to address her as confidentially as possible. “I . . . but I really don’t want to have a party. You see, I . . . I just wanted to play the game. I took a chance and . . .” How she yearns to run out the door.
Lucy stiffens and the room goes silent. Her expression changes from aren’t-we-having-fun to a drama of disbelief. “One of the most significant responsibilities in life, Sapphire,” Lucy intones, “is to be a woman of truth. A woman’s word is her bond.” She punctuates each word as if she holds a judge’s gavel. “Her yes must be yes, and her no, no. A civil Christian society depends upon it.”
Saffee is mortified. No one yells, “Preach it!” but from the wide eyes and ever-so-slightly tilted noses, there is no mistaking what the women are thinking.
Her face burns. She is shocked, but stupidly so, to be taken as a liar. Truth telling is part of her life. (She had sorely repented for lying to her mother, telling her she was “fine.”) But who would believe that now? Hasn’t it just been proven otherwise? To be a part of the fun, and foolishly hoping to get something for nothing, she had played her chance without considering the consequences. Harmless intentions or not, she’d been wrong and is exposed.
Coming to her rescue, dear Gail whispers, “No problem, Saffee. I can have it at my house, we’ll do it together. I’m sure my bridge club will come.”
Saffee doesn’t dare look at Lucy, who quickly snatches the set of Jell-O molds from Saffee’s hands and gives it to Gail. Before leaving, Saffee makes heartfelt apologies to Lucy.
A few weeks later the two neighbors host ten women in Gail’s living room, which is identical in size to Saffee’s, and serves well as a venue for Lucy’s animated sales pitch.
With the help of Betty Crocker, Saffee contributes two layer cakes. One, coconut lemon; the other, chocolate marble. Two guests ask for her recipes.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE WOODEN BOX
Saffee has evaded Gail’s questions about the table, but as their friendship grows, she begins to share snatches of its history. She relates that her great-grandfather made it in Norway and that it traveled from there to North Dakota, then Minnesota. She tells how a prairie fire prompted eight terrified siblings, her mother among them, to seek refuge under it.
Eventually she confides that her once clever, talented mother fell into a disturbed mental state and how the old table seemed to prompt within her confusing delusions of good and evil. Under its strange influence, real or imagined, Saffee says, she obsessively applied the layers of paint.
“So, why are you stripping it?” Gail asks.
Saffee sighs. “Well, it’s hard to explain, and sometimes I’m not sure myself. But Jack says restoring the table will help me not be mired down by memories of being raised in a troubled home—more than I already am. I trust his judgment,” Saffee says, giving her scraping tool an extra hard push. “I just hope that something good comes out of all this labor.”
After the conversation, Saffee feels lighter, just as she had when she first shared her life with Jack.
Throughout the summer, the two neighbors share a certain joy as each new area of raw wood becomes completely exposed. In hot July, during a mini-celebration with glasses of Gail’s lemonade, Saffee blurts, “Gail, thanks so much for being my cheerleader. I’ve really needed one.” And she means it.
How odd it is to share this closet, this small closet. Business suits and sport coats and half a dozen dress shirts cram against her wrinkled blouses. A number of ties drape over her green silk dress. Black and brown wing tips jumble with pink slippers, red and navy pumps, and basketball high-tops. Removing the three boxes carted from Saffee’s former life might make room for a little order. She slides them out.