Rita Ciresi

JOURNEY 

 I arrive at Journey an hour before opening to fire up the cash register and clear the dressing room of cast-off clothing. Ordinarily I love this quiet time, when the only women I interact with are our blank-faced mannequins, whose bald heads I lovingly polish with a chamois cloth. Yet this morning I fret about my future and take it as a bad sign when my manager comes through the back door dressed head-to-toe in black.

“What time is the board meeting?” I ask

“Early afternoon,” Angela says.

 “Remind me again: which number is better news?”

“Chapter 11 means reorganization. Thirteen means we’re out of business. And good luck trying to find another job at our age.” Angela glances at the computer dashboard—9:57 and 87 degrees—then gestures at a white-haired woman waiting on the sweltering sidewalk of the open-air mall. “Take pity on Sue Ellen and let her in.” 

Sue Ellen Sampson, wife of a prominent central Florida cattle rancher, is one of those loyal Journey customers who purchase new ship-n-shore outfits each time they leave the country.       “What brings you in today?” I ask Sue Ellen.

“George booked us another cruise to—” Her forehead wrinkles. “The Bahamas? Bermuda? Well, it doesn’t matter. You know I never go ashore. The ship has everything I need.”        When I first started working at Journey, such comments floored me. Why would you get on a boat if you had no interest in its destination? But I quickly realized that Journey women who never disembarked their cruise ships needed a new outfit for every Bingo game and all-you-can-eat buffet. Their lack of adventure became my bread and butter.

“This would be perfect for the captain’s dinner.” I pull a cherry-red chiffon dress in Sue Ellen’s size and hang it in the dressing room. Each time Sue Ellen takes a blouse off the rack, I suggest a pair of pants to go with it. Then a jacket. A scarf. A sunhat. None of the half dozen items Sue Ellen eventually purchases are on sale. Her grand total tops my weekly salary.

“How’s your daughter?” Sue Ellen asks.

 “Son,” I say.

“Goodness me. So forgetful. How old is he again?”

“Fifteen.”

“I’ll bet he’s a handful.” 

“And then some.” I hand back her credit card and imagine Eric blithely telling my Ex, “Hey, did you hear Mom’s old-lady store is closing?” little knowing—or caring—that working at Journey had long ceased to become just a paycheck for me. It had become a calling.

***

Almost ten years ago I found myself with sole custody of a six-year-old who blamed me for his dad running off with a younger woman. When our four-bedroom house on the golf course got sold in the divorce settlement, I was forced to move myself and Eric into a cramped apartment at the back of Fair Isle that overlooked the dumpster.

Suddenly I needed money for rent, groceries, car payments. Lucky for me, Florida Palms Mall was holding a seasonal job fair. I filled out a questionnaire, then waited in the Holiday Inn ballroom for my number to get called. I dreamed of selling hundred-dollar moisturizers at the swanky department store. Yet the longer I sat, the more I feared I would end up clearing greasy napkins off the food court tables.

Fortunately, the hiring officer for Journey looked past the increasingly stupid answers I gave to her interview questions.

“Are you acquainted with our brand?” she asked.

“To be honest: not really.”

“We’re an upscale travel boutique catering to women of a certain age.”

“You mean older women?” I asked.

“Bolder women. Tell me about a bold woman in your life.”

I had a feeling I was supposed to answer: You’re looking at one!

“I have a mother,” I blurted out. “I mean, I had a mother who was bold enough to walk around bald before she died last year from cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

“It’s all right. I mean, it’s not okay at all, but at least she didn’t live long enough to see my husband leave me with a six-year-old to support. . .”

It probably went down as the worst interview at the job fair. Yet for whatever reason—probably pity—the interviewer called me in for regional sales training, where we learned Journey’s core mission. “In a world where older women are invisible,” the corporate executive said, “Journey replies: we see you. We value you.” 

By the end of my training, I too felt seen and valued. I couldn’t wait for my first day of work. Then I stepped onto the sales floor and every woman who came through the front door looked through me and asked, “Is Sally in today?” or “I’m looking for Cindy.” The more these customers ignored me in favor of their go-to saleswoman, the more I resented them. Journey women drove luxury cars. Wore cultured pearls. Had husbands. Even better: cleaning ladies! These women were off to exotic destinations like Bangkok and Barcelona. Meanwhile I was left behind to rehang the sea of tunics and capris they had cast aside in the dressing room. 

By quitting time my feet ached so badly I would have paid someone to cut them off. “Did you have fun?” I asked Eric when I picked him up from his new after-school program. He tossed his Star Wars lunch box onto the floor of the car.

 “Just take me home.” 

“Let’s stop for pizza,” I said.

For the first time since the divorce, Eric smiled. “Seriously?”

“Sure,” I said. “I can afford it now that I’m a working woman.” 

At the pizza parlor I let Eric order a large Coke and didn’t chastise him for failing to put his napkin on his lap. As we decimated a sixteen-inch pepperoni pie, I silently gave myself a Journey-esque pep talk: You’re stronger than you think you are. You can do this.

At first it felt forced to greet Journey women at the door and lead off with a compliment: That’s a beautiful necklace. Love your purse! Yet the longer I worked, the more saleswomanship became second nature, and after a few months, customers started coming through the door asking for me. Soon I was promoted to assistant manager. Last year I was named one of the top saleswomen in Florida.

I had grown to know—and sometimes love—many of these women who came back to me over and over. On the outside they looked polished and privileged. Yet in the confined space of their dressing rooms, they confessed to me their problems with their spouses and children, and their growing dismay with their fading looks and failing bodies.

At Journey I wasn’t feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, or curing cancer. But I gave women of my mother’s age a powerful gift: a chance to gaze in the mirror and like the woman who looked back.       

***

I’m rehanging the garments Sue Ellen rejected when I spot a potential client around my own age peering in the store window, as if trying to muster the courage to come inside. Her body language signals: Lately I’ve had trouble finding clothes that fit and Everything seems made for teenaged girls.

She reaches for the door handle. Once inside, she takes in our flowing tunics and elastic-waist pants and gets a look on her face that says: This is a mistake. She’s bound to turn tail unless I take her by the hand and show her that she belongs in our coven.

“Welcome to Journey,” I say. “Are you planning a trip somewhere?”

“Spain. I’d like to fit everything in one carry-on.”

I steer her over to our best-selling item—never marked down from $299—a boxed set called Four Easy Pieces consisting of a wrinkle-free black jacket, dress, tank, and pants. 

 “With a couple of colorful blouses and some fun accessories,” I say, “you’ll have a week’s wardrobe.” I take a box off the rack. “In our sizing system, you’re definitely an extra small.” 

She looks down at her body—like mine, starting to droop at the breasts and pudge at the waist. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’ll start a dressing room. Your name is—?” 

“Jenny.” 

“Look around, Jenny, and let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to try on.”   Jenny wanders through the store, picking up a palm-print scarf and long gold necklace that she takes back into the dressing room. I give her a few minutes before tapping on the door.

She steps out in the dress and jacket. “I was worried these pieces might cling. But they’re so. . . ” 

“We call it forgiving,” I say.

Jenny glances back at the Four Easy Pieces box. “I don’t usually spend this kind of money on myself.” 

 “If you factor in how many times you’ll wear each piece—”

“You’re right: It’s worth it.” 

“You’re worth it,” I assure her.

She smiles. “Sold.”

At the cash register, I ask, “What takes you to Spain?”

“My husband and I are celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary.”

I swallow down my jealousy. “Congrats.”

“Thanks. It’s our first vacation without the kids.”

This is my cue to reveal I too am a mom—albeit a single one—and to ask about her children who, like Eric, attend Fair Isle High. We trade complaints about our teenagers—how rude, how messy, how thoughtless they are. Jenny must feel as lonely-mom as I do, because at the end of the transaction she says, “If you’re not busy this Saturday, we’re hosting a barbecue for a few neighbors and friends. Maybe you’d like to join us? I could introduce you to the guy next door. He’s an engineer—divorced, no kids.”

I try not to blush. “I haven’t gone out with anyone in a long time.”

“Neither has he. He’s a great guy, but kind of shy. I have a feeling you two might hit it off.” 

After we trade cell phone numbers and Jenny leaves, I busy myself with buttoning and belting. Her invitation has thrown me for a loop. After the divorce I had tried to put myself out there to meet a decent guy by volunteering to flip pancakes and ladle spaghetti sauce at church fundraisers. When that hadn’t panned out, I had considered online dating. Yet the thought of making chit-chat with strangers over margaritas terrified me. It was easier to just stay home on Friday nights and watch other people meet their soulmates on Netflix—way easier than acknowledging the real reason I didn’t want to bring a man home: Eric.

***

 Eric constantly was challenging me. Sunday nights after he came back from his once-a-month visits to his dad were the worst. The Ex—who had decided not to have kids with his new wife Jeanette—played Good Time Charlie to my Bad Cop Mom by taking Eric fly-fishing and miniature golfing and midnight shows at CineBistro.

Inevitably Eric returned home in a foul mood. Yet last night after the Ex dropped him off, Eric didn’t even flinch when I gave him an awkward hug.

“Dad said he’d take me on a cruise to the Caymans for my birthday. I can go, right?”       “If he’s paying for it.”

Eric beelined for the kitchen, where he popped open some Doritos and started eating them straight from the bag. He kept talking about the boat. It had seven levels. Three pools. Water slides. A rock-climbing wall. A bowling alley!

“Dad said we could go snorkeling,” Eric said. “So can you call him—call him right now, Mom, and tell him it’s okay for me to go?”

Reluctantly I brought my phone into my bedroom and dialed the Ex. “Eric says you’ve invited him on a cruise?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not if you’re covering it.” 

“Well, there’s a singles surcharge, since we have to get him his own cabin.”

I made a face. “Jeannette is going too?”

“Of course she’s coming. So I was thinking you could cover the surcharge.”

“Think again,” I said. “You know I don’t have the money for that.”

“You can cough up a little extra for Eric every now and then.”

“I’m saving for college,” I said, with enough edge in my voice to indicate I knew he wasn’t doing the same. “This cruise was your plan, so if you want to take him along you’re going to have to pay for all of it.”

“Be reasonable. I already invited him.”

“Then dis-invite him. Or cancel your trip. I’m not in a position to pay for your extravagance.”

He hung up on me—probably before I could hang up on him.

“I can’t wait to go,” Eric said when I came out. 

“Not so fast,” I said. “Your father wants me to pay for part of the trip.”

“So?”

“Eric, a trip like this is not in my budget.” 

“Mom, I have to go—”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“—and now Dad and Jeanette’ll go without me, because you won’t pay.”

“I don’t have the money.”

“I could use the money I made lifeguarding.”

“We agreed you would put that in the bank to pay for your college textbooks.”

“I don’t want to go to college,” Eric said. “I want to go snorkeling with Dad.”

“You can’t always get what you want, Eric. I haven’t had a vacation in years.” 

“Where would you go all by yourself?”

Eric slammed his bedroom door, leaving me to picture the Ex and Jeanette sailing off to the Caymans. I hoped they’d have the holiday from hell: one of those cruises plagued by Norovirus and lost electrical power, with overflowing toilets and raw sewage running down the hallway.    

***

Outside the sidewalk darkens and Journey empties of customers. Rain splats the front windows, then turns into a deluge. Angela comes out of the back, holding her phone.

I want her to say eleven. But she says, “Thirteen. The party’s over.”

I look out onto the empty sales floor and the blank-faced mannequins I had so lovingly dusted that morning stare back at me. I want to tell them what I should have told my mother on her deathbed, if I hadn’t been so shocked she was setting off without me on her final journey: There, there. It’s okay. Everything will be all right.

“What are you going to do?” I ask Angela.

“Bag work and go on Social Security.” She looks at me with pity. “Macy’s is hiring for the holidays.” 

I turn away so Angela can’t see my dismay. At Macy’s I’d have to start at minimum wage, no benefits, and pray I’d be lucky enough to be kept on after the holidays.

I fold and hang, button and zip. Soon the storm passes, the sun comes out, and one of my favorite customers—Marge Wilson, a long-retired high school teacher who visits us every Monday after she gets her hair done—ventures in. She’s taking a cruise to Trinidad over Thanksgiving and because she’s complained before about getting cold on the boat, I pick out some thick knit loungewear for her to try on.

I’m standing at the counter with a red pen in my hand, slashing down styles for clearance, when I hear signs of distress. At first I think they’re coming from inside me. Then I realize Marge, who has a pronounced widow’s hump, probably is stuck in a sweater.

“Marge?” I knock on the door. “Are you okay?”

Marge cracks the door, holding a wet pair of knit pants. “Oh dear. On the one day I don’t wear my diaper. . . “

“Don’t worry,” I say. “This happens more often than you think. I’ll take care of that.”        I hold out my hand to take the wet pants. But Marge sinks onto the dressing room bench in her baggy white underpants. Her spindly, blue-veined legs remind me of my mom’s after she lost so much weight from the chemo. Tears spill down her face.

“Please don’t cry, Marge.”

“I can’t help it. Everything is just so. . . . “

I close the door and sit beside her on the bench. “What’s really troubling you?”

“I don’t want to go on this cruise.”

“Can you cancel?”

“My daughter already paid for it.” 

“I’m sure she wants you to have a good time.”

“She just wants to get rid of me so she doesn’t have to host me for the holidays.” Marge pulls a tissue out of her purse and dabs her eyes. “I know she has her own life. But she hardly ever calls anymore. And since Frank died. . . well, I shouldn’t complain. I have everything I want and need. Still. . . . “

Still. How well I understood: there was no cure for that.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, “I’m having a bad day too.”

 “What’s wrong, dear?”

I hesitate. If I told her Journey was closing, it might upset her even further. Where would she go on Monday afternoons after the hair salon? What other saleswomen in the mall would take her incontinence in stride the way that we do?

From the sales floor, Angela calls my name.

“Go ahead,” Marge says. “You have your work to do.”

“You are my work. I mean, I’m always happy to help you.” I point to the clothing hanging on the hook. “Would you like me to hold these pieces and you can come back another time?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll take them. And pay for the pants I ruined.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “Journey will pick up the tab.”

I bundle up the wet pants and try to spirit them past Angela without her seeing. Yet she smells the urine, makes a face, and tells me she’s going on break. I toss the pants in the trash and wash my hands in the back room. Later, I’ll replace the wet dressing room cushion with one of the two clean spares we store in the back.

Marge comes up to the cash register slowly, her sweater tied around her waist. As I wrap her purchases in tissue paper, I tell her, “Journey is hosting an afternoon tea this Friday. Why don’t you come?”

“All by myself?”

“I’ll introduce you to some of the other ladies. A lot of them are in the same boat as you—widowed, with kids living out of state. They’re eager to make friends. Who knows? You might find someone who’d like to join you on your next cruise.”

“You think so?” Marge looks dubious, then hopeful. “Maybe I will. If I don’t forget.” 

 “I’ll call that morning to remind you.”

“Bless you, dear,” she says. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

After Marge leaves, I stare at the sales floor and try to imagine the store emptied of its contents and customers. For a moment I feel seasick. I grip the counter to steady myself, close my eyes, and pretend I’m on a lifeboat, all by myself, in the middle of a dark cold ocean. Then I do what any other bold woman would do: pick up the oars and start rowing.

Rita Ciresi’s novella-in-flash, Wild Boys, is forthcoming from Wolfson Press in 2024.  She is author of the novels Bring Back My Body to Me, Pink Slip, Blue Italian, and Remind Me Again Why I Married You, and the story collections Second Wife, Female Education, Sometimes I Dream in Italian, and Mother Rocket.