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FICTION
THE TABLECLOTH
by Sandy Tritt
Angie dropped the change from her pocket
into the bowl on the counter, then tossed her smock over the
rusted folding chair. She pulled back the dirty sheet that separated
the bedroom from the remainder of the living space. Bill lay
spread-eagle, the pillow wet with drool, his swollen belly heaving
with snores. A cigarette with a two-inch ash balanced in the
ashtray, surrounded by beer bottles. Janet, her friend at the
Busy Bee, was always telling Angie to get rid of the bum, but
Janet didn't understand. Bill was good to her -- they didn't
fight, he never hit her and she felt safe having a man around.
Angie turned the naked bulb until it flickered on and scanned
the small apartment. Layers of yellowed wallpaper were visible
beneath the peeling green paint. Sometimes she wondered if she
could pull away the ugliness and uncover flowers. She'd tried
that with the floor. Sick of the worn, listless avocado carpet,
she pulled it up one day, expecting whatever was underneath to
be better. Instead, she unearthed moldy wood slats with holes
showing light from the tavern below and allowing smoke and noise
to drift through.
Angie kicked off her vinyl shoes and stepped across the cold
floor. It was still early, but already the heavy bass from the
jukebox below convulsed the soot-covered windows. Yet, a smile
formed on her lips as she anticipated her secret pleasure. She
still blushed with guilt at the expense of the satin Jacquard
tablecloth. They could have bought a week’s worth of groceries
or a
month’s supply of Bill’s generic cigarettes with the
money she paid for it. Reaching deep behind the stack of outdated
magazines, she retrieved the plastic bag protecting her treasure.
She looked at the dining table, the scarred, stained veneer,
and shuddered. She unfolded the wonderful fabric, her fingers
caressing the intricate weave of the flowers as it transformed
grotesque ugliness into breath-taking beauty. It was the only
thing she had ever owned that was hers and hers alone and was
new and beautiful and exquisite. She savored the time she had
with it, when her eyes could feast on it with delight.
Bill had seen it twice. The first time, he scratched his balls
and said, "What the hell is this fancy-dancy shit?"
and then opened a beer with his sparse teeth. The second time,
he dropped ashes on it. After that, she kept it in the protective
plastic, only bringing it out when Bill was gone. Or passed out.
Angie smoothed every crease. She wondered how it had been
made. Probably by a machine, but she liked to imagine a room
full of buxom grandmothers with musky body odor and Baroque accents
lovingly creating each flower with needle and thread.
The center, where the folds converged, still puffed. She rubbed
it with the palm of her hand. Before she realized what was happening,
the clumsy dime-store ring that she told everyone Bill
had given her caught on the fabric. She jerked back, but it was
too late.
Angie stared at the snag. It was less than an inch long, but
any flaw in her cherished treasure was unthinkable. She had to
repair it. But how? If she cut it, it would fray. But maybe if
she burned the ends, they'd melt together. She ran to the bedroom
and took the lighter from Bill's smelly shirt pocket. Leaning
over the table, she bunched the tablecloth and brought the flame
close. The fire flickered as it consumed the thread. She moved
closer, concentrating, melding the fabric. She watched as the
flame sparked again, like a miniature welder's torch. But instead
of melting
together, the fabric disappeared. Her brain stuck in slow motion,
her mouth open in horror as her hand continued to hold the fire,
unable to stop, watching the hole grow larger and larger, glowing
embers outlining the progress.
Angie dropped the lighter and pounded the burning edges with
her fists. As she fought for the life of the tablecloth, scenes
from her past assaulted her: her family huddled around a coffee
can
fire, her baby brother gasping with croup; her classmates, lined
up in the hallway, serenading her with a taunting chorus of Helen
Reddy's Angie Baby; her first boyfriend, a man, really, who took
advantage of her naivete and left her with an unplanned pregnancy
that ended in miscarriage; and finally, her job at the Busy Bee,
waiting tables and smiling at slurs from ironworkers, her nights
spent in a two-room cell. And through it all, she had struggled
to find the beauty.
With shaking hands and pounding heart, she again smoothed
the tablecloth, surveying the damage. The heart of the covering
was open, exposing the marred table beneath.
Angie gathered the tablecloth in a heap and cradled it in
her arms. She sat in the chair and rocked, the fabric snuggled
against her like a baby. She sobbed as she stared at the tired
walls, the
worn floor, the scarred table and the naked ugliness of life.
* * *
(c)copyright 1999, Sandy Tritt. All rights reserved.
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