Storm Windows

Dorrie wanted to move.

Don’t move, everybody said. Rose, Ben, and Gabrielle tried to talk to her.

Gabrielle had the best reason for Dorrie not to move. She didn’t want Dorrie to move because then she would probably have to move. Staying at Rose’s was a WIN SCHOLARSHIP FUND/GO TO JAIL move in Monopoly for Gabrielle. Eventually Gabrielle would roll doubles and have go to some house or hotel on the board and play rent; meanwhile she wrote about Munif in her very nice nearly rent-free room while Dorrie, Rose, and Ben played menage a trois Monopoly, Twister, Risk, or whatever they were playing. The scholarship/get out of jail free card: Gabrielle worked for reduced rent. She had to take up carpets, scrape paint, take down storm windows, and other repugnant tasks. Storm windows. Who had seen storm windows in years?

The windows should be replaced.

I know, I know, said Rose. Soon.

Many of the tasks involved paint. Rose asked Gabrielle to paint the floors upstairs. Yellow. Why yellow? Why was everything of Rose’s yellow? The walls downstairs. The floor in one of the bedrooms. Primrose, chicken-hearted. She liked living at Rose’s. It was more what she was used to. Living in the slums had been all right--it had certainly given her experience and she had published a Zolaesque short story, “The Dog,” in a literary magazine under another name, Bea Bolton--but it was enough. The problem? Gabrielle had so much work in addition to Rose’s work. She taught, she read, she wrote, she met with her advisor--and then she came home and got high and worked for Rose.

Really, without heroin, she could never have worked for Rose.

Rose cooked huge dinners: tonight it was eggplant casserole. After she and Ben ate, Rose brought the leftovers upstairs to Dorrie and Gabrielle and then they didn’t have to cook. Both of them ate lightly. Rose was getting fat. Beside Dorrie and Gabrielle, she looked ridiculous.

Are these jeans too tight? she would ask anybody around, Ben, Dorrie, Gabrielle, whoever was there.

Well, a little.

Rose sighed. She could go to the mall and get a bigger size but she preferred to stay home.

Does anybody want to go to the mall with me?

Gabrielle laughed. She never went to the mall. Her mother, who more or less shopped full-time, sent her clothes. Her mother pored over magazines and then went to stores and priced things. She bought them on sale or sometimes at used clothing stores. She had bought Gabrielle a Chanel dress for only $20 because obviously the person who priced it didn’t know what she had. Gabrielle only had a few clothes but they were very, very good. Everybody looked gorgeous in them. She lent them to Dorrie and Dorrie was transformed into a model.

Gabrielle thoughtfully prepared to get high. She took her syringe and shot herself in the leg. She didn’t care about the thickened skin. She had to have her heroin. Then, quietly happy, she began to paint.

All that damned yellow primrose paint on the floor. Rose, Rose, Rose. Her taste sucked. Gabrielle started to swirl it. it made a nice design on the floor. Then she had to paint it straight because that was what was expected. A primrose floor. Gabrielle wanted to lie down in the wet paint and she did. It didn’t matter. She was wearing overalls. But then she had to get up and take a shower because the paint was in her hair. Yellow paint in her hair--not what anyone wanted to see. She had to help her career by looking good. She had blond hair of course. Her mother sent her money for it. When she thought about it, she went to a cheap place and had it colored. The rest of the time she spent the money on heroin.

Gabrielle got back into her overalls and painted some more.

You despise them. Why do you stay? Dorrie had asked her.

Gabrielle laughed. Who didn’t despise everybody? She wasn’t impressed with what she had seen of people. Her department alone would put you off for life. Gabrielle got ahead because she was bright but also because she looked good. No matter how much she knew, she wouldn’t get ahead if she looked like a friend of hers, a rather sweet idiot named Dolly who knew everything about Court Poetry (she especially knew Jamil ibn Ma’mar al-Udhri, c. 660-771) but who happened to be terminally unhip, wore tailored blouses, usually with a brooch, tucked into old skirts or trousers (very Seven Sisters), and didn’t have the faintest idea that you shouldn’t carry a coffee cup with you everywhere. (Dolly was so tired she couldn’t move without coffee.)

Something’s wrong with her, Gabrielle’s advisor said.

But there isn’t, Gabrielle insisted.

But she can’t get a job like that. She has no charm or polish.

She’s brilliant. I’ve read part of her thesis.

She’ll go back to library school because she’ll have to work as a Visiting Lecturer and will get tired of it.

She’s published, Gabrielle said.

Her advisor sighed. He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. The building was no smoking but he did what he wanted. That won’t matter much.

You said it would matter. You always tell us it will matter.

But you will publish and you will get the jobs.

Gabrielle felt exasperated. Her advisor mocked Dolly but had no idea that Gabrielle was shooting up heroin every night. What a world. Dolly could teach. Gabrielle had even seen her in the classroom. So she and Dolly stuck together. Dolly concentrated on her studies and, poor girl, had no idea everyone was plotting against her. And Gabrielle’s sometime boyfriend Lund (that was his last time) helped Dolly, too. Lund was not in Arabic studies, of course. But he could hack his way into the files and change the comments in Dolly’s file so no one went on about how clumsy she was.

Lund was coming over tonight. He loved Gabrielle, God knows why. He also took heroin and, like Gabrielle, was not overly interested in sex. The drugs just didn’t do much in that area. But they liked to sit around together, chatting and watching TV. Lund was studying biology. No, not medicine. He couldn’t stand those types. He had been pre-med before he took a philosophy course. Now he wanted everything in his life simple. He wanted to work in a biology lab.

Gabe, this is great TV, he said of Lost.

It was their favorite show. There were quite a few shows that seemed good when they were stoned. They watched tapes of The View (they thought that was especially humorous), tapes of Martha Stewart (they never knew when they would want to try one of the impossible recipes), 24 ( they felt guilty because human rights organizations were now protesting the torture scenes), and Lost.

We never watch TV, they often said with a straight face.

Lie. Just lie, they said to Dorrie when she came home in tears and to Dolly when she wanted to tell professors stories about her days at the Seven Sisters college. Don’t let anyone know what you’re like. The less they know, the better off you’ll be.

Dorrie came in after 9 in a state of collapse. I’ve found a new apartment. Near here. A one-room living room-kitchen efficiency with a tiny bathroom. Very cheap.

Gabrielle groaned. Don’t go.

Dorrie said, I can’t live like this.