Purchased Hope
by Peggy Varnado
I think you call it
a bustier and I’m never sure how to pronounce it— one of those words
better read than said. Lace over spandex and wires, a strapless bra
atop a waist- cinching corset with garters attached. Obsolete since
pantyhose, still-- a very sexy garment. It speaks of.... enhancement. Underwire and fiberfill, cups designed to push up and cantilever that
which has “slipped and slid.” Hooks and eyes and boning -- meant to
hold in what muscles gave up on. Belts extending the length of thighs
to grasp and hold silky stockings. The stuff of romance novels and
catalogs that you toss before your kids get home.
This bustier was the
palest of lavenders, and the woman clutching it was just under five feet
tall and almost that wide. Hard to tell age—thirty to fifty. Sun worn
skin, hair long and styleless down her broad back. Clothes befitting a
“peanut brittle lady,” and if you don’t know what that means, I can’t
help you.
“I want this,” she
said as she flung the garment on the counter, not too gently -- a
declaration, not only to the clerk behind the computer terminal, but to
all of us in the lingerie shop that afternoon. An accent hinting of
outlying counties and a pickup in the parking lot. It was an E.F.
Hutton moment; the shop came to attention. Young clerk, svelte in her
black dress, Chanel makeup, and Salon 38 haircut renders the verdict:
“That’ll be $93.42. How do you want to pay?”
Every woman there
sucks in her breath, as though each were about to suit up in the
bustier. Disappointment and disbelief register graphically on the
plain, honest face—eyes avert, silence evolves into agony. The clerk
is smooth... and compassionate, to her credit.
“These things are
ridiculously expensive and I don’t think this one even had a price tag.
I can void it with no problem.” Eyes revert; estrogen levels are high,
the air is pregnant.
The woman hesitates
only a moment, but in that moment the true price is calculated and
weighed. $93.42 worth of corners cut, a joyless job, houses cleaned,
ironing done, something sold—maybe peanut brittle. Her back stiffens;
her hand tightens on the lavender lace; “I want this” –she repeats her
refrain.
Purse opens, bills
counted out—nothing larger than a ten—and the coins are exact. The
relieved clerk tenderly wraps the confectionary garment in pink tissue
paper, puts it in a striped tote bag, and presents it to the woman with
a kind smile, “It’s a lovely color. I hope you enjoy it.”
The lady turns with
a quiet dignity to walk out with her purchased hope, but she must make
her way through our collective thoughts which are hanging palpably in
the air: What need was greater than the sacrifice we had witnessed?
The man at the heart of this—would he be worth it? She was a woman with
a plan—but would it work?
“I want this” she
had said and said again. God help you to get it, we breathed in
unison. Sometimes the secrets of Victoria are more than we bargained
for.