She shook her head and looked out the window; it looked like a beautiful day, she’d gotten a chance to sleep in and there was no reason for her to be falling into this melancholy mood. With a deep breath she picked up her neatly stacked clothes off the bedside table and then wrinkled her nose. It had been a long and active time the day before and they were still slightly damp with sweat. Shari was a fastidious woman and wandering around smelling like a bag lady was not her idea of a good time. After a moment’s thought she looked at the chest of drawers and the closet. After her shower last night she’d peeked in the closet hoping to find something to wear to bed and had glimpsed a large number of plastic wrapped dresses. Now she opened up the top drawer of the chest of drawers and shook her head; the room was packed with clothes.
She pulled out a pair of bikini briefs and sniffed them. They were musty with long storage, with a faint hint of a spice that had probably been in the drawer as a preservative, and slightly… fragile in feel, as if they were quite old. They still smelled better than what she had been wearing… and they fit. They were on the large size, but they were close enough; the elastic had apparently survived storage.
Rummaging further she found bras and, in lower drawers, blouses, T-shirts and jeans. Whoever’s clothing this was had been addicted to jeans; there were at least seven pairs, most of them hip-hugger bellbottoms.
Shari pulled one out and shook her head; there was no question that these were “originals” and not from the brief pre-Posleen renaissance. Not only did they have that same old, fragile feel as the panties, that she now realized must have been at least thirty years old, but someone had taken a pen to them in some bygone fit of insanity and covered them in graffiti. Kids of the turn years had rarely known who “Bobby McGee” was, although the peace sign and the “I got laid at Woodstock” would be recognizable. The strangest, scrawled on the seat in a different hand, was “Peace through superior firepower.”
She shook her head and carefully put away this artifact then chose a simple pair of straight-leg jeans that were barely worn.
Bras turned out to be a problem. Shari had often felt that her only two saving graces were planted on her chest; indeed, her endowments were often the only thing that Rorie could not find to fault in her. However, whoever’s clothing stocked this chest of drawers did not, apparently, have that particular grace/curse. After much searching she managed to find one that wasn’t actively painful to wear. After managing to get it snapped, she looked at herself in the mirror and snorted.
“That’s the answer, girls. Find a bra that is both undercut and a size too small and you too can have cleavage.”
She initially pulled out a very pretty flowered blouse then looked at the neckline. Looking down she shook her head and pulled out a T-shirt emblazoned with “Led Zeppelin World Tour, 1972.” It was a tad tight, but at least it didn’t plunge and if, when, she fell out of the bra she wouldn’t be into public view.
Digging around in the bathroom exhumed a brush, old, but serviceable, and a toothbrush, new, still in the box. She used both to good effect then looked in the mirror and stuck her tongue out at the reflection.
“I don’t think so, girlfriend,” she said to the sag-face wreck in the mirror.
The first set of makeup that she found had obviously been stored for decades. If anybody was still collecting memorabilia, this house was a gold mine; there was even an unopened box of L’Oréal hair coloring with the faded picture of an actress who hadn’t looked that good in thirty years.
“Thanks,” she muttered. “I know I’m worth it, but I just did them last week.”
The makeup case was a loss, though. Oh, there was plenty in it, whoever had owned it must have occasionally made herself up like a kewpie doll, but it was all dried up. The foundation broke away into chunks when she opened the jar.
Next to the case though, hidden by it until she pulled it out, was a small, plastic container. It looked like Galplas, but Shari thought that was unlikely; where would a Galplas zipper bag have come from? However, on the top of the bag was a small green dot and when Shari touched it and slid her finger along the top the bag opened along an invisible seam. Galplas all right.
Inside was what Shari mentally decided were someone’s “bare essentials.” There was a tube of mascara, a light lip gloss, a single eyeshadow case with an eyebrow pencil and a pair of eyebrow tweezers. The colors were not perfect for her — if she wasn’t careful she’d end up looking like Britney Spears — and she really wished there was a base and some rouge, but they would do. And this was practically brand new.
She quickly applied the makeup, sparse as it was, and then stepped back to consider the overall effect.
“Baby, you look like a million dollars,” she said. Then: “Liar.”
She made the bed then followed the smell of bacon downstairs to the kitchen. Kelly and Irene were at the table nibbling on biscuits, Amber stuck in a high chair just to the side, and Mr. O’Neal was at the stove, frying another pan of bacon and cracking eggs.
When she came through the door he did a double-take and missed the bowl, the hand with the uncracked egg in it flailing in the air for a moment before he looked down and lined back up.
Shari tried not to smile and walked over to the stove, sniffing at the food. “That smells heavenly.”
“How would you like your eggs, milady?” Papa O’Neal said. “I’m scrambling some more for the bottomless pits over there, but I’ll be happy to fix some any way you please.”
“Scrambled is fine,” Shari said, trying not to smile again as she caught a surreptitious peek in her direction. She shook herself internally. Don’t you dare arch. Don’t do it or you’ll never forgive yourself. Despite the internal debate she felt a stretch coming on and stretched and, yes, she couldn’t help herself, arched.
A piece of bacon hit the stove top as Papa O’Neal missed the frying pan.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Clumsy…” He picked the bacon up with his fingers and juggled it to the cloth covered plate. “Would you like bacon or a… would you prefer some sausage?”
“Bacon is fine,” Shari replied, walking over to the table to give the poor guy some space. As she did she realized that she was putting some extra sway in the walk and wanted to hit herself on the side of the head.
He’s… well, he’s got to be at least sixty and what in the hell is he going to see in you, but a has-been divorcee refugee with kids and stretchmarks?
“I… uh, I see you found something to wear,” O’Neal said, filling up the children’s plates and carrying them over to the table. “I thought some of Angie’s stuff might fit you. I meant to tell you to take your pick last night. Actually, I was talking to Elgars about the supply situation in the Urb; I had no idea. The house is packed with stuff; you should take anything you see that you want. I’m… surprised you found a bra that fit, though.”
“I appreciate the offer on the clothes,” Shari said. “It feels like charity but, what the hell, I’m willing to take a little charity. There really isn’t anything available in the Urb.” She smiled and stretched again. “I will admit that I’m unlikely to find some stuff, though.”
Papa O’Neal coughed and went back over to the stove while Shari looked around for something neutral to comment on.
“Where are the rest of the kids?” she asked. Irene got down and climbed up on her lap, bringing the plate with her. She then went back to the serious business of stuffing biscuit and bacon in her mouth.
“Some of them are still asleep,” Papa O’Neal said. “The rest are out with Cally doing chores. They like them. She took them egging this morning and then they got to eat them. Billy even helped milk the cows and that’s really above and beyond the call of duty.”