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A Woman's Touch

by Victor-charles Scafati

Gordon stared out the picture window of his midtown Manhattan co-op, studying the light snow as it dusted Central Park. He noticed a dark speck on the window, but was disappointed to discover, when he tried to remove it with his thumbnail, that it was on the outside of the glass. Then, grimacing at the resulting smudge, he polished the glass with the sleeve of his tweed jacket. He shrugged and began pacing around the room again, studying his wristwatch every few strides. He decided to make himself a cup of tea, but then became involved in the consolidation of several herbal tea boxes into a single carton.

The intercom finally crackled to life. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wadsworth- Ms. Holling and Mrs. Stipple-Holling have arrived. Shall I send them up?" "Yes, yes of course, Henry, please do." Gordon whisked around the flat one last time, assuring himself that everything was in place. He brushed imagined dust from the top of his 19th century sideboard, arranged the cushions on the sofa one last time, and quickly stowed an errant briefcase in the hall closet.

A sharp rapping caused him to fling open the door with an urgency that surprised even himself, but the two women flew in at an much greater rate. They charged on past him into the living room without even acknowledging his slight figure pressed against the wall. "Gordon," barked the younger one, "Mother has had a simply awful day, so I expect you to be on your best behavior." Gordon crept in from the foyer to find the two of them surveying his flat. "Well," said the older one, "it's not nearly as large as I had imagined, but I suppose it's adequate, given the view of the park and all." Gordon gently lifted the older woman's purse, with its sharp brass feet, from his mahogany end-table and quietly placed it on the floor.

The women sat on the sofa and indicated to Gordon that he should sit in the opposing armchair. He felt as though he were about to give a deposition without the benefit of legal representation. "Gordon, Mother and I have spent the day on wedding plans. It has been so trying- you have no idea how fortunate you are that men needn't concern themselves which such things. First we met with the seamstress to get fitted for my dress. It's going to be simply marvelous. It's all satin and lace and..."

"Stephanie, the groom ought not know a thing about your dress before the wedding," snapped Mrs. Stipple-Holling. "Frankly, since it's the bride's family that is paying for everything, I'm unclear how any of this concerns him."

"Yes, yes, the nuptials are your department, dear," said Gordon in as placating a tone as he could muster. "I've never been much good in social matters." He thought it unwise to point out that he had first suggested that the wedding be entirely subsidized by the not insubstantial savings that he had accrued as a architect with a top Manhattan firm.

"Well, Mother, I just want to tell him a little bit about it. The dress looks wonderful on me- it really does. It makes me look, well, shorter, less imposing. The bottom part comes right up under my chest, it called a... a something waist." "Empire," said Gordon. "Yes, that's it," exclaimed his fiance.

"Well, then we met with the manager at the Ivy club," said Stephanie, "they don't have much to choose from for banquets, you know. Mother and I settled on Broasted Chicken du Paris. Doesn't that sound marvelous?" Gordon smiled wryly. 'So that's what they do to chickens at weddings,' he thought. He wasn't at all sure what 'broasting' was, and envied Mr. Holling's amazing ability to be entirely absent from the wedding plans.

"Now Gordon," his fiancé scolded, "did you sign and mail the marriage license application like I asked you to?" Her care of him, while usually in the form of a directive, and often by proxy, was comforting because it was always just like his mother's. "Yes dear," he said smiling blithely, "I sent it off yesterday." He had a sense, however inaccurate, that in spite of whatever disaster might befall him, she would put things right. "Well, your next assignment is to put together your bio for the Times' society page."

"Young man," began Stephanie's mother, "you were to have prepared a list of the groom's guests." "Why yes!" exclaimed Gordon as he lurched awkwardly into his study to fetch the list from within the beautiful roll-top desk that had been left to him by his grandfather. He presented her with a meticulously prepared list of 26 names and addresses. "There aren't many since my family is small, and I'm only inviting a few close friends." "Well, that's fortunate, because the Choate room only holds 275 I'm told, and we're pushing the limit already." She pulled a pair of pince-nez glasses, a Le Noir pen, and a well weathered copy of the New York Social Register from her purse, again placing it upon the end-table. Gordon frowned imperceptibly. She put on her glasses with deliberateness and began examining the list with great interest, balancing the aging book upon her knee.

"Oh Gordon," breathed Stephanie, "Wait until you see the dress. It makes me look so... feminine." Gordon smiled at her, imagining her in something other than the conservative suits that were dictated by her role as an agent for one of the more prestigious commercial real estate firms in Manhattan. Mrs. Stipple-Holling, deeply engrossed in the list, made a small "hrmph" noise. "And you should see the train! You can't see me at all when it's pulled down over my face." "I shouldn't expect so," replied Gordon, mystified. "Do you mean the veil?" "Oh yes," said Stephanie, "I always confuse those two." Mrs. Stipple-Holling made a satisfied grunt and continued to work her way down the list.

"Gordon, I've been thinking. Wouldn't that display case thingy be perfect for my elephant collection?" Stephanie pointed, with perfectly manicured nails, to his Chippendale china cupboard which had, at least until now, housed the Quing Dynasty ceramics that had been passed on to him by his great aunt. Gordon smiled wanly, questioning his decision to have added to his betrothed's pachydermia the previous Christmas with an antique, ivory specimen from India. He wondered whether she would keep the rather large stuffed one which some former flame had won for her at Coney Island. Glancing about his apartment, his concern swelled when he considered, for the first time, that their impending marriage meant that she soon would be moving all of her belongings into his apartment. Then he realized, with a start, that she would always be there too.

Mrs. Stipple-Holling suddenly scratched out one of the names on Gordon's list.

"Mother and I had the grandest time registering at Tiffany's and Bloomingdale's this morning," said Stephanie. "Mother thought that just Tiffany's was enough, but I told her that some people just can't afford it. I was being considerate of your side, wasn't that good of me?" Mrs. Stipple-Holling suddenly snapped shut her social register, stood and declared "I'm ready for the tour," as she led the way down the hall.

"Well, for one thing, this place needs wall-to-wall carpets," said Gordon's future mother-in-law as she strode boldly into the spare bedroom. Panic flooded his eyes as he canvassed his beloved hardwood floors. "Actually, I'd grown rather attached to the floor as it is, actually," he said, hopefully. "Wooden floors make dust," she announced with conviction. "Oh, I don't find that to be true at all," said Gordon politely. "Well, " she retorted, "it is! My Ruthie told me that, and the English speaking maids are never wrong, you know."

The two women suddenly parted, as if by mitosis, and launched into different directions, leaving Gordon in a quandary as to which he ought follow. "Have you seen in here, Mother?" called the younger woman from the study, "it's awfully dark, but I think it could make a wonderful office." "Actually, it's quite bright enough to work when I have the lamp lit over my drafting table, dear..." offered Gordon without much conviction, chasing after his future bride. "Yes yes, well, we can brighten it up some anyhow," she said before offering him an air-kiss as she roared by him on her way to the kitchen.

"Oh goodness, this kitchen is positively primeval," cried Mrs. Stipple-Holling while surveying the hand-carved oak cabinets that Gordon had painstakingly stripped and stained several years before. "Well, yes Mother, but Gordon does most of the cooking, so it doesn't much matter to me." Gordon strained to recall a single instance when his fiance had prepared anything in a kitchen. "Yes, but how ever will you entertain?" countered her mother. "Actually, it is a rather functional kitchen, though," offered Gordon, but he was completely ignored by both of them. "We'll simply have to have one of those Scandinavian designers come up here and try to make something of this. This will never do! You can afford to put some money into this place, now that you've been offered a partnership at the firm. Right, my angel?"

The two women marched down the hall in lockstep to begin their foray of the bedroom. "Stephanie, where do you intend to place your vanity? " asked her mother, "there is no dressing room to speak of, so it will have to replace something in here." Gordon frowned. He never quite knew how to address her. 'Mother' seemed premature, 'Mrs. Stipple-Holling' seemed horribly stilted, and 'Elise' was unacceptably familiar. "Um.." said Gordon. "We could, um, well, place it along here, against this wall..." The older woman stared at him over the top of her pince-nez. "Not enough direct light!" she adjudicated. "You'll have to pull those bookcases out of here."

Meanwhile, the younger woman had thrown open the doors of his armoire and was yanking drawers at random. "Oh Gordon," she exclaimed, "look at how much room you're wasting! We'll just have to squeeze your socks and underwear into one drawer to make room for my things. You have such a fetish for order- I don't know how you can stand it." Gordon's ears had become quite red.

"Red!" exclaimed Stephanie's mother. "That's what this room needs. To be painted red!"

For the first time in his life, a little gland in the back of Gordon's brain switched from 'flight' to 'fight'. His breathing deepened as he whirled around dramatically to confront the two head-on. "We will not paint this room red!" he said emphatically, albeit with a trace of hesitation. The two women blinked. Gordon was suddenly overcome with fear, feeling as though he had landed a glancing blow upon a carnival worker. In his terror, he decided to press on.

"We will not carpet over these floors, we will not pack away my pottery, and you certainly shall not make unilateral decisions about my undergarments!" he shouted, crossing his arms across his pounding heart. Stephanie regarded him for a moment, expressionless, turned to her speechless mother and then burst into her robust, braying laughter. "Isn't he darling, Mother? He's so precious when he tries to be stern!" Mrs. Stipple-Harding snorted. "Now Gordon," began Stephanie, "don't act spoilt! You're going to have to become accustomed to there being two opinions in this partnership." Gordon looked at his fiancé and then at her mother. "This place will be adorable, when we get through with it." She pressed her index finger against his pursed lips. "All it really needs is a woman's touch."

c 1997 Victor-charles Scafati