Beloved
The windows in the rear of the Laundromat were open, but the June breeze that lifted the white wedding bunting tacked to the frames cooled no one, not even the ceiling flies. The place smelled like cheap cologne, the kind Walmart sells by the quart, and Maria figured at least a pint of it had been let free in the room. But it couldn’t camouflage the odors that ruled here, fabric softener, detergent, bleach. About a dozen other customers, most clustered near the entrance in case some cool air found its way in, stood wiping brows and folding clothes into baskets. Coarse laughter drifted in from the street, where the groom’s ushers, in their dark gray tuxedos with silky lapels, stood having a last-minute smoke.
Maria reached into the dryer, wanting to leave before the circus got underway, but her slacks—the only good pair that fit now—were still damp, and she had nothing else decent enough to wear to her meeting with the agency. She’d been given short notice, and with less than an hour left to get there, she had no time to buy something new. The first time she’d met with the family-placement agent, everyone in the room was wearing a suit, and Maria felt like a vagabond. Even her huge belly didn’t seem like reason enough for jeans.
A week ago, the happy mother in the next bed—one of those bright bubbly types who made her wish they’d ban strollers from parks—had assured her that nursing would flatten her tummy. No help there. She sat down on one of the orange plastic chairs near the dryers and tried not to think about what she’d wear every day when she returned to work or how she’d dodge questions about life as a new parent, because she’d made up her mind not to be one, not by herself.
Mrs. Ortez, the mother of the bride, a small woman in a dress with a plunging neckline and too many lavender sequins, stepped daintily over the spots of soapy water that dotted the concrete floor. Her long taffeta skirt stirred up stray balls of the multicolored lint that materialized out of nowhere. From the shelf that ran the length of the wall someone had hung a sign: “Congradulations Rosa and Ricky.” Mrs. Ortez pointed to it proudly. Her two youngest had made it, she explained, as if someone had asked. One or two of the customers seated beneath the words nodded politely as they waited for socks and shirts to stop spinning.
According to Rosa, it had taken almost three months to get her mother to agree to have the wedding in the Laundromat, but this was where she had met Ricky and where he had proposed. Maria saw Rosa here often, admired her flawless skin and her long dark lashes, and wondered at her capacity to go on talking without a breath. They’d become, if not friends, at least laundry buddies. They were both born in the neighborhood, although Maria had gotten her own place two years ago. As the wedding date came closer, Rosa insisted that Mayor Bloomberg would conduct the ceremony. Maria still found it hard to believe he’d show up. He’d married very few couples, but his term was ending and Ricky worked for the company the mayor owned, started in the mailroom right out of high school. The mayor had sworn Ricky to secrecy, but Maria doubted there was anyone left in the five boroughs who didn’t know about it by now.
Rosa was no good at secrets. Waiting on a bench with Maria for towels to dry, she’d chatter away. Life for her was one long Christmas Eve, and she loved talking about the joys that awaited her—her honeymoon in Puerto Rico, her four-poster bed, her wedded bliss, the brown-eyed children. Rosa could make rinse cycles last an eternity. But Maria would listen politely, without a trace of envy, because domestic prizes were never what she coveted. She and Raoul were moving toward something different, something better. Their orbit intersected with people able to have finer things, expect them even. They were breaking away from their parents’ world, with its prescriptions for what life should be.
Maria spotted Mrs. Ortez heading her way, so she busied herself with her phone to avoid eye contact. She’d never had occasion to speak to the woman, but she felt as if she knew her, because Rosa loved to talk about her family—even her father’s fragile finances, how much she and Ricky wanted to help out. Earlier, when Mrs. Ortez had seen Maria come into the Laundromat—her first visit since the baby was born—the woman gestured from across the room, putting her hand against her own girdled tummy, beaming, eager to convey congratulations and approval. Maria only nodded, as if the assumption was correct.
Mrs. Ortez kept up a nervous chatter, telling one of the bridesmaids to turn up the volume on her daughter’s iPod to combat the noise of the rasping machines. Socks and panties jumped in the little round windows and heavy buttons on jeans and fatigues snapped intermittently against the glass, but nothing could be done about that. The place was, after all, open for business.
From habit, Maria kept an eye on the entrance, though she knew it wasn’t likely Raoul would be around. She’d seen him only once since she left the hospital, coming up from the subway. He asked if everything had gone well, as if she’d been away visiting an ailing relative, someone terminally ill, whose fate was certain. She had no intention of telling him that she still had almost a month to change her mind. It was none of his business anymore.
When Raul stopped calling every day, stopped sending daisies to her office on Fridays, she convinced herself he’d come around, didn’t see the shift for what it was. A special project at work was going to require lots of hours. She believed him. He stopped coming over on Tuesday nights—their night for binging on old movies. The third time it happened, she called him. It was late, and she’d made the mistake of watching a romantic comedy. The happy ending came, of course, despite the odds. Swept up in it, like an evangelist, she called and told him how much she loved him. “I know,” he whispered, his tongue thick with sleep. “I know.” She didn’t realize then what he meant, that love was a loose end he’d have to find a way to tie up.
Baskets of white carnations and chrysanthemums sat atop each of the washers in the center of the Laundromat, set back to back in two rows. The petals trembled as the machines chugged like steam engines, dribbling suds onto the speckled tiles. Only two were empty and quiet. Mrs. Ortez closed their lids and tossed away the makeshift signs that read BROKE.
The guests would be arriving soon, and, of course, the mayor.
