The Red Dress
      Inspired by Room in New York by Edward Hopper
      The dress is uncomfortable and too bright, a flashy red that makes Helen stand out when really all she wants to do is melt away into the background. She looks at her other dresses, warm browns and soft patterns hanging next to one another in the closet. Her mother always told her that she dressed like a wallflower, as if she is meant to be in the background of the party, the one behind the laughing heiress—the one that looks nice, but never draws attention to herself. She caresses the soft gray dress that she wore last week. But, she reminds herself, the red dress is William’s favorite. He says he likes the way it clings to her curves, skims over her body, the way it is suggestive but not too revealing with its high neckline. 
      Tonight is one of his office parties, the holiday party, and he wants a woman in a red dress to stand next to him, to laugh at his jokes and smile charmingly at the Chief Financial Officer. He wants Helen to ask about his boss’s children with fake interest. What are their names again? Oh Charles and Evelyn, how could I forget! Oh yes, and how are his piano lessons going? And her ballet?
      In the bedroom, he zips her into that red dress; it’s as restrictive as a straight jacket, and she reminds herself not to eat anything at the party. In the mirror, she adjusts everything, puts on her grandmother’s pearl earrings, and then takes them off, because some part of her should be plain. There has to be a crack in the mask for her to breathe through. Helen slips on a pair of black shoes, spike heeled and platform soled.
      She had bought them years ago, when she and William were newly married, a few months after his first promotion. The shoes were from a nice store with polished attendants, a store where people didn’t look at the price tags. They had been sitting in the front window, just waiting for her. She’d later tried to explain to William why she’d wanted them, how these shoes added to her without taking anything away, how they were hers. But she couldn’t express these feelings in vowels and consonants, and he ignored her attempted explanations, began to read the newspaper. He told Helen she would return them tomorrow. Why didn’t you just buy a simple pair of shoes, you know we can’t afford these. What were you thinking, Helen?
      But she’d wanted a pair of dangerous shoes, different from the more practical, everyday chunky heels other women wore. She’d stood her ground, told him she wouldn’t buy a new dress for the rest of the year, if money was that tight. In the end, the shoes remained in her closet. They were one of the few things she’d ever demanded, and she takes good care of them, makes sure they don’t scuff, only wears them to events like the holiday party. Her head spins a little when she puts them on; she’s not used to being so tall, every extra inch above the ground is magnified tenfold. These shoes help her in some small way gain an ounce of confidence, stand straighter, smile more—not much, but every bit counts. 
      Helen always feels as if she does not belong at these events; the people at these parties are not her type. They’re too veiled, everything is hidden too well behind their masks. She feels hunted there, with her hair up, pallid neck exposed to the sharp teeth of their comments. But she’d never tell William any of this. He wants a woman in a red dress, with black hair swept elegantly into a bun, perfectly powdered face displaying everything he wants to see. And so she tries to look like a woman who would wear a red dress, smiles into the mirror with false confidence, knowing that it will never be enough. You look beautiful, William whispers in her ear, patting her head like one would a small child.  
      William drives the two of them to the office, a thoroughly modern building that she’s never been comfortable in, with its big glass windows and concrete walls. After going through the revolving door, she looks around for wood, for warmth. But all she finds is the marble receptionist’s desk, long and sterile. Only a lone basket of poinsettias disrupts the sleek lines. 
      They take off their coats in the cloakroom. She can already hear the laughter, the light tinkling of glasses, the polite comments drifting from upstairs. She sighs. William ignores this gesture of insecurity, and she straightens up, lifts her chin, remembers her shoes. She tries to gather every bit of poise she can from those dangerous heels. They ride up a floor in the elevator, commenting on little things, like how so-and-so’s wife will probably be wearing that dress she got from Paris, and how so-and-so must be due for a promotion someday. It is small talk, the only kind of talk they seem to have nowadays. She reaches out her hand with the intention of taking his, but decides against it, leaving her empty hand stretched out awkwardly in the space between them—such a small space, but one she just can’t cross. When the elevator doors open, she readies her smile that will be frayed and worn by the end of the night. In front of them, the party opens up, a shifting mass of elegance and sugar-laced comments. 
      They enter the light space of the party, a large room with a glass wall looking out over the glittering lights of the city. The room is filled with smoke and peals of laughter; William enters as if he was created for this place, moving comfortably through the crowd, smoothly picking up a drink and chatting with the Vice President of Sales. Helen follows behind him like an extra shadow, tacked on by the ring on her left hand. Her eyes shift nervously; she feels exposed here, in this room filled with people whose names she hardly remembers. 
      She stands behind her husband, drinking in what words she can catch in his conversations with vaguely important looking men, while their wives float around on air in grey, black, and blue perfections that makes her red dress look cheap. She knows she stands out in the crowd. She blushes, looks down at her ridiculously bright dress, hoping no one will notice her lack of earrings. Why didn’t she put them on? 
      Eventually, two of the wives take pity on her, ask how she’s enjoying the party. 
      “Oh. It’s lovely.” Her voice comes out in a whispery shimmer, unsure of itself. Clearing her throat, she fingers the stem of a drink she suddenly finds herself holding, something strong that the two other women are drinking as well. The one with red lipstick, who just might be the wife of the CFO, Helen has never been certain, asks after William. 
      “Mr. Taylor’s quite fine, thank you,” she responds automatically. Lipstick gives the other woman, a giggling blonde in a black dress, a knowing look. Helen shifts her weight about uncomfortably. The room is getting too warm, and sweat is beginning to bead up on her brow. She’s already tired of being William’s woman in the red dress. If only she could escape this room. She glances out the window at the cool lights of the city. A slight pain in her foot brings her back to the overstuffed room. The shoes, Helen. Remember who you’re supposed to be.   
      “I’m sure he’s quite fine, handsome man that he is. I’m sure he’s doing wonderfully.” Helen doesn’t like the way Lipstick’s voice lingers on the vowels, like there is so much more there than just a sentence, or the way this woman’s eyes linger on William. Turning away from the window, Helen takes a good look at the woman. Her dark eye-liner and red lips unsettle Helen in ways she doesn’t understand. Her instincts try to tell her something primal, something about the woman’s eyes, how they remind her of the feral cats she sometimes sees in the city late at night. But she’s wrapped her instincts up in a red dress and caked them in powder. All she can feel is an unnamed fear, like a small animal in an open field.  
      A man in a grey suit bumps into the blonde, and she lets out a sharp gasp. Apologizing profusely, the man returns to his conversations, leaving the Lipstick and Helen staring at the blonde. 
      “My dear, what did you do to yourself?” Lipstick asks. 
      “Oh. I fell the other day. It was icy and I slipped and fell on my side. It’s just bruising, I didn’t break any ribs, thank God!” the blonde laughs nervously, a little too loud, and Lipstick smiles knowingly, as if she is in on a great secret. There is an awkward pause in conversation. 
      “Oh. I see. Well, we must be more careful, shouldn’t we? And where was Harry?” Lipstick dwells on the word Harry, layering it implications. The blonde looks down at her perfect feet in bright red pumps, and mumbles something under her breath. Helen frowns this time, and the pause fills with suspicion. But the blond moves the conversation in another direction before she can ask anything. 
      “Oh my, wh-where did you get your dress?” the blonde asks Lipstick.
      “This?” Lipstick looks down at her steely grey dress, with a deeply cut front, made from fabric that clings in all the right places. “Oh, just something I saw hanging in my closet. Thought I might wear it for once.”
      They look at Helen’s dress for a moment, pause as if to say something, yet no golden words flow from their mouths. It is too red, so blatant their eyes squint a little, mouths tighten. They turn away to resume their little exchanges on dresses and earrings.
      After a while, the blond goes off in search of better conversations, leaving Helen and Lipstick with an uneasy silence. Helen looks down at her shoes, knowing that when she takes them off tonight, her feet will be sore and blistered. But these heels, regardless of their painful nature, give her a bit of courage, and she brings her gaze back up to Lipstick. Remember who William wants you to be, she tells herself. Lipstick is giving her that same knowing look she gave the blonde, smirking slightly. Those eyes see right through Helen, see right through the red dress.
      “Nice shoes.” 
      Lipstick walks off in search of the blonde or maybe her husband, and Helen is left standing by a window, the loud noises of the party turning into an inscrutable hum. She stumbles though conversations the rest of the night, listening to people talk about all manner of subjects. 
      “…Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know about your wife…”
      “…now Hoover, he just might get us through this rough patch…I’m not sure that this FDR can deliver.…”
        “…Hm? What? Well, I don’t know…”
      “...Yes. I’m leaving him...tomorrow…everything’s packed…of course he has no idea…” Helen stops walking though the crowd. Even though she doesn’t look up, Helen knows that it is the blonde’s whisper she hears next to her, the hint of an uncertain laugh at the end of every sentence. She cautiously looks over on the floor, and spies a pair of bright red pumps.
      “…well…that is if he leaves his wife…”
      Helen suddenly becomes self-conscious, her shoes biting into her feet. Eavesdropping seems wrong, especially on such a private conversation. She walks off, wincing, and soon the crowd shifts and she is out of hearing range.  
      After another hour of wandering, she finds William around ten o’clock and walks toward him, thinking about reaching for his hand. He’s talking with someone important, someone she can’t see. From the back, he is so perfectly muscled and determined. He’s always been handsome, but sometimes she forgets how striking he actually is. She frowns at herself in the window, glancing at the dress that is too loud, her slightly smeared make-up, weary face. He wouldn’t want her to look like this, not in front of his peers, but she’s almost past caring. 
      She’s almost near him, when he turns, laughing, to reveal a woman in a short black dress who’s laughing as well. It is a recognizable nervous laugh, and the woman’s hair is a memorable shade of blonde. Her hand is on his arm in a familiar manner, her teeth are perfect and straight. The blonde’s looking deep into his eyes. And William is looking back. Helen knows those looks. They’re both a little unsteady, and much too close together, and his hand is in the process of drifting around her waist. No one but Helen notices this, and she stops walking, tries to camouflage into the crowd. But they both notice her. Curse that red dress. 
      She catches the blonde’s eye, and a shocked look passes over the blonde’s face. I didn’t think you’d ever find out. Her mouth is in an open gasp of surprise, body pulled taught. Helen’s gaze moves to William. His jaw is set in a firm line, although in his eyes there is a flicker of guilt. His hands are now down at his sides, empty, awkward. 
      Why. That is the only word she can say, and it is hoarse, comes out only in a whisper. William’s eyes fall to his shoes. Helen finds herself walking up to him, carried forward by those black heels. Why, William? Her hand rises on its own accord, but falters midway. She can’t hit him, just like she can’t reach out for his hand. They’re too far apart.  
      The rest of the night is a blurry disaster. The blonde disappears into the party. William tries to explain himself through whispers in her ear, that she was just a friend of his, a co-worker, that it means nothing Helen, nothing. But Lipstick’s words are stuck in her head, encasing her in shock. Oh I’m sure he’s doing fine, handsome man that he is. Yes, he’s doing fine. William grabs her hand, drags her down to the cloakroom. She doesn’t realize she’s crying, sniveling like a small child, that she’s embarrassing him in front of all these important people. Lipstick gives her a look near the door. Yes, I knew. How could you not have suspected him, sometimes, her eyes say. 
      They drive home in a firm silence, her mind spinning faster than the wheels on the dark pavement. The red dress she’s wearing isn’t for show. William doesn’t like it because of the way it hugs her curves. No, it’s so he can spot her in this black-clad crowd, so he knows exactly where she is in the room at all times. She thinks about all of his late nights at the office, all the times she fell asleep with a cold spot next to her. How many of those nights did he spend with someone else? With the blonde? She’d never even considered it; she’d always believed in that ring on her left hand. 
      But it made sense. She’d known from the beginning of their marriage that she was no beauty, just average, with dull dark hair and unexceptional brown eyes. Helen had always thought William saw past this, that he loved her quietness, her shyness. And maybe he had. They had been happy once, when they lived in a smaller apartment and William had just started work. He had been more spontaneous then, had brought her flowers. The walls had been stained and the furniture worn, but their little part of the world had a comfort that can only be found in cracked dishes and overstuffed chairs. They’d had window boxes then. Then William had been promoted, and they had moved onward, upward, following his dreams. Everything changed. He didn’t understand her need for the black shoes. Now, they never ate breakfast together anymore, hardly even talked at all. And now this—this mess. 
      She knows she’s one of those people who make good wives, are loyal until the end and never suspect their dear husbands of anything. Like a goddamn dog, she whispers under her breath, watching William’s stoic face out of the corner of her eye as he drives to their apartment. She’d feel angry if she wasn’t so tired.
      ...Yes. I’m leaving him...tomorrow…everything’s packed…of course he has no idea…
      Suddenly the blonde’s words come back to her. Thoughts and ideas, dangerous thoughts and ideas, begin to form. Her wedding band feels heavier on her ring finger, and for the first time she realizes she could leave, she could get out of this car at the next stoplight. But where would I go? Does that really matter? The car stops at a light, and her fingers caress the door handle. Getting out could be so easy, this is such a big city. She looks outside at the glittering lights all around her; the streetlights and car lights are not distant anymore, they’re so close now. Then she sees the people, cold and hungry, shivering against the wind, and remembers her apartment, how warm it is inside, how jobs for the unemployed are so scarce. Especially for women. Her life is comfortable, the patterns of her day-to-day routine wearing a path in the carpet. She tries to imagine life without a man, without William. She places her hand in her lap. The car drives on. 
      They enter the apartment, and William goes straight for the paper, ignoring her sniffs and trembling frame, his posture asking her to leave it for tomorrow. Please Helen. Leave it for tomorrow. We’re both too tired for this. And maybe he’s right. She doesn’t want to think anymore. In their bedroom, she takes off those heels—the ones that gave her an ounce of confidence—and puts them next to her old carpetbag. Nice shoes, Lipstick had said. She fingers the comfortable dresses in her closet, imagines stuffing them all in her bag and leaving only the red dress hanging alone on a silver hanger. In the living room, she looks over at him, sitting in the reading chair, leaning over to catch the lamplight. She walks over to the piano. In the red dress, she fingers the keys, each one letting out a clear note that dies in the expanse of their distance. 
The Red Dress, 11-12, pg 1