Clothing was magic. Casey believed this. She would never admit this to her classmates in any of her women’s studies courses, but she felt that an article of clothing could change a person, literally cast a spell. Each skirt, blouse, necklace, or humble shoe said something—certain pieces screamed, and others whispered seductively, but no matter, she experienced each item’s expression keenly, and she loved this world. Every article suggested an image, a life, a kind of woman, and Casey felt drawn by them. When things were difficult—and they couldn’t get much worse—Casey went to buy something to wear. When she had very little cash, purchasing a pair of black tights or a tube of lipstick from the drugstore could help her get through a slump.
Casey and her college friends were ashamed of shopping. Smart girls who read books weren’t supposed to be materialistic （her fellow economics majors pegged consumers as mollified idiots, and as for religion, they invoked Marx’s phrase the opiate of the masses）， and although female intellects cleverly discussed sensuality and tactility in art, smart women were not supposed to like culling or gathering more dresses. But Casey knew well from having been on both sides of the counter that even bookish girls liked to go to shops and be thrilled by a red tweed skirt or a black cloche. And equally true was that smart girls wanted to be beautiful in the way beautiful girls wanted to be smart. Size fourteen bibliophiles could love clothes as much as size two heiresses who shopped to fill their time. Everyone scrounged for an identity defined by objects.
That morning, Casey went to Bayard Toll, though her budget recommended Lucky’s, a discount warehouse. What she wanted was an image of something to wear for a job interview, and the notion of combing through the round, bulky clothing racks of Lucky’s depressed her, although at other times she’d relished the challenge of finding the treasures passed over from last season’s styles. Today, she wanted luxury. She wanted to be someone else.
Bayard’s third floor carried collections of modern designers. Casey shopped efficiently, and within half an hour she’d picked up a pair of black slacks—cut narrow and made from a fine summer-weight wool, a gray skirt with parallel kick pleats on the sides, a white Sea Island cotton shirt with exaggerated French cuffs, and a navy lightweight jacket that she could wear with slacks or a skirt. These were work clothes, and they were what called to her.
A petite saleswoman named Maud relieved Casey of the clothing slung over her arm. She glanced at Casey’s face, the canvas hat and mirrored sunglasses, and gave her a clipped nod. Casey returned the nod. Maud’s detached manner was amazing. As a fellow retail salesperson, Casey recognized that Maud’s response was exactly right. Maud spoke plainly—without false intimacy. She was in her late fifties, dressed in a gray modernist sweater, slim gray pants. Her pouf of curly gray hair was streaked with even ribbons of pure white. She was a classic column. Around her neck, she wore reading glasses strung on a canvas cord, giving her an intellectual authority Casey found irresistible.
Casey normally avoided salespeople. At a store like Bayard’s, the salespeople parted the pool of customers into two segments: those who wanted a best friend or those who wanted a silent servant to ring up the sales and deliver the packages to the proper address. Casey was pretending to be the latter, because she did not want to be found out. At most, she could afford to buy a garter belt on sale.
Maud brought her to a large dressing room, then hung up her selections on the forged iron rack. She looked them over.
“You’ve made good choices,” she said. Maud’s tone was deliberate, not fawning, and the comment meant something to Casey, although she heard this kind of thing often. Her taste was well developed for someone so young （Sabine’s exact and slightly aggressive words）， but it did not make Casey feel better about not being beautiful. She recalled Jay with the two girls and wished she were prettier, her waist narrower, her breasts fuller, her skin more luminous. Her thoughts embarrassed her.
Maud rested her pinkie on her lower lip. “I have something for you.”
Casey nodded, pleased by the attention, and in no time, Maud brought her a suit by a German designer, the color of bitter chocolate—with a long jacket and a knee-length skirt. The fabric was wool, much like the material used for a man’s suit. The jacket opening was asymmetrical and double-breasted; the price was four figures. Size thirty-six.
“I didn’t see this on the floor,” Casey said.
“It wasn’t on the floor.” Maud smiled. “Try it.”