photographs and signed fashion illustrations, though from where I sit I can’t see by whom. There are two columns of bookshelves, cabinets filled with ancient Barbies and porcelain curios. An enormous oval mirror in a baroque gold gilt frame hangs in the small foyer. I’m sitting on the couch on the far wall directly facing it. I catch bits of my reflection poking out around the others, who are standing and talking in the middle of the room. Finally it’s just me staring back at myself. Esther calls my name from the kitchen and asks if I like cognac. I like everything. “On occasion,” I say in my best polite grown-up voice.
“Well, dear, this is certainly an occasion,” Esther says. “Follow me.”
She’s carrying an expensive-looking bottle and two glasses. I trail her into a bedroom off the living room. It’s Lila’s room. I sip the cognac and Esther motions to me to take a seat on the bed. The room is big with a wall of built-in shelving thatstretches to the ceiling. There are magazines, hundreds of them, probably thousands. Esther steps on a footstool and reaches up, pulling down a stack of large-format magazines. Each are tucked into plastic sleeves. “Lila spent a week last year fitting every one of them into these bags—some kind of special plastic, so they won’t deteriorate.” Esther shakes her head but her smile is wide. “I told her she was crazy, but she wasn’t hearing any of it.” She hands me the pile of magazines and I can’t help but squeal. I set my cognac on the bedside table and sort through the stack, making sure I’m seeing what I think I am.
“Those were her favorites,” Esther says. “I’ll admit they are quite pretty.”
I count them off in my head—all twelve issues of Flair magazine. I have three beat-up copies I paid too much for at a shop in New York, but these are pristine, their die-cut covers sharp and perfectly preserved. These are not simply magazines or collectibles, but art. Fashion designers and artists and writers scour vintage ephemera stores and haunt online auction sites for copies of Flair . Completing your Flair collection is a rite of passage for all the stylish style-makers.
“From what I understand there were only a dozen issues published,” Esther says.
I run my hand over the cover of the Paris theme issue from April 1950. I don’t dare remove it from the special plastic.
“Go on,” Esther says. “Open them up. Let’s have a look.”
“We shouldn’t,” I say.
Esther laughs. “Why not? Lila’s not going to rise from the dead and strike us down. Besides, they’re yours—and anything else in here you find to your liking.”
I scan the shelves—it’s all to my liking. “I couldn’t,” I say.I’d need to get Eva to help me load it all in her car. It would take at least three trips. I could rent a van for a day. I try to calculate how much it’s all worth. I wish I could bang these thoughts out of my mind on the heavy wooden headboard without causing a scene.
I wonder if magazines are insurable and it strikes me that I am a woman who preys on grieving old ladies. I’m a Crime Stoppers reenactment in the making. I’m an evil Poe raven feasting on a spilled basket of onion rings to-go outside a highway truck stop. I’m a bitch and a fraud. I’m a terrible friend and a fucked-up baby who wants her gums rubbed with gallons of whiskey to put her to sleep. I’m crying on a dead woman’s bed.
I find the monogrammed handkerchief Esther gave me earlier. It’s hardened with salt and snot and it’s rough on my eyes.
“Sara, dear, what is it?”
“It’s…it’s nothing—everything.” I have reached full blubber. I bury my face in my hands but I can’t breathe. I inhale as deeply as I can through my nose. Mucous floods my throat and I start to choke and cough. Esther picks a box of disposable tissues off Lila’s dresser. No more monogrammed hankies for me. I clear my throat and a lump forces its way into my mouth. It’s
“Well, dear, this is certainly an occasion,” Esther says. “Follow me.”
She’s carrying an expensive-looking bottle and two glasses. I trail her into a bedroom off the living room. It’s Lila’s room. I sip the cognac and Esther motions to me to take a seat on the bed. The room is big with a wall of built-in shelving thatstretches to the ceiling. There are magazines, hundreds of them, probably thousands. Esther steps on a footstool and reaches up, pulling down a stack of large-format magazines. Each are tucked into plastic sleeves. “Lila spent a week last year fitting every one of them into these bags—some kind of special plastic, so they won’t deteriorate.” Esther shakes her head but her smile is wide. “I told her she was crazy, but she wasn’t hearing any of it.” She hands me the pile of magazines and I can’t help but squeal. I set my cognac on the bedside table and sort through the stack, making sure I’m seeing what I think I am.
“Those were her favorites,” Esther says. “I’ll admit they are quite pretty.”
I count them off in my head—all twelve issues of Flair magazine. I have three beat-up copies I paid too much for at a shop in New York, but these are pristine, their die-cut covers sharp and perfectly preserved. These are not simply magazines or collectibles, but art. Fashion designers and artists and writers scour vintage ephemera stores and haunt online auction sites for copies of Flair . Completing your Flair collection is a rite of passage for all the stylish style-makers.
“From what I understand there were only a dozen issues published,” Esther says.
I run my hand over the cover of the Paris theme issue from April 1950. I don’t dare remove it from the special plastic.
“Go on,” Esther says. “Open them up. Let’s have a look.”
“We shouldn’t,” I say.
Esther laughs. “Why not? Lila’s not going to rise from the dead and strike us down. Besides, they’re yours—and anything else in here you find to your liking.”
I scan the shelves—it’s all to my liking. “I couldn’t,” I say.I’d need to get Eva to help me load it all in her car. It would take at least three trips. I could rent a van for a day. I try to calculate how much it’s all worth. I wish I could bang these thoughts out of my mind on the heavy wooden headboard without causing a scene.
I wonder if magazines are insurable and it strikes me that I am a woman who preys on grieving old ladies. I’m a Crime Stoppers reenactment in the making. I’m an evil Poe raven feasting on a spilled basket of onion rings to-go outside a highway truck stop. I’m a bitch and a fraud. I’m a terrible friend and a fucked-up baby who wants her gums rubbed with gallons of whiskey to put her to sleep. I’m crying on a dead woman’s bed.
I find the monogrammed handkerchief Esther gave me earlier. It’s hardened with salt and snot and it’s rough on my eyes.
“Sara, dear, what is it?”
“It’s…it’s nothing—everything.” I have reached full blubber. I bury my face in my hands but I can’t breathe. I inhale as deeply as I can through my nose. Mucous floods my throat and I start to choke and cough. Esther picks a box of disposable tissues off Lila’s dresser. No more monogrammed hankies for me. I clear my throat and a lump forces its way into my mouth. It’s
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