What if a dream career doesn’t come down the pipe until the golden years? That’s how retired Sheepshead homemaker and widower Ethel becomes a model in this month’s story.
We’re also trying something new with this edition, which is coming to you on the first of the month and not somewhere in the middle. We’ll be sending your monthly story on the first from here on out, whether that ends up being a Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday… A little more regularity. So you know what to expect. Like rent. But good. Sheepshead prices, from Ethel's days...
The Editors
Well Ethel never thought she’d be a model—it sounded a bit pretentious, even now!—but she was, oh, what was that word her granddaughter had used? Scouted. Yes, she was scouted. And, after thinking it over for an afternoon and meeting with her closest bosom friend, sweet Cece, it was decided. She would model.
The man had spotted her at the coffee house she frequented almost every day. It was easier for Ethel to keep to a routine, like walk for twenty-five minutes and get her coffee and then mop the kitchen and banish the soap scum from the bathroom, than if she tried to do something on only Mondays or every Thursday.
Indeed, she was thankful now for this regularity since it meant the man had found her and just like that, she found this new calling. No, she wasn’t vain. In fact, her late husband, her darling Julien, begged her to have more vanity! Ethel, dear, please, please realize how beautiful you are, he liked to tell her. On second thought, he’d add, no, don’t find out—you’d leave me in a heartbeat! She prayed for him every night. What would he think of her now? He’d be proud, of course.
Anyway, Mr. Franklin had approached her and, in the most gentlemanly way possible, asked for her name and occupation. She said, I am Ethel, a retired homemaker. And Mr. Franklin had said, Ah, certainly you must be a retired model, am I correct?
She had laughed and laughed and yes, blushed. It was just so unexpected! Her, in her casual attire and the thick-heeled but comfortable sneakers all of the gals wore for walks, and there was Mr. Franklin, in his lovely pinstriped suit and gleaming shoes, freshly shined indeed. Well right away she knew he meant it because his eyes grew wide in shock when she said she had never modeled, and Mr. Franklin was a much, much younger man, about the age of her son-in-law. He was not trying to pick her up in the slightest. So, yes, it was flattering because it was completely earnest.
When she reiterated that no, she wasn’t and then added that no, nor had she ever been, he gave her a little bow and asked to see her hand. When she lifted her left hand—just to be sure! because yes, she did still wear her wedding ring and no, she would never take it off—he slipped her his business card. It was a sparse card with not much information, simply his name, which was prominently featured in the center, with his number and email address in a smaller font. Sparse as it was, it was quite heavy so that she didn’t worry about the wind pulling it from her clenched hand on the way home.
-
Cece had wanted to hear everything when they met at the bench by the ice cream truck near the blue footbridge. Ethel was still getting used to Sheepshead Bay and apartment living but the house in Marine Park had been simply too much upkeep for her without Julien. They didn’t have much grass and she knew of a few highly regarded lawn services, but then there was all the cleaning inside, too, and so many rooms, now vacant and the echoes she couldn’t bear, who wanted that? Plus, with the profits from the house, she liked knowing she had enough to live on forever without having to even think about Social Security, and she could pay for things now, topping off the grandkids’ college funds and music lessons and giving her daughter substantial cash gifts for holidays so no one was waiting, as she’d seen happen to too many friends before, for her to roll over so they could take, take, take from her cold hands.
She liked it here, yes, the water and the gulls and the mute swans, loud as they were when they spotted anyone with bread or bagels lingering too close to them. Here, Ethel was near her daughter and grandchildren’s house in Seagate, and, just as crucially, close to Cece who lived only blocks from her new place.
“Cece, there isn’t much to say,” Ethel said. “He just said, ‘I have a wonderful opportunity for you,’ and that was that.”
“Wow, that sure is something,” Cece said. “Do you think it will be a magazine? Or, hmmm. Maybe, well, not runway, you don’t think, right?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Still, how exciting! I’m proud to have you as a friend, Ethel,” she said, grabbing her hand to give it a gingerly squeeze. “Don’t forget about me.”
“Oh, Cece, I would never!”
One of the fishing boats passed them, adding new, large waves to the water.
“I guess I should head home,” Cece said, gathering her belongings to put them in her small cart that she preferred over a walker for its functional features. “Call him tomorrow!”
They kissed cheeks and hugged, both of their backs soft and similar, so similar that Ethel sometimes felt she was hugging herself. Cece thought she should call him the next day, and she did.
-
The entrance wasn’t what she had expected. It was a squat building, attached to a row of other stores, a few still vacant after the last storm’s flooding. It was fairly non-descript and not grand enough for the Mr. Franklin she remembered, what with his lovely suit and dazzling smile. But perhaps it was just an outpost, one of several buildings, this one where meetings took place and supplies were stored, all the glamour of the industry hiding in plain sight—and maybe it was smart. Intentional to a T. Yes, this way, with the plain exterior, you don’t have to worry about drop-ins constantly coming here, girls getting off the nearby Q train and dragging in suitcases of their best dresses or lingerie, touting their headshots, trying to make it big by buzzing and buzzing the poor receptionist who had, secretly, wanted to be a model herself but understood her role, and because of those desires, it pained her—it did!—to have to say over and over again, who had to say politely, even after the fifth time, the fiftieth, I’m so sorry girls, you’re just not what we’re looking for.
Ethel looked for a buzzer but she didn’t see one.
“Isn’t that odd,” she muttered.
She walked up and down, checking the adjoining shops but didn’t see anything. Finally, she tried the door. There was no receptionist to greet her. There were so many boxes piled up, stacks so high they almost grazed the ceiling. There was a single chair in the front, worn fabric with decorative swirls that had seen better days.
“Hello?” she said. “Anyone there?”
It smelled musty, she had to admit, and so she held her purse a little closer to her body and walked down the small corridor, turning sideways to avoid the boxes.
“Mr. Franklin? It’s Ethel! Are you here?”
She heard a rustling from the back and a loud, bellowing voice.
“Wonderful! Ms. Ethel. I’m so glad you could make it.”
In the dim lighting, it was hard to make him out but she knew it wasn’t Mr. Franklin.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“I’m Lloyd.”
“Good afternoon. I’m here for Mr. Franklin.”
“No, Mr. Franklin works in the field. You’re here for me.”
“Oh, are you sure? He asked me to come down.”
“Yes, come down to meet with me,” Lloyd said. “You really are as lovely as described.”
“Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Ethel felt his hot breath against her face, so labored, so long, his exhale like a heater.
“So, you’re sure you’re comfortable with everything?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, setting her mind one last time, deciding on fame.
“Well, I’d like to think I’m quite an open-minded person, up for almost anything, appropriate of course. But we didn’t discuss terms or anything like that. Or, well, payment. Not that I’m in it for the money. I’m in it for the experience.”
“Of course,” he said, holding out a folder. “So compensation is covered on page five. It accounts to a discount on the product which you’re featured on so that it is virtually free and the commission is based on any and all verbal inquiries based on the ad.”
“Ok,” Ethel said, positioning her glasses a bit lower on her nose as she sifted through the thick pages. “Perhaps my son-in-law could take a look before I sign anything.”
“That’s understandable, though it does slow down the process.”
“This isn’t, uh—a scam or anything, is it?” Ethel asked, giving a small laugh to soften her accusation. “I’m sure it’s not but I do have to wonder in this day and age.”
“Not in the slightest. This is going to save you money. We’re not asking for a dime.”
“So what am I modeling exactly?”
“This wasn’t discussed with Mr. Franklin?”
She didn’t want to get him in trouble, not her Mr. Franklin, not the man who went out on a limb for her. He was the man who had found her, believed in her! He gave her this dream. Still, she wished she knew more.
“Well, I do believe he did, but the details are rusty. Forgive me, but perhaps you could go over things again?”
“Sure. Since you have the perfect look and I think you are someone a lot of eloquent, established women could see themselves in—”
“Oh, well, thank you.”
“We’re going to use you to cater to a more, how should I say, exclusive class. Someone who doesn’t just want to be remembered but wants to be remembered with glamour and grace.”
A cat darted out of the tiny bathroom, racing away from them both. Door noticeably ajar now, Ethel heard the dripping of the sink.
“Right.”
“So let me just run back and get the large-scale image. It’s also on page 70 in your packet.”
“Ok.”
She turned the page. There were so many to get through, and all of the pages were stuck. She licked the tip of her pointer finger to try to sift through everything.
Drip. Drip.
Right as she turned to the page, Lloyd emerged. He was holding a poster-sized image of what was photocopied in her packet.
“Stunning, right?” he said.
-
Her daughter asked but didn’t badger. Her son-in-law, having never seen the contract, probably didn’t know one way or the other. Her granddaughter brought it up twice but didn’t pry. But when Cece called asking how it had gone with the modeling, that was a different story.
Ethel didn’t always answer when she saw the caller ID flash across her muted TV. When she did, she tried to make an excuse—it’s just been so busy with the grandkids or my dinner is burning or I’m just not feeling well.
“I’ll call you later,” she said to Cece every time.
“I knew it,” Cece said, saddened. “I knew you’d forget about me.”
Ethel thought about deactivating her phone. Maybe Julien was right. It was better to not know yourself, to drink coffee undisturbed. On Sundays, she sometimes walked to the bridge to see if she could spot Cece’s back on their bench.
-
Now when Ethel took her walk, she changed her route—she couldn’t help herself—so she walked by it, every single day: the image for which she’d modeled. She stared at her face in the window and her twenty-five minute walk became longer and longer.
On the tombstone, Ethel’s eyes were open wide, her eyebrows inward. Her mouth, frozen forever, was agape just slightly, like she was about to moan. The tombstone became like a mirror, her face involuntarily matching the image. She felt the horror each time she saw it, trying to swallow the shock that couldn’t help but arise when she stood face to face with it.
The tombstone was the same standard gray as anyone else’s and heavy—the weight evident even through the glass—since it was the real deal, not a replica but the bona fide thing, erect and unwavering. The background shading haloed around her face, making her look already gone. She felt herself getting lighter when she looked at it, like a small part of her left with every unblinking stare.
Julien would hate it. She hoped he couldn’t see her now.
And still, even though it made her feel strange, she couldn’t help but visit herself. She had to admit, she liked to stand by it and see if any of the faces from the train looked up and across, seeing her—each her—and her name in cursive with her birthdate and a dash, no end date yet. But no one ever looked up from their phones and newspapers and strollers with dogs or children or groceries stacked to the brim.
No wonder no one looked. Who wants to be reminded, beautiful a tombstone as it was, and yes, even Ethel had to admit that, when all the other stores offered vacant windows, with their empty and slightly distorted reflections, so people could look up and see themselves, there for a moment and then, like them, gone.
Maybe tomorrow she would bring herself flowers. Roses, she thought, how perfect.
-30-
Vanessa Ogle is a poet and writer. She received her MFA from Hunter College in 2020.