This was the email from Frock Place that got her: “See You at Midnight, Clare.” This was the one that made her stop. Her own name in the subject line of an email sent to millions of people, and every one of them saw their names too. Frock Place was having an online sale, and they wanted Clare to be part of it.
She wasn’t going anywhere. She was self-isolating, and she lived alone, and it was mid-March, and she lived in barely a one-bedroom in Nebraska, in Lincoln, not even in Lincoln, outside of Lincoln, fairly far outside Lincoln, a place no one at the moment was thinking of.
She heard her neighbors in 3C having sex. There was a rhythm to it, real life and guts and spunk. It kept going and pounding above her. Real spank and gasp and yes.
The email from Frock Place asked if Clare wanted to receive text messages. Yes, Clare wanted to receive text messages. She clicked on the link, which took her to the website, springy and alive with a budding floral background and chipper women in tank tops. She scrolled down and entered her cell number. It was satisfying to pluck her keyboard, enter numbers, click on a boxy green button that said “Enter.” She waited for the first text message, the one that usually asked to confirm that you want to receive text messages. Nothing. She went back to the email, clicked on the link, which took her to the website, typed in her number, and clicked on the candy-colored green button. That was nice to do again. It was 11:47 pm. There was a part of her that wondered if it was more than just a midnight sale. Something unpredictable could happen. She waited forty-five minutes, and nothing, so much nothing, the longest nothing. On her laptop she turned on a streaming tv series from the 2000s, a series she’d watched and re-watched and re-watched before, and fell asleep.
At ten the next morning, a Tuesday (was it Tuesday?), here it was: a text message from Frock Place, confirming that she’d receive messages. That was considerate of them, good-natured, waiting until morning and normal waking hours. That was kind and careful. The Frock Place team who made this software—if that’s what it was, or what you called it, she didn’t know how these things worked—must be scrupulous, detail-oriented. She had an email from Frock Place, too, this one about the sale, an email from Elm & Wood about baking supplies, an email from High’s about patio furniture to spruce things up for those lucky fuckers with yards. She eyed the baking supplies, Easter sets, damask bunny plates, Peter Rabbit dipping bowls, Peter Rabbit spatulas, honeycomb cheese boards, marbled wine chillers. These were the finer things, glowing things, things of bougie beauty. Was it strange she wanted the Peter Rabbit spatulas? Strange because she didn’t cook, not even hardboiled eggs, not even pasta. She ate mostly sandwiches and hummus and yogurt and salsa and ice cream sandwiches and sliced cheese and frozen meals. Strange because Peter Rabbit had no business being on a spatula. She couldn’t afford Elm & Wood, but the spatulas were on sale, a set of three for eight dollars and three dollars to ship. She’d save them to her shopping cart, think about it. The burnished blossom Bundt cake pans were striking, even as decoration.
These were the ways she tried not to think about other things.
Her boss had called her the week before: stop coming. She was lucky and not laid off yet. She was an assistant, he sold insurance, was sneaky about it, gave good driver discounts to clients with unpaid tickets and at-fault accidents, approved homeowners with vast and unfenced pools, rickety diving boards, six-foot freefall water slides, things like that.
She let herself read online news once a day, only once, but then she’d read for a very long time.
_____
Her father texted. How was she today?
She was fine, how was he?
He was fine.
Good, she was glad.
He was glad too.
That was how things went. Nothing more, and no calls. He lived in Scottsbluff and had moved there for a young down-and-out woman years ago, a woman who would actually (Clare had heard her) call him Daddy. Clare’s mother was in Wyoming, and she hadn’t talked to Clare in years, didn’t care where she was, where anyone was, what planet she was on, or so her father had told her. A few times, Clare had checked on the virus in Wyoming.
Clare had five emails and zero text messages from Frock Place. The emails were disappointing and impersonal—“Be Comfy at Home,” “Step into Spring.” She found herself, in the vacant hours of the night, while she read the news, waiting for something from Frock Place, because she liked the emails themselves—dauntless women in belled sleeves, A-line skirts, peplum blazers, tweeds and cottons, with infinity scarves and fringe drop earrings and rattan purses and criss-cross sandals. More and more, Frock Place emails featured work-from-home attire. Now there were eyelet sneakers and bouclé sweatshirts and drawstring joggers and fleecy slippers and ikat rompers.
She went to the Elm & Wood site, scrolled through, confirmed those Peter Rabbit spatulas were still in her cart, checked to see if the price had gone up, and saw it hadn’t.
She went to the first text message from Frock Place. She typed: “C” for “Confirm.” They didn’t ask her to, but she sent it, and she waited and waited more, and nothing came. She typed “Y” for “Yes.” Nothing.
The tv series she streamed was called Work, and on this episode, the employees were arguing about how to label food in the break room refrigerator. Post-its and Sharpies were a problem. One of the characters pranked two other characters by switching their food labels. Work was, everyone assured Clare, very funny.
Her 3C spanky sex neighbors were making drawer sounds, open, shut, bang. Putting clothes away—that could feel like a nice thing to do. Clare’s clothes were balled up on the bed and the floor, between the wall and the bed, outside the hamper and in. She had tissues and a box of crackers and a jar of peanuts in the bed. She had hand lotion and Chapstick and eyedrops in the bed. She’d taken to living in the bed. It was both heaven and not.
This was what she loved: sleeping passed the time. She took a two-hour nap and was up again to check her phone.
There was an email from Elm & Wood: “We’re Saving These for You,” with an image of the Peter Rabbit spatulas.
An email from a clothing store called Always You: “OMG These Tee-Shirts!!!”
An email from M.M. King: “Stay Comfy at Home.”
An ex-boyfriend, Simon, was posting pictures on Instagram of a deserted Las Vegas. That’s where he was now, after going to college in Lincoln, because someone had offered him an IT job at a startup, and he’d taken it and signed the contract and broken up with her the day after graduation. Other than that, there was nothing wrong with him, in that humdrum, hem-haw, normal way people had. On weekends in Vegas, before the isolation, he posted pictures of training for half-marathons and drinking at breweries and making his own pasta, and as a hobby he took photos of deserts or intersections or stucco or storefronts. Now he was taking pictures of desolate streets with #filmphotography and #thestripisadesert and posting to Instagram. He was trying to make art of his loneliness.
“Pathetic,” said Clare. She swiped through for every last one of the pictures. Here was no one at the Bellagio fountains. Here was no one at Caesars Palace and MGM Grand.
How are u? her father texted.
I’m fine. You? she texted.
I’m good!
Good! That’s good.
I’m glad you’re good.
She was being frugal with food; she ate six multigrain crackers with garlic hummus and chewed five different gummy supplements. She read online news for a very long time.
On this episode of Work, the female employees were holding an annual seminar for women in the workplace, but the men kept interrupting. They barged into the conference room, insulted for not being invited. Work was very funny.
The emails were developing a routine.
Mornings, Elm & Wood wrote to her about coffeemakers and toasters, then later another email about her Peter Rabbit spatulas, then toward the afternoon an email about bar carts and cocktail sets.
Towels & Sheets sent coupons, emails promising sweet dreams, clearances on goose down blankets and pima cotton sheets.
La Tonique was having a sale on almond hand lotion.
Ernestine’s Closet, where she sometimes bought sleep shirts and pajama sets, emailed to say they had a “Dedicated Crisis Team.” They seemed pleased with themselves about that.
“Rest Easy,” read a subject line from La Tonique.
“Get Ready for Real Zzzzzzzzzz,” said Towels & Sheets.
They were selling eye serum and bergamot lotion and neroli candles and roseate shower gel and Snoopy alarm clocks and weighted blankets and woven coverlets and deep sweep toothbrushes and electric socks. Deep slumber was all she needed, no nightmares, no virus dreams.
She ate crackers and hummus and sliced cheddar with a hand towel for a plate. She was weaning herself off beer: too expensive.
Clare slept.
_____
Madason—bronze-eyed, brimming, gold-hearted Madason—had stopped coming. She’d knocked on Clare’s door in October, a bounty of Good News Brochures under her arm, had introduced herself, held out her hand, back when people shook hands, had asked her: “Do you believe there is an end to suffering?”
Clare told her she didn’t know. Madason liked this. Madason came every week. She’d leave notes when Clare was at work:
hi claire, I just want you to give me a call when you have free time to discuss the Good News Brochure. She left her number. What Clare liked: the attention, the company.
Clare had sent a text message: Can you come on Saturday?
perfect! Madason said.
Clare went to the store and bought a package of Pepperidge Farm Chessmen Cookies and decaffeinated tea. She had something to anticipate, hope for. She thought of things to discuss in advance, and she planned to ask Madason about the unusual spelling of her name, to say she admired the vowel patterning: M-a-d-a-s-o-n. Someone—her mother?—had really thought that through. Clare had a unique appreciation for these things.
That was three weeks ago. Madason had canceled the visit over text message. Clare didn’t hear from her again.
Clare ate Triscuits with peanut butter and orange slices, read the news, then turned on Work, and slept.
She dreamt about eating.
She dreamt about waking up.
She dreamt about scrolling through the news.
She dreamt about walking in a city swarmed with walkers, joggers, retrievers, baby strollers. She was on her way somewhere, there was no time, but someone kept stopping her, just to talk, please, just a minute, please, for a few minutes, just five minutes. She had to be someplace, get your hand off me, get your, now just a goddamn minute.
When she woke, there was an email from Frock Place: “We’re Thinking of You, Clare.”
She opened it. No outfits, no pictures, just text.
We wanted to say hi. How are you holding up? In this season of uncertainty, it’s important to stay connected. We’re thinking of you, and hoping for better days on the other side.
In the meantime, we’re offering 40% OFF.
Use Code: MISS U.
Click here to log in.
Clare clicked there to log in. Click, open, load. That felt good to click. That felt good to watch the page open like a jack-in-the-box, like an oyster, like a gate. No, like none of those things. She watched the page open like an opening webpage.
She scrolled through the women in ruffled camis, pleated shells, dolman sweaters, eyelet tops.
“Dolman,” Clare said aloud, because she hadn’t heard her own voice in a long time. “Dolman.”
In the bottom right corner, a square text box popped up.
“Hi! I’m Stacey. Is there anything I can help you find?”
Stacey. Stacey was a name Clare wished she’d had when she was a kid.
“Just looking,” Clare typed into the box, pressed Enter. The box was wide and clean and gleaming.
“OK! Let me know if you have any questions. We have a big sale today! Use Code: MISS U.”
“Thanks,” Clare wrote. “My name’s Clare.”
“Hi Clare! That’s a beautiful name.”
“I guess,” Clare typed, “I’m looking for some tops. But I’m not sure what size.”
“Great!” wrote Stacey. “We have some beautiful tops on sale,” wrote Stacey. “One moment, please.”
Clare was happy to excite Stacey.
“Yeah,” Clare typed. “That’s what I thought too. They’re beautiful.” She hated that word, an overused word, a saccharine word, but it fit here.
“Here,” Stacey wrote back. “I’ve pulled up a size chart for you. I hope this helps.”
A sudden chart appeared, with sleek rows of numbers, every measurement you could need. Clare never knew her waist size, her hip size, her bust size, but she enjoyed looking at the chart because here it was, a beautiful chart.
“Let me know if you have any questions!” wrote Stacey.
Clare had a question. “Are you sheltering in place?”
Three flashing dots appeared in the box: Stacey was there, typing.
“Could you say that again?” said Stacey.
“Are you sheltering in place for the virus?” typed Clare. “Or do they make you come in?”
Three dots popped up again, pulsed on the screen for a minute. This was taking some thought.
“For information on what Frock Place is doing in response to COVID-19, please read our statement here.” Stacey included a link.
Then Stacey said nothing.
“Great!” typed Clare.
Then Stacey kept saying nothing, and in that silence Clare tried to shop. She scrolled through skirts, hoping Stacey would offer assistance, but Stacey, who had truly seemed happy and excited, was done.
A friend from college texted Clare. A group of them wanted to Zoom, just to get together, beers in hand, 7 pm EST on Zoom, it would just be fun to see everyone on Zoom, here’s the Zoom link, hope you’re staying healthy, xo.
Clare wrote: Can’t do it. I’ve got a phone meeting for work.
Clare wrote a shrug emoji and a heart emoji. Another heart emoji.
She didn’t have a phone meeting, but if she said she had a phone meeting, no one would ask more, they’d assume it was important, couldn’t be missed. She used this as an out even before isolation. Her life was hectic and bustling and humming; she was a person with phone meetings.
On this episode of Work, the male employees were barging into the female employees’ bathroom, the male employees were jumping on chairs, jumping on desks, cartwheeling and crashing into file cabinets, and this show was very funny.
_____
Her boss let her go in an email. That was it, the end, no apology, not even one last check. Thanks for understanding, that was the way things were right now, hope you’re staying healthy, you’ve been a good kid, onward, take care.
All Clare could do was sleep. Nothing ever distracted her as much as sleep. She woke at 3:14 am and Frock Place had sent no emails and no messages. Frock Place let everyone sleep. They were thoughtful that way.
She went to the website, scrolled through belts she didn’t need, scrolled through tunics she didn’t need, clicked on a chambray ruffle tunic shirt, and there it was, the clean white box popping up in the bottom right corner of the screen.
“Hi Clare! I’m Stacey. All of our shirts are 50% off until midnight tonight.”
Clare made Stacey wait. She didn’t know why, but she did. Clare always wanted to talk to someone more when they made her wait, so she’d try the trick herself.
“Let me know if you need anything!” Stacey said. “I’m right here.”
“Hi Stacey,” wrote Clare. “This tunic is beautiful.”
“Yes!” said Stacey. “We have some beautiful tops on sale. This one comes in Dandelion, Limeade, and Twilight.”
“What are you doing up so late?” said Clare.
“Could you say that again?” said Stacey.
“Why are you up so late?”
Stacey was quiet, but the three dots in the box were in motion. Then:
“It’s not late where I am,” she said.
“I have a question,” Clare typed.
“Okay!”
“It’s a dumb question.”
“Okay!”
“I’m thinking about a bathing suit. Summer’s coming up,” wrote Clare.
“Great! Our swimsuits are 50% off right now. Use Code: TREAT.”
“Hold on,” said Clare. “So I’m thinking about a bathing suit.”
“Great!”
“And I have a question about the bikini line. How do you shave it? I mean, where exactly is the line? And do you shave up to it or on it?”
Stacey was paused, no three dots moving.
“Do you know what I mean?” typed Clare. “I can’t ask anyone in person.”
Stacey was typing.
“I’ve googled it,” typed Clare, “but I’m just really confused. I read different things. There’s not just one answer.”
Stacey was typing, typing, the three little dots going, then finally:
“Check out this paisley high waist bikini bottom!” wrote Stacey. A link with a picture of a yellow bikini bottom popped up in the box. “It’s 50% off today with Code: TREAT.”
Clare clicked on the link. The model’s face wasn’t visible, just the cool slit of her belly button above the waistband.
“If you don’t like high waist,” wrote Stacey, “we have these hipster bikini bottoms. These come in Classic Pistachio and Butternut.”
“Okay,” said Clare. “Thanks.”
“Let me know if you have any other questions.”
“I like the paisley,” typed Clare. “It’s beautiful.”
_____
Clare took an unbeautiful nap.
She dreamt about scrolling through news, Stacey’s text box popping up, Stacey showing her a graph with humpy curves, Stacey pulling up a survey for feedback. Clare didn’t sleep well, the spank neighbors were cleaning their floors, a broom or mop sliding around above. Vacuuming would be next, a deep clean; Clare knew the routine, it must be Saturday, but that didn’t make sense, it couldn’t be Saturday. She had a new text message.
hi claire! it’s madason. i just wanted to see how ur doing
Clare sat up in bed. She wanted to handle this situation delicately, didn’t want to scare Madason away.
Clare typed: hey! I’m doing okay. How are you??
i’m okay!
The world’s surreal right now. U know?
yea i know. have you had a chance to look at the Good News brochure?
The Good News Brochure was on the floor by her bed, and Clare had skimmed it, but it killed her to read gut-tugging words like mankind and everlasting.
Clare typed: is your family doing okay?
Madason took a minute to respond.
yea i am ok
Oh good! My family is too.
hey just curious. have you had a chance to look at the Good News brochure?
My dad and I talk all the time, wrote Clare. He’s doing okay.
Clare waited for a response.
Madason said: hey just curious. have you had a chance to look at the Good News brochure?
Clare: Not yet!
Madason said nothing.
Clare wrote: And I mean I think I believe him. When my dad calls his voice sounds good. Healthy, you know?
yeah that’s good, said Madason.
I’m so relieved, wrote Clare.
hey claire, I’m wondering when you’ll have a chance to look at the Good News brochure. we can talk about it when you’re done.
I haven’t read anything, wrote Clare.
Then Clare put her phone beneath her pillow, the place she put it when she needed it gone. She washed her hands, she ate seven crackers with salsa, three slices of cheddar, a few almonds, five gummy supplements. She read the news for a very long time. The neighbors weren’t having sex or opening and shutting drawers or cleaning their floors; they were silent, and Clare absolutely hated that.
_____
High’s sent her an email: “We’re Open and Ready to Help.”
Paper Clips sent her an email: “A Message from our CEO.”
Towels & Sheets sent her an email: “Tips for a Comfy WFH.”
Elm & Wood sent her an email: “Peter Rabbit Spatulas Inside.” The price had stayed the same, and the email told Clare she had great taste, which she knew they said to everyone, but she also knew she did.
She ate a full bowl of cottage cheese and half a bag of Doritos and wished for something heavy to eat, but she was down to a few boxes of cereal, a box of ice cream sandwiches, no milk, no eggs, no bread, no more cheese, a little hummus, a few cans of olives.
She texted her father. Doing okay?
He took a few minutes to reply, then: I’m good. U good?
I’m okay.
Good! That’s good.
She read the news for a very long time.
She fell asleep to Work and dreamt about the news and woke up to Work. People were jumping off buildings into Dumpsters.
At Frock Place—on the website—they were about to have another sale, 70 percent off for the whole week. Clare clicked on a pair of tie-belt eyelet shorts, over sixty dollars. There was Stacey, coming up in her white box, appearing as if from a cloud.
“Hi! I’m Kristy. Do you have any questions today? We have a sale now! Take 70% off. Use Code LOVE U.”
Clare typed: “Where’s Stacey?”
Kristy was typing, the three dots pulsing.
“Were you talking to an associate named Stacey?” wrote Kristy. “I’m Kristy. I’m happy to help.”
Clare typed back: “Well, you could just tell me your name is Stacey.”
“My name is Kristy haha,” wrote Kristy. “Do you have any questions about our eyelet shorts?”
“Do you think I’m pathetic?” wrote Clare.
Kristy was typing.
“No, I don’t!” wrote Kristy. “Haha.”
“What happened to Stacey?” wrote Clare.
“This is Kristy,” wrote Kristy. “Just let me know if you need anything! Take care.”
Then nothing from Kristy. Clare was losing her.
“I think these shorts are beautiful,” Clare typed quickly. “I might get them for my friend.”
“What’s her size?” wrote Kristy.
“Definitely small. Maybe extra small. Or petite?”
“We have a great selection of petites. I’m pulling up a size chart for you,” wrote Kristy.
“Great,” typed Clare.
“I hope this helps!” wrote Kristy.
“She doesn’t have many clothes. She lives with a big family. She has lots of brothers and sisters. They’re doing okay though. I check on her every day. Her name’s Madason. We’ve been friends since high school and she’s having a hard time now and I’ve told her we’ll see each other soon but I think she’s just sad all the time now and I’ve never even been that sad not even close and she calls all the time just calling and calling and she talks and I listen and I can’t figure out what she wants to say.”
“Madason,” wrote Kristy, “is a beautiful name.”
