The Rug

The zipper on Imogen’s suitcase was sticking again, and the frustration was not entirely unwelcome. The thick August air wrapped around her Georgian apartment was making the white wine go down fast, and after a few more unsuccessful tugs on the slider, she kicked the bed in defeat and sat down on the rug, sweat dripping from her forehead.

It was a white rug decorated with gray swirls and it had been steadily accumulating dirt and the other types of household debris that are harmless in small quantities, stifling in large, since she had moved in two weeks before. Something about the lifespan of the white rug irked her at times, but generally it brightened up her bedroom in such a lovely way that its shortcomings were easy to ignore. But still, to sit herself on a less than pristine rug was, for Imogen, a display of uncharacteristic heedlessness; she did her best to keep things immaculate. Her phone rang. She lay flat on her back.

“Hey. Yes, I’m just finishing getting packed. Hello-o-o. Where are y’all? Okay, great. I’ll be there around three, it will take me a little longer to get on the road. Is Jack coming down later? Okay. Yep. Uh-huh. Okay. Okay, I’ll see you in a bit. Love you too. Okay, bye.” She raised herself to her elbows and looked at the cat staring smugly from the doorway. The cat blinked slowly. Imogen closed her eyes. Labor Day, indeed, she thought. She lay back down. The phone rang again, and she managed to answer it without raising her eyelids in the slightest.

“Hello? Hi, Jack. Yes, you still have to come over. Mom and Dad are waiting for us. Yes, it’s just going in the back of my car. Dad will get it in the boat and take care of it at some point. I’m not worried about it. I mean, I’m worried about it, but whatever. No, they haven’t mentioned Lucy to me. Well, she wouldn’t come even if they did, she wouldn’t even pick up if they called. Will you just get over here so we can drink a goddam julep on the goddam boat? Okay wonderful, thanks, love you, bye.” Imogen slapped herself on the cheek to prevent the wine and the humidity from lulling her into a comfortable siesta, sat up, and stared at her suitcase as though the zipper might fix itself. The sunlight from the window was winding its way through the wine bottle on the dresser, coming out the other side and casting yellow-green light in dancing patterns along the dirty rug and across the tops of her suntanned feet. In vino veritas, she smirked, self-amused in that manner particularly born of a third drink in the hands of a witty woman. She stood up heavily and walked barefoot into the kitchen where Mamie sat at the table, doing nothing save dramatically fanning herself.

“Did you figure out what to do with that...rug?” She drew lazy figure eights in the air with her finger, pointing in the direction of the toolshed in the backyard. Imogen plopped into the chair opposite her. “You’d better take care of it today, I refuse to deal with the smell.”

“Jack’s coming to help me. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it. I just actually like that rug.” Beads of sweat languished on Mamie’s collarbone, rolling unhurriedly down behind her white blouse.

“We can get another rug, Mamie. We always do. I just have to get him out of here somehow.”

“What did this one do?” Mamie played absentmindedly with the pendant on her necklace, sliding the diamond left and right along its gold chain ever so delicately.

“That’s Daddy’s business,” Imogen answered languidly. “But I didn’t like him either.” She laughed. The two women sat gracefully sweltering in the kitchen until the front door opened and Jack waltzed in, kicking off his shoes in the hall and making directly for Mamie to plant an ostentatious kiss on her cheek.

“How’s my girl?” he winked, grabbing a magazine from the table and dropping to one knee to fan her. Mamie flipped her hair behind her shoulder, patted his head, and angled herself towards the newfound breeze.

“I’m not your girl,” she simpered, and opened her arms to the cool air. Jack stopped fanning, rolled up the magazine, and popped her on the leg.

“You love me,” he grinned. “All right Imogen, where’s the rug?” He popped his sister’s leg, too.

“Well, the rug is in my room. Our friend is in the toolshed.” Imogen stood up and walked to her room. She disappeared through the doorway and Jack returned his attention to Mamie, ignoring the grunts and muffled ruckus emanating from Imogen’s room until she reemerged minutes later with the unwieldy rug folded clumsily under her arm. She dragged it past them through the kitchen to the back door, turning the knob with one arm and hoisting the rug out into the yard with the other. She turned, put her shoes on, and marched out after it. Jack kissed Mamie’s hand theatrically, retrieved his shoes from the mat, and followed his sister to the toolshed. Mamie returned to fanning herself.

By the time they were hauling the now tidily rolled-up rug with its tidily rolled-up bounty towards the trunk of Imogen’s rather large car, Mamie had wrested herself from her chair to observe the proceedings from the open kitchen window.

“Don’t get any blood on the upholstery,” she called. Imogen raised a single choice finger in Mamie’s direction, nearly dropping her bundle in the process. With some doing, the brother and sister managed eventually to close the hatch with the rug stowed inside, at which point they shared a quick, sweat-drenched embrace. Jack tipped his hat towards the kitchen, departing for his own truck. Imogen stood for a moment in the gravel drive with her hands on her hips, staring at the trunk of her car, before returning indoors. Once in the kitchen, she made a beeline for the refrigerator and opened the freezer door to stick her head in.

“All right, I’m going to change and get on the road,” she declared, her cheek resting near the icemaker.

“Should you be driving?” Mamie stared dryly. Imogen shut the freezer door and rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be fine.” She returned to her room, where the sunlight through the wine bottle was now playing its little light show in a different spot on the floor, directly onto the hardwood. The suitcase zipper was still stuck. Imogen sighed and carried the bag as it was to the car, placing it horizontally in the passenger seat.

Soon, she arrived freshly washed at the beach house, a blue ribbon holding back her blonde hair and the diamond earrings her mother had given her the week before displayed daintily beneath the headband. Her mother cooed at the sight of them and ushered her into the foyer.

“Daddy, where should I take that old rug from my apartment? I think Mom said the Goodwill down here will take it...it’s still just sitting in the back of my car.”

“I’ll take care of it for you, honey. I’m heading to the store right now, I’ll drop it off. Give me your keys.”

“Are you sure? Thank you, that’d be great.” She pulled a seltzer water from the refrigerator and sat near her mother. “Jack said he’ll be here around five.”

“Good. What was wrong with the rug? Is that the one we got you?” her mother asked peckishly.

“No, I’ve had it for a while. It’s white, they just get dirty after a while. I know I could get it cleaned, but still, I want something a little more durable. White rugs look nice for about three months, and then they’re just so much work. I’m thinking a deep blue might be better.”

“That’s the truth,” her mother said, and sipped her wine.

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