The makeover on Mulberry Lane

Turn 34 of 44

She says that she wants to be a stereotypical housewife like you, Carol and Vivian. You agree and you’re coming over right away. You hand up and leave for Ruthie’s to do the makeover. You find the house has already changed to look like it’s from the 50s. She opens the door as you get close and talk like 50s ladies as she lets you in. You two head upstairs and you grab the stuff for her Makeover.

You hang up with a happy little click and untie the apron — no time to waste, a gal in need is a gal indeed — and you freshen your lipstick out of habit before catching your reflection at the door: bob gleaming, pearls set, sailor dress crisp. Red heels clicking down Mulberry Lane in the blue of evening, and Fred's television murmuring behind you like a lullaby you can leave running.

Ruthie's house stops you on the walk. The pamphlets are gone from the window. The wild little lawn is trimmed sweet as a putting green, roses along the path that weren't there this afternoon, and through the picture window you can see cafe curtains and doilies and a lamp with a fringed shade. The house got the news before you did. Houses just come along with their gals — you know that now — and this one has been waiting up.

The door opens while you're still on the second step, and there stands Ruthie in her corduroys and flannel, graying curls wild, glasses fogging, and her face blooms when she sees you.

"Oh, Margaret! Hiya, honey! Come in, come in — land sakes, I've been watching out this window for a solid hour, I'm just *tickled*."

"Well, aren't you the sweetest thing," you say, kissing her cheek like you've kissed it a hundred times. "Land sakes, Ruthie, those corduroys. We'll have you out of those dreadful things in two shakes."

"Ain't they *awful*?" She leads you through a living room gone soft with chenille and cross-stitch, giggling over her shoulder.

"I looked at myself in the mirror after that casserole and I said, Ruthie girl, what have you been *doing* all these years? A gal ought to look like a gal. I want to be just like you, honey. Like you and Carol and that Vivian — pearls and petticoats, the whole works. A real 1950s housewife, that's me from here on out."

"Then that's just what you'll be," you say, and up the stairs you go, her hand in yours, dainty steps in your red heels. The bedroom at the top is ready and waiting — chenille spread, tri-fold vanity, a closet standing open with shirtwaist dresses swinging on their hangers like the row's been there for years.

The garment bag hangs on the closet door, already full. You lay out the foundations on the spread in working order — girdle, bra, camisole, garter belt — and set the stockings coiled like ribbons beside them. Ruthie sits on the edge of the bed with her hands folded, watching you with shining eyes.

"Oh, Margaret," she breathes. "Where do we even *start*?"