Wed. class w/Grace 12:30-1:15

The Woman Behind God
by Beth Cameron

Mr. Fenimore was the finest salesman in the world. He was in the perfect location for a man of his exquisit attention to detail. As head of Men's Leisure Suits and Men's Furnishing; supervisor to six salesmen and a smattering of holiday helpers and part-time workers, Mr. Fenimore was a God. He stood six feet tall with white hair highlighted by silver rinse, sparkling blue eyes, and a tan that bespoke a well deserved month in Costa Del Sol every year in Februaryafter the January sales. Childhood eloqution lessons had served him well for sixty years. When he spoke his words came rolling out as though each sentence had been pre-recorded. He had an endearing way with everyone, tilting his head to the side rather than looking directly down on people, which could have made him appear haughty. He wasn't.

At Kennedy's Mens Clothing Store back in the seventies, customers came to buy from Fenimore's salesforce on the first floor because they were disciples of Fenimore. All of us who worked with him knew he was the final word in salesmanship. We all sought to make him proud of us. Every day he wore a yellow rose in his lapel and pinned each of us with a similar rose before we assumed our places on the floor. There were no returns on the first floor because the customers always left with the knowledge that what they purchased from the Leisure Suit and Furnishing department was selected for them by an individual salesperson who had taken the time to measure, discuss color, answer questions about fabrics, smile, listen and respect every customer. Each of us who were assigned to Mr. Fenimore understood how priviledged we were to serve.

I once saw him pick up an elderly italian woman who had come in from the North End to buy her grandson's first leisure suit with money she had stashed down into her ample busom, pinned to her bra, which she reached for and handed to me, money still warm and damp, as I worked the cash register and then she proceeded to faint dead away in front of my counter. Down he dipped, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her into the fitting room. Her grandson, a skinny teenager with slicked back hair and long sideburns ran after her. Needless to say, we all ran after her. As though he were taking a body off the battlefield, Fenimore sent each of us off in different directions, calmly handing out orders, "Get a glass of water!" "Get a damp clothe!" "Run next door to Filene's and buy a muffin and a coffee with cream!" for which he opened his wallet and produced the cash for the refreshment. He took off her coat gently, the lining was all rips and patches and the boy was ashamed for her. She said something in italian, Vinnie Guzzi translated for Mr. Fenimore, Vinnie had come from the North End and now lived in a ranch house in Revere, thanks to a reference from Mr. Fenimore and a loan which was promptly paid back with gratitude and no interest. Seems the old lady had gone without meals and cleaning extra apartments to raise money for the suit and she was just a bit tired. I placed a pillow behind her head as I was instructed and she leaned back on the chaise lounge. The grandson never spoke, he sat quietly while this matriarch finished her coffee and muffin, then Mr. Fenimore put her and her grandson into a taxi and had them taken home, with her Kennedy's suit box securely tucked under her arm. That's an example among many I could tell you about the beloved Mr. Fenimore, and my first retail job fresh out of high school.

But that was the first floor and after a year of bliss, I witnessed the slaughter of a God. Money had been taken, no one came forward, no one believed Mr. Fenimore took it, but as the supervisor, he took responsibility for the loss, paid it, and resigned.

That was the first time I had noticed the ultimate power on the second floor. Mrs. Katz had called up Mr. Fenimore to two, and after twenty minutes in her office, he was gone. She came down the stairs from the mezzineen which had a grand staircase in marble and stood in the middle of the first floor. "I would like Mr. Fenimore's staff to follow me into the fitting room, please," she said in a broad New York accent. Her perfume smelled expensive, her suit was made by our tailors but from fabric she had brought back from the Garment District in New York City. She was Mr. Fenimore's age but lacked the charm he exuded, and in it's place was a woman who knew "the number." She was all business and bottom line. Her face was hollow shaded by make-up and old age. Her eyebrows were cosmetically engineered to follow the shape of her designer reading glasses which had winged corners and diamonds at each point. Her hair was dyed chestnut brown and matched the frames of her eyeglasses. Her lipstick was the color of orange skins and it looked smooth and creamy on her lips. She had thin orange lips. Her eyes looked out between bars of mascared lashes, stiff and curled. Her eyes darted back and forth as though an idea was about to spill out of her head.