The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (14 page)

22

O
h, Roy, what would
you
do?”

Wednesday evening, Polly sat at her kitchen table with a glass of iced tea nearby, her dog Roy Orbison, all sixty-five lovable pounds of him, at her feet, and a deck of cards in her hands.

She had decided to play solitaire. She’d been back from Nantucket for three nights and two days now, and she hadn’t phoned Hugh.

And he hadn’t phoned her.

She tried to remember exactly how they’d left things at their last conversation. It had taken so much courage on her part, to tell Hugh how she felt about all the attention he paid to his ex-wife Carol, how much it hurt her when Hugh left Polly to go fix a problem in Carol’s life that anyone else could fix. It had been so hard for Polly to discuss this with Hugh. She’d felt like a supplicant; she’d been thrown back to childhood, except that when she asked Hugh to tell Carol that he loved Polly, Polly’s body had exploded into a hot flash that would have thrust a missile to the moon.

On his part, Hugh had grown cool. Polly had actually sensed him
contract
away from her. He’d have to think about it, he told Polly, and his face had been stressed when he spoke. Hugh very seldom looked stressed. He was a natural optimist, full of energy and good cheer. When they were together they had really wonderful times. Not for them, sitting at home in front of the television. No, they went sailing or walking or they attended lectures and movies. They’d even gone bowling…
once.
Polly’s arm had been in pain for days afterward. They’d gone on a cruise with Faye and Aubrey last Christmas, drinking, dancing, laughing, playing bridge…. Polly looked down at the cards in her hand. Back then, she hadn’t expected to be sitting here, alone on a beautiful summer evening, using a game of solitaire to help her decide whether or not to phone Hugh. When he’d left Polly’s house last week, he’d said he’d have to think about everything she said. But he didn’t say he’d call her, did he? Had she said she’d call him?

An invisible cloud of gas floated up from where her dog lay. Was this a message from Roy? No. Roy’s flatulence was only a function of old age, no omen.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Polly said to her dog. “What does it matter who calls whom? This isn’t high school!” Hugh knew she was going to spend a week in Nantucket. Maybe he didn’t know exactly when she’d return. It would simply be
normal
for her to call him.

But would that make Hugh feel as if she were pressuring him?

“Damn it, Roy! The first rule of the Hot Flash Club is Don’t let fear hold you back! I’m going to call him!”

Roy shifted position slightly, letting out a low grunt as he moved. Polly chose to interpret this as agreement.

Polly dialed Hugh’s number. When he answered, her throat clogged up with apprehension. “Hugh? Hugh, it’s Polly.”

“Polly!” His deep rumbling voice boomed forth. “Are you back from Nantucket? How was it?”

His friendliness, his
right-thereness
made her sink back into her chair as if it were a bubble bath. “Wonderful. We had a fabulous time. How was your week?”

“Completely boring. I missed you, Polly.”

“Oh!” Better and better. “W-would you like to come over tonight?”

Hugh hesitated. “I’d love to. But I have a prior commitment.”

Carol,
Polly thought, slumping. “Oh.”

“There’s a Red Sox game on TV tonight,” Hugh said teasingly.

“Well, I do have a television set here. And homemade apple pie.” There was one in the freezer, just waiting for occasions like this.

“I’ve got to shower and change, then I’ll be right over.”

“Lovely.” Polly hung up the phone and did a little dance around the kitchen table. “He’s coming over tonight, Roy!” As she took out the pie and set the oven to preheat, she sang an old classic: “My boyfriend’s back and you’re gonna be in trouble!” She’d shower, too, and change out of her frumpy jeans and T-shirt into something more revealing, perhaps her sexy little…

Something smelled. She stopped dancing.

What
?

Sniffing the air, she looked around, then down, beneath the table.

Roy Orbison lay there, eyes closed, deeply asleep. His long velvety ears splayed out to each side of his head like airplane wings. His tongue hung limply from his mouth. A small puddle of urine spread out from his rounded rear.

“Roy?”

Polly dropped to her knees. Gently, she stroked Roy’s head. “Roy? Are you okay?”

The dog didn’t respond. She lifted an eyelid. The eye was still, staring. She shook him slightly. He was warm, but limp and heavy.

“No, Roy,” Polly whispered desperately. “Not yet.” She ran her hands over her beloved fat old friend, trying to find a pulse of life beneath his tan and black hide. But he was gone. He was dead.

“Nooooo,” Polly keened. It took all her strength, but she managed to lift her sweet old basset hound into her arms. She cuddled him like a baby, stroking his fat belly, cradling each heavy fat paw in her own hand, kissing the top of his noble head. Her body shook with sobs that should have awakened him, but he lolled loosely in her embrace.

Oh, Roy, her dearest, most trustworthy, most trusting friend! Tucker had given Roy to her when he was only a gawky, goofy puppy who tripped on his ears when he ran but still ran with all the eagerness of hope. Polly had been suffering from empty nest syndrome, her son David off to college, and Roy seemed to understand her unhappiness. Roy had adored Polly, following her from room to room, often accompanying her in her car, his head out the window, long ears blowing backward in the breeze. Roy had been her mainstay when her husband died. Gallant in his youth, Roy became clownish in his old age, as weight and arthritis hampered him; still, he’d followed Polly companionably as she moved through the house. He slept with her at night—his warm, beloved, reliable bulk keeping Polly from feeling the worst of being alone in the dark.

Polly hadn’t thought Roy would live
forever.
She knew the average life expectancy of a basset hound was twelve years. Even though Roy was overweight, he’d still lived four years longer than average…. Yet could he have lived longer if she’d fed him less? He seemed to share with Polly a love of food that blocked out all other considerations. Would he have lived longer if she hadn’t gone away for a week? No, she refused to believe that. Willy always kept Roy when Polly went away. Roy loved Willy Peck. Willy let Roy sleep with him, too. No, Roy had died of old age, and she was glad for his swift deliverance. He did not suffer, he hadn’t had to undergo surgeries or endure unpleasant medications. He’d had a happy life and now he’d had a quick and easy death, and Polly was grateful for that.

But what was she going to do without him? Polly wailed. She cuddled her dog against her bosom and wept.

“Polly?” Suddenly Hugh was there. “Polly, what happened?”

“Roy,” she sobbed. Her face and her T-shirt and much of Roy Orbison’s long drooping dewlaps were soaked with her tears.

“Oh, Polly.” Hugh knelt next to her. “I’m so sorry.”

“My poor old boy,” Polly cried. “My sweet old buddy.”

Hugh went off, returning with a snifter of brandy. He sat down on the floor next to her. “Drink this.”

Polly took the glass and sipped. The liquid burned, and she choked, but swallowing made her catch her breath, and Hugh’s presence next to her was a comfort.

Hugh didn’t try to make her relinquish Roy’s body. He didn’t point out that her clothes were getting soiled. He put one arm around her shoulder and held her as she grieved.

“How old was he?” Hugh asked.

Polly knew Hugh knew. But it helped to talk. “Sixteen.”

“Old for a basset hound.”

“Yes. Yes, he had a good long life.”

“Remember the night he got a pastry out of the trash and the tape on the pastry box got stuck to his ear? We heard this odd scratching noise, and here Roy came, a little white cardboard box dragging along on the floor attached to him.”

Polly smiled. “He was such a clown.”

“Take another sip of brandy, Polly.”

Polly obeyed. The sharpest anguish was abating as she leaned against Hugh, still cradling her dog in her lap. She was so grateful for Hugh’s presence. She was so glad Hugh had gotten to know Roy.

An odd vibration rang in the air. For a moment, Polly had no idea what it could be—she was so deeply engrossed in her dog’s life and death, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see an angel appear to lift the basset hound from her arms.

“Sorry.” Hugh took his cell phone from his jacket. He listened, then removed his arm from Polly, stood up, and walked to the other side of the kitchen. “This isn’t a good time.” He turned his back to Polly, but she could still see him sigh. “Carol, the place was just exterminated. There can’t be any bats.” He shook his head. “Aren’t all the doors locked? The windows? And I personally checked to see that all the fireplace flues are closed.” Another sigh. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

He knelt next to Polly. “I have to go.”

“Oh, please,” Polly pleaded, unashamed of her blotchy, tear-streaked need. “Please stay with me, Hugh.”

He looked miserable. “I’ll be back. Let’s phone one of your friends and have her come over. Alice? Faye?”

Not this, Polly thought, not this now. She did not want Carol imposing herself into this sacred hour of Roy Orbison’s death. She didn’t want her own jealousies to blot and soil the love she felt for her animal companion and the depth of mourning he deserved.

“I’ll call someone in a minute,” Polly said through swollen, icy lips. “Go on, Hugh. I’ll be fine.”

23

T
hursday, after her walk and shower, when Alice pulled on her trousers, she realized they were just a fraction of an inch looser than they had been. And today, the fourth day of her regimen, she didn’t feel like going back to bed. Lord, maybe Shirley was right. Maybe she really could regain some of her old energy! That was more exciting than the prospect of looking good.

Perhaps her mood was elevated because today, for the first time, the sun was shining. All around Nantucket, flowers were bursting forth with blooms opening to the sun. All the buildings and streets glowed with a fresh-washed shine.

“Come with me on a bike ride,” Shirley begged.

Alice shook her head. “I’ve never been on a bike.”

“Then now’s the time to start.”

“Not today, Shirley. Give me a break, okay?” When Shirley hesitated, Alice said, “You know I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you if I came along. Not to mention, I’d probably fall off in the middle of the street, get run over, and ruin your little jaunt.”

Shirley grinned. “Well, okay. You have been good.” Tying a sweater around her neck, she said, “I’m going to rent a bike at Young’s and take along a little picnic lunch. I won’t be back till late this afternoon, okay?”

“Okay. I’m going to cruise the shops for some little presents for my granddaughter.”

“Great! See you tonight.”

Alice watched Shirley hurry away. Bless Shirley, who got so excited about something as boring as a bike ride! Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she went out to the back porch and sank down in one of the inviting wicker rockers that looked out over the small backyard. A bird flitted from tree to tree. Tulips stood erect and blazing in the warm sun. The grass needed mowing. Shirley said Nora Salter had someone who took care of that, so Alice didn’t have to worry about the yard. Right now, she didn’t have to worry about a thing. She didn’t have to be anywhere. She didn’t have to feed the baby or rub Gideon’s back or review a bill for The Haven. She
couldn’t
play bridge. She was absolutely idle.

She wasn’t sure she liked it.

Her thoughts drifted back to the days when she was a divorced young woman with two little boys, trying to excel at her job and make decent grades in her night school courses. If anyone had ever told her that someday she’d be here, sitting on a porch in the middle of this WASP stronghold, she would have laughed. But she’d been happy then. That was just the way she was, happiest when she had fifty different things to do at the same time. Shirley told her she had to learn to slow down, to enjoy the moment, to
be here now.
But Alice found that when she sat still for long, her thoughts scrolled back through the past…or forward, to the future. And what could her future hold? She was sixty-three. She was almost
old.
She’d had so many wonderful things in her life, how could she expect anything more?

A movement from the yard next door caught her eye. A wooden fence divided this yard from the other, but here on the porch, Alice was high enough to be able to watch that old biddy—what was her name? Oh, right, Lucinda someone. Lucinda Snot Nose, that was it—come toddling out along a little path. The older woman wore baggy canvas trousers, rubber gardening clogs, a loose denim shirt, canvas work gloves, and a floppy straw hat. She carried a basket of tools which she set down next to her. She knelt—it took her forever to carefully, carefully, fold her body down to the ground—then took a while to inspect the ground in front of her. Finally, she reached out, took hold of a weed by its stem, and pulled. The plant resisted. Lucinda pulled harder, not in one fierce tug, but with a slow, steady, relentless effort. When the weed finally surrendered, Lucinda said, “Aha!” and held it up triumphantly, like a prize. She did this over and over again, placing the derelict plants in a neat little pile by her side.

Alice had never done much gardening. She’d never had the time. Now she lived in a condo on the Boston waterfront, so her gardening was limited to watering a few houseplants—when she remembered. Lucinda seemed to be in what Shirley would call “the zone.” But it wasn’t much of a thrill to watch. Alice lifted her cup to her lips, but it was empty. Time to go shopping for baby gifts.

The truth was, Shirley hadn’t been on a bike since she was a little girl on a tricycle, except for the exercise bikes she’d tested when they were installed in The Haven.

Every time she’d come to Nantucket, she’d noticed people spinning effortlessly past on their beautiful, sleek machines. They’d looked so healthy! So athletic! So absolutely
superior
as they glided down the street, arms extended to the handlebars, legs working in an almost musical rhythm, sunlight gilding their skin. She admired the striped spandex racing outfits of the serious bikers, but when she spotted a woman on a sky blue bike with a wicker basket on the handlebars and a bouquet of daisies in the basket, she developed an instant passion to be just like that.

Young’s Bicycle Shop insisted she wear a helmet that rather ruined her dream image—she wanted to sport a straw hat with a pink ribbon trailing down her back. But she took their advice about safety seriously and promised to wear it. She asked for the least challenging bike they had, confessing that she hadn’t ridden for “a while.” A nice teenage guy who worked there took her across the street to the long parking lot where trucks waited to board the steamship and let her practice riding up and down until she got the hang of the hand brakes. She studied the map he gave her, memorized his instructions about signaling, and then, with her heart thumping in her chest, she set off.

It was a good time for a novice, he had told her. Mid-June and the island traffic wasn’t crazy yet. Midweek, and there weren’t as many people out. If she went along North Water Street, she’d have several blocks of the uneven spine-wobbling stones to cross, the boy told her. He suggested she bike up Broad Street to Center Street and then across to Orange. That way she’d just have the cobblestones of Main Street to deal with. She followed his advice. As she went past Nora Salter’s Orange Street house, she flicked her eyes sideways, hoping she’d see Alice—hoping Alice would see
her,
pedaling along on her cute silver bike, all ease and coordination, as if she’d been born playing tennis, sailing boats, riding bikes. But Alice wasn’t there, and she was afraid to take her eyes off the road for more than a second.

Really, it was surprisingly easy. Shirley liked the way her pumping legs invigorated her, the way the street unrolled under her slender wheels, and the houses wound past, windows reflecting the sunlight at her like dozens of little lighthouses. She wasn’t even winded when she reached the Rotary, but she was intimidated by all the traffic, so she dismounted and walked the bike until she got onto the ’Sconset Bike Path. A short way down, she walked her bike again, as she crossed the road.

Now she was on the Polpis Road Bike Path. She passed forests and houses tucked behind flower beds, a car dealership, and Moors End Farm, which in August had, she’d been told, the best corn on the planet. She began to puff as she struggled to pedal up a hill, and from here she saw the island spread out in all directions. This was a very Zen activity, Shirley decided, as she rolled along. Every part of her body and brain was in use, she was breathing deeply, she was focused, she was conscious of the roll of the land, the curve of the path, the spots on the path where trees cast shadows, like pools of coolness, as Shirley zipped through. The moors, she knew from maps, were on her right, a rolling landscape of greenery in an amazing variety of shades. Occasionally, a trophy house loomed up, perched like a bloated toad on the horizon. She kept pedaling, past pine trees and twisted scrub oak nestled among Scotch broom covered with yellow buds. Silvery beach grass was tangled with the dark green of rosa rugosa and a shrub covered with white flowers blazed everywhere. Vines curled around trees and fence posts and a mysterious sweet fragrance occasionally greeted Shirley as she sped past.

It was thirst, not exhaustion, that made her finally stop. She hadn’t thought to bring lunch or even a bottle of water. Stupid. Pulling her bike off the path, she collapsed in the shade of a juniper tree. Leaning against its trunk, she let her legs rest on the ground and discovered to her surprise that they were trembling. Had she overdone it? Probably. She had no idea how long she’d been biking. She had no idea how far she’d come. Now that she’d stopped, she realized she was not only thirsty and tired, she was starving. Well, she’d give herself a nice long rest, then bike back to town, right to Orange Street.

Her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to normal. It was very quiet here. She could hear the birds sing. She could hear rustlings in the bushes. She could almost hear the sun shine. It was a cool day, perhaps only about seventy degrees, but she’d sweated through her lavender spandex pants and her loose tee. She’d have a shower when she got back, and a huge lunch. Her stomach growled at the thought.

She’d only been biking for about an hour, she thought. She’d bike faster on the way back, push herself a bit, get home sooner.

She jumped on her bike and headed back toward town.

But something was wrong.

For some reason, she couldn’t match her former pace. It was as if an invisible opposing force were pushing her backward. Then she suddenly understood: an invisible opposing force
was
pushing against her—the
wind.
No wonder she’d biked along so effortlessly. She’d had the wind behind her! With it facing her like this, it was as if she were trying to bike through some kind of clear marmalade, some substance that slowed her down and would not yield. Her thighs burned with the effort. She could feel her heart churning. Her breath pounded in her ears. The slightest incline down felt like a blessing, and the slightest incline up, a curse.

After a few moments, she wondered if she were going to be able to make it. Her face was hot with exertion, her mouth uncomfortably dry. It was like a terrible nightmare, where the harder she pedaled, the slower she went. Suddenly all the “cute” sayings she’d heard about “Let the wind be at your back” made sharp, brutal sense.

She could hear a vehicle coming down the road. Wanting not to appear as completely out of shape as she obviously was, she tried to sit back on the bike, instead of leaning nearly collapsed over the handlebars. She still had that much vanity left. An old red truck rattled past her.

To her surprise, it turned in a driveway and came back, pulling onto the verge, parallel to the bike path.

“Hello, there!”

Shirley could not summon the coordination to keep pedaling while looking away from the path. In a clumsy flurry of movement, she squeezed the handlebars, stopped the bike, and staggered to a stop. Then she focused on the red truck. A golden Lab stuck her head out the passenger window and barked a greeting.

“Reggie!” she cried with delight. “Harry!” How lucky was this, that the one person she knew on Nantucket had appeared at this particular moment in time! Gosh, it was like Fate!

“You’re working pretty hard against that wind.” Harry grinned.

“I’m an idiot!” Shirley told him, embarrassed by the way her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “I never thought about it!”

“Would you like me to drive you back to town?”

“Oh, would you,
please
?”

Harry turned off his engine, climbed out of the car, and came over to the path. “People always forget about the wind here. Well, the first couple of times they do.” Effortlessly, he hefted the silver bike up and laid it gently in the bed of his truck. Then he opened the passenger door. “Scoot over, Reggie. We’ve got company.”

Shirley climbed up into the cab of the truck and collapsed on the seat. “Oh, man, does this feel good.”

Harry got in on his side and slammed the door. “Where were you headed?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Everywhere!” Shirley waved her hands. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“Would you like me to drive you home through the moors?”

“Sure, I guess, if you have time.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.” Harry put the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled to life.

They followed the main road for a few minutes, until they came to a dirt road nearly obscured by bushes. Harry turned off onto it, and soon they were bumping along a rutted track, away from civilization, into a sweeping sea of green.

“It’s not like the mainland here,” Shirley remarked. “Everything’s so low to the ground.”

“That’s why it’s called the moors,” Harry said. “Forests grew here once, centuries ago, but all the trees were cut for timber for houses, then sheep were pastured here, and they destroyed the vegetation. What you’ve got left is heath land and some hearty wild plants, and also a lot of endangered flowers. Later, in the summer, the sweetest wild blueberries grow out here, and beach plum, too.” He braked to a stop and pointed out the window. “See that patch of white flowers, low to the ground? They’re called Quaker-ladies.”

Shirley smiled. “I’ve been reading about the Quakers on the island.”