The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (13 page)

15

Hello,” Faye said eagerly, expecting to hear Laura’s sweet voice.

She hadn’t spoken with her daughter for three days now, and
she
had been the one to call her. Faye didn’t want to be a pest, but wasn’t it only natural for a mother to be concerned about her only child and grandchild when they’d just moved clear across the continent to a city where they knew no one? Lars would be fine, of course, he’d spend his days working with one of his best college buddies, but Laura was a stranger in the city, a young woman with a new baby, not to mention a history of postpartum depression.

“Is this Faye?” growled a gravelly voice.

“Yes?” she squeaked.

“Faye, this is Tank, Jimmy’s friend. Shirley Gold told me to call you.”

Oh, Lord! For days she’d rehearsed a polite but unambiguous refusal, but now that this strange man had actually gone to the trouble of dialing her number and making himself vulnerable, she didn’t want to be rude. It was like high school. She was weak with embarrassment for both of them. A hot flash raced through Faye’s body. Beads of sweat popped up beneath her breasts, under her arms, along the back of her neck.

“You still there?”

Faye forced a laugh that came out in a trilling high soprano. God, she sounded like a neurotic aging belle, like Blanche DuBois in
A Streetcar Named Desire.
Cringing, she shakily replied, “Still here.”

“Shirley thought we should meet for a drink,” he said in his gravelly voice.

Faye could only imagine how this man lived, his apartment littered with beer cans he’d smashed against his forehead, his sheets stained and dirty, his underwear not washed for days at a time—
why was she thinking of his underwear?

“Faye?”

“Oh,” she gushed, hideously ill at ease, “that Shirley! She’s such a good friend, so protective and kind and wanting to help, but I’m a widow, you see, and very, very,
very
happy with my single state, but Shirley’s a bit of a romantic, and she’s worried because I’ve been just a bit despondent because my daughter’s moved to California, but really, I’m absolutely fine!”

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line. Then: “So. Do you want to get a drink sometime?”

Faye closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. “You really don’t have to do this, you know.”

He let out a brief, rumbling laugh. “It’s just a drink.”

The man
was
persistent. With enormous effort, Faye pulled herself together. “Yes, Tank, I would enjoy meeting you for a drink.” Now her clothes were completely damp with perspiration, but at least she’d made it clear she wasn’t inviting him to her condo or agreeing to go to his place.

“You live out near Acton, right?”

“Right.”

“I live in Revere. Let’s split the difference and meet at O’Malley’s in Arlington.”

Of course. A bar. She’d prefer the coffee shop of a bookstore, but would that sound too prissy? No doubt he’d be uncomfortable there. “I don’t believe I know O’Malley’s.”

“It’s right on Mass. Ave. Easy.”

“Fine. What time?” She sounded almost like her old self.

“Seven? This Friday?”

“All right.” A thought crossed her mind: what does a middle-aged matron wear to a bar? “How will we recognize each other?”

His abrupt, crashing laugh interrupted her. “Well, Faye, I think I’ll be able to pick you out in the crowd. And I look like someone from ZZ Top.”

“ZZ Top?”

“The band.”

“Ah, of course.” She didn’t want to seem utterly clueless. She’d go to a record store and check out the album cover.

“If the weather cooperates, I’ll give you a ride on my Harley.”

Faye pressed her hand to her heart. “Well. That would be nice.”
I’ll pray for rain,
she thought.

——————————

Friday night, terror gripped her by the back of her neck with a lock like a tiger’s jaw. How could
she
walk into a bar? She’d been raised to believe that a lady
never
went into bars, especially not alone. And she looked like such a
lady,
with her white hair in a bun, her grandmotherly body, her breasts like two bags of flour propped on the counter of her stomach. People would laugh when she entered the bar. People would
snicker.

The phone rang. Faye raced to grab it up, hoping it would be Tank canceling their date, but something held her back, and she simply stood over the answering machine, listening.

“Faye?” Shirley sounded bossy. She was probably in another part of the building, in her office or condo. “Good, you’re not there. You’d better
not
be there! I’m going to see if your car’s in the lot, and if it’s not gone, I’m going to come to your condo and drag you out to that bar myself. So I hope you’re on your way to your date with Tank right now. Call me when you get home, I want to hear all about it!”

“Oh, leave me alone!” Faye told the answering machine. She hadn’t been this frustrated since she was an adolescent being ordered around by her parents. If this was how it felt to be young again, she could do without it, thank you very much!

——————————

The November night was cold and crisp. Faye was glad she’d worn her tweed trousers, glad, too, that the frosty air meant she had to wear her bulky camel-hair car coat, and beneath it, a thick wool sweater, all of it hiding her fat.

She drove slowly toward the lights of Boston and Mass. Ave. O’Malley’s was on the corner. It had a green-and-white-striped awning, a massive oak door, and handsome gold lettering. Through the window, she spotted a table with people laughing—young people, a man and a woman.

Not so bad, then. She could do this. She pulled her car into the lot behind the bar and turned off the engine. Quickly, automatically, she pulled the visor down. Did she have lipstick on her teeth? Was her hair okay?

Oh, God. The small rectangular mirror reflected the face of a chubby old troll. Maybe she wouldn’t do this after all. She didn’t
have
to go out on dates. She didn’t have to do what the Hot Flash Club told her to. She could, well,
move
! She could move to Florida, find a nice little town where everyone was old. Really old, in their nineties. It would be sunny in Florida. She could teach art classes there.

It was getting cold in the car. The thing was, she didn’t want to move to Florida. She’d been so brave when she’d pulled off her disguise at the Eastbrooks—couldn’t she be that brave now? It would take only one hour. One painful hour.

She left her car. Straightening her spine, holding her head high, she walked around the corner, found the front door to O’Malley’s, and entered.

The smoke-free air smelled like whiskey and beer. Well-polished wooden floors and a long mahogany bar made the room dark and masculine, but pockets of light glittered on the bottles and glasses behind the bar and at the back of the room over the Exit and Rest Rooms signs. Rock music throbbed beneath the chatter and laughter.

The place was packed, a good sign. The barstools were crowded. Faye looked around the room. All the tables seemed occupied. A few men at the bar glanced over at her, then looked away.

“Faye?”

She was grateful for the social instincts that made her smile. The man standing before her
was
a tank—tall, big-boned, meaty—but most of all, he was
old.
The beard hanging down to his chest was white, as was what was left of the hair on his head, most of which he’d gathered back into a low ponytail. Bifocals rested on a giant strawberry nose. Over his jeans, his denim shirt hung, barely managing to stay buttoned across the expanse of his gut.

“Hello.” She extended her hand. Funny, how she’d expected someone younger somehow.

“Nice ta meetcha.” His hand was rough and calloused. “I’ve got a table in the back.”

She followed him through the crowd. If it was hard for her to get old, how much harder must it be for someone like this macho action-figure kind of fellow?

They reached a small table crammed into the corner. With a jerk of his head, Tank indicated her chair. “I’ll go get you a drink. If we wait for the waitress, we’ll wait all night. What’ll you have?”

“A glass of red wine?”

“Sure.” He went off.

Faye sat down, draping her coat on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t touch the floor. Settling back, she pulled her sweater down to her thighs, at the same time glancing around the room. No one was looking at her. She relaxed a little.

Tank returned with a glass of red wine and a basket of popcorn. He set both on the table. To her surprise, he pulled his chair right next to Faye’s before sitting down.

Slightly alarmed, Faye started to scoot her own chair away a few inches, but Tank leaned over first. “Sorry. Deaf in one ear, not so hot in the other.”

“Oh.” Faye smiled in sympathy. “The joys of getting older.”

“In my case, the joys of Nam. Shell exploded, been deaf in one ear ever since.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Her mind began a demented rendition of Deborah Kerr singing “Getting to Know You.”

Tank leaned closer, extending his arm along the back of her chair, encircling her in a bouquet of beer, onions, and tobacco. “Yeah. Took some shrapnel in my thigh, too.” He glanced downward.

Faye’s eyes followed his, lighting on a jean-encased thigh the size of an adolescent rottweiler. “Well,” she said perkily, “you must have recovered well enough, if you ride a motorcycle.”

“True. But I’m sure that’s why I’ve got such terrible arthritis.”

“Oh, dear.” Faye took a sip of red wine.

“My tackle’s intact, though, in case you’re wondering.”

It took her a moment to interpret this. Realizing she was still staring at his thigh, she wrenched her eyes away so fast they nearly left their sockets. Faintly she said, “Well, that’s good.” Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “So, what kind of work do you do, Tank?”

“Any kind I get offered. Used to work on construction crews, but my back’s all twisted up, so physical labor’s pretty much out these days.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Certain kinds of physical labor I’m still good for.”

Faye fastened her eyes on the TV above the bar. “Do you follow the Red Sox? My husband used to be a fanatic.”

“
Yeah,
I follow them. Even used to spend money for seats at Fenway. These days I’m happy to watch from the comfort of my recliner. My hemorrhoids make it a bitch to sit on those bleachers.” His hand moved to her shoulder. “I got a big TV. You ought to come over and see it sometime.”

One good thing, Faye thought, she was no longer nervous. Oddly, she was having a good time. She’d never met a man quite like this one. He seemed to be hitting on her, and she took another swallow of wine to keep from giggling.

“Have you ever been married, Tank?”

Tank grunted. “Twice. Shoulda known better the first time.”

“Any children?”

“One son. Lives down in Arizona.”

“Oh, too bad, you must miss him.”

“Not really. Never really knew the kid. His ma went off with another guy and wasn’t good about keeping in touch, less she wanted some child support checks.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“You?”

“One daughter. Laura. She’s married and has a little girl, the sweetest little child, my granddaughter, Megan. Laura’s husband just took a job in California, so they moved a few weeks ago.”

“Sucks for you.”

“Yes,” Faye agreed, “it does suck for me. I miss them terribly.”

He pulled her against him, his mouth so close to her ear his whiskers tickled. “I know something could cheer you up.”

Faye bristled. “Look, Tank, we’ve just met—”

His
har-har-har
laugh exploded like a jackhammer. “I wasn’t referring to that, although when you’re ready, I’ll be only too happy to oblige. What I meant was, you oughtta come have a ride on my cycle.”

Faye choked on her wine. Wiping her mouth with her paper napkin, she said, “Maybe another time.”

“Why not now?” Tank pressed. “It’s Friday night. You got an appointment?”

“Well, no, but—it’s so cold outside.”

“Ah, that’s nothing.” He looked her over. “You’ve got a coat, hat, gloves.”

“To be honest, Tank, I’d really rather not. I guess I’m just a little afraid of riding a motorcycle.”

“Ever been on one before?”

“No.”

“I’ve got an extra helmet. How about if I promise I won’t go fast?” Tank belched, exuding a hot breath of onions and beer.

Well,
Faye thought,
if we ride the motorcycle, he’ll be facing the other way.

“We’ll just go around the block a few times.”

Faye finished off her wine. It would be fun to tell the Hot Flash Club she’d been on a motorcycle. And she didn’t feel afraid; certainly this arthritic, shrapnel-thighed, hemorrhoid-troubled man wasn’t going to drive her into an alley and rape her.

“All right.”

Tank slapped her hard on her back. “Excellent!” He rose, jerked his black leather jacket off the back of his chair, and put it on.

“Just around the block.”

“Absolutely.” He pulled back her chair and held her coat out, then took her hand in his and pulled her through the bar and out into the cold night air.

His motorcycle was parked by the curb just down the street. Tank handed her a helmet.

“Put this on.”

She obeyed, as visions of accidents danced through her head. Tank smoothed on his leather gloves. Faye imagined Laura getting the phone call, hearing the news that her mother had died in a motorcycle accident, crumbling in a heap of grief—

“Now.” Tank swung his leg over the leather saddle. “You just climb on and hunker yourself down right behind me.” He patted the seat.

There was no ladylike way to do this. Putting her hands on Hank’s shoulders for balance, Faye swung a leg over and settled down behind him. The seat was comfortably cushioned, but she could feel the cold through her trousers.

“Keep your feet here. Keep your arms around me.” He chuckled. “Oh, I do love the feel of a woman’s arms.” He kicked the starter, and with a roar and a shudder the machine came to life beneath them.

Across the street, a crowd stood in line to enter a movie. A few glanced their way at the sound of the cycle, but no one stared in amazement. The tilt of the seat made her belly push forward, pressing against Tank’s back, and in an instinctive act of vanity she didn’t know she possessed, she wriggled and changed position, so that her breasts rested against him instead.