The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (25 page)

Merle brought both hands down on the table with a heavy thud. “Just how are you proposing to pay your tuition?”

“I’ve got some savings. I plan to work two jobs this summer. I’m going to move in with Beth, so we’ll have just one rent to pay. And I’m going to apply for scholarships.”

“So you’re planning to continue working with us?” Merle’s eyes seared Sonny’s face.

“Absolutely, Dad, of course.”

“Don’t expect any breaks from me because you’re in school. You won’t get a lighter load. I won’t stand for any shoddy workmanship. No excuses. No special treatment.”

“I understand.”

“Then I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Merle said. “I’d like some more ice cream.”

Three of the women—Bobbie, Suze, and Robin—but not Beth, rose to fetch it for him. Since no one else would, Beth passed the platter of cookies around, nearly crying with relief when everyone took a few and ate them.

28

Alice’s candidate, Glen Wells, had suggested that he and Faye meet at the Museum of Fine Arts, one of Faye’s favorite spots in Boston, so as Faye drove toward her appointment, she was optimistic.

Plus, she’d been dieting for six weeks, and she’d lost six pounds, which had brought her down from 164 to 158. The day that little red arrow on her scales quivered
beneath
160 had been so satisfying! Her clothes felt less tight, and she no longer looked nine months pregnant. Encouraged by her Hot Flash Club friends, she’d also changed her hairstyle, forgoing her usual tidy chignon, and weaving her white hair into a loose braid, letting wisps of hair drift free around her face. She thought it made her look a little more youthful, and even, perhaps, a bit bohemian. Why not? After all, she was an artist.

She parked in the lot and hurried through the cold morning air to the art museum. She left her coat at the coat check, dropped the plastic, numbered button into her purse, and took the stairs to the second floor. She and Glen had agreed to meet in the Monet Water Lily room. She was a few minutes late, so she assumed he’d already be there—and when she arrived in the gallery, a man stood in front of the picture, studying it. She took a moment to study him.

He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short. Not fat, not thin. He wore casual chinos and a blue denim shirt. So far, so good, if this was Glen Wells.

“Glen?” Faye asked quietly.

He turned. “Hello.”

When she saw his face, she had an immediate reaction—unfortunately, a negative one. It wasn’t so much the peculiar shape of his head that bothered her, although it was a bit unsettling, the way his forehead protruded. His baldness accentuated his bulging brow. He was not a handsome man, but worse, his eyes seemed flat, judgmental.

Hoping her disappointment didn’t show, Faye quickly held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said politely.

“Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” Glen responded without a smile to take the edge off his words.

Unsure whether he was joking, Faye gave a faint laugh. “Um, I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic—”

Glen looked at his watch. “You’re only eleven minutes late. That’s not unacceptable.” He glanced at the water lilies. “However, I’ve spent as much time with this old thing as I’d like. Let’s move on to the Picassos.”

“Certainly.” Faye loved the water lilies and would have liked to spend a few moments gazing at the canvas—it lifted her up, somehow. But she
had
been late, and she could always come back.

As they strolled through the galleries, Glen said, “Alice tells me you’re a painter.”

“Yes. Although I haven’t painted since my husband died.”

“She told me your husband died. I’m sorry.” For a moment, his eyes rested on Faye with a genuine warmth.

“Thank you.” Faye swallowed the lump that always rose when she talked about Jack. “He had a heart attack. He was very young. Only sixty-four.”

Glen gave a small laugh. “Funny, how we get to the age where sixty-four seems young.” He stopped in front of a Klee and cocked his head, studying it. “What kind of painting did you do? Abstract?”

“Oh, no. Contemporary impressionist. Still lifes, mostly.”

“Ah. Pretty pictures.”

“Yes, pretty,” Faye echoed, adding defensively, “Some even called them beautiful. The Quinn Gallery on Newbury Street shows my work.”

“Very impressive.” He moved down toward an enormous Jackson Pollock. “I like Pollock. I like edgy art that makes me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps because as an accountant, I’m always working with numbers, everything precise and rigid and inflexible. I like the energy of modern art.”

Faye’s interest perked up. How nice to be with a man who not only knew about art, but actually thought about why he reacted to it as he did. “Yes, I like some modern art, as well.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Spain to see Gaudi’s architecture. The pictures I’ve seen of his work make it look like nothing else in the world.”

“I’ve seen some of his work,” Faye told him. “I went to Spain between junior and senior year of college.”

“Ah, you were fortunate. I got married my junior year. Had to. My girlfriend was pregnant. We had two remarkable children, who are the light of my life. No, I wouldn’t undo those years.” He looked over at Faye with a smile that made his homely face much more attractive. “But I am envious of people who’ve been able to travel.”

As they moved into the gallery hung with Warhol and Kandinsky, Faye said, “Alice told me you’re divorced.”

“Yes, for some years now. But Loni and I are still friends. When we divorced, we agreed to do everything we could to keep our children from suffering. They were both in their twenties, but we didn’t want them to feel they had to choose sides or be peacemakers. When our daughter was married last year, both Loni and I gave her away.”

“How lovely.” Faye was warming to this man. “Your children are fortunate.”

Now he gave an embarrassed little shrug. “I hope so.”

“If you like modern art,” Faye offered, “you might like driving out to Mass. MoCA in North Adams. It’s a fairly new museum, with some exciting exhibits.”

“Where’s North Adams?”

“Over in the northwestern corner of the state, almost in Vermont.”

“Hm. Might make a nice autumn trip,” Glen said thoughtfully. “That’s a great leaf-peaking area.”

“Yes, and you could visit the Clark Art Gallery, too. Although they have mostly Impressionist art. But Williams College has a fine art museum, too, and Williamstown’s right next door to North Adams.”

“Isn’t that near Stockbridge?” Glen asked. “What’s that place—they have concerts there, outdoors, the Boston Pops often plays there—”

“Tanglewood.”

He snapped his fingers. “Right. I wonder how far into the fall they have concerts. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“I’ve been there a few times,” Faye said. “It’s heavenly on a warm summer night. People bring blankets and picnic dinners and wine and lie under the stars listening to the music. The last time I was there, I went with my husband and my daughter for the Fourth of July. It was fabulous.”

“Yes, Alice told me you have a daughter.”

“Laura’s just moved to California with her husband and baby girl.”

“That’s tough for you,” Glen said sympathetically. “You must miss them.”

“You have no idea.”

Glen checked his watch. “It’s almost noon. If we went across the street to the restaurant now, we might be able to beat the rush.”

“Sounds good to me.”

——————————

As they entered the restaurant, Faye once again experienced a slight sense of pleasure simply from being in the company of a man. It made her feel
chosen;
it made her feel a little more
complete.
She hated this about herself, really. Theoretically, she didn’t believe a woman without a man was inferior or lacking or incomplete. But she couldn’t help the way she felt. It was so nice the way Glen put his hand lightly on her back as they moved in the line up to the hostess’s stand.

“Two for lunch,” he said.

The hostess walked swiftly through the crowded room. Faye hoped Glen wasn’t looking at her bottom. She thought her long silk tunic disguised the width of her hips, but she’d spent enough time checking herself out in a mirror to guess that when she walked, her buttocks probably shifted like a pair of piglets in a bag.

At the table, the hostess said, “Someone will be right with you,” and hurried away. With excellent manners, Glen came around to seat Faye. He pulled out her chair. Faye sank into it, smiling up at him. “Thank you,” she said, just as something creaked and dislodged. The chair collapsed beneath her, letting Faye crash to the floor.

She landed right on her bum, her legs sticking out in front of her, four wooden chair legs poking out from beneath her, and something stabbing her in the hip.

Everyone in the restaurant looked her way. Someone laughed. The hostess and two waiters rushed over to Faye. A bonfire hot flash ignited Faye’s body, turning her face crimson. She truly did want to sink through the floor and vanish.

Glen bent to offer her a hand, which she refused, shaking her head. It was bad enough to be so heavy she’d broken a chair. She didn’t want him to strain his back trying to haul her up off the floor.

“Are you okay?” the hostess asked.

Faye scrambled to extricate herself from the jumble. Setting her hands firmly on the floor on either side of her, she pushed herself to a standing position, sending a silent prayer to the gods that she’d been taking yoga and had worked up enough strength to get up by herself. She felt, momentarily, something stuck to her behind, and then the chair seat, which had somehow attached itself to her, fell to the floor with a thud.

The hostess told the waiters to gather up the parts of the broken chair and take them away. She quickly lifted another chair over to Faye’s place. “I’m so sorry. It’s all this frigid weather. It dries out the glue in the wood that holds the bits together. It’s happened here several times, we’re not sure what to do about it. Please, sit here.”

Gingerly, Faye lowered her rump onto the chair. Keeping her eyes on the table, she prayed fervently that this chair would hold. It did.

Glen settled cautiously into his own chair.

“Are you all right?” the hostess asked Faye again.

“Yes. Embarrassed, but intact.”

“Could we treat you both to a glass of wine?”

Faye said fervently, “That would be wonderful.” She wouldn’t mind getting drunk right into oblivion right now.

——————————

For the next few minutes, as they chose their wine and ordered their lunches, Faye managed to appear lucid—at least she hoped she did. But the shock of the fall, the humiliation of it, buzzed around her like a force field, separating her from reality. She could see Glen’s mouth move, hear his words, but they didn’t really signify. She tried to look fascinated, but he could be telling her he enjoyed wearing women’s underwear for all she knew. She shifted on her chair, which held firm, feeling a slight ache near her coccyx. She doubted that she’d hurt it much, not with all the padding around it. No, it was her pride that had been injured.

The only possible good thing about it was the way Alice, Shirley, and Marilyn would laugh when she told them. Thinking of that cheered her up. By the time their food arrived, she was almost back to normal.

“Do you miss working at TransWorld?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Glen answered. “I enjoy accounting. I like solving complex problems. I run a private operation out of my home now, helping small businesses with their financial records.”

“Really,” Faye said, infusing interest into her voice.

Encouraged, Glen regaled her at length with sagas of his adventures in bookkeeping. Faye listened, appearing rapt. What had her fascinated, in a creepy way, was how Glen, before taking one bite of his chicken Caesar salad, carefully cut up every sliver of chicken and every leaf of lettuce into bites of exactly the same size. He was extremely precise. Not only were the bits of lettuce the same size, they were also the same shape: square. When he finally began to eat, he did so with great deliberation, forking a bit of chicken, then a bit of lettuce. He chewed like a beaver, crunching his food audibly, swallowing with a slurp. His teeth, Faye couldn’t help but notice, were a mixture of gray and yellow. She almost shuddered. She had a thing about teeth.

When Glen ran out of chicken and still had lettuce on his plate, he put his fork down. “Would you like dessert?”

Right, she thought, a few more ounces and she’d break
this
chair. “No, thank you.”

The waiter brought the bill. Glen reached into his pocket, took out a pen, and scribbled numbers swiftly on the check. “Your share comes to twelve dollars and twenty-three cents. That’s adding a tip of fifteen percent.”

“All right,” Faye said agreeably, although she thought perhaps his math was slightly off.

“Your meal was more expensive than mine by twelve percent,” Glen informed her, “so your share of the tip was proportionately higher.”

Faye choked back a childish urge to point out that it was because of her that they were given free glasses of wine.

They said good-bye outside the restaurant. Glen had parked on Commonwealth Avenue, Faye over by the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

“Thank you for a pleasant day,” Faye said formally to Glen, holding out her hand.

“Thank you,” he said, and to her surprise, leaned close to kiss her on the cheek.

It was a gentlemanly gesture, almost a courtly one, and spoiled, unfortunately, by his bad breath.

29

Good to go, Hercule Poirot!” Julia climbed up into the truck, her snazzy little digital camcorder hanging from her shoulder in its leather case.

“Julia!” Beth shrieked. “You’re letting your hair grow! I thought it looked a little longer the other day, but now I can see you’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” Julia flipped down the visor. No mirror. She tugged on the ends of her hair. “I don’t know why, but I’m all into a feminine kind of mode. Must be your influence.”

Beth blushed, surprised by the compliment. “You do look prettier with some color near your face. Is that shirt from the J. Jill catalog?”

A passionate discussion of clothing catalogs carried them from Julia’s house through the winding roads and crowded highways to Arlington, and Heather’s brother Harry’s house on Martin Lane. Beth parked the Young’s Construction truck in front of the house next door to Harry’s.

“It’s a beautiful day.” Julia held the camcorder to her eye, scanning the yellow clapboard house. The blinds were all drawn, curtains all closed. “
Drat.
After the bitch of a winter we’ve had, I’d think Harry’d want to get out in the sun.”

Beth reached behind the seat and brought out a brown bag. “Cookie?”

“Sure.” Julia grabbed a couple and munched. “Yum.”

Julia listened to Beth babbling on about Sonny, while her own interior voice continued to blip in her brain like a computer glitched on a page. The yoga and other programs at The Haven had pretty much taken care of her headaches and hearing loss, but she still experienced occasional nausea. Probably just nerves. Because this week was Belinda’s school’s winter break, Julia and Tim had packed up the little girl’s suitcase and driven her out to western Massachusetts to spend five days with Annette’s parents. The pleasure of having the house to herself, of being able to make love with Tim anywhere, anytime, was offset by the totally weird fact that Julia missed Belinda. And she really hated herself for wondering whether Belinda missed her. For God’s sake, that poor traumatized little child had had enough tragedy in her life without a possessive stepmother wringing her overprotective claws!

“So I don’t know,” Beth was babbling, “and I wish I didn’t care.”

Julia forced herself to tune in to Beth.

“I mean, it
is
their fortieth wedding anniversary, after all, and that’s a very big deal. It’s going to be a surprise, as if anyone could keep a secret in that family, a big blowout at the local Marriott.
Robin’s
ordering the cake. The three sibs are giving their parents tickets to Acapulco for a week.”

“What are you going to give them?”

“That’s just what I’m saying. What
can
I give them? Suze, Mark, and Sonny planned everything. Then Suze told Robin, who got first dibs on ordering the cake.”

Julia studied Beth’s face. “Look. Have you discussed this Robin thing with Sonny?”

Beth turned to face Julia. “Oh, of course I have! He says he doesn’t love her anymore, doesn’t feel attracted to her, although how that can be possible when she’s a walking sex machine, I don’t know. He says she’s like a sister.”

“And you believe him?”

Beth was silent a for moment, giving the question her full consideration. “Yes, I do. I trust him.”

“Then you’re going to have to learn to accept Robin. She’s part of the package, right? She’s like a sister, right? So no more pouting because she’s glued to the family. You’re the new kid on the block. Suck it up.”

Beth saluted. “Yes,
mein Kommandant.
”

“Plus, I have a totally awesome idea for a present you can give them.”

“You do? What?”

“A video of their anniversary party.”

Beth shook her head. “I couldn’t afford that.”

Julia snorted with impatience. “Idiot. I’ll do it for free, for you.”

Beth shook her head passionately. “No way. You told me last week you make three or four thousand dollars for something like this. I couldn’t—”

“You could and I will!” Julia’s spirits lifted; she got excited. “It will be fun! I mean, come on, think about it! I’ll photograph you and Sonny looking dreamy together, and I’ll catch Robin when she’s got cake stuffed in her mouth or her finger up her nose!”

Beth giggled. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s brilliant! This way, they’ll have a memento that will last them forever. Longer than the cake or their hangovers!”

“That’s true. But I—eeek!” Beth slid down in the seat. “Someone’s coming out!”

Julia turned her attention back to Heather’s brother’s house. The front door opened. A Goliath with a ponytail lumbered out, pulling on a black leather jacket covered with dragons, bones, and emblems as he walked.

“Could that be the male nurse Carolyn mentioned?”

Julia adjusted the zoom lens. “Doesn’t look much like a nurse to me.” Just for the hell of it, she shot Ponytail clomping over to a beat-up old Toyota. He got in and drove away. “I’m surprised he hasn’t sprung the shocks,” Julia said.

Beth sat up, then sunk back down. “The door’s opening again.”

Julia trained her camera on the front door.

A bleached blonde in tight jeans, high heels, and a foxy little fur vest over a plunging T-shirt stepped outside, looked up at the sky, and shivered.

“Who’s that?” Julia asked.

“Don’t know. Never saw her before. Maybe another nurse?”

Julia snorted. “Yeah, baby, that’s a nurse if I ever saw one. Hang on. Someone else is coming.”

A man joined the blonde on the sidewalk. He, too, wore a down vest over a T-shirt, and jeans and cowboy boots. His block-shaped head was too big for his body, an effect exaggerated by his ragged dark mop of hair and scruffy dark beard.

“Oh, my gosh, that must be Harry! Carolyn said he had a beard,” Beth hissed. “He’s not in a wheelchair! He’s standing on his own! Is the camera on?”

“You bet.” Julia focused and zoomed. “He’s one ugly hombre.”

As they watched, the blonde reached up to smooth his hair. The man jerked his head back in irritation. Blondie pouted. Harry stared at her for a moment, then grabbed her by the waist and kissed her so hard her head was forced backward. Blondie pressed her body up against his. Harry released her with a slap on her bum. She laughed and took his arm. Together they went to an ancient Thunderbird. Harry got in the driver’s seat, Blondie snuggled down into the passenger seat, the car roared and shuddered to life, and off they went.

“Did you get that?” Beth asked.

Julia clicked off her camera. “Every enchanting moment.”

“Do you know what this means? We’ve got proof that Harry’s not confined to a wheelchair.” Beth sighed. “So they
are
pulling a scam on Carolyn’s dad. Oh, this is bad news. I’m glad we did it, but I feel awful.”

Julia slid her camera into its leather case and took out her mobile phone. She hit a button, waited until she heard Carolyn’s voice, then said, “We’ve got something to show you.”

——————————

It was a bit like having a baby in the house, Polly thought. A scrawny, cranky, ill-tempered, irrational baby. Claudia was now installed in her hospital bed, which with its bars resembled a giant crib. Polly improvised meals to tempt Claudia—Ensure mixed with a teaspoon of applesauce, since Claudia refused Ensure on its own. Chicken broth swimming with chicken fat. Lots of tea; Polly had to be sure Claudia did not get dehydrated, and tea was all she would drink. Polly also assisted Claudia when she needed to use the commode, an appliance of stainless steel and plastic stationed next to the bed. A pack of diapers waited in the front hall for the approaching time when Claudia wouldn’t have the strength to get out of bed at all.

The pace of Polly’s days and the width of her world were now shrunken to Claudia’s requirements and requests. Polly still slept upstairs in the guest room, with the monitor next to her on the bedside table. All through the night Polly would waken, hearing Claudia cough or snore, and wait until Claudia’s breathing was steady once again before falling back asleep. In the morning, she tiptoed down the stairs to make her own breakfast as silently as possible. She took her second cup of coffee into the dining room. She no longer used her sewing machine—she was afraid the noise would prevent her from hearing Claudia call. Instead, she was knitting a sweater out of pale pinks and peaches, finding enormous pleasure in the spring-hued pastels.

Claudia usually woke around eleven. Polly would hear her stirring, but would wait for Claudia to summon her, at which point Polly would waft around like a young Julie Andrews as a novice nun in
The Sound of Music,
presenting the breakfast tray, clicking on the TV and handing Claudia the remote control, then emptying the commode bucket and washing it out with Pine-Sol and hot water. After that, she sat in the living room with Claudia, providing a sounding board for Claudia’s opinions of the various guests on the talk shows or characters in a soap opera.

The highlight of Polly’s day was around noon when someone from hospice knocked on the door. The same three women alternated days, and each one wore, from Polly’s point of view, a halo of pure radiant gold. They were so much more knowledgeable than Polly about this dying business, and amazingly undeterred by Claudia’s snappish resistance to their efforts. They gave Claudia a bed bath every day, as well as providing small amenities Polly hadn’t thought of, such as mouthwash and a small stainless steel pan for Claudia to spit in when she had finished.

Later, Polly sat docilely at Claudia’s side, pad in hand, as Claudia read the newspaper. A month ago, Claudia read every page, every paragraph, every word, dispensing her comments on matters to Polly. These days, Claudia read only the parts pertaining to society, and Polly took dictation.

“Delphine Harris’s daughter had a baby. Go to Shreves and have them send her a little gift. Nothing over one hundred dollars. I never liked the girl.”

“Would you like me to do it today?” Polly asked hopefully.

“No. That can wait. Did an invitation come for the Wendelhof’s party?”

Polly picked up the teetering pile of mail Claudia kept on the table next to her. After a quick search, she said, “Yes. Here it is.”

“You’ll need to call with my regrets.”

“Very well.”

Polly so longed to have one serious talk with Claudia. She had so much to ask.
Whom do you dream of while you’re sleeping here? Do you dream of Tucker, do you see him waiting for you, could you give him a message, tell him I love him? Do you know that Tucker and I were happy together? Even though I’m not whom you would have wished for a daughter-in-law, you do realize how much Tucker and I loved one another, don’t you? Are you frightened? Do you believe in God? Do you believe in an afterlife? Resurrection? Why have you always behaved like such a snobbish old bat to me? What are your regrets, what are your most beloved memories? How can you not care about David? You knew him for twenty years, and he’s such a funny, smart, clever guy. Do you hate me because I never had children with Tucker, is that it? Do you know how sorry I am that I never was able to give you a grandchild?

But Polly could not ever bring herself to ask any of the questions, although she never gave up her vigilance for the slightest opening in Claudia’s shuttered façade.

After reading the
Globe,
Claudia would nap, during which time Polly would tidy the house. Then, to keep herself sane, she’d curl up with a novel and a box of chocolates. Chocolate was good, one of the hospice workers had told her, it resembled the drug Atavan, which was both a mood elevator and a tranquilizer. Too bad it worked only when she ate it, Polly thought ruefully, and not during all the rest of her life as she carried it about on her hips.

In the evening, after their brief meal, Polly and Claudia watched TV together. More and more these days, Claudia slept through the programs, allowing Polly to read.

One afternoon Polly screwed up her courage and accompanied the hospice worker to the front door, where she put her hand on her arm. “I’m not certain how to ask this. I’m not even sure I should ask it. But—do you have any idea how much longer . . . ?”

The hospice worker smiled. “It’s fine to ask the question. My best guess is that she’ll be here for another month or two. However, Claudia’s a real crackerjack. She might hang on even longer.”

“Is there anything else I should be doing? I don’t know how to help her.”

“You’re doing everything you can. She’s comfortable, in no pain, and not alone. If she starts to feel pain, we might want to consider moving her to a hospital. But until that point, she seems to be more than content to be here.”

Polly developed odd obsessions with the hospice workers. They were so pretty, competent, gentle, serene. Cindy’s blond braid was so tidy, her soft, plump hands so satisfactory to watch. Doreen was slightly overweight, but no more than Polly, and her loose scrubs decorated with silly prints of cartoon or circus themes were fun to see. All the women smelled good, of soap, lotion, and mint. Sometimes Polly hated to leave the house to do her errands; she was depriving herself of the hospice workers’ company.

The truth was, Polly felt cut off from the rest of the world, like some kind of eccentric, depressive recluse growing fatter and fatter on chocolate. Soon she wouldn’t fit out the front door. Occasionally, the phone would ring, and it would be Julia or Carolyn or Beth, calling to report on their latest exploits. Listening, laughing, gasping in surprise, Polly felt as if she were plugged into an IV of pure serotonin. Their friendship was even better than chocolate. But they were all so busy with their own lives and their work that often several days went by without any communication from them, and then Polly felt rejected, forgotten, the kid no one wanted on their team, and once again she would remind herself how much older she was than the other three. Beth, Julia, Carolyn, were all young, starting their lives, pregnant with their futures. Polly had gone through menopause, her child was grown, she was already widowed. She phoned David now and then, but hearing about Jehoshaphat was bittersweet, since she couldn’t see him. Pretend you live in a foreign country, she told herself, and every day she felt that this was true, that she was in a foreign country, on a kind of floating island, and every day she drifted farther out to sea, away from those with vivid, juicy, optimistic, sociable lives.