Jane Austen in Boca (16 page)

She had spoken longer than she intended, but she had clarified, at least for herself, what bothered her so much about the book. She noticed that Stan had listened as she spoke.

“That’s an interesting reading,” he conceded, and seemed to be contemplating a reply. Before the discussion could continue, however, his attention was diverted by something across the room. Seeming to lose interest in their conversation, he abruptly excused himself. The next thing Flo knew, he was talking with a Hispanic waiter stationed near two huge tureens of vichyssoise and gazpacho. While the guests swirled around them, Stan and the waiter stood planted in one spot, engaged in earnest conversation for at least ten minutes. Norman was too busy trading jokes with Hy (while May and Lila looked on) for Flo to ask him what in the world Stan could be talking about with the waiter, and by the time he returned, they were all too caught up in the general mayhem of dispensing with the remains of the appetizers and receiving the main course for any questions to be asked. After the feeding frenzy had subsided and the dancing begun, Stan seemed to withdraw further into himself, and the moment for clarifying the mystery had passed.

There was certainly no possibility of asking Stan about Mel Shirmer. Flo considered herself a woman of some courage, and yet even she felt disinclined to raise the subject given Stan’s brooding, uninviting demeanor. She thought of trying to continue their discussion of Roth or bringing up the latest and, thankfully, last Joseph Heller novel (what was it with these elderly Jewish novelists, anyway, that kept them writing when they should have gone off to play cards and golf in Florida?). But Flo

decided against it. She would not succumb to the woman’s role of drawing the man out. If he wanted to talk, fine; if not, she had inner resources enough to entertain her.

Yet the prolonged silence began to grate on her nerves. She watched the couples expending various degrees of energy on the dance floor—some of the healthier ones gyrating with show ofty zeal, others maintaining a careful, almost motionless shuffle—as the band struck into a medley of old standards. She and Eddie had cut a solid figure on the dance floor, and she had always found dancing to the tunes of Cole Porter and Gershwin about as pleasant a pastime as she could imagine. Filled with a sudden desire to move to that glorious music, she turned to Stan and asked him if he’d like to dance. The question seemed to wake him from a stupor. He looked at her for a moment with an air of surprise, then turned away, mumbling that he’d rather not.

She had assumed that if he refused her invitation it would be with the familiar excuse that he had two left feet. Flo knew that men feared making fools of themselves on the dance floor, seeing dance in the way they saw baseball or soccer, as a skill to be mastered. She knew they were wrong. Dance was less like sport and more like talk, an art in which chutzpah played a major role. The vast majority of men, failing to understand this, were fated to watch their wives and girlfriends swirl past in the arms of men who were five feet tall and wore their shirts unbuttoned to the navel—men who, for whatever reason, had grown comfortable making fools of themselves.

But Stan hadn’t even bothered to give an excuse. His mumbled refusal was only a confirmation of what Flo had already seen of his boorish manners and of the mean-spiritedness Mel had described. Her anger was considerable, and she turned away, determined to have nothing more to do with him. But a moment later, to her surprise, he broached the subject she had been holding in her mind all evening but hadn’t had the nerve to mention.

“How long have you known Mel Shirmer?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, a few weeks now,” replied Flo lightly. “I’m told you know him, too—or did.”

“I knew him quite well.”

“No love lost there, I see.”

“None.” Stan paused, as if considering what to say next. Then, abruptly: “I’d take care if I were you.”

“Really?” exclaimed Flo with mock surprise. “I didn’t realize he was dangerous. But perhaps in your lexicon, a polite man with a consideration for a woman’s feelings is a threat. It gives the rest of you a bad name. No—from what I gather, you’re the one that can be dangerous.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you’re dealing with a man who’s not to be trusted around women. You’re a woman—though I’d say you’re more intelligent than most—and it surprises me to see you taken in.

“If you’re complimenting me, you can save your breath.”

“I’m not complimenting you,” said Stan, “I’m warning you.”

“You needn’t warn, then. I can take care of myself.”

Stan gave her a long look, and Flo, suddenly uncomfortable and wanting to hear Mel’s voice, excused herself and went to the pay phone in the lounge. She dialed his number and let it ring until it was clear that no one was going to answer. No doubt he had unplugged the phone so he could sleep.

A
T TEN P.M., WITH A DECREASE IN ENERGY AND APPETITE BEGIN
ning to be discernible, Rudy took the floor to emcee the traditional closing act of the Valentine’s Day celebration. This was the presentation of testimonials that Morris Kornfeld had stipulated be included in the event.

Rudy opened the proceedings by inviting “anyone who wished to share a sentiment in the spirit of the occasion. But,” he cautioned, “we ask that you keep it short, since the hour grows late, and, let’s face it, we’re not teenagers anymore—though watching some of the ladies on the dance floor, I wouldn’t swear by it.” He kissed his fingertips in the direction of Dorothy Meltzer. Rudy was known to be a great admirer of the ladies, and, unlike Flo, appreciative of decolletage, no matter the age of the bosom.

Things got off the ground as in quick succession two women announced the engagements of their children—Moira Plotnick of her daughter to an orthodontist in Montclair, New Jersey, and Selma Stein of her son to an aerobics instructor in Anaheim, California. At table 2, three women in matching turquoise pant-suits rose to attest to their friendship and distribute friendship bracelets.

They were followed by Pixie Solomon, resplendent in gold mesh, who announced the birth of her grandchild, Hannah Gittel Solomon. “Can you believe the names they’re choosing nowadays?” she asked, while her neighbors at table 6 shook their heads in agreement. “You’d think they were back in the
shtetl
instead of living in a big house in Short Hills with a live-in nanny.” Rudy, at this point, saw fit to intervene and explain, politely but firmly, that births weren’t technically permitted as testimonials, since if he allowed them, they’d be there all night. Pixie Solomon sat down, miffed; she had wanted to describe her daughter-in-law’s difficult pregnancy and recount the baby’s birth weight and Apgar score.

Bobbie Tarkoff got up next to remember her dead husband, Milt, and to recall that he never once forgot her birthday or their anniversary—”and I have the jewelry to prove it!” Applause followed.

Two other women invoked dead spouses, with one, Minna Freedman, confessing, “When he was alive, I didn’t appreciate him. Now that he’s dead, I see he was a jewel”—to which there were murmurs of “So true” and sympathetic clapping.

Zelda and Stephen Freed rose to reaffirm their vows and forty-five years of “bliss.” The secret, Zelda confided: “separate beds.” Laughter and applause.

Trudy and Dan Lebarque (changed from Lebowitz) also testified to fifty-one glorious years. “No woman could be more wonderful than this one,” said Dan. “She lights up my life.” There was a murmur of appreciation and extended applause. (Pixie Solomon, who knew Trudy, whispered loudly to her neighbor: “She doesn’t deserve him.”)

It was after this that, to the surprise of the group, Hy Marcus jumped to his feet and, glass in hand, declared he had a special announcement. “Lila Katz,” he said, gesturing to Lila with a self-satisfied flourish, “has consented to be my bride.” There was an impressed “Ooh” followed by applause before he continued—for he clearly intended to hold the floor as long as he could.

“I just asked her this morning and was pleased to receive a reply in the affirmative. She didn’t know I was going to announce it,” he continued complacently, “but I say, why hold back? At our age, there’s no point being modest. Lila and I will
be leaving next week to spend some time with my children, who are eager to wish us the best: Steven, a gastroenterologist on Central Park West—you wouldn’t believe what he charges—and his lovely wife, Candace, who converted and is active in Hadassah, along with my daughter, Sarah, a lawyer, and her husband, a hot-shot corporate raider like out of that movie with Michael Douglas. They’ll be taking us out to dinner, and we’ll be staying over at Sarah’s mansion in Great Neck. I’ve told Lila that marrying me will put her in clover, and I hope her friends will have the same good luck, with no more money worries and plenty of
naches.
I know one couple at least”—he looked meaningfully over at May and Norman—”that should be following us to the altar soon enough.”

There was some laughter and pointing over at May and Norman as Hy sat to applause and murmurs of “Mazel tov.” May blushed violently at Hy’s words, and Norman, Flo noted, seemed distinctly flustered and shot a glance at Stan, who looked poker-faced—but then, he’d looked that way all evening; he hadn’t uttered a word since his speech on Mel Shirmer. Flo saw that Lila was conscious of the crudeness of Hy’s remarks and was clutching her napkin and staring straight ahead with a fixed smile on her face. Feeling sorry for her friend, Flo reached over and patted her hand. She did not, however, glance at Stan Jacobs again. There was too much to think about in that quarter, and she preferred, as she put it to herself, to rest her brain for the time being.

T
HE NEXT DAY AT LUNCH, LILA PUT DOWN HER FORK, TOOK A
breath, and turned to her two friends. She had summoned them together for a farewell meal before taking off with Hy to meet his much-vaunted family on Long Island. Now, as she began speaking, she looked at May and Flo with an expression that was both plaintive and determined.

“I want you to be attendants at my wedding,” she said, “and I don’t want you to say no.”

“Attendants?” said Flo. “Am I hearing correctly? Could we be talking bridesmaids here?”

“Flo,” said Lila, “I knew you would laugh at me, but I’m serious. I want to have a big wedding and I want you two to be there at my side. Call yourself bridesmaids, matrons, attendants, whatever. It’s what I want, and I beg you to make an old woman happy and do it.”

“But what are you talking about, Lila?” asked Flo. Her friend, who had once seemed reasonable enough, appeared lately to have gone completely off her rocker: first, to encourage Hy Marcus, then to agree to marry him, and now, to contemplate a wedding with bridesmaids. The whole thing convinced Flo again of what she too often forgot: that even the most apparently sane and down-to-earth people were capable of frightening lapses in sense.

“The truth is,” said Lila, “I’ve always had a thing about weddings. I never had one of my own, and it’s always bothered me. Do you know that I look at brides’ magazines in the supermarket
and imagine myself wearing the dresses? Of course you don’t. You don’t know what it is to have been cheated out of one of life’s most important events. Mort and I got married in City Hall. He was cheap, but more to the point, he wanted to escape his mother. She hated me. Even at her eightieth birthday party, she toasted Mort and never mentioned my name. Do you know what she did the last time I saw her? She was dying—she couldn’t walk and could hardly breathe—but she looked me up and down like I was a bad cut of meat the butcher was trying to put over on her. She asked me what he saw in me: ‘You’re not pretty, no education, no family, no money, and as barren as a stone.’ That was the thanks I got for taking her good-for-nothing son off her hands.”

“Sounds like something out of the Brothers Grimm,” said Flo.

“Worse!” Lila exclaimed indignantly, with the clear intention of elaborating further; recalling the injustices of the past had inspired her to new levels of eloquence: “I wore a blue suit to the ceremony—white was too stark, Mort said; we didn’t want to advertise too much. And our only witness was his cousin Sam, that louse—he borrowed a hundred dollars to join a swim club and never paid us back. Mort was cheap about everything, but he had to lend his cousin Sam, the biggest lowlife you would ever hope to see, a hundred dollars to join a swim club. For dental work, for life insurance, for the kids’ college tuition—that I could understand. But a swim club? And never a thank you. Never even an invitation to the swim club. When I’d mention it to Mort, he’d say I was ungracious. Me, ungracious? When his mother never thanked me once for the
Shabbes
dinner I cooked her every Friday night for forty years. Did anyone ever cook for me? Did anyone throw me a party? I know you think I’m crazy to want a wedding, a woman of my age. But I do. And Hy has no objection; he likes the idea. It gives him a chance to show off his family and pay for a lavish spread. So I want to have a wedding like the kind I should have had when I was
twenty-one, and I want you and May to wear long matching dresses and walk down the aisle and carry bouquets. And if you won’t do it, I’ll never forgive you.”

May and Flo were silent. Lila’s outburst made Flo’s usual quipping impossible, and yet the idea of being bridesmaid to Lila’s bride was so patently ridiculous that she tried to find some sensitive but straightforward way of telling her friend that it was out of the question. But before she could gather her thoughts, May had spoken.

“We’d love to be your attendants, Lila,” she said. “You’re our friend, and anything that would make you happy would give us pleasure.”

Lila smiled weakly and reached out her hand to May, who clasped it. But she didn’t dare look at Flo, which was just as well.

F
LO AND
M
AY GAZED AT EACH OTHER IN THE MIRRORS OF
L
OEH
mann’s communal dressing room. They were wearing matching aqua taffeta dresses with mutton sleeves and sequined bodices—“cocktail dresses” was the way Lila had described them. She had picked them out herself from Loehmann’s Back Room before she left with Hy for Long Island, and had them held for her friends.