The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (10 page)

11

About twenty miles southwest of Boston lay the tree-lined, money-groomed, wealth-cushioned enclave of Dover. In the heart of this suburb, on Chestnut Street, in a brick Georgian mansion on a three-acre lot enclosed by wrought-iron fences, lived Polly’s mother-in-law, Claudia Lodge.

Polly parked her car on the driveway, then stepped out into the bright autumn day. The trees burned like flames in the crisp air, and she wished she could take the time to enjoy the day, but she was a woman on a mission, one she dreaded but knew she must complete, so she dragged her reluctant body to the front door and knocked.

Her mother-in-law opened the door instantly. “Good. You’re on time.” Claudia’s tone implied that she’d spent most of her life waiting for clueless Polly to show up.

“Hello, Claudia,” Polly said. Entering the beautiful old home, with its family portraits, antique furniture, thick Persian rugs, and well-polished wooden floors, Polly had the illusion of stepping back into time, or into a book by Henry James. She handed Claudia her light jacket, revealing the beautiful hunter green corduroy dress she’d made herself. She seldom wore dresses, preferring jeans or trousers and shirts, but she’d learned to dress as Claudia preferred.

“You’re looking well,” Polly dutifully complimented her mother-in-law.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claudia commanded. “I look ill, and I am.”

Polly blinked. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, so dim in this hallway after the glare of the sun, she could tell that, yes, Claudia had lost weight. “You’re ill, Claudia?” she repeated cautiously. Claudia hated anything verging on personal.

Claudia hung Polly’s jacket in the hall closet. “Let’s do wait until we’ve had some tea,” Claudia said, her tone of voice implying that Polly had done it once again, committed yet another social blunder.

But
you
brought it up first, Polly wanted to retort, and swallowed her remark. She hated how Claudia reduced her, in minutes, to an infantile state of mind.

Obediently, she followed the other woman into the drawing room, sinking, at Claudia’s imperious gesture, into the indicated armchair. On the table between them sat the sterling silver tea service that had been in the family for generations. Polly waited while Claudia poured the smoky Hu-Kwa into thin china cups and handed one to her, without asking whether she wanted cream, sugar, or lemon. There was, in Claudia’s point of view, only one way to drink tea. Her way.

Claudia was immaculately dressed, as always. She wore a plaid wool skirt, wool sweater and matching cardigan, and a string of pearls. Her hair, once dark, was now white, but shaped as it had been all her life, in a pageboy, folding under just at her ears, to accentuate her pearl earrings. In her youth, Claudia had been a great tennis player and sailor, strong, nimble, and tanned, and now in her eighties the creases and folds of her skin bore testament to all those days in the sun. Nearly six feet, and always slender, she did not try to disguise her height but wore handsome three-inch heels. Although Polly had often rued Claudia’s arrogance, she’d always envied her posture, so straight and regal.

Polly sipped the smoky tea. The silence speckled in the air around them, like dust motes. Polly couldn’t wait to share her news. “I’m a grandmother now, Claudia! Amy—”

Claudia waved at the air as if dismissing a gnat. “I’ve asked you here to discuss something important.”

Polly swallowed her anger. Claudia had said she was ill—

“Some tests indicate the possibility that I might have ovarian cancer.”

“Oh, Claudia,” Polly cried, stunned by the news. “I’m so sorry.”

Claudia sighed, exasperated. “I didn’t ask you here for you to go into a sentimental fit. You can’t be any help to me if you’re going to be maudlin.”

Polly’s face flushed, but she straightened. “All right, then. How can I be of help to you?”

Claudia took a sip of her tea, settled the delicate cup in the saucer before replying. When she spoke, she kept her eyes on her tea. “I’m not able to drive any longer. Nothing to do with my illness; my eyes are not good enough for me to renew my license. I need someone to take me to the hospital.”

“Well, Claudia, of course, I’ll be glad to drive you.”

“Good. I have an appointment for Friday afternoon, at three o’clock, at Mass. General, with Dr. Monroe. It would be convenient if you drove me and accompanied me there. The hospital is large, and I’m not as robust as I once was.”

“All right,” Polly said. “I’ll pick you up at two.”

“You’ll pick me up at one. The traffic might be bad, and the registration procedure is lengthy.”

“All right.” In a way, it was a relief that Claudia remained her normal prickly, officious self. “One it is.”

“Also, I want you to know I have my legal affairs in order.”

Polly nodded and waited.

Claudia aimed her dark eyes to a spot just to the side of Polly’s left ear. “You will be my executor. I’m leaving everything to the New England Historical Society. Robert Gershong is my lawyer. He has a draft of the will, and I have one, as well, in my safe-deposit box. As executor, you will receive a slight fee, and if there’s any particular item you’d like to have—a painting, this silver tea service, whatever—you may choose something. Everything’s in order.”

“Well,” Polly responded carefully, “that’s good. That you have everything organized.”

“I have written explicit instructions for my burial. My plot is in Forest Hills Cemetery, next to my husband’s. I do not want a memorial service of any kind. Simply a few words read at my interment. I’ve already arranged that with Reverend Alexander.”

“Goodness, Claudia, don’t you want
some
kind of ceremony? You have so many friends—”

Claudia interrupted, “If you feel unable to carry out my wishes, I’ll find someone else to do it.”

“Of course I’ll carry out your wishes, Claudia.”

“Very well. Thank you.” Claudia’s face was as haughty as marble, but an odd little sound escaped her—a burp?

Polly felt her lips twitch and squelched a childish desire to giggle.

Claudia touched a damask napkin to her lips. “I’ll see you at one on Friday,” she murmured.

This was her signal to leave, Polly knew. “Claudia, before I go, can I get anything for you?”

“I’m quite all right, Polly. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Would you like me to carry the tray into the kitchen?”

Claudia hesitated, then shook her head. “Pearl can deal with it tomorrow.”

“Well, then. I’ll see you Friday.” As she rose to go, Polly yearned to perform some act of consolation, to offer comfort in some way. Since Claudia did not like to be touched, Polly simply said, “Good-bye,” and went down the long hallway and out of the dark house.

——————————

Polly had always thought people who were comfortable with silence held some kind of power over those who weren’t. Were they, perhaps, higher up on some evolutionary scale? Conversation seemed to Polly a normal, basic, universal human need. And there was always so much to discuss—fall fashions, movie-star marriages, politics, even the weather, for heaven’s sake. Friday afternoon, as Polly drove Claudia to the hospital, she attempted to converse on these neutral topics, but was met with stony silence.

And yet, Claudia could have asked someone else to drive her to the hospital. Her “friends,” were, Polly thought, social acquaintances, the sort of people with whom Claudia
would
discuss fall fashions, charity functions, and politics. Perhaps Claudia didn’t want to expose any weakness to them. Still, Claudia could have phoned a limo service or even a cab. Instead, she’d commanded Polly. Which meant what? Nothing that Claudia would ever articulate, not even the simple, obvious fact that Polly was Claudia’s only surviving relation.

Once inside, winding their way through the endless hospital corridors, without turning even slightly in Polly’s direction, Claudia began to speak, allowing a few syllables to fall from her lips, as if her words were bits of gold she was certain Polly would rush to catch. “The gift shop here is actually rather nice,” she said as they passed it. In the elevator she announced, “My primary physician here went to the same private preschool as Tucker.” Polly understood that this was cocktail-party patter, a pretense of conversation performed for the benefit of others in the general vicinity. “Oh, really?” was the only response required of Polly, and she duly provided it.

The reception area was large and attractive, with gorgeous silk-screen prints of flowers and a wall of windows overlooking the Charles River and Storrow Drive. A bank of receptionists and secretaries murmured as they processed the patients who docilely sat waiting their turn. As they took their own seats, Polly longed to be her normal chattering self with her mother-in-law, wished she could relieve the tension by saying what she felt: “Isn’t this scary! Isn’t
cancer
the creepiest word? Don’t you want some Valium, or an antidepressant, or at least an enormous box of chocolates? I do!” But Claudia took a paperback Edith Wharton from her purse and began reading. Polly had also brought a book, so she settled her glasses on her nose and pretended to read.

“Mrs. Lodge?” A nurse, clipboard in hand, approached. “Will you come with me?”

Claudia slipped her book into her purse and rose.

Polly smiled at up her mother-in-law. “Good luck.”

Claudia arched a brow. “Come along, Polly, don’t dawdle.”

Polly blinked. “Um, what?” As a flush reddened her face, she sensed others looking over at her.

“I said,” Claudia said in a voice edged with ice, “come along.”

Confused, Polly half-rose. “You want me to accompany you?”

Claudia nearly snorted with exasperation. “Of course.” Abruptly she turned away, head high, striding along on her elegant heels after the nurse.

“Well, all-righty then,” Polly muttered under her breath as she hurried to follow.

The waiting room had been spacious. Back here, physicians in scrubs and stethoscopes surged through a warren of cubicles and offices. The nurse ushered Claudia and Polly into what seemed like a cupboard and helped Claudia up onto the examination table. Claudia allowed Polly to help her remove her mink. In her teal blue suit with the diamond pin on the collar, Claudia looked as if she were on a throne.

“I’m Jane,” the nurse announced with a friendly smile as she unrolled the blood-pressure cuff and fit it over Claudia’s arm.

“Hello, Jane, I’m Polly.” Polly’s voice came out high and squeaky. Damn! She was hyperventilating. She hadn’t told Claudia she was terrified of doctors and all things medical. This common phobia, called the white-coat syndrome, caused Polly to gulp down a glass of red wine before her own annual physical. The best she could do now was squeeze herself into the farthest corner of the tiny room, where she stood surreptitiously stroking the mink as if she were reassuring a pet.

The door flew open and in strode a handsome, robust man in a white lab coat. He extended his hand.

“Mrs. Lodge. Nice to see you again.”

Claudia briefly touched her perfectly manicured claw to his large hand. “And you, Hugh.”

Dr. Monroe turned. “And this is?” He smiled at Polly. He had beautiful blue eyes, a clear and intelligent gaze.

Claudia announced, “Polly Lodge. She’ll be assisting me.”

As if Claudia were preparing to perform surgery on Hugh Monroe, Polly thought, with a slight touch of hysteria. Polly moved to meet Dr. Monroe’s outstretched hand and tripped over her mother-in-law’s purse. Fortunately, the physician caught her by the elbow.

“Steady as you go,” he said, smiling.

Aware her skin was now a radiant crimson, Polly murmured, “Thanks,” and shrank back into her corner, feeling as suave as Jane Eyre on her first day at the orphanage. Claudia glared at her, indignant at Polly’s clumsiness. At times like this, Polly was flooded with sensations so powerful she was sure they were engraved into her DNA: embarrassment at being the descendant of Irish peasants who fled, starving, from their green country to the wild Boston shore where they scrubbed the floors and waited on people who looked like Claudia. So potent, so compelling, were these emotions, they were almost like memories, paralyzing her. She reminded herself that Tucker had found her beautiful, that her generous curves had brought him joy.

“Now, Mrs. Lodge.” Dr. Monroe set his blue-eyed gaze on the older woman. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine.” Claudia spoke it as a challenge.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Nurse Jane folded up her blood-pressure cuff and scribbled in a folder.

“I’ll just have a peek at your abdomen,” Dr. Monroe said.

Nurse Jane pulled the curtain on its track, shutting Polly out for a few moments of blissful solitude.

The curtain opened. Dr. Monroe stationed himself on a stool while Claudia sat on the edge of the table and the nurse waited at her elbow.

“Blood pressure’s great, Mrs. Lodge,” the doctor announced. “Your heart’s in good shape, your lungs are clear, you’re generally a fit, healthy woman, which is all for the good.” The nurse handed him a folder. Setting glasses on his nose, he scanned some papers, then peered over them. “However, as we said at your last visit, the CA125 blood tests indicated ovarian cancer. Now we have the results of the ultrasound and the biopsy. You do have a malignant tumor.”

“Oh, dear,” Polly whispered. Those had to be the ugliest words in the English language. She felt her own body shrinking back from the doctor’s words, but Claudia sat with majestic, implacable rigidity.

“The ultrasound and biopsy indicate that the tumor began in an area in a cul-de-sac between the vagina and the rectum known as the pouch of Douglas.”

“Ridiculous,” Claudia sniffed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

She’s never heard of the vagina or rectum, either, Polly thought giddily.

Dr. Monroe nodded. “No, not many of us have. It’s a spot rarely mentioned. I haven’t encountered it since medical school.”

“Since Claudia has it, perhaps it should be named the evening bag of Douglas,” Polly offered. To her surprise, Claudia’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile.

Dr. Monroe laughed. “Not a bad idea.” He gave Polly an appreciative smile. Turning back to Claudia, he said, “You and I have discussed the possibility of surgery, which you say you do not want.”