The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (17 page)

“Jehoshaphat?” Julia echoed.

“Weird, right?” Polly grimaced. “They wanted to choose a name no one else would have.”

“Well, they succeeded,” Julia said wryly.

“I spend so much time longing to see my grandson,” Polly continued. “And so much time doing errands for my bitchy old ice queen of a mother-in-law. Oh, I do see my clients—I’m a seamstress—but that’s not the same at all. My husband’s dead and my best friend moved to Tucson last year. God, I sound pathetic,” she finished with a laugh.

“You’re not pathetic at all,” Carolyn assured her. “Look at us, we’ve all got problems with relatives.”

“And talking about it makes me feel optimistic,” Beth added. “Talking about it makes me feel like I can
do
something about it.”

“Let’s meet again, then,” Polly suggested. “Every Friday night, after yoga class. In the Jacuzzi.”

“Followed, I propose,” Julia added, “by dinner here.”

Beth’s eyes widened. “What fun!”

Polly agreed. “Dinner, yes, brilliant idea.”

They all turned to look at Carolyn.

“I’ll need to check my calendar,” Carolyn said slowly. She wasn’t used to spontaneity. Hell, she wasn’t used to friendship and fun. “But I think I can manage it.”

19

A shrieking wind blasted pellets of snow against Polly’s face as she struggled to lift the bundles from the backseat of her car. Arms full, feet slipping in the slush, she shoved the door shut with her hip, then set off toward Claudia’s house, feeling every bit like a peasant in some obscure Tolstoy novel as she trudged through the knee-high snowdrifts. It was the time of day Polly usually loved, when evening dropped veils of lilac, smoke, and slate over the sky, while lamps in houses glowed golden, offering warmth and light. But this January day had passed without so much as a glimpse of the sun, and now, not even five o’clock, darkness fell over the city like a lid shutting on a coffin.

Coffin. Argh.

Polly did what she often did to cheer herself up: she burst into a chorus of “Cockeyed Optimist” from
South Pacific.
No one else was near enough to hear her, even if they could over the howling wind, and she needed to buck up her spirits.

Since Dr. Monroe’s diagnosis three months ago, Polly had become her mother-in-law’s errand girl, escort, and emotional cheerleader. In December, she missed several parties thrown by her own friends so she could squire Claudia to her society affairs. She’d set up a tree in Claudia’s living room, bought her presents, wrapped them with flair, roasted the Christmas turkey in Claudia’s oven, and served Claudia at her own table with her own beloved crystal, silver, and china. On New Year’s Eve, she’d brought champagne and Russian caviar to enjoy as they watched the countdown at Times Square. Claudia had been gracious enough to allow Polly to clink flutes. She’d even wished Polly happy New Year.

Since the first of the year, Claudia had not left the house except for doctor’s appointments, but she still refused to discuss her health with Polly. It was just so damned weird! Polly often felt like grabbing her mother-in-law’s bony body and shaking her. She knew Claudia hated to discuss bodily functions; she knew Claudia needed to be regarded as a woman of elegance and dignity. But come on! Polly wanted to cry. There’s more to being a human being than elegance and dignity! There’s affection, anxiety, humor, sorrow—there’s love in all its many guises.

You must be so
lonely,
Polly wanted to say to Claudia. Don’t you want someone to hold your hand now and then? Perhaps Claudia allowed herself to be cosseted a bit by Pearl, Claudia’s housekeeper, who came every morning. Polly hoped so. What else could she do? She came every afternoon, bringing Claudia books, little treats of chocolates or a soft chenille throw, and during the last month, something hot for dinner. She sat docilely in the living room as Claudia dictated lists of errands.

Last week, Claudia had given her a front-door key. Thinking this might be an implicit admission that she was becoming too weak to walk down the hall to open the door, Polly had ventured, “Claudia, perhaps you should think about having hospice or home health—”

Claudia had cut her off. “I told you, I want no strangers in my house.” And she’d picked up a
New Yorker
and fastened her attention on that.

When Polly asked Claudia how she felt, Claudia always replied, “I’m quite well, thank you.”

Well, it was Claudia’s life, and Claudia’s dying, and Polly wanted to respect her wishes and help her do it the way she wanted. Control was crucial to Claudia, and it had to be awful for her to be unable to control the cancer transforming her body. Polly would do what she could to help Claudia maintain some control of these last days and weeks of her life.

So, hoisting a bag onto her left hip, she unlocked Claudia’s front door and let herself in. She took off her snow-covered outerwear and entered the living room.

“Hello!” Probably she sounded disgustingly perky, like a drunk Doris Day, but she’d read that smiling made you feel better, so she tried to get Claudia to smile. What was the option? To lament, wring her hands, and tiptoe around speaking in sepulchral tones?

“Hello, Polly.” Claudia was ensconced in her usual place, reclining in royal state on her damask chaise longue. A table on her right held a pile of books and magazines; the one on her left was laden with telephone, television remote control, and a tray with a teacup and a croissant. At Polly’s entrance, Claudia clicked off the TV, which was tuned to CNN. The light vanished, letting dimness settle over the room.

Through the gloom, Polly tried to assess Claudia’s state. Claudia wore a wool skirt, a wool twin set, and pearls. But her hair, usually coiffed to perfection, hung lank. Not for the first time, Polly thought of suggesting she give Claudia a shampoo. Claudia’s face looked thinner, too, skeletal really, with the ridge of brow standing out starkly and her eyes sunken into bony sockets.

“Let’s turn on some lights!” Polly reached for a lamp.

“Let’s
not.
” Claudia put a hand to her forehead. “I need to rest my eyes.”

“Okay.” Polly always walked a tightrope between Claudia’s comfort and Claudia’s vanity. “I made a wonderful chicken casserole for your dinner tonight. I’ll pop it into the oven to heat up, then I’ll be back with a glass of sherry. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Claudia said.

As Polly passed through the gloomy rooms, the fading twilight through the windows provided the only illumination. On the dining room sideboard and from the high kitchen cabinets, Claudia’s silver candlesticks, carafes, and tureens gleamed in tarnished splendor, like retired armor. Polly wondered why they hadn’t been polished lately.

In the kitchen, Polly turned the oven to three fifty and slid her casserole inside. She unpacked the groceries, grateful for the friendly gleam of the refrigerator light each time she opened it. Now and then as she moved through the kitchen, an odd smell floated past her nostrils. She sniffed—but the smell was gone.

She set out two dainty crystal glasses and the bottle of sherry, filled a small bowl with salted almonds, and placed two small cocktail napkins on the tray. Claudia didn’t drink more than a sip of sherry these days, but she seemed to enjoy continuing her familiar ritual. It seemed to Polly that the level of cranberry juice was the same as it had been yesterday, that the butter dish had not been moved from last night. The sink was empty and clean, the countertops tidy. Polly made a mental note to ask Pearl how much dinner Claudia was actually eating. And how much breakfast, for it was Pearl who prepared that for Claudia.

There that smell was again! Polly stood still, like a rabbit, only her nose twitching. The pungent, slightly rank, aroma seemed to be coming from the white metal trash bin next to the sink. On a whim, Polly lifted off the lid and looked in. The bin, neatly lined with white plastic, was full of food Polly had brought over during the past week. What was odd was that it was also full of Claudia’s daily china and silverware. Last night’s lamb stew was on top, in its handsome gold-rimmed bowl. Beneath it, on a gold-rimmed plate, was an intact mass of macaroni and cheese. Beneath that—Polly put on a rubber glove, reached in, and checked—a plate of salmon mousse.

Polly could understand that Claudia might not want to eat some or any of Polly’s culinary offerings, especially when she didn’t feel well. She could understand Pearl throwing the food out untouched. But why would Pearl throw out the heirloom plates and silver? That made no sense at all.

Unless Pearl was no longer coming. Unless Claudia, too weak to put her dishes in the dishwasher, was simply throwing them away.

Polly stripped off the rubber glove, dropped it on the counter, and stormed into the living room. Without asking first, she switched on a lamp.

“Claudia, isn’t Pearl coming anymore?”

Claudia looked offended and didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Polly demanded, “Why isn’t she coming?”

Claudia’s voice was icy. “I let her go.”

“Good grief! Why?” Claudia had never been able to keep help for long. Perhaps Pearl had broken a dish or said something Claudia considered impertinent.

“It’s none of your affair.” Claudia’s eyes were holes of acid.

“Claudia, you need household help more than ever, now that you’re sick.”

Claudia sniffed. “
Sick
is such an unattractive word.”

“Oh, Claudia, for heaven’s sake,
cancer
is an unattractive word, but you have it, and you need help.”

“I told you I will have no one prying into my life.”

“But washing and cleaning aren’t prying,” Polly protested.

Claudia averted her eyes.

Immediately Polly understood. Of course washing and cleaning
were
prying, if they allowed the cleaner to see how sick Claudia was. Polly sank onto a needlepoint stool at the end of Claudia’s chaise. “Claudia, you’re losing weight. Are you eating
anything
?”

Claudia glared at Polly, rage steaming from her. Polly glared back. Claudia closed her eyes. When she opened them, her face was bland, her tone serene. “Has the mail arrived?”

Polly blinked. “I asked if you were eating.”

“And I asked you whether my mail has arrived. I’ve been expecting several important letters.”

“Yes.” Polly kept her voice polite but cool. “I brought in your mail.”

“May I have it, please?” Claudia held out her hand.

No way could Polly out-ice the ice queen. Polly acquiesced with a sigh. “Of course.”

Polly went to the entrance hall, picked up the mail that had been slipped through the brass mail slot, gave it to Claudia, and returned to the kitchen. With trembling hands, she knocked back a slug of dry sherry, then, determined, went back to the lion’s den.

Taking her usual seat across from Claudia’s chaise, she said in a mild, conversational voice, “Claudia, let’s talk about your health. Have you told Dr. Monroe you’re not eating?”

Claudia looked at Polly as if Polly were a puppy who had just soiled the rug. “There’s no point in my eating. I can’t keep anything down.”

“Oh, Claudia. How”—seeing Claudia’s face, she tried to temper her words—“
uncomfortable
! Look, there are medicines to help with that. And could we please discuss getting hospice involved? They’re professionals, they know how to help you, and I d—”

Claudia whipped an arctic gaze at Polly. “
Do
you think I’m of unsound mind?”

“No, of course not, Claudia, but—”

“Then I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Claudia,” Polly said, allowing some of her exasperation to show, “I’m only trying to help you.”

“And you
are
helping me.” Claudia’s voice shook. She touched her fingers to the bridge of her nose, as if pushing something back. Perhaps, Polly thought, tears. Sounding profoundly tired, she continued, “And I’m grateful for the food and the errands.”

“Claudia, you could be more com—”

Claudia pulled herself up straight. “But the rest of it, all these words, it’s simply tiresome. Why won’t you just allow me to get on with this as I choose? I know what I’m doing. Please respect that.” By the time Claudia had finished her speech, her entire body was trembling. She subsided, sinking back into her cushions, a puddle of shapeless, loose wool, the only force left in her burning from her dark, angry eyes.

Polly cringed, berating herself for having driven the proud woman into a corner.
How do I do this?
Polly wondered frantically.
I don’t know the rules. I don’t even know the guidelines.
“All right, Claudia.” She spoke her way through this as if walking on a swinging bridge in total darkness. “I’ll try not to intrude, if you’ll agree to tell me when you’re uncomfortable, or when you need anything.”

The slight downward wobble of Claudia’s head could have been a nod of agreement. “Right now I need my evening aperitif.”

“Right. Sherry coming up.”

Polly fetched it, set the tray on the table next to Claudia, sat back down, and raised her glass. “Cheers.”

“Indeed.” Claudia raised the glass to her lips, then lowered it. “It’s snowing again. The Weather Channel says we might get several more inches.” She was rewarding Polly by conversing with her.

“It’s terrible out there. I don’t think the city can keep all the roads plowed.”

“When has the city ever been able to do anything correctly? And I hear there’s a flu epidemic.”

“Yes, I guess it’s terrible. A huge percentage of children are missing school because of it. Oh, I worry so much about my little grandson. When David was a baby, he got terrible ear infections, they caused him so much pain, I hope that sort of thing isn’t genetic.”

Claudia picked up a book and began to read.

Oh,
Polly thought.
I forgot. You have no interest in me and mine.
“Shall we turn on the evening news?”

“Good idea.” Claudia put the book down. “I’d like to see how Martha Stewart’s faring.”

——————————

Carolyn told her secretary she was going to slip home for a little afternoon catnap. What she really intended was more like cat burglary. Not that she would steal anything, except, she hoped, some information.

She’d only just brought her car to a stop at the porte cochere when a blue Subaru pulled up behind her and Polly stepped out, looking chic in an emerald green cape.

“James Bond, I presume,” Carolyn greeted Polly.

“More like Inspector Clouseau, I’m afraid,” Polly joked, following Carolyn into the house. “My god, this place is a
pile
! And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

Carolyn laughed as she led Polly down the main hall. “That’s great-grandmother Geraldine Helena, who started it all,” she said, pointing to a painting. “The others are all ancestors, too. It’s rather Addams family, I know, all this dark wood, but somehow we’re always so busy with the company we never have time even to think of changing things here at home.”

They stopped in the doorway to the shared living room. Taking in the massive Empire furniture, the Victorian settees, the velvet love seats, and the stodgy oils of hunt scenes and landscapes, Polly said, “It does seem a bit
Masterpiece Theatre
in here.”

“True. Probably why Hank and I chose to furnish our part of the house in simple modern lines. I’ll show you, but first, let’s go check out my father’s wing while we know he and Heather are gone. Just toss your cape here,” she directed Polly, draping her own coat over the banister of the main staircase.