The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (22 page)

“But you know what, Alice,” Faye said, “I’m still glad I’m female. If I could have
chosen,
at any time in my life, I would have chosen to be a woman.”

Alice frowned. “I have to think about that.”

“
I’d
choose to be a woman,” Marilyn said, “especially
because
I got to have a child. I liked being pregnant. I loved giving birth. I loved nursing my son and caring for him. I know Theodore didn’t receive half the pleasure of parenting that I did.”

“Yes, well, Theodore’s an asshole, let’s not forget that,” Alice reminded her. “I think some men can enjoy fatherhood as much as women do motherhood.”

“Not to change the subject, but he called me, by the way,” Marilyn announced.

“Who?” Shirley asked.

“Theodore,” Marilyn told her. “Ever since he left me for Michelle, and then Michelle dumped him, he phones every few months. He says he misses me, and I’m sure he does. I used to be his general factotum, taking care of his every need.”

“Another reason I’d choose to be a woman,” Faye said. “Women know how to make their homes into comfortable nests for body and soul. Most men don’t.”

“True,” Marilyn agreed. “Theodore told me he missed living with me, and I don’t doubt it for a minute. I kept his house clean, cooked delicious, nutritious meals, and I gave him oral sex whenever he wanted it. He actually had the audacity to say he misses ‘making love’ to me.”

“Girl,” Alice said, “I hope you told him you weren’t biting on that limp old lure.”

Shirley said thoughtfully, “As you all know, I didn’t get to have children. And I’d still vote to be female.”

“Why?” Alice asked.

Shirley counted on her fingers. “I think we have more fun. I think we have a stronger connection to the earth. Statistically, more men commit suicide than women. Their testosterone causes them to be more combative than women. Women can have multiple orgasms. Women live longer than men. Plus,” she added with a grin, “men don’t enjoy shopping as much as women.”

“Men are less significant creatures,” Marilyn added. “For the species to continue, we need lots of females and, theoretically, only one male.”

“Yeah,” Alice said wryly, “and every male dreams of being that one.”

“So, Alice, what about you?” Faye asked. “If you
had
to choose, which would it be, male or female?”

“I suppose it depends on what stage of my life I was at. When I was young, first working for TransContinent, I’d have switched genders in a minute. It was just too hard back then, being a female in a male-dominant world. I’d love to know how far I would have gotten, given my same performance, if only I’d been a man. Besides, ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted to pee standing up.”

Marilyn laughed. “I did, too! I wanted to write my name in the snow like my brother!”

“When I was three years old,” Shirley told them, “my mother found me standing by the toilet squeezing my bare foot. I didn’t have a brother, but I’d been at a friend’s house that day, and I saw her older brother standing at the toilet. I thought he took his big toe out of his pants to pee with, and I was trying to do the same thing.”

“Isn’t peeing a male territorial thing?” Faye asked. “Marking their space?”

“Well, that would explain why guys don’t care when they spray the walls and floor,” Alice said. “Women think they’re slobs. Men think they’re conquerors.”

Faye sighed. “You know? Women are all Meryl Streep, living in a Beavis and Butt-head world.”

Shirley held out her hand like a stop sign. “Okay, enough about that. How are the new kids doing? I mean Carolyn, Julia, Beth, and, um, the older one?”

Faye supplied the name. “Polly.”

“Right. Polly. Do you think they bonded?”

“I’m sure they did,” Alice said. “On the Friday nights we don’t have our board meetings, I’ve been using the Jacuzzi, and right after yoga class they all come in together, yakking sixty miles an hour.”

“Cool!” Shirley said. “Good for us! We’ll have to keep our eyes open for others who might need to have a little club.”

“I’d like to bring up some spa business,” Faye announced. “I’d like the spa to hold an art exhibit in May. I’ve had so many students doing really great work in my art classes. It would be nice for them to be able to show their work off.”

“Good idea!” Shirley said. “Maybe Justin’s poetry class could read some of their work?”

“Yes, that would be fun,” Faye agreed. “We’d have some munchies, wine, maybe a little music . . .”

“Yeah.” Alice nodded her head enthusiastically. “We could write the costs off as advertising. We could have the spa open for tours, have Star available to discuss her yoga—”

“A spring fling kind of thing!” Shirley took out her lavender notebook. “Okay! Let’s make plans.”

24

Monday morning, Polly sat at the dining-room table in front of her sewing machine, mounds of fabric piled on either side. Claudia didn’t rise until nearly noon these days. Polly woke at six, dressed, and tiptoed down the stairs, and had a good chunk of quiet time for her work.

She’d adjusted fairly easily to life here, except she missed Roy Orbison terribly. Claudia wouldn’t allow animals in her house, so Polly had taken him to a neighbor’s to live. Ten-year-old Willy Peck loved the dog and enjoyed getting paid for the pleasure of caring for him. Polly had left her dog with the Pecks before, so she knew Roy Orbison would be fine. He was even allowed to sleep with Willy.

It was Polly who slept alone, who longed for his comforting companionship, his nose on her foot as she sewed or read.

She’d just finished the final alterations to a handsome linen suit when the buzzer from the intercom Polly had set up sounded.

Polly pressed the
TALK
button. “Good morning, Claudia. I’ll be right up.”

First she went into the kitchen to start the water heating for tea. Then she climbed the stairs and waited outside Claudia’s bedroom. A moment later, Claudia opened the door and stood before Polly, dressed immaculately in wool and pearls, hose and high heels.

“Good morning.” She made it sound like a command.

“Good morning, Claudia.” Polly went to the stairs and down a couple of steps. This was the routine they had established. Claudia did not want to be assisted as she climbed up or down the stairs. She wanted Polly to be just beneath her, to catch her in case she fell; she had admitted to a slight weakness in her legs.

As always, Polly was humbled by the ease of motion she took for granted as she watched Claudia move stiffly, with obvious effort, the few feet across the hall to the top of the steps. Today the odd smell Polly had noticed before was stronger, clearer, and a lightbulb blinked on in Polly’s head: was Claudia becoming incontinent?

Claudia put one skeletal hand on the banister. Carefully she set one foot on the first step down, testing to be sure it held her weight. This was the major effort of Claudia’s days, this and climbing back up the stairs at night. Satisfied that her leg would hold her, Claudia brought her other foot down one stair. As she did, her wool skirt slithered down her wasted hips and fell in a puddle around her ankles, leaving Polly staring at Claudia’s ivory silk slip.

“Oh, dear!” Polly bent forward, grabbing the skirt and pulling it up to Claudia’s waist. “Claudia, you’ve lost so much weight!”

“I wore this skirt in college.” Claudia clutched the waistband with her free hand. “It’s the smallest size I have.”

“I’m too fat and you’re too thin!” Polly babbled, trying to make light of Claudia’s emaciated frame. “What a shame I can’t run a line between your body and mine and siphon some of my fat off into you!”

Claudia made a prune face. “What a distasteful idea.”

“Yes, well, I can alter your skirts for you if you’d like, or I’ll run out and buy you some new things after we’ve got you settled. In the meantime, I’ll fetch some safety pins and we’ll fasten you back together.”

“Never mind the safety pins. I’ll keep hold of my skirt. I want to go downstairs.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go.” Polly backed down the stairs, one step at a time, and Claudia came forward, with painful slowness.

Once they were in the living room, Claudia lowered herself onto her chaise. Polly gently laid a plaid blanket over her legs, then fetched Claudia’s tea and breakfast, which she ate with infinite slowness while watching television. It was time for Polly to go out on her round of errands. Pad and pen in hand, she stationed herself on a chair near Claudia.

“Now,” Polly said, “tell me where you’d like me to buy your skirts, and how many you’d like and what colors? Or, if you’d like, I could buy just one, and we could order some from a catalog.”

“Brooks Brothers.” Claudia set her teacup into the saucer with a slightly trembling hand, as if even that delicate object were heavy for her now. “One skirt will do fine. Brown or gray.”

“Okay. Good. And I’ll pick up some groceries. Anything you’re hungry for? Chocolate? Pickled ginger?”

“I’m ill, Polly, not pregnant. No, chocolate doesn’t appeal to me. Nothing appeals to me.”

“How about some pâté?” Polly tried to tempt Claudia with the most fattening foods; she ate so little these days that every bite needed to be loaded with calories. “And a lamb shank for dinner?”

“That will be fine.” Claudia shifted slightly on her chaise.

“Um, Claudia, I’m wondering . . .” How to approach this in a dignified manner? “I’m wondering whether or not you’re becoming—just
slightly
—um, incontinent?”

Claudia glowered. “Absolutely not!”

Polly persisted. “It’s not so unusual for women over forty to have this little problem occasionally. I mean, I do, whenever I laugh or sneeze. I wear pads—”

“I really do not need to hear the details of your personal hygiene.”

“Of course not, but my point is that many women—”

“I will not wear diapers!”

“No, no, I didn’t say diapers. I said pads. Like sanitary napkins. They’re very light and slender, and they come with strips now that attach to your panties. I tell you what, I’ll buy a package and if you want to try them, you can.”

Claudia presented Polly with a dark, enigmatic glare. Placing the smallest crust of croissant on her tongue, she gazed into space, as if she’d taken a psychedelic. After a while, she said, “Have you spoken with Carolyn Sperry today?”

By now, Polly was used to Claudia’s hairpin conversational curves. “No, not yet. We’ll meet at the spa after yoga on Friday night.”

“I see.” Claudia hesitated, studying her rings, sliding them up and down her fleshless fingers. They were too large for her now, so she sat with her hands curled to keep the rings from falling off. Addressing the ruby on her right hand, she said, “While we’re on the subject of physical functions, I suppose I should mention a slight problem I’m having in my elimination system.”

Polly waited for clarification.

Claudia turned her rings in silence.

Okay, Polly thought. A little challenge for her skills of interpretation. “Elimination. Um—are you constipated, perhaps?” When Claudia didn’t flinch, offended, Polly ventured further. “I remember Dr. Monroe mentioned that one of the possible consequences of your illness might be constipation. If that’s becoming a problem, there are lots of solutions. Laxatives by mouth, and suppositories.”

Claudia sniffed. “I suppose I’d better phone Dr. Monroe to ask what he recommends.” She shook her head. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see the end of me.”

“Are you making a pun?”

Claudia looked startled. Then she allowed Polly the slightest sliver of a smile.

——————————

Thursday afternoon, the family went to visit Heather’s brother, Harry.

Aubrey drove Heather in his Jaguar, while Carolyn and Hank went together in Carolyn’s Mercedes, because afterward Aubrey was taking Heather out shopping while Carolyn was going back to work at the paper company, dropping Hank at home on the way. A fresh crisis with the sales reps for Sperry’s had taken all of Carolyn’s attention over the past twenty-four hours, so much so that now, as Hank drove into Arlington, Carolyn lay back in the passenger seat, trying to still the busy voices in her head and catch a nap, or at least a moment’s peace.

“We’re here,” Hank said.

Carolyn opened her eyes.

The street was pleasant, rows of double- and triple-decker homes tucked behind covered porches, the small yards delineated by mature trees and bushes. The yellow clapboard house needed a fresh coat of paint, and the yard was brown and mucky from melted snow, but the house seemed sound. Hank came around to open the car door for Carolyn, then took her arm as they made their way over the soggy grass to the front door where Heather and Aubrey waited.

An enormous male with a pockmarked face, black ponytail, and forearms like Popeye’s yanked the door back. “Yeah?” Before they could speak, he grinned. One gold tooth glittered among the gray. “Oh. Yeah. Youse must be Harry’s sister an’ all. Come on in.”

As they crowded inside, Carolyn sent silent apologies to her baby for the noxious air she’d be sending her way, for the room smelled of nicotine, beer, and males desperately in need of baths. This was the house Heather and Harry had grown up in, and the décor reflected her parents’ taste, overlaid with Harry’s accessories of girlie magazines, crushed beer cans, filthy ashtrays, and unapologetic stacks of videos about Scandinavian stewardesses and horny teenagers. The front room had bronze walls and a gold shag carpet. A thirty-six-inch television loomed in one corner. A gold and avocado plush sofa faced the TV, and next to it, in a wheelchair, sat a man, glowering at them as if he were the giant and they were a collective Jack, having just climbed up the beanstalk.

“Hello, Harry!” Heather kissed the top of her brother’s head and gave his shoulders a little hug. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“Been better,” he growled. In jeans and a black T-shirt with a Metallica logo, his shaggy, dark hair curling down into an unkempt beard, Harry exuded the rude power of a buffalo.

Heather beamed, as if he’d just said something brilliant. “Harry, honey, I want you to meet my husband and his family.”

Aubrey crossed the room and bent slightly, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Sorry about your accident.”

“Orgh,”
Harry replied ambiguously. When he shook Aubrey’s hand, the tattoos spiraling up his arm rippled over his muscles.

Hank stepped forward. “I’m Hank Wellingell, Aubrey’s son-in-law. This is my wife, Carolyn. We’re glad to meet you.” Carolyn didn’t try to shake his hand; Harry didn’t seem all that thrilled to be meeting them, but she could understand how frustrated a man this obviously physical could be, confined to a wheelchair.

“I’m Bruce.” The man who’d answered the door had a tad more personal proficiency. “I hang out here to help Harry, now that he’s injured an’ all.”

Everyone said hello to Bruce, then Heather asked him to bring in a couple of the kitchen chairs, and they all settled into an uneasy circle.

“Tell me about your injury, Harry,” Aubrey invited. “I hope you’re not in any pain.”

Harry grunted, his lips curling in disdain. “Water heater fell on my back. Idiot I work with let go when we were trying to take it out of a house and install a new one. Crushed a vertebra and stuff.”

“That’s terrible,” Hank commiserated. “What’s the prognosis?”

Harry’s mouth hung open.

Heather rushed to help her brother out. “Do the doctors say you’ll walk again?”

“Maybe. Got to let it mend. See what happens. May need an operation.”

“Are you satisfied with your physician?” Aubrey leaned forward, hands on knees. “Because I have a cadre of excellent physicians and I’d be glad to arrange for them to look at you, to see if there’s anything else that can be done, or if—”

“My doc’s fine.” Harry folded his arms over his chest. Even in a wheelchair, he looked like a bouncer.

“It’s always good to get a second opinion,” Hank observed.

Harry didn’t answer but stared mulishly at the ceiling.

Aubrey persisted, “If there is anything we can do, let us know. If you need money for doctors, medication, nurses, anything at all . . .”

A light gleamed in Harry’s black eyes. He looked at Heather. “I don’t need charity. My sister’s helped me enough.”

“Well, I respect your attitude, but I wouldn’t want you to think of any financial help we can offer as charity. You’re part of the family now, after all.”

Harry’s lips curved in a private smile. “Think not.”

Aubrey glanced at his wife as if seeking interpretation.

“She’s ashamed of me,” Harry clarified, glowering. “She’s too good for me.”

“That’s not true, Harry!” Heather objected, clenching her fists.

“She’s right.” Aubrey hastened to back up his wife. “In fact, Harry, we’ve been talking. If it would make things easier for you, we’d be glad to have you come live with us for a while. We’ve got a big house, lots of room, a housekeeper during the day.”

Harry’s smile had an oddly demented quality about it. “Nice of you to offer.” The look he cast his sister seemed strangely threatening. “I’ll think about it.”

“Is there anything else we can help you with?” Aubrey asked. “I assume your health insurance is covering most of your medical expenses. Are you receiving disability pay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry’s momentary good humor fell away, his face sullen again.

A silence fell over the room. Carolyn glanced at Hank, and back at Harry, who slumped in his chair.

“Time for his pain pill,” Bruce announced, adding, “he’ll probably fall asleep when he takes it.”

“Of course. We don’t want to stay too long.” Aubrey rose. Once again he shook hands with Harry, and this time, with Bruce. Heather kissed her brother on top of his head again, receiving a growl in return. Carolyn and Hank nodded good-bye and gratefully escaped into the fresh air.