The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (6 page)

“Yeah.” Shirley nodded. “I know what you mean. That flat-bum thing isn’t very sexy.” She sighed. “I used to have the nicest,
pert,
little rounded bottom. Even
I
thought it was cute. But since I hit menopause, my buttocks sag like a bunch of wet laundry.”

Faye laughed, relieved that even skinny Shirley had image issues. “Well, no matter what our body types are, we’re all having to deal with changes. But, Shirley, I don’t want to think of myself as
fat,
or dislike my body. It’s nice, being comfortable, and rounded. It makes me remember my grandmother, and how good I felt being around her, how secure and loved. I hope my granddaughter feels that way with me.”

Thoughtfully, Marilyn aligned her silverware. “I have a grandchild, too, and I love her with all my heart. I also find great satisfaction in my work. And I eat lots of chocolate.” Blushing, she admitted, “But I still spend a lot of time thinking about sex these days. I don’t try to, I just can’t help it.”

“That’s not surprising,” Shirley said. “You like to talk about variables. Well, look how your situation and Faye’s vary. She was happily married for thirty-plus years. She had great sex with her husband. You were married for the same amount of time, but to an arrogant little prick who never made you feel good in bed. I’d say your body has some catching up to do.”

Alice chuckled. “You make it sound like all people are allotted an equal amount of sexual pleasure at birth. But I know what you mean, and I agree. Age has something to do with it, and experience—”

“And stage of relationship,” Faye cut in. “After thirty-five years of marriage, I still adored Jack. We loved being with each other, just noodling around, reading or talking. What we lost in panting, groaning, hormone-driven sexual passion, we gained in tenderness and affection.”

“You were lucky,” Alice said. “I really like Gideon. I really
care
for him. He’s a good man, a good friend, trustworthy, loyal—we’re very affectionate with one another. I can imagine living the rest of my life with him, although let me say right here, we haven’t yet seriously discussed even living in the same house, and we may never get to that point. We both like our independence. Still, I must confess I often feel just a little disappointed that because of his prostate operation, passionate sex won’t be part of our relationship.”

“Well, I’m more than a little disappointed,” Marilyn admitted. “I
really
miss the sexual component. I suppose it would be different if I hadn’t had that little fling with Barton Baker—”

“That asshole,” Alice spat, and for a moment the four were silent, remembering the executive secretary at TransWorld who had seduced Marilyn and betrayed both Marilyn and Alice.

“Asshole, sure,” Marilyn continued, “but he was an angel in bed!”

“Here’s my question,” Faye asked softly. “Why do we care so much that our men have erections? As proof that we’re sexy? Or for the sex itself?”

“Excellent point, Faye!” Alice pointed her fork at her friend. “When Gideon and I were first dating, I really needed confirmation that I was attractive. I mean, since I was last with a man before Gideon, my body had changed so much, my new bra size was forty-two long.” She waited for the others’ laughter to die down. “When I learned Gideon had prostate cancer, I felt sorry for him, but also, I hate to admit it, secretly relieved, because I knew his failure to stand at attention wasn’t because the sight of me didn’t turn him on. But now he’s okay, the scare’s over, and we’ve got the rest of our lives to think about. He
tells
me he thinks I’m sexy, but I’m a little disappointed he can’t
show
me. But he’s so wonderful in all other ways. We have so much fun together.” She nodded, agreeing with her own thoughts. “I’m lucky he’s in my life. I love him,” she added simply.

“Have you told him yet?” Marilyn asked.

“Does he love you?” Shirley asked.

“Oh, yes.” Alice’s smile signaled private pleasures.

“I’m so glad,” Faye said, patting Alice’s hand. “Love is the
best.
”

“Love and good sex ain’t so terrible,” Shirley added, grinning smugly.

Instantly, Faye, Alice, and Marilyn went from melting smiles to matronly suspicion. Justin Quayle, Shirley’s beau, was twelve years younger than she, handsome, charming, and glib. He was also, in spite of his education, unemployed, and deeply in debt after investing the little money he had had in a real estate deal that fell through, leaving him behind in child support payments for three children living with two ex-wives. He’d moved into one of the condos in the expansive The Haven complex, where he paid no rent, which didn’t bother the other three much, but also, no utilities, which did. Yet they’d discovered that the usually compliant Shirley was intractable on the subject of her lover. Shirley paid for Justin’s expenses and stonewalled the others when they tried to discuss him. After several intense arguments, they’d reached an agreement with Shirley. They wouldn’t complain about Justin if she’d promise not to marry him without telling them first.

But that didn’t mean they had to listen to Shirley sing the man’s praises.

“Let’s get back to Marilyn,” Alice suggested. “Whatever the reason for it, I think Marilyn needs another shopping spree. I mean, when was the last time you bought any new clothes for yourself?”

Marilyn thought about it. “This summer! I had to buy jeans and shirts and shoes for my hiking trip with Faraday!”

Alice and Shirley snickered, and even gentle Faye’s mouth trembled with a smile.

“What?” Marilyn demanded.

“Honey.” Faye put a reassuring hand on Marilyn’s. “Hiking clothes don’t count. We mean dress clothes. Like you wore at TransWorld.”

Marilyn thought. “I bought some new underwear,” she confessed, blushing. “At Victoria’s Secret.”

“All right, Marilyn!” Shirley laughed. “High five!”

Marilyn looked bewildered. Because of the other three, Marilyn no longer thought exclusively about the primordial Paleozoic ages during which her beloved trilobites had lived, but she still wasn’t au courant with the contemporary world around her. “Look, you all, it’s not my love life that troubles me. I’m worried about Teddy and Lila. Lila’s mother is a terrible strain on their marriage.”

“I’m not surprised,” Faye said. “When I worked for Eugenie Eastbrook, I was a nervous wreck. She’s such a perfectionist, she’d give Martha Stewart hives.”

Alice frowned. “I thought Lila had liberated herself from her mother. After all, Eugenie wanted a Hollywood wedding with a cast of thousands. But Lila had the guts to marry Teddy in their sweet private ceremony instead.”

“Yes,” Marilyn agreed, “but Eugenie has turned that to her own use. After all, Eugenie believes it was
her
day they ruined. She’s angry and petulant and she expects them to make amends every single day of their lives.”

“But Lila had a baby!” Faye protested. “Didn’t that cheer Eugenie up?”

“For a while, yes. Eugenie got to give a mammoth baby shower, complete with a swan made from about a zillion gardenias. She’s delighted that the child’s a girl. I swear every day she shows up with a new Prada outfit for the six-month-old. I think what she really wants to do is to move in with Lila and Teddy and run their lives. She’s agitating to have them enroll this
infant
in the most elite preschool in the area. She’s always at their house, or phoning them.”

“That’s not good,” Faye agreed. A terrible thought struck her: had her son-in-law thought
she
intruded too often?

Marilyn gave a rueful laugh. “I know. Teddy’s starting to stop by my place for a drink after work, just to escape what he calls MILDEW—Mother-in-Law’s Deadly Exhaust Waste.”

Alice exploded with laughter. “MILDEW! That’s great!”

“That’s terrible,” Faye protested, but pretended to laugh with the others.

“But so appropriate,” Alice argued. “My mother-in-law drove me nuts. She came over every day when I’d just had my first baby. If he cried, she told me I didn’t have enough milk. Or that my milk was off. She made me absolutely miserable.”

“MILDEW,” Shirley cackled. “Mother-in-Law Delivers Every Woe.”

“MILDEW.” Alice grinned wickedly. “Mother-in-Law Deserves Every Wart.”

“MILDEW.” Marilyn gasped with laughter. “Mother-in-Law Doesn’t Ever Wash.”

Faye waved her hands to get their attention. “Come on, you guys. Not all mothers-in-law are bad. Three of us
are
MILDEWs. And my husband Jack’s mother was heavenly; she was one of my very best friends! And I hope Lars likes
me.
”

“MILDEW!” Alice couldn’t control herself. “Mothers-in-Law Demand Eternal Worship.”

Shirley chuckled. “MILDEW: Mothers-in-Law Don’t Ever Wait! Your turn, Marilyn.”

“Um, MILDEW: Mothers-in-Law Do Everything Wrong!”

“That’s
so unfair
!” Faye lost control. She burst into spectacular tears.

The other three stared at her, astonished.

Marilyn put her hand on Faye’s arm. “Faye? What’s wrong?”

“They’re
moving,
” Faye wailed, scrambling around in her purse for a handkerchief.

“Here.” Alice handed her a clean tissue. “Who’s moving?”

“Laura and Lars and—” Faye felt her chin wobble helplessly. “And Megan!”

“Where?” Shirley asked.

“Why?” Marilyn asked.

“Take a drink of water,” Alice advised Faye.

“Deep breath,” Shirley said.

Faye obeyed. After a few moments, she was calm enough to talk. “Lars had an offer from a law firm in San Francisco.”

“San Francisco,” Shirley echoed. This was bad.

Tears streamed down Faye’s cheeks. “His best friend from college owns the firm. He flew Lars out, then flew the whole family out so Laura could see how she’d like living there. Who wouldn’t like living in San Francisco?”

“Three thousand one hundred and forty miles away,” Marilyn said soberly.

Shirley rolled her eyes. “How can you be so precise?”

Marilyn shrugged. “I have a memory for numbers.”

Faye sobbed harder.

“Oh, come on,” Alice said, using her bossy voice. “There are such things as airplanes.”

Faye shook her head. “I want to be able to see my granddaughter every
day
! At least once a week! I’ve been babysitting her! Now she’ll forget me!”

“She won’t forget you,” Marilyn promised.

“Of course she won’t!” Alice agreed. “Look, use your computer—”

“I don’t know how to use a computer!” Faye sobbed.

“Well, learn,” Alice snapped. “You’ll be able to talk to Laura and Megan every day, using the computer camera. She’ll see your face, hear your voice—”

Faye buried her face in her napkin. “But I want to hold her in my arms!”

The other three sat silent, respecting her misery.

Then Shirley cleared her throat. “Maybe you’d better find someone else to hold in your arms.”

“Yeah,” Alice agreed. “Good idea, Shirley. Faye, we need to find you a man.”

“I don’t want a man!” Faye retorted. “I want my granddaughter!” Raising her flushed, miserable face to Alice, she snarled, “And don’t tell me I’m too dependent on them.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Alice rejoined in her best executive/queen-of-the-universe/don’t-even-think-of-arguing voice. This time she turned her most daunting glare on Shirley, the counter of all calories. “I was going to say this is so upsetting, we all need an enormous infusion of chocolate!” She raised her arm. “Waiter! Dessert menus, please.”

6

At last
Polly was driving from her home in the Boston suburb of Belmont out along Route 2 toward the bucolic countryside.

In her blue Subaru, she sped along a rural road beneath maples and birch dripping leaves of gold and crimson. She turned onto a pebble drive winding through Amy’s family’s farm, passed the renovated barn where Amy and David lived, and stopped in front of the charming old colonial farmhouse where Katrina and Buck lived. Someday Amy and David would live here, when they were grandparents, continuing the cycle.

Polly jumped out of her car. From the trunk, she retrieved the pretty wicker basket she’d filled with David’s baby blankets and clothes and tied with a huge blue silk ribbon. She carried them and her own strange germs to the front door and rapped the brass knocker.

Katrina opened the door. Like her daughter, Katrina had lank brown hair, huge brown eyes, and emanated a smug vegetarian calm, like a parsnip.

“Polly, how nice of you to come.”

Katrina led Polly into the front parlor with its handsome wide boards and rather uncomfortable early-American furniture. The room was hot, for in spite of the warmth of the October day, a huge fire flickered in the fireplace. Between the fireplace and the antique spinning wheel sat Amy in an antique rocking chair, and in her arms lay a small swaddled bundle.

“Oh, my,” Polly breathed, tears welling in her eyes. She tiptoed close to mother and child.

Katrina, who always hovered, lurked like a shadow at Polly’s left shoulder. Amy, oblivious to Polly’s presence, continued to rock the baby, holding him tightly to her breast.

“Hello, Amy,” Polly whispered. “Congratulations.”

Amy didn’t look up. “Thanks.” She continued rocking.

“You look beautiful,” Polly said. “How do you feel?”

“Great,” Amy responded, still not looking up.

Polly waited a few moments, then quietly asked, “Amy? Could I see him?”

“All right,” Amy whispered, and moved her arm just an inch or two, enough for Polly to spot a patch of pale skin and a rosebud mouth.

“Could I hold him?” Polly pleaded.

“He’s asleep,” Amy said.

“I’ll be careful,” Polly assured her.

With a slight pout, Amy rose, relinquishing the baby and the rocking chair.

Polly settled in the chair, gently drew the blanket away from the baby’s face, and fell head over heels in love.

Jehoshaphat’s face was as round as the moon, except for a little tab of chin and a bump of a nose. He had a full head of thick reddish blond hair and skin as pearly pink as the sheen of a slipper shell.

“He’s so beautiful,” Polly said. She pulled the blanket away and gazed upon the baby boy’s body in its white undershirt and diaper. His tiny toes and fingers were curled like baby shrimp. His legs angled up like a little frog’s.

“You’d better cover him up,” Amy said. “He’ll catch cold.”

Not in
this
room, Polly wanted to say, for the temperature had to be over eighty, but reminding herself that this was Amy’s baby, she hastened to wrap the blanket around her grandson, who snuggled against her with a tiny little birdlike peep.

“He’s hungry!” Amy cried, alarm in her voice.

“Maybe he needs to be changed,” Katrina said, rushing toward Polly and snatching the baby from her.

“I’ll feed him, Mom.” Frantically, Amy began to unbutton her flannel shirt.

“But he’s not crying,” Polly pointed out sensibly. “He only—”

But Amy seized her child from her mother’s arms and rushed from the room.

“I’ll fetch you some soy milk,” Katrina called, running after her daughter.

Polly sat stunned, feeling as if her hair must be streaming straight backward, as if blown by a gale. She told herself to calm down. She’d only had thirty seconds with the baby, but surely Amy would return to nurse him. She could sit next to Amy on the sofa and stare and stare at his little pink hand.

Katrina fluttered back into the room. “Amy’s settled back into bed,” she announced. “I tucked a pillow under her arm, and Jehoshaphat’s nursing nicely.”

“She doesn’t have to go to her bedroom to nurse him,” Polly began.

“Oh, but Amy’s so
sensitive.
” Katrina clasped her hands together, beaming with munificent purity, as if she were Mother Teresa and Polly were Courtney Love. “She needs to be alone to nurse Jehoshaphat. Would you like some herbal tea?”

Polly hesitated. What she wanted was to see her grandson. Patience, she reminded herself. “I’d love some.”

Polly followed Katrina into the large country kitchen with its flagstone floor, slate sink, and long pine table. It was a cozy room, and Polly respected its authenticity, even though there was something smug about it.

“How was the birth?” Polly asked as Katrina set a mug of tea and a plate of carrot cookies in front of her.

Katrina clasped her hands again. “Miraculous.” Sinking into a chair, she said, her face glowing, “Amy spent much of her labor in the bathtub. Then David and I helped her out and dried her off so she wouldn’t be cold. Then David held Amy by her shoulders.” She demonstrated, putting a hand beneath her own arm. “I knelt next to Amy, so that she could rest one thigh on my knee, and the midwife caught Jehoshaphat as he came out!”

Something pinched Polly’s heart. “You were there at the birth?”

“I was. That’s what Amy wanted.” Katrina’s eyes filled with tears. “It was amazing. So beautiful. The most beautiful moment of my life.”

“How wonderful for you.”

“Yes, and I got to hold Jehoshaphat while the midwife and David helped Amy expel the placenta. He was so red! And yelling his little head off. I wrapped him in blankets and held him close. He calmed down, and it seemed he looked right at me. We
connected.
I think he’ll always feel close to me because of those first few moments of his life.”

Polly swallowed her envy, reassuring herself that
she
would have days and months and years to get to know her grandson.

The back door flew open. When David strode in, all of Polly’s misery vanished. Her son was so handsome, strong, tall, and vigorous. He wore work clothes, weathered jeans, and a blue denim shirt. And he looked happy.

“Hi, Mom!” David grabbed Polly in a bear hug. “Have you seen Jehoshaphat?”

“Just for a second,” Polly began.

“Jehoshaphat was sleeping in Amy’s arms,” Katrina explained, her voice buttery with tolerance, “but when Polly insisted on taking him, Jehoshaphat cried, so Amy’s upstairs, nursing him.”

But that’s not true! Polly wanted to protest. Jehoshaphat hadn’t
cried
when Polly took him, he’d only made a little peep. She bit her tongue.

“I’ll look in on them in a minute.” Going to the refrigerator, David took out a carton of milk and poured himself a glass. “What did you think of him, Mom?”

“Oh, darling, he’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful baby, except, of course, when you were born.”

“Thanks, Mom.” David smacked a kiss on her forehead. “I’m going up to see them.”

“Take off your boots first!” Katrina reminded him.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” David dropped down into a chair to unlace his boots.

Katrina rose, smiling at Polly with the noblesse oblige of someone putting change in a hobo’s cup. “It was good of you to come out, Polly. We’ll call you again, when everyone’s feeling a little stronger.”

Polly stared at Katrina. Surely she didn’t mean Polly should leave now? “I’ve brought some gifts for Jehoshaphat and Amy,” Polly said. “I’d love to give them to her.”

Katrina bristled. “Those
things
in the wicker basket?”

“Yes. I brought clothes and blankets I’ve been saving for years. They were all David’s.”

“Oh. I see.” Katrina’s jaw set. “I’m sorry, Polly, but I’d rather Amy didn’t use old things on little Jehoshaphat.”

Polly gaped. “But Amy said you only wear clothing from thrift shops.”

“Yes, but we know which shops are hygienic.”

“Well, Katrina, I washed them all in hot water. They’re—”

“Very well.” Katrina sighed. “I’ll check them to see if they’re all cotton. Amy was always allergic as a child, and Jehoshaphat might be, too.” With her eyes still on Polly, she said, “David, wash your hands before you go up.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” David washed his hands, then pecked a kiss on his mother’s forehead and headed for the stairs. “See you later, Mom.” Off he went in his stocking feet, up the back stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Katrina said to Polly.

——————————

Polly wept as she drove back to her house. She felt helpless, frustrated, and furious. At home, she stomped through her hall to her study off the kitchen at the back of the house. She would pour herself a glass of wine and phone Franny and vent.

Familiar bumps sounded down the stairs. Roy Orbison waddled in to greet her, looking hopeful.

“Hello, old friend,” she said. “I’ll feed you in a minute.” The message light on her answering machine was blinking.

“Polly.” Her mother-in-law’s ringing voice sounded loud and clear. “This is Claudia. I wonder whether you might be able to come to tea tomorrow. Anytime in the afternoon. Let me know as soon as you can.”

Tea? With Claudia?

——————————

From the first moment they’d met, Claudia had made Polly aware that Claudia did not approve of her. In fact, Claudia had disliked every single thing about Polly and never hesitated to make this crystal clear.

To start, Polly was from South Boston, which in Claudia’s view signified that Polly was hopelessly unsophisticated and, worse, completely unimportant. This was so embarrassing for Claudia, really it was, to have a daughter-in-law who was so
common.

Then there was the matter of appearance. Polly should have been, as Claudia was, regally tall and slender, with straight, obedient hair. Instead, Polly was short, buxom, and freckled, with rebellious curly red hair. In high school and college, Polly’s cheerful, bouncy good looks won her the position of head cheerleader. As an adult, her mature curves drew admiring glances from men and easy hugs from children. Around Claudia, Polly wore her most modest, nunlike clothes, and still the older woman’s face pinched with disapproval when she looked at Polly.

“I can’t hide the fact that I have breasts!” Polly had wailed to Tucker one night.

“And thank heavens for that!” Tucker had assured her.

But what Claudia abhorred most about Polly was that she was a seamstress, spending her days working on other people’s clothing. Claudia’s disapproval turned to bitter resentment when Polly continued with her business after marrying Tucker, though there was no financial need. Claudia could not grasp Polly’s love for her work. For Claudia, it was insultingly déclassé.

Tucker’s first marriage, to a beautiful young woman named Vanessa from a truly appropriate family, had pleased Claudia, for a while, but eventually Claudia found Vanessa tiresome because she was obsessed with maintaining her figure and her beauty, a mania Tucker gradually came to find as irritating as his mother did. When he and Vanessa divorced, it caused only a small glitch in his mother’s life; now she had no one with whom to attend the DAR meetings. Other than that, Vanessa’s family and Claudia remained on friendly terms whenever they met at the opera or the important holiday parties and lost touch when Vanessa remarried and moved to California.

Polly was forty-two when she married Tucker. She considered herself past childbearing age, a matter of some magnitude, for Tucker was Claudia’s only child and his first marriage had brought no children. Tucker assured Polly he was content to be stepfather to David, then a gawky fourteen. Over the years, as the three of them melded into a comfortable, affectionate little family, Polly dared imagine that Claudia would also come to care for David, who was, after all, an intelligent and well-mannered boy. But Claudia’s opinions of Polly and David ranged between disapproval and disdain.

Of course, at first, Polly had tried to please her mother-in-law. Muttering mantras about love, patience, and goodwill, she made overtures: Would Claudia like to join Polly for lunch at a new, chic restaurant? See the school play in which David was a star? Drive up to Vermont with David, Tucker, and Polly to see the fall foliage?

She would not.

You’re wasting your time trying to win over my mother, Tucker assured Polly. Claudia would be satisfied only if he married Queen Elizabeth, and even then only if Queen Elizabeth gave up her corgis, because Claudia abhorred dogs. But Queen Elizabeth is too old for you! Polly reminded Tucker. Exactly why Claudia would approve of her, Tucker said, grinning. No nasty sex.

Would your father have liked me? Polly had asked. Oh, sure, Tucker told her, but he’d never have shown it. Tucker’s father had been a banker, more comfortable with numbers than with people. He’d died, quietly and without fuss, from cancer, when Tucker was in his thirties. Claudia’s response had been to wear black and refuse invitations to cocktail parties or charity events for six months.

After Tucker married Polly, Claudia became involved with genealogical research. She joined the New England Historical and Genealogical Society, attended lectures on genealogy, and traveled several times a year to England to visit the towns where her ancestors, one of them descended from King Edward I, had lived. As she grew older and arthritis forced her to give up tennis, sailing, and golf, she filled her time reading biographies.

Polly was grateful for this because it provided something like conversation during their hellishly long obligatory holiday meals. Dutifully Polly served Easter, Thanksgiving, birthday, and Christmas dinners with the formality Claudia required, because Claudia grew white with fury if the men wore jeans and no tie or if the women wore trousers instead of dresses. If Polly’s guests didn’t belong to the elite social class that mattered only in Claudia’s mind, Claudia didn’t bother to chat. Claudia never thought the wine appropriate or good enough, the turkey or lamb roasted properly, or the centerpieces up to her standards. All Polly’s friends, and then David’s friends, and finally David himself after he hit his late teens, spent holidays elsewhere.