by Keziah Frost
“O, mais c’est mignon, Marguerite!”
The Club and Norbert looked at Carlotta in puzzlement.
“You think she’s cute?” asked Birdie.
“Mais oui! C’est merveilleux!”
“Marvelous?” asked Margaret. (Even Margaret could work that one out.)
“Oui oui oui. Je l’aime bien!”
“You really like her?” asked Lorraine.
Carlotta wanted to try to pet Myrtle at this point, to match her actions with her words, but she could only bring herself to wiggle her fingers over the animal’s body. Myrtle took control of the situation and pushed her furry head against Carlotta’s waving fingers before Carlotta could draw back. There. She had touched a cat. Let no one ever say that Carlotta had a fear of cats. The very idea.
Carlotta said, looking directly at Myrtle, “May I sit here?”
Everyone laughed.
“She doesn’t understand English, you know, Carlotta,” said Lorraine, adding sarcastically, “Try French.”
Carlotta knitted her brow. Did she know the French for that? If she didn’t, no one in this room would know the difference.
Carlotta addressed the cat: “Je peux m’assoir ici, mademoiselle?”
Before everyone could laugh again, Myrtle jumped off the chair, took three steps and gave a little shiver in her spine. She glanced once over her back at Carlotta and strode off toward the quiet and privacy of Margaret’s bedroom.
While Margaret was lint-rolling the chair for Carlotta’s use, and Mabel was good-naturedly dressing her wound in the adjoining kitchen, Ivy peered out of her purse-like pet carrier by the door. She perceived that Myrtle had left the room, and leapt out of the bag. Ivy greeted everyone with wiggles.
As Margaret brought the warm bread to the dining room, Mabel sat herself down at the head of the table. This seemed to bother Margaret not at all. The shocking bad manners of this woman. Well, it wasn’t Carlotta’s place to correct her. Everyone would notice, and it would serve her right.
“So you guys are fluent in French, huh?” said Mabel, shaking out her white napkin and tucking it into the neck of her sweatshirt. Surprising that she knows how to use a napkin, thought Carlotta, not enjoying her own meanness.
“I’m not,” said Norbert. “I wish I did speak another language, but I only speak English. But the Club speaks French very well.”
“Oh,” demurred Lorraine, “not really. We know a little. Carlotta is fluent, though.”
“Well,” observed Mabel, “I guess French comes in handy for talking to cats.”
The table laughed appreciatively.
It’s not that funny, thought Carlotta. Don’t encourage her.
“I don’t speak French,” said Mabel, splashing a piece of bread around in her bowl of soup.
Oh really? And you seem like the kind of person who would, thought Carlotta, wishing she could share her sarcasm with Lorraine, or even kick her under the table, but she was out of reach. Lorraine was not even making eye contact with Carlotta. All her attention seemed to be on Mabel Paine.
“Pero sí hablo español. Es más útil, el español, en Nueva York. Lo aprendí con mis amigos los boricuas—los puertorriqueños.”
Mabel had everyone’s attention.
“That’s Spanish!” said Norbert, with confidence.
“It sure is, Norb,” chuckled Mabel. She took a loud slurp of her soup and let out a satisfied sigh of approval.
Carlotta willed Lorraine to look at her, but she wouldn’t.
“I studied Spanish in high school,” said Norbert. “I have a couple of issues of Reader’s Digest in Spanish, and I try to read them sometimes. It’s interesting.”
Carlotta turned to Norbert with the sensation that he was turning into someone she didn’t know.
“The thing about Spanish,” said Birdie, “is that it’s so much easier to pronounce for English-speakers. Easier than French, for example.”
“Yeah,” said Lorraine. “That, and you know what else? The spelling makes sense. They don’t throw in heaps of silent letters to throw you off the track. It’s almost what you call a phonetic language, right, Mabel?”
“Well,” apologized Mabel, “I don’t know anything about the Phoenicians. I didn’t go very far in school. I can’t say that I did.” She popped some soupy bread into her mouth and continued. “But I would say that anyone who really wants to, can learn to get by in Spanish. For one thing, native speakers usually help you out. At least, that’s how it’s always been for me.”
Norbert leaned toward Mabel, showing the back of his head to Carlotta.
“Do you think you could teach me some Spanish, Mabel?” he asked.
Now Lorraine, Margaret and Birdie all turned the backs of their heads to Carlotta.
“And me? Me, too?” they all chorused.
-23-
It was the Club’s newest project, and it was a smash from the very first day. Mabel’s Spanish lessons were all anyone could think or talk about. Anyone except Carlotta, of course. Carlotta excluded herself on the grounds of being “too busy for Spanish.” In the thrill of it all, no one even thought to ask her what was busying her so much.
Margaret’s apartment filled with the music of Celia Cruz, as Mabel taught everyone to salsa. Learning how to salsa, in Mabel’s opinion, was rudimentary to learning to speak the language. Norbert, as the only man, was very in demand as a partner, and he enjoyed his popularity immensely. He saw that he was not the only one who felt important in Mabel’s Spanish class. Mabel was liberal with her praise, telling Lorraine that she had a natural gift for the language, enthusing that Birdie seemed to be picking it up with no effort at all, and affirming that Latin people everywhere would love Margaret for her naturally happy temperament. Everyone felt they were born to speak Spanish. Everyone looked forward to each lesson with excitement.
During a breathless pause in the music, Norbert asked, “Mabel, could you explain again how dancing will help us progress in speaking the language?”
“Sure, Norb!” said Mabel affably. “You gotta enter into the spirit of things. You gotta start with the fun part, that’s what I say.”
“You mean the culture,” assisted Lorraine.
“Oh,” said Norbert, who really wanted to know, “is salsa dancing a part of the culture of every Spanish-speaking country?”
“I don’t know about that, Norb. I just know what my Puerto Rican friends like to do. They like to celebrate life, dance, and speak Spanish. So that’s what we’re doing.”
Norbert nodded in approval. If his high school Spanish classes had started with salsa lessons, he thought, he might have taken a whole different path in his education. Instead of becoming an accountant, he might have become a translator. Or a dancer.
All the Spanish students in Margaret’s apartment agreed. Spanish was fascinating. And Mabel was a lot of fun.
-24-
If Carlotta could not share her dark thoughts with any of her dearest friends, she could and did share them with the page. Her writing, which had been stalled due to a feeling that there was too much to say and no clear place to start, now became sharply focused on the topic of Mabel. The blue paper on Carlotta’s writing desk filled with detailed descriptions of the gnome-like little crone. Although she was devoted to the art of exaggeration, Carlotta found it hard to exaggerate defects in one whose defects were already so exaggerated.
As she enjoyed her own genius flowing along on the pages of blue, she longed to share her work with her friends. She was torn between the excitement of having a secret and the admiration she was sure to gain by divulging to her friends that she was now a writer. How she would climb even higher in their esteem! Mabel, to be sure, could never write a book. Carlotta doubted that the Neanderthal woman had ever read one.
Carlotta invited the Club for tea. She had wanted to have just the Club: Lorraine, Birdie, and Margaret. But Margaret had said she didn’t want to leave Mabel out.
Carlotta had said, “Of course, Mabel is welcome.
If she really can’t manage an hour or two without you.”
“It’s not that,” Margaret had said. “She’s very active and independent. Right now she’s out walking with a seniors hiking group she found on the internet. It’s just that Mabel has been including me in everything she does, and she does so much.”
“So why don’t you take a hike?” asked Carlotta, knowing that Margaret wouldn’t understand the dig.
“Oh!” breathed Margaret. “I can’t keep up with Mabel sometimes. She has the energy of a sixty-year-old!”
Carlotta had decided that if Mabel was to be included, there was no reason not to invite Norbert. In fact, it occurred to her that there was every reason to invite Norbert. Carlotta felt the excitement of a New Idea dawning in her mind. On the periphery of the Club as Norbert was, Carlotta now had the magnanimous idea to confer membership upon him. That should shock them. The Club had not admitted a new member since Carter was president. While it was true that he would be the first gentleman to become a member of the Club, Carlotta was a forward thinker. There was no need to consult the other members. She was the leader. If they objected, she would tell them firmly that gender discrimination was definitely passé.
-25-
Norbert put down his man purse/pet carrier in the entryway of Carlotta’s home, and Ivy leapt out, ears down and tail between her legs, allowing Toutou to sniff every inch of her, which did not take long, as there was not much of Ivy. After that formality, Toutou greeted each human, and then went off for a nap in her immaculate bed under an end table.
“Dogs are great,” approved Mabel. “Myrtle the cat is a good old girl, I can’t say she isn’t. But there’s something about dogs.” Mabel paused. She said, with sudden inspiration, “You know what it is? Dogs give you unconditional love.”
Carlotta asked, in pretend amazement, “Did you just think of that yourself?”
Lorraine looked at Carlotta over the top of her glasses, but no one else seemed to notice.
Carlotta seated her guests around the coffee table and poured tea. To her annoyance, each of them said, “Gracias.”
“De rien,” replied Carlotta, ever loyal to the language of Victor Hugo.
Before the eager Spanish students and their unlikely teacher could begin a basic conversation in a language she did not understand (which would be rude), Carlotta proposed a brand new idea that had occurred to her just that morning. If she knew her Club, they would snap at the scheme. If it turned out that the idea didn’t interest Mabel, well, that would be her own problem, wouldn’t it?
“So!” said Carlotta, “I have an Idea!” Her eyes glittered.
The Club leaned forward with interest.
“An Oscar Wilde Reading Club! We could get together once a week to read his plays out loud, everyone taking parts!”
Before her friends could respond, Mabel said, “Oh yeah? Or we could all just take a nap!”
Lorraine, always appreciative of a sarcastic remark, tittered unbecomingly.
“A Woman of No Importance,” Carlotta suggested, glaring at her old friend.
Lorraine called her out. “Who are you calling a woman of no importance?”
“A Woman of No Importance is one of Oscar Wilde’s plays, Lorraine,” said Margaret knowingly. Poor Margaret was so pleased to think that for the first time, she had caught a literary allusion that Lorraine had missed. She didn’t see Lorraine and Carlotta exchange amused glances.
“Who would lead this reading club?” asked Mabel. “Oscar Wilde?”
“I’m afraid that would be neither possible nor pleasant,” responded Carlotta icily. “He has been dead since 1900.”
“Well,” resumed Mabel, stuffing a cookie in her mouth, “I believe life is for the living.”
Birdie looked as if she might object to that, but then sank back into a deep reverie.
Norbert said, “I never did get the chance to study Oscar Wilde’s plays. I think it’s a nice idea, Carlotta.”
A nice idea? Talk about “damning with faint praise.”
There was a pause as Carlotta waited for one of her loyal troupe to take up the cause of Oscar Wilde. The silence was disheartening. Wasting no time in defeat, she changed tactics.
“How about a little game of Literary Quotes?”
“I don’t know that game,” said Mabel, rubbing her hands together. “I like learning new games.”
Carlotta exulted. Mabel was about to look very stupid, and she didn’t know it yet.
Birdie explained, “This is a game Carlotta made up years ago. You have to think of any quote from a book or a poem. We take turns. We try to pick a quote that has something to do with what is going on, or with a quote that someone else just used.”
“But don’t be discouraged if you can’t do it,” said Margaret. “We’ve been playing this game for years. It’s still hard for me. It’s really only easy for Carlotta.”
“I know lots of poems,” said Mabel. Carlotta doubted this, with all her being.
Norbert said, “I’ve started keeping a notebook of quotes and reading it over, just to help me play this game. Lorraine told me they all keep notebooks, and have for years.”
“That’s right. It gets to be a little hobby,” said Lorraine.
“Not for me,” said Mabel. “I’m a doer—not a reader. You won’t catch me reading books! Life’s too short! But I do pick up poetry here and there. I’ll try your game.”
Mabel was revealing herself for the lowbrow that she was. She couldn’t make it more obvious, thought Carlotta, with satisfaction.
“Okay! Let’s go! Carlotta?” Lorraine was observing the rule that Carlotta always went first.
“Wait,” said Mabel. “Do we put any money in?”
Everyone laughed, as if Mabel had made a very funny joke. Everyone except Carlotta, who discerned that Mabel was not joking.
Carlotta put her head back to regard the ceiling, as she began her recitation. She was well-prepared. She had been rehearsing it all day.
“‘Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind,’ by William Shakespeare.”
“The bard,” inserted Lorraine, with reverence.
“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.”
The Club sat meditating on Carlotta’s performance. Outwardly she was composed. Within, she was trembling with indignation.
“Huh,” said Mabel with a wrinkled brow. “Sounds like a Christmas poem.”
Carlotta was cheered by Mabel’s ignorance.
Birdie, regarding her old friend closely, announced her poem:
“A Poison Tree, by William Blake.”
“Birdie just loves William Blake,” said Margaret in an aside to Mabel. “She knows lots of his poems by heart.”
Birdie recited:
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
“There’s more to it,” said Birdie. “That’s the part I remember.”
Another silence followed, while Carlotta sniffed at Birdie and looked away. Lorraine looked from one to another, perceiving their communication-by-verse.
Marg
aret said, “You and Birdie can go on and on. Lorraine does, too. How can you remember so many lines? I bet you make them up half the time.”
Carlotta laughed with a merriment she did not feel. “Thank you for the compliment. If I could ‘make up’ poetry like Shakespeare, I’d be a very rich woman.”
Mabel said, “You really think so? I don’t. No one buys that old fashioned stuff anymore, do they?”
Carlotta opened her eyes wide, but before she could find words, Mabel proposed a poem.
“Hey, I’ve got one! Listen to this. This is a good one,” promised Mabel, to distinguish her contribution from the drivel they had listened to thus far.
“There once was a young girl called Jana,”
“Stop!” cried Carlotta, putting up her hand. “We can’t allow that.”
Everyone looked at Carlotta. Censorship had never been exercised in this game before.
“We can’t allow that,” repeated Carlotta. “You are about to recite a limerick. Literary Quotes does not accept limericks.”
“Since when?” challenged Lorraine.
“Since the beginning of the game,” insisted Carlotta. “No limericks.”
Mabel protested, “I don’t get it. You’re quoting poems. Why can’t I quote a poem?”
“We,” said Carlotta, “quoted poems by Shakespeare and Blake.”
“And I,” said Mabel, “am going to quote a poem by Anonymous.” She ran a hand over her white hair. “Wait. Are you trying to say that your poems are better than mine?”
Carlotta smirked as she tried to think how to answer this, while remaining true to her democratic principles.
“Because,” pursued Mabel, “a lot of people like this poem. It hung on the wall in Bugsy’s Bar for years. It made everyone laugh. Especially after a few drinks.”
Carlotta held fast. “Nothing off-color.”
Mabel protested indignantly, “It’s not racial. I’m not like that.”
