The Good Life

by Susan Kietzman

  “Oh, you poor dear,” said Pat through thick frosted lips. “I had no idea. Do you need anything?”

  “We’re doing pretty well right now, Pat,” said Ann, lifting her water glass and wondering when the server would arrive and take drink orders.

  “You must be exhausted,” said Pat, tucking her dyed black bob behind her ears as she always did when she had new earrings to show off; the diamond studs were maybe two carats each. “Call me if you need a hand or a sympathetic ear. And you know I mean that.”

  “I certainly do,” said Ann.

  Pat patted Ann’s hand. “Call me anyway,” she said, already looking past Ann to Janet and Jean cackling at the other end of the table. “Maybe I can sneak you away for a facial.”

  Finally, the server arrived and announced the specials. Ann ordered two carafes of pinot grigio for the table and a spinach salad—no bacon, cheese, olives, or dressing—for herself. She sat back and listened to the others order everything from quiche Lorraine to chef salad with blue cheese dressing on the side. She wondered, not for the first time, how these women with thick middles could stand in front of a mirror. What were they—size tens? twelves? Janet and Jean looked like they could be on the verge of size fourteen.

  Ann’s first glass of wine went down like water. A touch sour, it awakened her dormant taste buds and emboldened her tongue. She poured herself another glass as the bread baskets arrived and another with the presentation of the entrées. She raved about her various treatments at the San Francisco resort spa, calling the massage therapist a genius, even though he was gayer than a male nurse. At that, the clicking of stainless steel forks and knives against china plates stopped—led by Pat, whose son was in nursing school—as if frozen by a metallic power failure. And the cloud of silence hovering over the table near the window, where a couple married for twenty-five years ate their matching burgers without speaking, shifted, surrounding Ann and the others. Ann lifted her glass and took the final sip. By the time she set it back down on the table, the cloud had moved on. Jesse switched topics to the charity the fashion show was supporting, and everyone eagerly joined in on the conversation. Ann quietly picked at her salad, feeling suddenly deflated and having no idea why. It must be my mother, she thought as she speared a dry mushroom and raised it to her mouth.

  The server returned with the dessert menus as Ann was pouring herself more wine.

  “Look at these choices,” cooed Jean. “They’re absolutely sinful!”

  “You can take their cheesecake,” added Janet, “and just apply it directly to your hips!”

  Or your big fat abdomen, thought Ann.

  “How’s the apple cobbler?” asked Paula.

  “Fabulous,” said Jean, closing her eyes and slowly shaking her head as if she were scanning her brain for a picture. “They make it here.”

  Paula bit her lower lip. Right now, Ann thought, Paula was doing her best to muster up the willpower to decline on dessert. At the same time, she was wondering how bad it would look if she ordered it without the mountain of whipped cream that came with it. Then, Ann guessed, she would announce that she could order it with the whipped cream and simply skip dinner. Paula was always talking about skipping dinner.

  “Well,” announced Jean, “I’m going to get the cheesecake.”

  “Oh, you naughty girl!” said Janet, chuckling. “I’ll join you.”

  The server, pencil on pad, looked at Paula. Paula hesitated. “I’ll have the cobbler,” she said finally, as if there were really any choice in the matter.

  “Whipped cream?” asked the server.

  Paula looked at Jean, who gave her the thumbs-up sign. “Yes,” said Paula, smiling.

  “Bravo!” said Janet. “I knew you had it in you.”

  “Looks like I’m going to have to skip dinner,” said Paula.

  Jesse ordered a cup of lime sorbet, and Sally, looking at Ann, declined. Eileen ordered a “small wedge” of cherry pie. The server looked at Ann, who was sipping more wine. Ann waved her away.

  When the desserts arrived, the true celebration began. “Doesn’t this look marvelous?” asked Jean, holding up her cheesecake.

  “Gorgeous,” said Janet. “I’m going to eat mine one decadent bite at a time!”

  “And look at that cobbler!” exclaimed Jean. “That’s the freshest-looking crumble I’ve ever seen.”

  Paula, who had already shoveled a piece into her mouth, said, “It’s delicious.”

  Ann looked down the table at her mother, who was talking to Jesse. “Does this look like a small wedge to you?”

  Jesse smiled at her. “Just eat what you want, Eileen. The portions here are always ample.”

  “Yes,” said Eileen, taking a bite.

  Jesse touched Eileen’s hand with hers. “Enjoy it,” she said. “It looks terrific.”

  “It is,” said Eileen, smiling. “Would you like a bite?”

  “No,” said Jesse, “but thank you.”

  A moment later, Jesse was on her feet. “I’d like to thank you all for coming,” she said. “Ann and I have to scoot over to the arts center to get gussied up for the show. You still have some time to enjoy yourselves. We’ll see you over there.”

  Eileen called down to Ann, “Do you want me to come now? I’ve just started my pie.”

  “No,” said Ann. “Sally will take you.”

  Able until now to hide her disappointment about not being chosen for the show, Sally’s face flushed. She raised her glass to her lips to cool the fire kindling in her cheeks, but her shaking hand missed its mark, sending water down her chin and onto her suede vest. Immediately aware of her miscalculation, Sally grabbed her napkin from her lap and dabbed at the repelled wetness. “Are you okay?” asked Jesse, putting her hand on Sally’s shoulder.

  “Fine,” said Sally, focusing on her vest instead of Jesse. “It’s just water.”

  After Ann slipped her mother three twenty-dollar bills to cover their lunches, she and Jesse walked away from the table as Sally continued to dab at her chest, much longer than was warranted by a missed mouthful of water. Why hadn’t Jesse told her she was in the show? And why had they chosen Jesse over Sally? Sally continued to blot her vest, willing herself not to tear up. How could they pick Jesse? Was it because of where she lived in town? Jesse certainly had a lovely house, but it was not—like Sally’s—in the historic district. Was it Jesse’s car? She drove a Lexus, but who didn’t? Year after year, the committee had snubbed her for no good reason. And year after year Sally had taken some solace in the knowledge that Paula and Jesse, too, didn’t cut the mustard. And now it was just she and Paula.

  In the car, Ann began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Could you believe that dessert scene? As if any of them were actually thinking about not having dessert.”

  Jesse smiled. “Dessert isn’t evil, Ann.”

  “Not when you have sorbet,” said Ann. “You made the only sensible choice at the table.”

  “I must admit, I was thinking about having the cobbler.”

  “Oh, you were not,” said Ann, allowing the car to roll through a stop sign. “That cobbler must have six hundred fifty calories, without the whipped cream.”

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  “Of course I am,” said Ann. “What kind of question is that?”

  “You hit the wine pretty hard at lunch.”

  “Oh my God,” said Ann. “Am I driving with my friend or my mother?”

  “Your friend,” said Jesse. “A concerned friend.”

  “Don’t start, Reverend. I’m not in the mood.”

  Jesse stared out the windshield, thankful the center was only a few blocks away. After they arrived, Ann parked the car and they hurried inside. They walked, as instructed, directly backstage. Lit up like a car dealership with Frank Sinatra crooning from the sound system, the cavernous dressing room area looked like a movie set. A half dozen harried-looking women scurried about with clipboards in one hand and cardboard cups
of coffee in the other, emitting signals of controlled panic. Marge Simon, the fashion show organizer, approached Ann with a worried look on her face. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, dismissing one of her assistants. “Everyone’s running late.”

  “What can we do to help?” asked Jesse.

  “Go talk to Pam. She’ll tell you what you’re going to wear and when you’re on,” said Marge. “She’s in the middle of reworking the schedule, but she should have a good idea by now.”

  Pam Rogers, a take-charge type who had been Marge’s Girl Friday for years, was on the other side of the room encircled by four women talking at once. “Ladies,” she finally said, holding up her free hand. “Let’s all calm down.”

  “How can we calm down?” asked Penny Martin. “The show starts in thirty minutes and you have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Actually I do know what I’m doing,” said Pam, consulting her clipboard. “You are all matched up by size. Penny, you’re a size ten, which puts you in the sable and sheared beaver.”

  “Wonderful,” said Penny, hugging herself.

  “Where’s Ann Barons?” asked Pam.

  “Right here,” said Ann, stepping forward.

  “You’re in white fox all day long,” said Pam.

  “They’re all size two?” asked Ann over the buzz of conversation.

  “Yes,” said Pam. “We ordered them in especially for you.”

  “Excellent,” said Ann, grinning. “When can I try one on?”

  “Talk to Jennifer,” said Pam, pointing to the other side of the room. “She’s our release captain. And I’ve left further instructions in your room.”

  Ann winked at Jesse and strutted over to Jennifer, a slim, perpetually tanned, bleached blonde who dressed in Lily. She smiled falsely when she saw Ann, then kissed the air beside her left cheek. “Where have you been hiding?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s life.”

  “At home,” said Ann. “My parents are visiting.”

  “Yuck!” said Jennifer. “I break into hives whenever my parents stay longer than dinner.”

  Ann laughed. “My mother actually makes dinner.”

  “Worse!” howled Jennifer. “Don’t tell me—it’s Casserole City! Either that, or meat loaf smothered with creamed mushrooms, baked potatoes with butter and gobs of sour cream, and green beans with slivered almonds. God, my mother can’t serve a bowl of beans without those slivered almonds. You need a wheelbarrow to leave the table.” Ann laughed again; someone finally understood her situation. She should have known Jennifer would come to her defense. After all, she was the only other size two in town. Ann had always admired her thinness, even though it was maintained by cigarettes instead of exercise. At least Jennifer understood the importance of appearance. Ann made a mental note to ask her to do something other than lunch or the gym. Maybe they could go shopping in the city, just the two of them. “However, I must admit, you look marvelous,” said Jennifer, putting her hand on Ann’s arm. “Have you been sneaking the meat loaf to the dog?”

  “I just leave it on my plate,” said Ann. “I’m hoping my mother will catch on that her dinners should be sent back to the nineteen-fifties.”

  “Any luck?” asked Jennifer, feigning interest.

  “Not yet,” said Ann. “I think we’re having breaded pork chops tonight.”

  Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Well, you continue to fight the fight,” she said, turning to face the rack of furs. “In the meantime, let’s get you suited up.”

  In a tiny side dressing room, Ann put down the note from Pam requesting she wear the clothing provided and sniffed the armpits of the black suede pantsuit Pam wrote was new. Ann had not wanted to change her clothes, but Pam’s note indicated that the show’s theme extended beyond the furs. Ann ran her hands along the material, which felt expensive, then shed her clothing. The suit fit like it was tailor-made for her, feeling like bathwater against her chilled skin. She slid her feet back into her calfskin heels and strode out of the room, looking for Jesse and an assistant who could find her a low-fat latte. As she rounded the corner, the heel of her left shoe caught the edge of an area rug, and she went down, landing on her bottom and then back and head, biting her tongue. “Shit!” she said.

  “Oh my God, are you all right?” asked a woman who had opened the curtain to her dressing room when she heard the thud. She knelt down and then gently lifted Ann’s head and back so that Ann was sitting. “Stay right here. Breathe,” she said, still on her knees next to Ann. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Ann, whose head felt like it was full of sand.

  “Let me get you some water.”

  “And some coffee,” said Ann. “Would you please get me some coffee?”

  “Don’t get up,” said the woman. “I’ll be right back.” She returned in five minutes, with a glass of ice water in one hand and a cardboard cup in the other. “Let’s get you into my dressing room. There’s a folding chair in there, if you feel ready to move.”

  “Yes,” said Ann. “I’m okay.”

  The woman set the water and coffee down on the floor, took off Ann’s heels, and then helped Ann to her feet. She led her into the dressing room and onto the chair. She then grabbed the water and coffee from the floor and handed the water to Ann. “Take a sip,” she said. “Nice and easy.” Ann took a small sip and then another. Her head was beginning to clear. “You stay here, don’t move,” said the woman. “I’m going to find Pam so she can change the schedule.”

  Ann held up her hand. “I’m okay. You don’t need to do that.”

  “It’s an easy switch,” said the woman. “You’re near the beginning of the show, and I’m near the end.” And before Ann could further protest, she disappeared behind the curtain. When she was gone, Ann set the water glass down and reached for the coffee. She took two long pulls from the tepid latte and then two deep breaths. Why in the world would someone put a rug in a dressing room area on a stage?

  “Done,” said the woman, reentering their tiny space. “This will give you another thirty minutes or so to recuperate. How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” said Ann, even though the sand in her head had been replaced by intense heat. “If you could just point me back to my dressing room, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll walk you back,” she said, helping Ann to her feet. They walked over the offending rug and around the corner to the back row of rooms. Ann could again hear the busyness of women around her: talking as they wrestled their clothes off and on in shared dressing rooms, laughing, shouting, squealing, and scurrying around her in the narrow hallway.

  “This is it,” she said, pointing to a room with its red curtain pulled across. The woman held the drapery in the air so Ann could pass through. Inside, Ann sat on her own folding chair and looked at her watch. “Would you get me some Advil? It’s in my purse.” The woman spun around, grabbed Ann’s bag from the floor, and handed it to her.

  “I’m going to head back to my room to get ready,” said the woman. Ann noticed then that she was still in her changing robe. “Can I find someone to be with you?”

  “I’m okay, really,” said Ann. “Once these Advil kick in, I’ll be good to go.”

  “All right, then,” said the woman. “I’m off. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” said Ann. “And thank you.” As soon as she was gone, Ann closed her eyes and focused on her throbbing head. It was like a hangover, she told herself. She knew how to function with a hangover.

  Five minutes before her turn, Ann slipped the white fox car coat over her shoulders. On Marge’s cue, she walked out from behind the cityscape set design and onto the carpeted runway that took her to the center of the stage. The audience oohed its approval. “You all know our lovely Ann Barons,” said Susan Barry, chair of the Ladies Charitable Society and the event’s announcer. “She’s dressed in casual, but elegant evening wear from Fashion Sense.” At this, Ann parted her coat to reveal her outfit. As instructed, she spun slowly, then remove
d the coat and slung it over her right arm. “This outfit, ladies, will take you anywhere,” oozed Susan. “Dinner with your husband at a cozy restaurant in town. Or get those diamonds out of the safe for a dazzling look, appropriate for a night in the city.” Some of the ladies in the audience nodded at one another knowingly. Ann slid the coat back on, hugging it closed, which sent ripples of laughter through the auditorium. “Oh yes,” said Susan, smiling broadly. “You’ll absolutely love yourself in this white fox car coat. Of course, it’s perfect for a night out, but it’s also a great coat to grab and wear over jeans. Dress it up or dress it down. It’s incredibly versatile.”

  Eileen, who was sitting between Sally and Paula, made a face. She hated fur coats on anyone except Eskimos and Arctic explorers. And the very notion of wearing such a thing on errands was nothing short of grotesque. She leaned over and whispered in Paula’s ear, “Would you really wear that to the grocery store?”

  “Oh, lots of women here do,” whispered Paula back. “I think it’s kind of a status thing. It seems as though anyone can wear a fur to dinner or to church, but if you wear one to the grocery store that means you definitely have more than one in your closet. Doesn’t Ann look fabulous?”

  Eileen returned her attention to the stage, where her daughter was prancing like a circus horse down the runway away from the audience. “She certainly thinks she does,” she said, more to herself than to Paula. It was one big farce was what it was, the fashion show. It was housed in the halls of charity, but it was really a chance for the town’s finest to show themselves off and it sickened Eileen. Then again, thought Eileen putting her hands to her stomach, it could be the cherry pie. She had eaten the whole thing, in spite of its enormity. Quick calculation told her she had consumed one-sixth of the pie, when, at home, she normally ate no more than a tenth, or at the very most, an eighth. What in the world made her do it? Maybe, she thought shamefully, she’d just wanted to show Ann’s friends that she could.

  Sally offered to drive Eileen home after the show, but Eileen declined. Even though she was tired and anxious to see Sam, she decided the right thing to do was to wait for her daughter in the lobby. She sat in an industrial-looking chair with a thin red padded seat and watched the women clear out of the arts center. Most of them chatted happily as they moved from the auditorium to the glass doors that led to the parking lot. Snippets of conversation filled Eileen’s ears.