The Scarlet Letter Society

by Mary McCarthy

  Eva cleared her head, and her throat, and responded, “What should we do about OUR sons?” She hated how she sounded. She couldn’t understand how she could ruin entire corporations in the courtroom without batting an eyelash, but when it came to dealing with her husband, she turned into a handkerchief-gripping 1950s housewife, complete with red and white checked apron.

  Joe replied, “Destroy their lives as they know them?”

  Eva sighed. “Have you spoken to them? What’s the rest of the story? Some older kid must’ve given them the beer. This is the first time they’ve done anything like this. We should sit down as a family and discuss it.”

  Joe bellowed, “The rest of the story? There is no rest of the story. I sent them to their rooms for the weekend. I don’t want to see their faces.”

  “So you didn’t talk to them?” inquired Eva, marveling at the fact that all her husband, a pediatric oncologist at one of the top medical institutions in the country, could muster up when the first sign of teen angst acting out appeared was a big time out chair.

  “There is nothing to say,” said Joe. “You can come home and deal with them.”

  Eva had already been debating doing a U-turn on Kent Island to head back to the Western Shore of Maryland. But this was her weekend. She hadn’t been to the island in a month, had promised her mother a visit, and she couldn’t travel there again for at least another month. Her mother honestly needed her.

  “I’ll just spend one night with Mom,” said Eva, compromising. “Tomorrow when I get home, I will speak with the boys, and I’ll text them tonight.”

  Joe laughed.

  “Why would you think they would still have phones?” He hung up.

  Eva winced and began the inevitable beating-herself-up routine. Although their father was emotionally vacant from their boys’ lives, preferring to lose himself in his work than to take his own sons to an Orioles game, Eva still blamed herself when there was a low grade on a test or a small altercation on the lacrosse field.

  Eva pulled her car over to get an iced coffee; she’d need it to get through this drive. She opened the Facebook application on her iPhone. Her husband wouldn’t realize it, but she knew the boys were fully technologically functioning without the phones. The spoiled brats each had MacBooks and iPads in their rooms, and even Internet through the Wiis on their bedroom TVs.

  She wanted to cyberstalk them a tiny bit, just a quick check of Facebook pages, to be sure they weren’t bragging about their exploits. She messaged both of them in the same message on Facebook.

  Dear Graham and Calvin,

  Nice job, boys. Dad’s pissed and I can’t exactly say I’m a proud mom. Do not use your Facebook accounts. If I see any use on them, I’ll disable them. The last thing you need is to mess up your college chances by bragging about your little escapades. I will be home tomorrow and we can discuss this. In the meantime, be productive. Do homework! Clean your rooms! Do dishes! Don’t leave the house. Spend time thinking about how stupid of a decision you just made and how incredibly crappy your summer is going to be because of it.

  Hugs,

  Mom

  Eva sipped her coffee and pulled back onto Rt. 50. A quick visit to the island was just what she needed. Watching the sun set over the bay would help recharge her batteries for having to deal with the boys tomorrow.

  Motherhood really sucks sometimes, she thought. Hollywood’s version—all fluffy blankets and cute messy banana-eating baby faces and angelic three-year-old handprint molds—comprised about 10% of being a mother. The other 90% was temper tantrums and math homework you couldn’t understand and dealing with bickering and nagging about messy rooms and piles and piles of laundry that went on forever, because it didn’t ever end. The. Laundry. Never. Ends.

  Eva wanted to send out a public service announcement for women who, like Lisa, were struggling with infertility:

  Hey, gals! Don’t feel bad about being childless! Wanna know a huge secret that moms never talk about, because it would make us realize how miserable we really are a lot of the time? IT SUCKS! Your life is OVER! Forget sleep! Stay home with them and you’re broke! Go back to work and feel guilty, PLUS spend a fortune on childcare! You can’t take a shower for more than three consecutive minutes over the next eighteen years! You’re going to eat crap because kids eat macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets, not shrimp scampi and filet mignon! Time for yourself to go to the gym or read a book? Forget it. Your sex life? OVER! With your husbands, anyway…

  Boy, that would be a popular article, wouldn’t it?

  She shook her head and headed southeast.

  Early Scarlet Letter Society meeting times worked well for Lisa, because she could attend the gatherings before she opened her bakery. Her husband Jim was a real estate developer in DC, and his long commute made for lonely mornings to kill in their suburban subdivision.

  Lisa flipped open her laptop.

  Her email contained the usual junk mail, two pie orders, and the one she was looking for—a note from her graphic designer and crush, Ben. She blushed in anticipation and shame.

  * * *

  from: Ben bnidale@starfishdesign.com

  to: Lisa lswain@blackbirdspie.com

  date: Monday, April 9, 2012, 5:36 AM

  subject: Good morning

  Good morning, lovely baker. I hope your day is awesome. Your email came just as I was thinking about you. See you Friday for pie meeting…if not before.

  Ben

  * * *

  Lisa grinned.

  Blackbirds Pie was a few blocks away from the coffee shop. She had met Ben when she hired his downtown advertising agency to design a new logo and he was assigned to be her graphic designer. At thirty-seven and wanting a baby, she hadn’t been out looking to complicate her life with an affair.

  It was that simple, she thought now, warding off thoughts of how complicated it was. We just really like each other and we have fun together. Lisa could hear the replay in her head as she told the other women her story at the meeting a few months back.

  “So what’s your story, newbie?” Maggie had demanded, by way of welcoming the new member to the club.

  “Well,” Lisa had begun, awkwardly. “Ben is just so sweet and attentive. One day we were having a lunch meeting and drank too much wine and we just ended up totally going at it on the Pier One Imports wicker couch in the back office of my bakery.”

  Eva and Maggie had laughed, so Lisa, grabbing at the skin of her neck absentmindedly with one hand, continued.

  “Ben threw me up against the small walk-in freezer,” she embellished. “We had our tongues halfway down each other’s throats and we couldn’t get our clothes off fast enough.” She paused. “Don’t ask me why, but he grabbed a jar of cherries off the shelf as we made our way to my office. We fed each other maraschino cherries while we made out. Cherry juice dripped everywhere.”

  She finished the story by reporting that she had already replaced the old couch, which had been both uncomfortable and irreversibly stained with cherry juice.

  Recalling it, Lisa’s smile fell. Only she knew that the story was all a lie, a complete and utter fabrication.

  The fictionalized account seemed realistic enough. Lisa didn’t know what to do to stop her unrelenting crush on Ben, and wasn’t sure she wanted it to stop. It had only been a few short months since they met. But they hadn’t so much as kissed, much less drowned each other in any kind of juices.

  Lisa had lied her way in to the Scarlet Letter Society.

  If the women in the club knew she hadn’t actually cheated on her husband, she would have been disinvited from her membership. She felt awful deceiving them, but when Maggie and Eva had visited her bakery one day and she overheard their discussion, she was overcome with curiosity about how they got away with their affairs. The two women had mentioned their third club member moving away, and Lisa had swallowed down her shyness and asked if she could join them for coffee.

  Her five-year marriage hadn’t been particularly misera
ble, and she loved her husband. Something was just…missing.

  Better Out Than In, she’d written on page one of her current journal—she’d kept one all her life. The worn leather journal, tucked away in its floral Vera Bradley case, knew that her marriage’s main frustration centered around the couple’s inability to get pregnant. But running a business was exhausting and lonely. While she and Ben had started out in a professional relationship that grew into a friendship, the mutual flirtation seemed to grow stronger each day.

  She glanced at the current (and original) Pottery Barn couch, warming at the memory of the last day she’d seen Ben as she hit “reply”:

  from: Lisa lswain@blackbirdspie.com

  to: Ben bnidale@starfishdesign.com

  date: Monday, April 9, 2012 at 1:10 PM

  subject: Earlybird

  You were up early sending email, mister! Busy day, just getting to my inbox. Yes. Friday. Pie. Can’t wait. Will have your favorite flavor ready.

  L

  * * *

  Lisa wasn’t sure she knew exactly how she’d become such a flirt. From an early age, she had always been reserved. She was prettier than average, though not beautiful; tall, thin, her dark brown eyes exuding inner strength despite uncertainty. She usually dashed on some quick foundation powder, mascara and lip gloss, but only on shop days.

  Her husband’s dominant personality was one of the things that had first drawn her to him—she wanted someone else to be in charge of her life. After they’d met at a Chamber of Commerce event six years ago, Jim’s confidence had won her over and although she never really felt like she was head over heels in love with him, she’d made the thirty-two-year-old-ticking-biological-clock decision to marry him when he asked her, simply because he seemed to need her. A half decade in, and now that she was running a successful business, his domineering persona got on her nerves more than anything. That, and his goddamned obsessive foot fetish.

  The foot fetish had been a favorite topic at Scarlet Letter Society meetings. And it was funny, sort of, except for the part that it was actually happening to her.

  Should I or shouldn’t I? Lisa wrote, and closed the journal, tucking it away in its case inside her purse.

  Her combination island/home discipline weekend behind her, Eva was back in New York. She woke up from a deep sleep to find a tongue inside her. An unshaven face with its perfect two-day growth gently scratched the insides of her thighs as she arched her back. She clutched the pillow beside her and whispered, “Good morning to you, too, sir.”

  His smile touched the most intimate parts of her, and she laughed at the sensation of his chin stubble. He didn’t stray from his task, expertly holding down her upper thighs with his forearms, demanding that she relinquish control to him. It wasn’t something she was used to. In all other parts of her life, if she had nothing else, she had control. There was a reason her name was on the door of the law firm perched high in the Manhattan skyline. It was no accident she was at the top.

  In fact, she recalled now, she preferred to be on top. She squeezed her toned inner thighs together, planning to flip this horny chef onto his back so she could have her own way with him.

  He was having none of it. His hours at the gym weren’t spent there just so he could lift cast iron pans. He now incorporated his broad, strong legs to encircle her feet. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  She knew from experience that she may as well prop a pillow under her head, relax every muscle in her body, and enjoy the ride. As he rotated his tongue, his thumb gently caressed her. In a matter of minutes, she exploded in a powerful, sweet orgasm that left her body quivering.

  His dark, curly, grinning head appeared from under the sheet. He was completely naked, his erection rising to greet her. And then suddenly, the expression on his face turned to horror.

  “Oh my gosh, madame,” the man uttered in his heavy French accent. “Je regrette! I am so sorry. I thought you were someone else. I must have the wrong hotel room. This is so embarrassing.”

  He hopped out of bed, grabbing his pants and practically running in circles to collect his belongings.

  Eva lay on the bed and laughed heartily, her hand over her mouth.

  “Well, to be honest with you, monsieur, I’m not sure whose hotel room you’re supposed to be in, but I wish you would stay in this one.”

  Charles tossed his clothes playfully into the air and plopped himself naked onto the bed.

  “Well in that case, madame, I’m here to serve.”

  Eva laughed again. She honestly believed that half the reason she was having this insane, delicious affair in the first place was Charles’s sense of humor. He could always make her laugh. Not just laugh, but laugh from the belly, when you can’t stop yourself no matter how hard you try. Such laughter was so rare in her life.

  He was the head chef at The Plaza Hotel, where she stayed a few times a month on business at the firm. Her DC office was where she normally worked, but these visits to New York were her favorite part of the month.

  Charles sat up in the bed, leaned down, cupped her face into his capable hands, and kissed her slowly, gently, passionately.

  She kissed him back, the tingle in her spine working its way to every part of her being. Though she had already had an earth-shaking orgasm, her body was hungry for more. She wanted him inside her.

  Eva felt Charles’ growing erection as it grazed her silk chemise. Her panties were already gone, apparently removed while she slept. She smiled at the thought. His hunger for her was insatiable.

  She grabbed his strong shoulders, pulling him into her embrace, returning his eager kisses, a soft moan parting her lips as she anticipated what would follow.

  She reached down to stroke him as he made a motion to climb on top of her. His fingers gently but decisively found their mark between her legs.

  “Not this time,” Eva whispered, rising up from the bed and in a single motion circling herself up and over onto all fours, straddling him. They both smiled. It was her turn to be in control.

  May 2012

  “I’m your hell, I’m your dream. I’m nothing in between. You know you wouldn’t want it any other way.” —Bitch, Meredith Brooks

  Monthly meeting of the Scarlet Letter Society.

  Zoomdweebies Café

  Friday, May 4, 2012

  5:30 a.m.

  “The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread.”

  -The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne

  from: Maggie mags@wingsvintage.com

  to: lswain@blackbirdspie.com, ambradley@smithcohenbradley.com

  date: Tuesday, May 1, 2012 at 10:26 AM

  subject: Happy May Day, SLS!

  Greetings, SLutS!

  It’s that time again. Attached is your invitation to this month’s meeting of the Scarlet Letter Society. Don’t forget, next month will be our first book club discussion of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. So don’t forget to pick up your copy from Zarina if you haven’t already. See you Friday!

  Scarlet Letter Society meetings were held monthly when the combination coffee shop/bookstore was closed, always at the same time: first Friday of the month, 5:30 am.

  Comfy in her standard attire--a vintage t-shirt (today: Smurfs) and worn jeans--Maggie flopped into the orange 70s vinyl recliner. Maggie smiled, remembering the day she crammed the chair into the back of her ’09 Toyota Prius II without any rope; the chair dangling precariously the three blocks over to her building.

  Wes, the director of the city’s largest theatre, lived a few blocks over. He’d arrived with wine, cheese and a movie.

  “Burlesque, so we can talk about what a fucking delicious train wreck Cher is,” he declared. “So what’s new with your man, hussy?” Wes asked, opening the wine bottle.

  Maggie narrowed her eyes at her best friend, Wes, who lounged across from her on a teal deco sofa. He was fifty, gorgeous, and delightfully, flamboyantly gay. The day she had started volunteering at the theatre, Mag
gie immediately fell in non-sexual love with Wes, and the feeling was mutual.

  “He’s fine,” smiled Maggie.

  “What do you mean ‘fine’? Someone’s not bringing home the hot beef injections the way they used to, or what?” Wes sipped, rolling his eyes dramatically. He served them each a glass of wine.

  “Ted is, um, bringing home the bacon the very best same way he has for some time, Wes,” laughed Maggie. “How many details do you want about that?”

  Wes seemed to ponder for a moment.

  “Hmmmm, well, he’s a total hottie, but even though he’s a musician, he’s not vibing ANY gay, so I guess I might as well not torture myself by having to hear about his package and its delivery.”

  Maggie laughed again. “Well I’ll spare you all the gory details, then!”

  Wes thought to himself: Maggie looks great in this light. In her natural setting. Her apartment over the shop was the perfect size, with its huge bay window, and stained glass panes. Her orange chair and a small painted wooden side table formed her sitting area inside the window. Large plants were everywhere. He glanced at her old MacBook, the adorable small vintage lamp, and a framed photo of her girls when they were younger, watching a town parade from the sidewalk and grinning from ear to ear.

  “So are there more wedding bells in your future? You’ve been dating him forever!”

  “Are you kidding me? I’ve already put one husband into a divorce court and another one’s on the way in there, Wes,” replied Maggie. “Why on earth would I want to put the Marry Mag curse on poor Ted? He hasn’t done anything to deserve it.”

  “God, that’s true,” said Wes. “But I gotta say it cracks me up that you’re acting like a goddamn teenager about the whole thing.” He made a fake gagging motion, adding, “It’s so cliché. I mean, seriously, when do you think he’ll ask you to the prom?”