by Nancy Thayer
Agnes wanted Belinda to live with them; they knew how to raise children. Julia, they pointed out loudly and often, had no experience. Clearly Agnes thought Julia was a snaggletoothed evil stepmother from her worst fairy tale, a judgment that could only get worse if Belinda went into one of her pathetic crying spells.
But Belinda cried when she had to go visit her grandparents. Agnes insisted Belinda spend two weeks of every summer and two or three days of every major holiday with her grandparents. During the ride to the western part of the state, Belinda reverted to infantile behavior, sucking her thumb and rubbing her cheek on Kitty Ballerina’s. She had to be lifted out of the car and carried up to her grandparents’ house, and when Tim and Julia arrived to bring her home, she was waiting, nose pressed against the window. Couldn’t Agnes see all that? Julia tried to respond to Agnes’s dislike with tolerance and kindness—she did feel great sympathy for this woman who had lost her beloved daughter. But it was difficult, especially since Julia’s best efforts never pleased Agnes. Tim’s own mother had died a few years ago, and his father had retired to Florida, so Agnes and George were really the only grandparents Belinda knew, and Julia longed for a smoother, more cooperative relationship. Julia had asked Tim whether they should see a family counselor. Tim reminded her that none of the therapists he’d seen before had helped Belinda come out of her spell of muteness. Patience, they’d all advised. Patience, and the healing powers of time.
Now, as Julia finished making Belinda’s bed, pulling the Barbie doll sheets tight and tucking them, each in her exact place, she tried to cheer herself by humming a jaunty little tune.
But humming made Julia’s throat burn. And her ears ached. This had been happening more and more recently, so often that she was just, slightly, worried. She went into the bathroom and took one of the sinus-relief tablets she’d bought last week. She had no fever. She felt well and full of energy. If this was some idiotic psychosomatic trick her body was playing on her, she would—what? Well, she’d be glad; because if it wasn’t, then something serious was going haywire in her head.
5
It was like being hit by a tornado. It knocked the breath out of her, turned her life upside down. She was like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, but in reverse: her life, which until today had been brilliant with color, all at once faded to black and white.
Faye put down the phone and sat quite still, just looking around her condo, trying to make sense of her life. She thought she’d done so well!
Two years ago, she’d been happy, living with her husband in the spacious home where they’d raised their daughter, Laura, to adulthood, where, in Faye’s third-floor studio, she’d painted still lifes that sold often and well. Then Jack was felled by an unexpected heart attack. Suddenly alone in the large house, Faye found herself so stunned by grief she could no longer paint. She struggled valiantly to live with loss, and then menopause hit her, hard. And then Laura had come to her, sobbing, because she thought her husband was having an affair.
Thank heaven, in the midst of it all, she’d met Marilyn, Shirley, and Alice, women her age, who shared similar problems. They’d formed the Hot Flash Club, and Faye’s life had turned around.
With their encouragement and advice, Faye had sold her home. She’d given half the selling price to Laura and her husband so they could buy a home, and she moved into a condo in the distinguished, old brick building housing Shirley’s new spa. It was a temporary home, a kind of emotional halfway house, until she decided exactly where and how she’d like to live the rest of her life. She’d started taking classes in art therapy, and she taught classes in art at the spa. She’d gotten her life back on track. She’d prided herself on becoming, at fifty-six, a capable woman who could accept what life dished out with humor, intelligence, and hope.
She’d been a fool.
——————————
Now, in a kind of blind panic, Faye rose, grabbed her purse, left her condo, and hurried along the back halls of the spa and out to her car in the back parking lot. Forbidding herself to cry, she settled into her BMW and drove along the country road to the Mass. Pike east to Boston. She sped along, holding back hysteria by munching all the candy she carried in her purse, until she entered the city limits. Then she doubled back west, her heart and soul so empty, she stopped at a gas station to fill up her tank and buy more chocolate.
Caught in the stream of traffic, she turned on the radio, hoping music would soothe her, hearing instead the hourly news, which reminded her that today was Friday, when the Hot Flash Club always met at Legal Seafoods for dinner.
A few cars ahead, a battered truck’s tailgate snapped, scattering the highway with household rubbish: bent aluminum lawn chairs, small electric appliances, garbage bags, an old crib. The evening rush of Boston traffic from the city toward the suburbs braked to a sludgelike crawl.
Faye didn’t mind slowing down. She was in no hurry to get to her destination. She was even glad to have a reason to be late. From her purse, she took another giant Snickers bar, tore off the wrapper, and bit off a hearty chunk, savoring the sweet chocolate. How sanguine she’d been just a year ago! Those first few months when she’d met Alice, Marilyn, and Shirley, when they’d formed the Hot Flash Club and giddily resolved to solve each other’s problems, those days had been almost like the first sweet weeks of a love affair, wild with possibility.
But it hadn’t been an illusion, Faye reminded herself, biting off another hunk of candy. The Hot Flash Club had changed her life, and she had helped change their lives. She’d changed herself, too, or she thought she had. Right now her self-esteem was so low, she couldn’t imagine how she’d taken on the role of suburban secret agent she’d so blithely—and, she had to admit, successfully—adopted then.
Faye smiled, remembering what fun she’d had, how much the danger and intrigue had made her pulse race. She’d actually succeeded at her assignment—no, more than succeeded. Not only had she found out whether Lila Eastbrook was marrying Marilyn’s son for his money, Faye had also discovered the secret at the Eastbrook family’s heart.
Family heart. Her mood collapsed. Of the four members of the Hot Flash Club, Faye knew she was the most maternal—or she could just turn that thought around as the other three would and admit she was the most dependent on her maternal role!
Shirley, who’d been married and divorced three times, didn’t have any children, and her life’s dream of establishing a wellness spa had come true. She lived her dream every day.
Supercompetent Alice had managed to raise two sons as a single mother while holding down a high-powered executive position in a national insurance company. One of her grown sons was happily married, living in Texas. When Alan, her other son, showed up divorced and depressed, Alice had supported him in every way, but she hadn’t been obsessive with worry the way Faye would have been. And now Alice was opposing Alan’s happiness, all because of her stubborn ideas. Alice, whose son lived just as close to Alice as Faye’s daughter did to Faye, seldom saw her son and had yet to set foot in the cottage where he lived with the woman Alice shunned. Faye could never be like that. She’d welcome anyone her daughter loved.
Marilyn was different, too, so engrossed with her teaching and lab work at MIT that everything else, including her lover, Faraday, and her own granddaughter, came second. Imagine, Faye thought, as she finished off the chocolate bar, wanting to spend more time with prehistoric bugs than with a living baby!
But to be fair, Alice and Marilyn had sons, not daughters. What was that saying: “A son is a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter’s a daughter all of her life”? Whoever said that would understand her reaction to the news she’d received earlier today.
Her Hot Flash Club friends would probably just tell her to buck up and deal with it. She couldn’t share this news yet. Fortified by chocolate, she’d pretend all was well with her life. She could do it. She had to. One good thing, they always ate chocolate desserts at their meetings; that would sustain her.
; ——————————
Faye arrived at the restaurant to find the other three already seated.
“Hi, honey!” Shirley rose to kiss Faye. “You’re late. We were worried!”
In spite of her executive-chic, forest green suit, Shirley was still a romantic. Life had given her a lot of hard knocks, but it had also given her the good friends who had helped her start The Haven. She’d never been so happy in her life.
Now, Faye thought wryly, all Shirley wanted was for everyone else in the whole wide world to be as happy as she was.
“Sorry. I had to get gas.”
Faye kept her face hidden as she took off her jacket. The others had already arranged their belongings around them and were nestled in for a good long talk. The waiter arrived, handed them their menus, took their drink orders, and went off.
“There, that’s done!” Shirley beamed at her friends. “How is everyone?”
Alice, a regal African-American woman in loose silk trousers and a gorgeous tunic top embroidered thickly in brilliant crimsons and greens, narrowed her eyes as she stared across the table, scrutinizing Marilyn. Alice’s executive past made it impossible for her to mince words or waste time when she spotted a problem. “I’m fine, but may I just say that I think Marilyn’s slipping.”
At fifty-three, Marilyn was ten years younger than Alice, but Alice’s commanding presence often made Marilyn feel much younger. About thirteen. A gawky thirteen. A zit-riddled, limp-haired thirteen with bad posture. Looking confused, Marilyn rested her arms on the table and straightened her back. But because she knew Alice meant well, she defended herself. “I don’t think so. I feel comfortable.”
Alice shook her head impatiently. “No, no, I don’t mean you’re sliding out of your seat. I mean you’re letting yourself go.”
Marilyn blinked. “No, I’m not! Hey, I’m wearing the clothes you all chose for me back when you worked at TransWorld, Alice!”
“Exactly,” Alice pounced. “And that was over a year ago.”
“Marilyn.” Shirley leaned forward with a conciliating smile, resting her hand on Marilyn’s. “Alice means that your hair needs a touch-up and reshaping. Remember,” she added, “what I looked like before I met you all?” Actually, Shirley kind of missed her old hippie/gypsy/country-western-singer look, but she couldn’t deny that the new, improved executive Shirley, with her chin-length auburn bob and tailored suits, gave her the image she needed to impress her board of directors and staff.
Faye waited while the waiter brought their drinks and took their orders. Then, gently, she told Marilyn, “Your blouse and jacket are looking a bit old.”
Marilyn glanced down. It was true her clothes were spotted from chemicals she used during the classes she taught at MIT, and true, too, that she needed to see the hairdresser. “Maybe I’ve been a little preoccupied lately,” she explained vaguely, fishing the tip of her silk scarf out of her margarita. Fifty-three years old, a brilliant scientist, and she still couldn’t get the knack of wearing scarves.
“What’s going on, honey?” Shirley asked.
“Troubles with Faraday?” Alice suggested.
“Oh, Faraday’s fine,” Marilyn replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“I like Faraday!” Alice stoutly declared. “He’s handsome, literate, charming.”
“Beautiful manners,” Faye added.
“And I, a ‘mature’ woman, should consider myself lucky to have a beau,” Marilyn said, “even though he can’t keep an erection longer than thirty seconds.”
“Sex isn’t everything,” Alice reminded her. Alice’s beau, Gideon, was recovering from an operation on his prostate.
“No one knows that better than I do!” Marilyn shot back. “I’ve only had sex with three men in my life, and it wasn’t delicious with my husband and it’s not delicious with Faraday.” She sighed. “I just wish I could get him to talk about it. I’d love to have him see a doctor. Or try Viagra.”
Faye interjected, “I read a statistic just last week, saying the American public spends more money on Viagra than it does on Alzheimer research.”
“You know what that means,” Alice told her. “In a few more years, all the men will have erections, but they won’t remember what they’re for!”
Laughing, Shirley leaned forward, lowering her voice. “That reminds me of a joke. Ancient Chinese proverb: If man with erection enter airplane door sideways, he going to Bangkok.”
Faye grinned. “Mrs. Clinton went to China with her husband, and at the state dinner she was seated next to the president of China. She turned to him and asked, ‘Do you have elections here?’ He smiled and replied, ‘Yes, every morning.’ ”
“Girl,” Alice said, “that joke is so old!”
The waiter brought their entrées.
“Bon appétit!” Faye said to the others, and they all picked up their forks.
After a few moments of pleasurable devotion to their food, Alice announced, “Hey, we set a new record. We got to the subject of sex before our dinners arrived!”
“Well, it is the most fascinating subject in the world,” Shirley said.
“Really?” Faye asked. “I disagree.”
“Then you’re depressed,” Shirley announced.
“Oh, come on!” Faye laughed.
“I’m serious. I don’t care how old you are, if you lose your sexual desire, you’re lacking something. It’s like missing a vitamin in your diet.”
Alice snorted. “Don’t exaggerate, Shirley! Surely sexual desire is a personal thing. Some people just enjoy it more than others.”
Marilyn weighed in with her scientific point of view. “All sorts of variables must apply. One’s age, for example. Nature wired us to crave sex the most during our reproductive years, so the species will propagate. So as we grow older and lose our reproductive capacity, our hormone levels flag—”
“Not to mention certain male reproductive parts,” Alice added wryly.
Shirley shot back, “Nature also arranged things so that when we have sex, endorphins are released in our bodies, making us feel better, happier, and calmer. This, in turn, has a beneficial effect on our bodies.”
“Other things release endorphins, too,” Faye argued. “Nothing could make me happier than holding my granddaughter! Work can make me feel pretty euphoric, too. Not to mention chocolate!”
“But chocolate makes you gain weight,” Shirley pointed out, “and sex doesn’t.”
Faye’s face fell. “I know I’ve gained weight—” She smoothed her hands down over the layers of pastel silk that sheltered her rounded, buxom body.
“Hey!” Alice interrupted, leaning forward to address Shirley. “Back off! We’ve been over this ground before. Not everyone has an irritating little buzz-saw mosquito metabolism like you, Shirley! Since I retired from TransWorld, I’ve gone from a size eighteen to a size twenty-two and then some, although I’m walking and exercising more regularly than I ever did before. Never mind the competitive bridge games Gideon and I play twice a week, which are mental workouts that must burn up about a zillion calories! Faye’s doing everything she can, but once you get past sixty, your body does pretty much what it wants to do.”
“Well, you’re over sixty,” Shirley responded calmly, “but Faye isn’t.”
Faye lifted her chin in defiance. “I think everything changes when we hit menopause. After all, that’s what brought all of us together. That’s why we’re the Hot Flash Club. And the changes just keep coming. I mean, my weight’s sticking on in ways it never used to. Gosh, now I’ve got such a big bum you could sit on it!”
Marilyn looked mystified. “But, Faye, we all sit on our bums. That’s what they’re there for!”
“No,” Faye explained, “I mean you could sit on my bum.” Reaching around, she patted her right hip. “It’s like I’ve got a shelf or a ledge sticking out in back.”
Shirley and Marilyn laughed, but Alice said, “I’m with you, girlfriend. I feel like I’ve got beanbags glued to my rear.
”
“You two are so exaggerating!” Marilyn told them. “I’d rather have your bums any day. My wrinkled bum hangs down in back like a stage curtain when the play’s over.”
“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.”
