The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again

by Nancy Thayer

  “I’ll borrow one of Sonny’s family’s trucks!” Beth laughed with excitement. “One that says Young’s Construction on it.”

  “Great idea!” Julia gave Beth a high five. “We’ve got to do it when Belinda’s in school.”

  “How about Monday morning?” Beth asked. “I’ve got a class in the afternoon, and I work at the library in the evening.”

  “Morning’s good,” Julia said.

  Carolyn was not so thrilled. “It’s cold outside, in case you hadn’t noticed. You two will freeze.”

  “We’ll dress warmly,” Julia promised.

  “We’ll bring Thermoses of hot tea,” Beth added.

  “I’ll call you with directions.” Carolyn struggled to get to her feet. “I’ve got to go to the john and home. I think this meeting’s adjourned.”

  “We’ll phone you the minute we know anything,” Julia promised.

  “Let me know, too,” Polly urged.

  “We will!”

  26

  Beth wore all black. Even though she didn’t plan to get out of the truck, black seemed appropriate for a stakeout, and when she honked the horn in front of Julia’s house, she saw that Julia had chosen to wear all black, too. Of course Julia usually did.

  She swung up into the cab of the truck, setting a bag on the floor. “How are you, Nancy Drew?”

  “I’m great!” Beth said. “Where’s your camera?”

  “Here.” Julia bent over and brought out a compact silver box.

  “It’s so small!”

  “Tiny size, great power. Zoom lens.” Julia pressed a button, demonstrating for Beth how the lens whirred out for long-distance shots.

  “Cool.” Beth put the truck in gear. It had turned out to be surprisingly easy to drive. “I brought coffee, chocolate, and two empty glass jars in case we have to pee.”

  Julia laughed. “Good thinking.”

  “Ready?” Beth pulled the truck away from the curb. “Carolyn said to take Route 2 to 16 to Mass. Ave. to Martin Lane.”

  “Yeah, those are the directions Carolyn gave me, too. Okey-dokey.” Julia leaned back, looking out at the passing scenery.

  The sun was out, strong and hot, melting snow off the curbs into thousands of miniature rivers trickling toward the drains. People were out enjoying the brief mild spell, walking dogs, pushing baby strollers, chatting in front of dry cleaners and pharmacies.

  Julia folded her long legs and propped her feet on the dashboard. “What did you tell Sonny about what we’re doing today?”

  Beth groaned. “You know what? I told him the truth. I don’t want to have any secrets between us, so I thought that would be the best course, but I’m afraid I shocked him a little bit. He’s worried that Heather’s brother might be dangerous.”

  “Can’t be too dangerous if he’s stuck in a wheelchair,” Julia pointed out sensibly.

  “I know. I’m not scared. Well, maybe I am, just a little. I feel kind of apprehensive, and also, just a tiny bit wicked. I really do think I shocked Sonny.”

  “I’m glad you told him the truth because I told Tim the truth, too.”

  “And?”

  “He reacted like you said Sonny did. Shocked. Amazed, really, as if he thinks what we’re doing is bizarre.”

  “Well, isn’t it?” Beth giggled. “I never imagined that I, mild-mannered grad student of ancient English literature, would ever stake out a man’s house!”

  “I’ll bet it’s not so unusual in Carolyn’s world. Families with the kind of money the Sperrys have probably do this sort of thing all the time.”

  “You could be right. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never known anyone as wealthy as Carolyn. I don’t envy her.”

  “Me either.” Julia leaned forward. “I think the next street is the one.”

  “Roger.” Beth flicked on her indicator and made the turn. “Number 32?”

  “Right.” Julia removed her feet from the dash and sat up straight. “There. I think that’s the house.”

  “I’ll drive past, make a U-turn, and approach it from the other direction.”

  “That’s it. The yellow clapboard.”

  Beth slowed as they drove past. The house sat innocently in its muddy yard. A striped tabby cat ambled across the yard, beneath a shrub, and into the next yard, where it sat with its head cocked, as if waiting.

  Julia had her binoculars out. “All the windows are covered with blinds or curtains.”

  “He’s probably sleeping. Don’t invalids sleep a lot?”

  “I know. We probably should have waited until the afternoon, but I have to be home for Belinda then.”

  “How’s this?” Beth brought the truck to a stop next to a high privet hedge. “Can you see?”

  “Perfectly.” Julia scanned the neighborhood. “Sleepy little street.”

  “Now what?” Beth asked.

  “Now we wait.”

  ——————————

  Two hours later, Julia stretched as well as she could in the enclosed cab. “This is killing my back. I’m not accustomed to so much sitting. What time is it?”

  Beth checked her watch. “A little after eleven.”

  “Not a flicker of movement for two hours.”

  Beth made a face. “I’ve got to pee.”

  “Well, you brought the jar.”

  “I know. But now I’m not so keen on the idea.”

  “Want to stop for the day? I could arrange things with Tim and we could come back tomorrow afternoon. Can’t do it in the morning; I’ve got a retirement luncheon to videotape.”

  Beth looked wistfully at the house, so still in the sunshine it seemed like a stage set. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

  ——————————

  “Dr. Monroe is coming to tea.”

  Polly let the bags of groceries slide onto the end of the sofa. Claudia didn’t like it when something as plebeian as a brown paper bag made contact with any of her fine furniture, but Polly, already puffing from hauling everything in from the car, gasped at Claudia’s announcement and collapsed next to the groceries.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You need to have your hearing checked, Polly. Mine is perfect, but that’s unusual.”

  Yes, yes, you’re one rare and superlative specimen of humanity, Polly thought crankily. She looked over at Claudia, seated on her chaise, clad in her new brown Brooks Brothers skirt, sweaters, and pearls. Claudia was continuing to shrink just like the witch in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy tossed water on her. She glanced at Claudia’s breakfast tray. Perhaps two sips of tea had been taken, and the tip of the croissant, but the orange juice glass was untouched.

  “Would you like me to warm up your croissant?” Polly asked.

  Claudia waved a lethargic claw. “Why would I want you to do that? I’ve finished my breakfast. Take those things away and I’ll tell you what I want served for tea.”

  Polly unbuttoned her coat. “What day is Dr. Monroe coming?”

  Her voice crackling with irritation, Claudia snapped, “What is wrong with you, Polly! I told you already. He’s coming today!”

  “Oh.” Polly thought for a moment. “Would you like me to help you shower before he comes?”

  “I performed my ablutions before I dressed this morning,” Claudia retorted.

  Polly doubted that, since Claudia could hardly stand up. Her progress down the stairs this morning had been painfully slow. Claudia had leaned heavily on the banister and paused at every third step to suck in one long, labored breath. But she had refused to take the supporting arm Polly had offered. Claudia’s hair, always before her illness so beautifully coiffed, was dry and thin, bent at odd angles and sticking up in back. Furthermore, the heavy veil of perfume Claudia wore could not camouflage any longer the aroma of urine and her general lack of hygiene. Claudia’s senses were obviously dulled, but was her mind? Claudia was too weak to shower or bathe herself, but did she realize that? What were Polly’s responsibilities at this juncture? Should she force Claudia to shower?
How could anyone force Claudia to do anything?

  Polly put the groceries away and dutifully returned to the living room, where she found Claudia asleep, head lolling to one side, mouth open. Polly’s entire body contracted with pity to see the elegant woman so shrunken and vulnerable. What little flesh and fat Claudia had ever carried had disappeared weeks ago, but now her muscles had also vanished, leaving her shoulder bones sticking up like knobs, allowing her cheeks to sink in so that her face was merely a skull with a thin sheet of skin over it. Claudia was experiencing no pain, but she was starving to death before Polly’s eyes.

  With a twinge of shame, Polly realized her own clothes were becoming too tight. Caring for Claudia had not caused Polly to lose any weight, in spite of all the stairs she was climbing and trays she was hefting these days, because every night she rewarded herself with a box of chocolates and a glass of Baileys Original Irish Cream—and she didn’t use one of Claudia’s delicate little thimble-size aperitif glasses, either.

  Eating had always been Polly’s private path to comfort. Better, she assured herself, than alcohol or drugs. And wasn’t it all right to give herself these treats? She missed her own home, her own bed. The guest bedroom had such an Edward Gorey air about it, it kind of gave Polly the creeps, and she had great trouble settling down to sleep every night. The spool bed’s ancient mattress sagged, as corrugated as a muddy road in springtime. The entire room seemed pervaded with an irrevocable kind of pale damp that seeped through the hand-embroidered, age-worn, threadbare linen sheets. The bedside lamp held only a twenty-five-watt bulb, so Polly had sneaked her own lamp into the house, because if she couldn’t read, she’d really lose her mind. But that light made the rest of the room seem darker and dingier, and the disapproving faces of the pinch-lipped ancestors glaring down from their framed portraits hanging around the room stirred within Polly’s breast guilt for sins she had never committed.

  Perhaps, Polly thought, she might sleep better if the intercom between Claudia’s bedroom and the dining room were hooked up between their bedrooms at night. When Polly did manage to fall asleep, the slightest noise woke her—she’d sit upright, heart thudding. Was that Claudia? Had she called? Fears of Claudia lying alone in her bedroom, perhaps choking, perhaps suffering, perhaps dying, poked at her nerves and made her heart race. She’d brought over a framed photograph of Tucker to put on her bedside table, so she could look at his face when she needed comfort.

  Back in the kitchen, Polly started a chicken simmering—Claudia liked the broth—and organized the tea things. Claudia still slept; she spent the better part of her days sleeping. What else could she do? Polly wondered. She knew it was important to focus on the here and now, to help the dying, as well as the living, take pleasure in the present. But what could that be?

  A few days ago, Polly had lifted one of the portraits off the bedroom wall and carried it down to where Claudia sat on her chaise.

  “Tell me about this woman, please, Claudia. She looks so interesting.” The request had been heartfelt. Polly knew little about Claudia’s life.

  Claudia had only lifted a weary hand. “Pull a duck trolley.”

  Polly had gaped while a thrill of fear raced through her: was Claudia going mad? Then she realized Claudia had her teeth out and probably meant “Put it back, Polly.” She’d climbed the stairs and rehung the picture.

  Yesterday, she’d asked Claudia if they could look at old photo albums together. She wanted so much to see pictures of Tucker when he was a boy. And she thought Claudia might enjoy living, for a few moments, back in the days of her youth, but Claudia had only shaken her head and closed her eyes, as if simply listening to Polly’s request had depleted her.

  What else could Polly do? How do you help someone die without intruding? Claudia was offended when Polly offered to help her shower or wash her hair. She refused to let Polly enter her bedroom to change the sheets and air it out. As much as she accepted from Polly, she still kept her from doing all she could to help. Was Polly doing the right thing, helping the older woman to retain as much control and privacy as possible? Or was she neglecting her?

  It seemed to Polly that whatever else Polly had ever been to Claudia, now, during this final stage of her life, during the days and weeks of Claudia’s dying, Polly was Claudia’s final audience. More than she needed a housekeeper, cook, valet, maid, or nurse, Claudia needed someone to see her as she saw herself, to respect her as a beautiful, refined, powerful, independent woman. Polly wanted to give Claudia that much, for as long as possible.

  Still, she needed some guidance. Somehow, she had to find a way to speak with Dr. Monroe alone.

  ——————————

  Claudia woke at three thirty. “Bwingee eye purth, pauwee.”

  Polly brought Claudia her purse, then stepped out of the room to allow her a moment alone to install her false teeth. When she returned, she found Claudia with her hand mirror in one hand and a tube of lipstick in the other. Claudia squinted.

  “Would you like me to turn on a light?” Polly offered. The winter afternoon was almost as dark as night.

  “I would not.” Claudia patted her hair in gestures Polly had seen hundreds of times before over the years, but today this filled Polly with a madhouse sadness, for Claudia’s action did no good. Claudia’s hair spouted up at the back of her head like a clump of dried grass. “Is the tea ready?”

  “It is.” The doorbell rang. “That must be Dr. Monroe.” Polly hurried through the hall.

  She opened the door. The physician stood there in a handsome black wool overcoat, a black briefcase in his hand. “Hello, Polly.” He looked so sane, so reliable.

  “Hello, Dr. Monroe,” she said in a loud voice for Claudia’s benefit. Urgently, she whispered, “Dr. Monroe, I’m so glad you’re here. Claudia’s incontinent but refuses to admit it, she can’t bathe herself but won’t let me help her, she scarcely eats anything, she’s lost so much weight! God, I know I’m babbling like someone out of Dickens, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “Polly!” Claudia called imperiously. “Don’t dawdle!”

  Hugh Monroe put a calming hand on Polly’s shoulder. “I understand.”

  Polly wanted to throw herself at his feet, clutching his ankles. Instead, she calmly led the doctor into the living room.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lodge.” Dr. Monroe executed a handsome little bow and held out his hand.

  Claudia touched her fingers to his briefly in a queenly imitation of a handshake. “Good to see you, Hugh.” Gesturing him to a chair, she ordered, “Polly. Tea.”

  Blocking an impulse to curtsy, Polly took herself off to the kitchen. She took her time, wanting to allow Claudia plenty of privacy with the doctor, then carried the heavy silver tray into the living room. She set it on the coffee table. Following Claudia’s orders, she poured tea for Claudia and the doctor and handed the cookies around, then sat down, preparing to pour her own tea.

  “That will be all, Polly,” Claudia said.

  “Um, perhaps I should stay, to hear what Dr. Monroe suggests . . . ?”

  Claudia turned to the doctor and waved her hand, as if sweeping away a gnat. “One of Polly’s qualities is a remarkable intransigence.”

  Polly started to object, but Dr. Monroe threw her a wonderful smile. “It’s all right, Polly. I’d like a little time alone with Mrs. Lodge, and we’ll tell you what we’ve decided.”

  Polly nodded, rose, and went into the dining room, shutting the door firmly behind her. She sat down at the dining-room table and stared at her sewing machine. On impulse, she grabbed a piece of extra fabric and sewed tidy seams in it. A weird thing to do, perhaps, but the work calmed her, it always did, and she hoped the sound of the little purring motor would assure them that she wasn’t listening in.

  ——————————

  “Polly?” A tap came at the dining-room door and Dr. Monroe stuck his head in. “Could you join us, please?”

  “Certainly.” Polly flicked off her machine.


  Claudia seemed to have grown even smaller in the past half hour. Perhaps it was the way she was sinking down into the chaise.

  “Would you like me to puff up the cushions behind your back?” Polly offered.

  “I’d like you to sit down and listen,” Claudia retorted, as if Polly had been skipping around the room with her fingers stuck in her ears.

  “Polly,” Hugh Monroe said, “Mrs. Lodge has insisted she does not want to go into a hospital, but she has agreed that she would be more comfortable with a hospital bed. The pharmacy will deliver one and set it up. A bedside commode, as well. Also, we’re going to ask Home Health Services and Hospice to get involved now. I’ll contact Martha Wright, who’s head of hospice. She’ll be here to do an initial interview, and then someone will come, at least once every day, to help Mrs. Lodge with various personal procedures.”

  Polly nodded and smiled at the physician, while beneath her bosom the oddest feeling bloomed—not relief, not at all, but instead a kind of ice-cold terror. Shit! she thought irreverently. A hospital bed! Once you get in a hospital bed, you don’t usually get out. I hate this! she wanted to cry. I’m scared!

  “Polly,” Claudia said. “Find a pad of paper. You’ll need to write down these names and phone numbers and instructions.”

  “Yes, Claudia.” Polly rose, although at the moment she wasn’t even certain what a pad of paper was.

  27

  Another Sunday had arrived, which meant another delightful meal en famille at the Youngs’ house. Today Beth’s culinary offering was two loaves of homemade whole-wheat bread and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. She’d considered bringing brownies—she had a great recipe—but even brownies would be easy to sabotage. A little vinegar drizzled over the top, or any liquid really, would sink into the chewy chocolate, making it look even moister and taste disgusting, providing Sonny’s family with another reason he should marry Robin instead of Beth. Cookies were a little more foolproof, as was the bread, wrapped in foil, ready to be heated. Beth had them tucked carefully in a book bag and had just pulled on her coat and hat, when suddenly she couldn’t stand it anymore.