The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again

by Nancy Thayer

  The highlight of Polly’s day was around noon when someone from hospice knocked on the door. The same three women alternated days, and each one wore, from Polly’s point of view, a halo of pure radiant gold. They were so much more knowledgeable than Polly about this dying business, and amazingly undeterred by Claudia’s snappish resistance to their efforts. They gave Claudia a bed bath every day, as well as providing small amenities Polly hadn’t thought of, such as mouthwash and a small stainless steel pan for Claudia to spit in when she had finished.

  Later, Polly sat docilely at Claudia’s side, pad in hand, as Claudia read the newspaper. A month ago, Claudia read every page, every paragraph, every word, dispensing her comments on matters to Polly. These days, Claudia read only the parts pertaining to society, and Polly took dictation.

  “Delphine Harris’s daughter had a baby. Go to Shreves and have them send her a little gift. Nothing over one hundred dollars. I never liked the girl.”

  “Would you like me to do it today?” Polly asked hopefully.

  “No. That can wait. Did an invitation come for the Wendelhof’s party?”

  Polly picked up the teetering pile of mail Claudia kept on the table next to her. After a quick search, she said, “Yes. Here it is.”

  “You’ll need to call with my regrets.”

  “Very well.”

  Polly so longed to have one serious talk with Claudia. She had so much to ask. Whom do you dream of while you’re sleeping here? Do you dream of Tucker, do you see him waiting for you, could you give him a message, tell him I love him? Do you know that Tucker and I were happy together? Even though I’m not whom you would have wished for a daughter-in-law, you do realize how much Tucker and I loved one another, don’t you? Are you frightened? Do you believe in God? Do you believe in an afterlife? Resurrection? Why have you always behaved like such a snobbish old bat to me? What are your regrets, what are your most beloved memories? How can you not care about David? You knew him for twenty years, and he’s such a funny, smart, clever guy. Do you hate me because I never had children with Tucker, is that it? Do you know how sorry I am that I never was able to give you a grandchild?

  But Polly could not ever bring herself to ask any of the questions, although she never gave up her vigilance for the slightest opening in Claudia’s shuttered façade.

  After reading the Globe, Claudia would nap, during which time Polly would tidy the house. Then, to keep herself sane, she’d curl up with a novel and a box of chocolates. Chocolate was good, one of the hospice workers had told her, it resembled the drug Atavan, which was both a mood elevator and a tranquilizer. Too bad it worked only when she ate it, Polly thought ruefully, and not during all the rest of her life as she carried it about on her hips.

  In the evening, after their brief meal, Polly and Claudia watched TV together. More and more these days, Claudia slept through the programs, allowing Polly to read.

  One afternoon Polly screwed up her courage and accompanied the hospice worker to the front door, where she put her hand on her arm. “I’m not certain how to ask this. I’m not even sure I should ask it. But—do you have any idea how much longer . . . ?”

  The hospice worker smiled. “It’s fine to ask the question. My best guess is that she’ll be here for another month or two. However, Claudia’s a real crackerjack. She might hang on even longer.”

  “Is there anything else I should be doing? I don’t know how to help her.”

  “You’re doing everything you can. She’s comfortable, in no pain, and not alone. If she starts to feel pain, we might want to consider moving her to a hospital. But until that point, she seems to be more than content to be here.”

  Polly developed odd obsessions with the hospice workers. They were so pretty, competent, gentle, serene. Cindy’s blond braid was so tidy, her soft, plump hands so satisfactory to watch. Doreen was slightly overweight, but no more than Polly, and her loose scrubs decorated with silly prints of cartoon or circus themes were fun to see. All the women smelled good, of soap, lotion, and mint. Sometimes Polly hated to leave the house to do her errands; she was depriving herself of the hospice workers’ company.

  The truth was, Polly felt cut off from the rest of the world, like some kind of eccentric, depressive recluse growing fatter and fatter on chocolate. Soon she wouldn’t fit out the front door. Occasionally, the phone would ring, and it would be Julia or Carolyn or Beth, calling to report on their latest exploits. Listening, laughing, gasping in surprise, Polly felt as if she were plugged into an IV of pure serotonin. Their friendship was even better than chocolate. But they were all so busy with their own lives and their work that often several days went by without any communication from them, and then Polly felt rejected, forgotten, the kid no one wanted on their team, and once again she would remind herself how much older she was than the other three. Beth, Julia, Carolyn, were all young, starting their lives, pregnant with their futures. Polly had gone through menopause, her child was grown, she was already widowed. She phoned David now and then, but hearing about Jehoshaphat was bittersweet, since she couldn’t see him. Pretend you live in a foreign country, she told herself, and every day she felt that this was true, that she was in a foreign country, on a kind of floating island, and every day she drifted farther out to sea, away from those with vivid, juicy, optimistic, sociable lives.

  As the days passed, the time of Claudia’s newspaper analysis shortened from an hour, to thirty minutes, to fifteen. Then the day came when Claudia asked Polly to read the pertinent parts to her; Claudia no longer had the strength to hold the newspaper in her hands.

  30

  Good grief, Gertrude,” Julia exclaimed, as she and Beth entered Carolyn’s living room. “This place is enormous! I feel like I’m in that movie Clue. Did you ever see it? They turned the board game into a movie, set in a house just like this one, huge, lots of old wood and old portraits. Is a butler with an Alfred Hitchcock accent and a sinister smile going to show up suddenly?”

  Carolyn shifted uncomfortably, slightly insulted by Julia’s remarks. “We have a housekeeper—”

  “Mrs. Danvers?” Julia guessed, laughing.

  “We call her Mrs. B., and she couldn’t be nicer,” Carolyn snapped.

  “Wow.” Beth stood just inside the door, gawking around as if she’d just entered the Sistine Chapel.

  Carolyn scooted clumsily on the sofa, like a tugboat grounded on a sandbar. “I can—”

  “You can sit still,” Julia said. “Beth, you arrange the chairs to face the TV.” She bent over the VCR, fiddling with the remote.

  Beth crouched down in front of Carolyn. “You look tense.”

  “I am tense! I don’t think my father will thank me for this.” Carolyn buried her face in her hands. “I wish Hank were here, but he had to be in Washington for a conference on endangered national parks.” She felt a tap on her shoulder.

  Julia held out a mug. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Warm milk. I’ve heard it helps you fall asleep, so it might help your nerves. I put a little honey in it.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks.” The milk was sweet and soothing.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Showtime,” Julia said. Tonight she’d worn all black, wanting to look professional and formidable. She’d worn her highest boots, too, and she was glad. She hoped she intimidated Heather, the little crook. Julia wouldn’t have Carolyn’s life and money for anything, not when people like Heather were around to prey on her.

  Julia opened the door. “Hello. I’m Julia Hathaway, and this is Beth Grey. We’re friends of Carolyn’s.” Julia took a moment to look the couple over. Carolyn’s father was as reported, distinguished and handsome. His piercing dark eyes were exactly like Carolyn’s. Next to him, Heather was innocuous-looking, in a flowered dress with a matching sweater.

  Aubrey raised an eyebrow at Carolyn and her friends. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Carolyn apologized. “This will only take a minute
.”

  “One hundred and seven seconds, to be exact,” Julia said.

  “Sit down, please.” Carolyn gestured to the chairs.

  Heather sat, gazing around like a chick just hatched from its shell.

  Aubrey stationed himself behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t need to sit. Get on with what you have to say.”

  “It’s what I have to show you, actually,” Carolyn told her father. She nodded to Julia, who pressed the buttons on the remote control.

  The television flared to life. After a momentary wiggle, the scene steadied before them: the yellow clapboard house, the winter-brown lawn, the “nurse” in his leather jacket coming out the front door.

  “That’s my brother’s house!” Heather gasped.

  “Good God, Carolyn!” Aubrey roared. “What are you up to?”

  A loud squawking noise interrupted him. Heather was leaning forward in her chair, emitting tormented noises, like someone being choked. “Cherry!”

  Carolyn looked at the television. Harry and Blondie were standing on the front stoop, locked in their rapacious kiss.

  “Cherry!” Heather croaked.

  “Harry?” her husband asked.

  “Cherry! He’s with Cherry! That bastard! I’ll kill him! That bastard!” Heather rose, throwing off her aura of sweetness as if it were a veil, revealing a face suffused with angry blood. Her eyes bugged from her head, her fists were clenched, her mouth twitched. “That conniving son of a bitch, I’ll kill him!”

  Exploding through the room, she knocked over a side chair on her way, yanked open the door, and stormed out into the hall.

  Carolyn looked at the television. Harry and Blondie had finally stopped kissing.

  “I don’t understand,” Aubrey said.

  “I do,” Julia told him. “Let’s go.” Pointing a commanding hand at Carolyn, she said, “Not you. You stay here and rest. Beth will stay with you.”

  “Beth will?” Beth cried in frustration.

  But Julia and Aubrey had already left the room.

  The television screen went blank as the tape ended. Carolyn looked at Beth. “She’s not our boss. We don’t take orders from her.”

  Beth wrung her hands in indecision. “Oh, but, Carolyn, we’re worried about your health. Your blood pressure. Your baby.”

  “I’m worried about my father, too. I want to be there for him.” Stamping her feet on the floor, she hauled herself up off the sofa. “I’ve got to be there for him.”

  “I’ll get your coat.”

  They raced through the long halls, finally exiting onto the porte cochere, where they paused to get their bearings. It was a dry, crisp winter night. The moon was bright enough to illuminate the various vehicles parked in the drive.

  “My father’s Jag is gone,” Carolyn said.

  Beth pulled her gloves from her shoulder bag. “So is Julia’s Volvo. Heather must have taken Aubrey’s car, and Julia is driving your father. I’ll drive you in my car.”

  Carolyn eyed Beth’s modest blue Camry nervously. “I’d appreciate it if you drove. I’m too bulky now to do it easily, but would you mind driving my Mercedes? I’d feel safer.”

  “I’d love to. Let’s go.”

  Carolyn was anxious as Beth steered them through the sleeping town of Sperry and onto Route 2 east. But Beth seemed to be a competent driver, quickly angling over into the fast lane, keeping them at a steady sixty-five miles per hour, speeding up when she had to pass an eighteen-wheeler. Carolyn’s heart skipped around in zigzags, and her breathing was irregular. She forced herself to lean back against the headrest and close her eyes, telling herself she was enclosed in the shelter of the Mercedes, while her daughter was enclosed in the shelter of her own body. The hum and shush of passing vehicles seemed like sounds of an invisible river rushing them into the future.

  Next to her, Beth hummed quietly. Carolyn couldn’t quite make out the song. What was it? Oh, yes. Queen’s “We Are the Champions.” Carolyn smiled.

  Finally, they reached the suburb of Arlington.

  Carolyn asked, “Do you see their cars?”

  “No, but they left a good five or ten minutes before we did. Doesn’t matter. I know where the house is.”

  Beth gave herself a mental pat on the back for sounding so cool and collected. Carolyn still terrified her, just a little, partly because she was from a wealthy, significant Massachusetts family. Partly because Carolyn was eleven years older and carried herself with an air of absolute authority, making decisions like the competent, experienced businesswoman she was. Partly because Carolyn had such startling coloring, that pale skin accentuating her striking dark eyes—it made all her judgments seem more harsh. And that house! It was more than a mansion, it was an estate, nearly a castle! Beth couldn’t imagine ever inviting Carolyn to her own modest rented apartment. Now, Polly was easy to like even though she was so much older, because she was so warm, so easy with her laughter, so kind.

  But it was Beth who was driving this expensive car with its two valuable passengers, mother and child, and as she drove, Beth felt as if she were passing a kind of rite-of-passage test, as the knights did in ancient times, except, of course, she was female. It had surprised her when Carolyn had allowed her to drive, as if Carolyn trusted Beth to be a careful, competent driver. So Beth kept alert as she drove. She was proving something to Carolyn, and to herself.

  Beth said, “This is the street.”

  Carolyn sat forward as they turned onto Martin Lane. Streetlights burned white, spilling light over the neighborhood.

  “I see their cars. The Jag and Julia’s Volvo.”

  Beth brought the Mercedes to a stop behind the other cars. Carolyn unfastened her seat belt and swung her legs out of the car. From the next yard came a dog’s alarm, a shrill, annoying little yap. Beth hurried around to take Carolyn’s arm, helping her make her way over the sidewalk, still rutted with old snow and ice.

  When they reached the front door, they found it unlocked and slightly open. Carolyn glanced at Beth. They went in.

  It took a moment for Carolyn to make sense of the scene unfolding before her. In a living room thick with shag carpet, plush furniture, alcohol fumes, and cigarette smoke, her father was reaching out, attempting to catch hold of Heather’s arms, which were flailing like propellers as she hit out at a bearded man trapped on the sofa. It had to be Harry—it was hard to tell, because his arms were lifted up over his head, warding off Heather’s blows.

  “You filthy, scum-sucking, lying piece of shit!” Heather screamed. “I’m going to kill you!” Her whole body jiggled as she swung her arms.

  Julia stood against one wall, arms folded like a bouncer’s, chewing her lip, watching anxiously. In one corner of the sofa next to Harry, a cluster of pillows repositioned themselves. After a moment, Carolyn realized the shape was a skinny blond woman curled up in a defensive ball, clutching a pair of throw pillows to her face as shields against the blows Heather occasionally aimed her way.

  “Aaargh!” With a roar, Harry suddenly grabbed Heather by both wrists and shoved her away with such force she fell backward. In a domino effect, Aubrey, just behind Heather, fell, landing in a cone-shaped wicker basket chair. Harry stood up, his fists clenched, his face furious. “You stupid bitch, you’ve ruined it!”

  Heather scrambled to her feet. “Don’t blame it on me, you piece of shit,” she spat. “I’m the one doing all the fucking work! All you had to do was hang out here, drinking beer with your buddies. But, no, you couldn’t keep your pecker in your pants!”

  Veins stood out like ropes on Harry’s neck as he shouted, “Why should I? Don’t tell me you weren’t getting poked regularly by Old Father Time over there.”

  Carolyn rushed to kneel by her father, still collapsed in the chair. “Are you all right?” His knees high, his hips sunk into the bottom of the basket chair, Aubrey struggled to stand, a vein standing out frighteningly on his forehead.

  The blonde, taking advantage of the momentary lull in the
brawl, scooted off the sofa and tried to run to the kitchen, but Julia grabbed her by the shoulders. “Harry isn’t Heather’s brother, is he?”

  The blonde’s laugh had the raucous rasp of a gull’s. “God, no! He’s her boyfriend!” Looking at Heather and Harry shouting at each other, she added, “Or he was.”

  Aubrey went very still, his full attention riveted on Heather. His face was white. Carolyn grabbed his wrist. Was he going to have a heart attack? Caught in the chair like a lump of ice cream in a cone, he was like a struggling insect. She couldn’t bear the indignity of it for him. She took his wrist. “Let me help you stand.”

  Aubrey nodded at her and heaved himself forward. Carolyn pulled with all her strength, feeling her own body tighten fiercely in her effort. As her father stumbled to his feet, Julia grabbed Aubrey’s other arm, steadying him. Heather struck out at Harry, who bobbed and weaved like a boxer, laughing and taking up most of the space in the small room, his swinging elbows nearly hitting Aubrey, Carolyn, and Julia.

  “Let’s go, Father,” Carolyn implored.

  Aubrey looked at his wife. Heather was collapsed on the sofa, wailing like a fire engine siren.

  Aubrey straightened his shoulders. “My lawyers will be in touch.”

  The blonde laughed wickedly, letting her head fall back, aiming her laughter at the ceiling.

  “Where’s a goddamned beer?” Harry puffed, his eyes scanning the room.

  “Father,” Carolyn said again, “let’s go.”

  Beth pulled the door open. Julia and Carolyn, on either side of Aubrey, led him away from his sobbing, cursing wife, or tried to. A contraction gripped Carolyn so fiercely she stopped dead in her tracks, bending over from its force.

  “Carolyn?” Julia shot a worried look her way.

  “I’m fine,” she panted. “Give me a minute.” Was she supporting her father or leaning on him?

  “The old dude’s not gonna hurl, is he?” Harry looked fascinated. “ ’Cause I’m not cleaning it up.”