The Bridge Ladies
Page 26
Sometimes, when we were young and winters more brutal than they are now, ducks would come to our half-frozen pond, fooled into thinking they could rest a while only to die, trapped beneath the encroaching ice. We’d beg our father to go out on the ice and save them. He’d tamp at the edge with his boot, attempt to take a step, only then you would hear it: ice cracking almost like electricity beneath the surface. We’d all step back then, both roused and relieved. Then we’d go back inside. Empty-handed.
Bette finally returns to Bridge after a few more weeks. She says she feels as if she has lost half of her brain. She can’t focus, can’t concentrate. I don’t imagine for a moment that returning to Bridge marks an actual turning point, rather some desire for camaraderie, some need to put on lipstick and pearls or to feel something familiar like a deck of cards with its elegant symmetry and iconic suits: Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, and Spades.
Lunch is at The Woodbridge Gathering, a very low-key deli with no emphasis on decor. A very sweet waitress brings over menus. The front pieces of her ponytail have come loose and swing back and forth in front of her glasses like windshield wipers. Bette is late. There has been some miscommunication between her and my mother; they were going to meet at a gas station for a tutorial. In the midst of this confusion, Bette slips in like the cat whose been missing for days. She pulls up a seat, and that’s it: No royal welcome. No hugs or kisses. No one says anything.
I’m shocked. Bette has been gone for more than six months. She has lost Arthur. Am I living in a parallel universe where the expression of emotion is punishable by death? Couldn’t they just once step down from Mount Rushmore and give someone a hug? Instead, talk meanders from topic to topic. Jackie’s granddaughter is getting married in Maine. She likes the young man very much. A conversation about paperless invitations ensues. Spoiler alert: the ladies do not like them.
When I see Bette next, I don’t want to call attention to the fact that no one made much of her return, but I feel indignant on her behalf.
“Aren’t you surprised there wasn’t more of a welcome?”
“No, not really.”
“You mean you weren’t upset when no one brought up Arthur? The memorial?”
Bette thinks more deeply now before answering. “No, I really wasn’t. I would have brought it up if I needed to. I think they were being respectful of my feelings. Anyway, I didn’t want to talk about it. It was nice to take my mind off it and just play Bridge.”
EPILOGUE
My mother and I take the plunge. We decide to go as partners to the Tuesday game at the Orange Senior Center, where we had taken Bridge lessons and where I played with Jonathan and nearly collapsed from anxiety. It’s October and I haven’t been able to get into New York to play at Honors, I haven’t been able to find a peer group to play with in New Haven, and I’m worried that I will forget everything. We goad each other on and finally find a Tuesday to play. I’ve been studying my Bridge books more, playing on my app, and have told myself to relax. I can handle it this time. It’s my mother who is intimidated and a little freaked out, as if she’s getting into bed with someone new after being with the same person her whole life. She knows her way around the Monday game with the ladies, but the players here are known to be fierce; some play every day of the week.
I have newfound respect for how my mother has managed since my father died nearly a decade ago. She never asks for help with the big things, finances and house repairs, and has a handyman do everything else: change lightbulbs, install a new mailbox, and clean the gutters. I’ve always thought of her as completely dependent, somewhat bumbling even. That was the dynamic between her and my dad. He was the person who got things done. As he declined, it was left to her to take care of everything, gradually then completely. When I ask her how she did it, she said, “Dad had taken care of everything. After he got sick, I’d push myself out of bed every day and say, ‘You’re up. It’s your turn. You’re at bat.’”
I have a newfound respect for the seniors at the Orange Senior Center, too. The place is lousy with hearing aids, walkers, accessories that could make a drag queen weep. The men come with flip phones attached to their belts in leather cases like Eagle Scouts. But they’re fierce. They know their way around a hand of Bridge and I suspect a whole lot more. How many collective compromises, broken hearts? How many in safe marriages, or worse, unsafe? Some have cheated on their spouses or never loved them; some have broken their children’s spirits; doubtless some were broken themselves. How many bags of cement?
Inside, the room is filling fast, and it’s that same old feeling of musical chairs. My mother and I nab seats with a man and woman though it’s not clear if they are a couple. Only when the man makes a mistake, the woman rips him a new one, which leads me to think they are married. I can’t tell if we’ve been dealt fairly straightforward hands that are easier to bid, but we bid and make three out of four hands. Next we play with Bea and her partner. She introduces us and we exchange chitchat, but when the bell rings, it’s all business. It’s my deal and when I open my hand I have exactly thirteen points and five Spades, including the Ace, King, Queen in honors.
“One Spade,” I say, confidently.
“A Spade, you say,” my mother replies conspiratorially, running her fingernail against the fan of cards worthy of a Liberace glissando.
We will make that hand and more before moving to the last table, where my mother recognizes a woman whom she knew a hundred years ago and they exchange pleasantries. She whispers that she’ll fill me in later, implying that the woman is a real piece of work.
Overall, we win half the hands we play and feel very positive about our partnership. Bridge made a team out of us. Three hours later, no worse for wear, we leave the center.
“We weren’t the worst,” I say.
“Far from it. You were really good, Betsy. You’re a lot better than you think you are.”
“Would you play again?”
“Definitely,” she says.
It’s still light out, but cooler now. As we head across the parking lot, my mother looks at me, “Aren’t you going to button your coat?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, my deepest thanks to the Bridge Ladies: Bette Horowitz née Cohen, Jackie Podoloff née Brody, Beatrice Phillips née Bernstein, Rhoda Meyers née Freedman, and Roz Lerner née Cohen. They welcomed me into their club, invited me for lunch and Bridge every Monday, sat down with me for multiple conversations, and let me play at their table. It was a great honor.
I am also grateful to the Bridge daughters who spoke with me about their memories of the Bridge club: Lisa Podoloff Boles, Davi Horowitz, Amy Horowitz, Nancy Phillips Meredith, and Beth Meyers Stubenhaus. And to Dick Podoloff, who was always an enthusiastic participant.
My sisters, Gail Lerner and Nina Palmer, generously shared their time and memories with me. They have both been incredibly supportive of this project, reading multiple drafts and giving comments and encouragement. Thank you both so much.
Colleagues and friends to whom I am also deeply grateful include Amy Williams, Caron Knauer, Leah Hager Cohen, Sylvie Rabineau, Georgina Morley, Mizzi Vander Pluijm, Erin Hosier, Jennifer Carlson, and Henry Dunow. I am indebted to Rosemary Mahoney, who once again generously applied her sharp mind and pencil.
My interns Casey Blue James, E-Lynn Yap, Arielle Datz, and Ana Barros helped me tremendously over the years. To my teachers who all moved the needle of my fledgling game a little further: Ellen Friedman, Al Pol, Barbara Bayone, Jeff Bayone, and Wendy Frieden. My greatest debt goes to Jess Jurkovic, who offered his expertise, his friendship, and his gift of description in parsing the complexities of Bridge.
To my Bridge buddies: Barbara and Bernard Barkin, Anne Dailey, Jack Hitt, Rick Prum, Tina Pohlman, Dan Greenberg, Simon Lipskar, Eamon Dolan, and Matty Goldberg. Thank you for playing with me. ;)
I am enormously grateful to my agent, David Black. As a fellow agent, I can only say that his guidance in this process has been inspiring. H
is friendship, support, stamina, expertise, and intensity continue to astonish me from the first phone call on. My thanks to the wonderful people at the Black agency: Susan Raihofer, Sarah Smith, Jenny Herrera, and Sarah Paolantonio.
Karen Rinaldi: thank you. Even when I wanted you to tire, you didn’t! You pushed and challenged and prodded and I am so grateful for your editorial eye and publishing savvy. We, too, made a good team. Thank you for believing in the ladies, and me. I must also mention Hannah Robinson, assistant extraordinaire—aka The Slayer—and soon to run a major corporation. Thank you for everything. The entire Harper team has been incredibly supportive and creative. Thanks to Victoria Comella, Brian Perrin, Penny Makras, Tina Andreadis, Kathy Schneider, Virginia Stanley, Milan Bozic, Bill Ruoto, Nikki Baldauf, Jonathan Burnham, and Michael Morrison.
Last and most, I thank my daughter, Raffaella Sweet, who has set a very high bar for going big or going home. And my husband, John Donatich, who read every single draft and never stopped pushing me to do better, offering advice that always turned out to be exactly right. And for all that I mostly wanted to kill him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BETSY LERNER is the author of The Forest for the Trees and Food and Loathing. She is a recipient of the Thomas Wolfe Poetry Prize, an Academy of American Poets Poetry Prize, and the Tony Godwin Prize for Editors and was selected as one of PEN’s Emerging Writers. Lerner is a partner with the literary agency Dunow, Carlson & Lerner and currently resides in New Haven, Connecticut.
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ALSO BY BETSY LERNER
Food and Loathing
The Forest for the Trees
CREDITS
Cover design by Milan Bozic
Cover illustration by Chris Silas Neal
COPYRIGHT
THE BRIDGE LADIES.Copyright © 2016 by Betsy Lerner. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
The Bridge Ladies is a work of nonfiction. Some of the names and characteristics of people who appear in these pages have been changed to protect their privacy.
Excerpts from Gabriel: A Poem by Edward Hirsch, copyright © 2014 by Edward Hirsch. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lerner, Betsy.
Title: The bridge ladies : a memoir / Betsy Lerner.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Harper Wave, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015043022 | ISBN 9780062354464 (hardback) | ISBN 9780062467164 (large print)
EPub Edition May 2016 ISBN 9780062354488
Subjects: LCSH: Lerner, Betsy. | Literary agents—United States—Biography. | Bridge clubs—Social aspects—United States. | Women bridge players—United States. | Female friendship—United States. | Intergenerational relations—United States. | Mothers and daughters—United States. | Older women—United States—Social life and customs. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Literary. | FAMILY & RELATIONSHIPS / General.
Classification: LCC CT275.L36795 A3 2016 | DDC 305.2092—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015043022
International ISBN: 978-0-06-256522-8
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