by Nancy Thayer
“She’s a cunt,” Eileen said. “She’s a horrible, trashy little piece.”
“Do you know our secret name for her?” Jamie said. “We call her HBO. Home Box Office. Because she’ll take her box into your home, into your husband’s office, anywhere.”
“Would you all please tell me what you’re talking about!” Sara shouted, exasperated.
“Now, look, Mary’s my friend,” Carole said. “And she’s a marvelous babysitter. No one in the world could be better with children. And she’s not an evil person. She’s just got this thing about men. It’s like she has to prove to herself, and everyone else, I guess, that she’s irresistible to men, that she can get any man she wants.”
“I think it’s because Bob is such an asshole,” Jamie said with drunken emphasis. “I couldn’t live with that man.”
“She was that way before Bob,” Carole said. “She’s always been that way. I feel sorry for her. It’s like an obsession with her, she’s got to get every man she sees interested in her.”
“My God,” Sara said, musing aloud, “I thought she was just that way with Steve. Chasing him, I mean.”
Carole looked at Sara. “Well, she is especially that way with Steve. I think she was really in love with him at one time. I don’t know if she’ll ever get over the fact that he didn’t love her. But that’s not why she acts this way. She acted this way before she met Steve. She just has to get every man she meets interested in her, even if it means taking off her clothes in public.”
“And sticking her tongue in his ear while dancing with him in front of his girlfriend,” Eileen said. “And taking his hand and putting it on her breast. God, what gall she has! She’s as pregnant as a kangaroo and she’s still vamping around.”
“Well, her stomach isn’t sticking out that far yet, and her boobs are enormous these days,” Jamie said. “As anyone can plainly see in that dress she wore tonight.”
Eileen began to weep, “I just can’t believe it,” she said. “I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe Watson would go off with her. We’ve been together for four years and nothing like this has ever happened. I’m the one who wouldn’t get married, I said it was an outdated institution, an anachronism, but now I wish we were married so I could sue the bastard for a divorce.”
“He’s drunk,” Carole said. “I haven’t seen Watson this drunk for years. He usually doesn’t drink much, that’s part of the problem. And cheer up, if they do try to do anything, he probably won’t get very far, they say that when men get drunk they can’t get it up.”
“Watson could get it up if his brain was in a coma,” Eileen said. “But I just don’t understand how he could go off with that bitch.”
“It’s that old sweet and innocent and helpless act,” Annie said. “She’s pulled it on all our husbands. And everyone sort of puts up with it because her own husband is such a gorilla.”
“God,” Sara said, “I wish I’d known all this before now. I’ve been making myself miserable the past year. It seems she’s always asking Steve to take her home and then telling him how unhappy she is, as if he’s responsible for doing something about it.”
“Well, she really is unhappy,” Carole said. “That much is true.”
“Well, I don’t have any sympathy for her,” Eileen said.
“I don’t, either,” Sara said, realizing as she spoke that she, too, had had more than enough to drink. Otherwise she never would have admitted how she felt about Mary. “I don’t like her, and I don’t think she likes me.”
“Of course she doesn’t like you,” Carole said. “She hates you. You ‘got’ Steve. He married you. She’ll never forgive you for that. And of course she’s jealous of you for everything else. Your glamorous life.”
“Glamorous!” Sara said. “My life isn’t glamorous!”
“Oh, give me a break,” Carole said. “Of course it is. You go up to Boston all the time, you’re going to London this month, you get to swish around in high heels and silk while we’re all squeezing into last year’s jeans.”
“It’s true,” Jamie said. “You’re so lucky, Sara. And I’m jealous of you, too. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate you, I like you, but I feel so sort of pitiful around you sometimes, when I’ve got baby goop stuck to my old shirt or when I see a new dress I’d like and then realize that not only can I not afford it but I wouldn’t have any place to wear it if I could. That’s usually when I run into you, like last week, when I saw you in the A&P. You were wearing high heels and that red cape and you said you had just flown in from Boston and were in a terrible rush, picking up something for dinner. And I was wearing my old saggy sweater and had the baby sniveling away in her carrier. The high point of my day was getting out to the A&P! As much as I like you, sometimes I hate you!”
“Well,” Sara said, “I envy you all your babies,” but when they groaned and Jamie said, “Yeah, well, when you have your kids, you’ll understand what we’re talking about,” she did not pursue the subject. She could not make herself vulnerable to these women yet; she would rather have their envy than their pity.
“I’m sorry if Mary hates me,” Sara said. “But I don’t see what I can do to make her stop. I’ve never been unkind to her.”
“You can’t do anything,” Carole said. “Mary’s like a child in some ways. Maybe that’s why she’s so good with children. The best you can do is just to ignore her, I guess. Don’t take it personally. In a way it’s not you she hates, it would be any woman who married Steve.”
The group of women filed out of the ladies’ room back into the main lobby, where, they had forgotten, a party was going on. Sara sat down with Steve and told him what had happened. They watched as Eileen drank the coffee served to her, as she gathered up her things to leave. Just as she was going out the door, they saw Watson come in. The group could not hear what was said, but they could see what happened: Eileen drew her hand back and slapped Watson as hard as she could across his face. Then she stormed out the door.
“Jesus Christ, what was that all about?” Watson said, crossing the room to their table. The imprint of Eileen’s hand was red on his face.
“Watson, you ass, you went off with Mary,” Carole told him.
“Well, Jesus, Carole, all I did was drive her home. She said her husband had already left and she didn’t feel well. What was I supposed to do, say, ‘Sorry, baby, walk’?”
“You were gone an awfully long time,” Carole said, skeptically.
“Yeah, well, we sat out in the car for a while and talked. She’s pretty unhappy. Her husband sounds like a louse. Jesus, I can’t believe Eileen would get so upset! What does she think I was doing?”
“You could have told her you were leaving,” Carole said. “You could have asked her to come with you.”
“She was dancing,” Watson said. “She was having a high old time on the dance floor. Besides,” he added, looking sheepish, “Mary was really upset. She said she needed to get away before she started crying. She was almost in tears. In fact, she was in tears by the time we got out to the car.”
“Poor Wittle Baa,” Jamie Jones said drunkenly. “Poor baby.”
“Well, you’d better go find Eileen and explain all that to her,” Carole said. “She can’t have gone far; she doesn’t know Nantucket that well and I’m sure she couldn’t walk to our house from here; she’d get lost. Listen, Watson, you probably did the right thing, but you should have checked with Peter and me. I mean, this is an old routine Mary pulls and there isn’t a wife—or lover—around who hasn’t gotten upset over it. Mary’s a real manipulator. You were only being kind, but she was being sleazy. You’ve got to let Eileen know that nothing happened. Let her know that you only felt sorry for Mary. I mean, I know it’s awful that Eileen slapped you, but she thought you deserved it.”
“Why don’t the three of us go find Eileen?” Pete said. “We should be getting home anyway; it’s late.”
With that, the party broke up. Sara rode home in silence, leaning on Steve’s shou
lder as he drove. She grinned nastily in the dark: there would be a perfect moment in the future, she knew, when she could tell Steve that poor little Mary was known among the wives in the group as HBO. Then she sobered, thinking: perhaps the men called her that, too. She felt sorry for Mary now, and in that pity was a great relief.
Earlier that night, when the women had gone en masse to the ladies’ room, Sara had overheard Jamie and Carole wondering aloud to each other just how much their husbands had had to drink.
“Oh, Jamie,” Sara had said, “I don’t think Sheldon’s drunk. I sat next to him at dinner.”
“You don’t understand, Sara,” Jamie had said, “Shel will seem perfectly sober—he’ll be perfectly sober through a whole lot of drinks, and then suddenly one too many will set him off. And we never know what that one too many is. He’s an alcoholic, you see,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I always know the minute Pete’s had too much,” Carole had sighed. “His actions change completely, instantly. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. God, sometimes I get so sick of it. If it weren’t for the kids …”
The women continued to talk. Sara combed her hair and put on fresh makeup, listening all the while to the talk going on around her. She realized why these two women had a special friendship, why they went off together one night a week without asking other women in the group to go with them: they were attending Al-Anon meetings. She was so glad to know that! Not that their husbands had problems with alcohol, but that the tie between the two women was one that she couldn’t share—thank heavens. It was not that they were leaving Sara out of something because they didn’t want her company.
“I sometimes feel that I’m no more mature than I was in high school,” Sara said aloud. “I sometimes feel I have the mentality of a teenager.”
“Hey, great,” Steve said. “Wanna drive out to the Jetties and park the car and neck?”
“No thanks,” Sara said. “It’s too cold. I’ve grown up enough to appreciate the comforts of a bed.” She looked over at Steve and grinned. “But I’ll put my hand on your thigh and blow in your ear if you’d like.”
“Is that what you used to do to all your boyfriends when you were a teenager?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know,” Sara said. “That’s so long ago, I can’t remember.”
“Make up your mind, lady!” Steve said. “A moment ago you were saying—”
“I know,” Sara said. “I know. I’m too tired to be intelligent now. Too foggy with all that champagne. I’m going to feel awful in the morning.”
“It is morning,” Steve said.
And it was, very early morning. When they walked into their house, they walked arm in arm through darkness, while overhead stars burned and glittered in celestial celebration of another new year.
Morning.
Three-fifteen in the morning, and outside the window a blaze of splendid blue sky, streaked with flame-tinted clouds. Below them the world slowly whirled.
Really it was eight-fifteen in the morning, for they were almost in London. The stewardess was quietly making the rounds, giving passengers warm rolled-up towels and trays of breakfast with steaming coffee or tea. Time had lurched for the people on this plane, had skipped a beat, but their bodies were still stumbling along on the old time.
In the seat next to Sara, Fanny still slept a deep and dreamy Valium sleep. Sara had no idea how many pills Fanny had taken before she got on the plane, just as she had no idea how many Fanny took just to get through a regular day. She decided to let Fanny sleep until the last moment, to let her sleep until they landed, if possible, just in case Fanny was nervous about landings. Although it seemed it wasn’t accidents that worried Fanny—it was always, and only, the judgment of people.
Fanny did seem to be weathering her reentrance to the world well. Sara had nursed her along this past month and watched Fanny grow more confident with every step, just like a child. First she had taken the author to have her hair styled and tinted to hide the streaks of gray. The hairdresser, a handsome young man, had been suavely flattering to Fanny, and her hairstyle had turned out a smashing success. Sara watched while right before her eyes, Fanny’s fear of judgment shrank as her vanity caught fire again and leapt up, making her eyes blaze, her skin glow. She had not lost it, the old powerful taste, the craving, for the admiration, and the envy, and the homage paid to her by others’ eyes.
The next day Sara took Fanny shopping for new clothes. Again, the outing was a success. The saleswomen were honestly impressed with Fanny’s figure and posture, and the new fashions and colors Fanny tried—brighter, more vivid, than the pastels she usually chose—were flattering. Fanny needed everything, business suits (which looked amazingly sexy on her full figure), dinner dresses, walking shoes and slacks for their spare time in London. At one point in their shopping tour, to Sara’s amazement, Fanny said casually, “Why don’t we stop in here and buy you a mink, Sara?”
“What?” Sara had asked, almost laughing with surprise. To say something so casually!
“Well, you’ve admired mine so much, and it does make one feel so elegant to wear mink. Besides, they’re warm. It’s practical.”
“Fanny, I can’t afford a mink coat,” Sara began, but Fanny interrupted her.
“Oh, I know. But I can. And I’d love to buy you one for a present. It’s only fair, after all you’ve done for me.”
For one brief second the dream of owning a mink coat glimmered in Sara’s mind like a sparkling jewel, and there Fanny stood, her fairy godmother, ready to wave her wand.
“I couldn’t let you buy me a mink coat, Fanny,” Sara protested.
“But, darling, you know I have more money than I know what to do with!” Fanny said.
“I know, I know, but I’m sure now that you’re getting out more you’ll find all sorts of things to spend your money on,” Sara said. “Fanny, it’s incredibly generous of you to suggest it, but really, I can’t let you do it. And don’t worry, I shan’t embarrass you in London, I won’t go slouching around behind you like a poor country cousin.”
“Oh, my dear, you know it’s fine with me if you do!” Fanny said. “It will only make me look better!” She laughed heartily.
Jenny’s Book had come out in the States this week, and Walpole and James had thrown a publication party for Fanny—the first party she had been to in five years. Sara had scheduled the party before the London trip so that Fanny could have a trial run-through. For most Americans a London party would be a momentous occasion; for Fanny it would be overwhelming.
The Boston party went well. It was crowded with journalists from Boston and New York, other writers and editors and agents, and assorted types who loved the literary world. Linda Oldham had come from Heartways House, delighted at last to be able to meet the reclusive writer. Fanny had worn a simple black wool dress with pearls, had looked smashing, had been charming and witty, and had been much admired, although Sara wasn’t sure just how aware she was of her triumph, for she went to the party stuffed with Valium and drank gallons of scotch once she got there. Sara had seldom seen anyone drink so much and stay so sober. She knew that all those calming drugs were fighting against the adrenaline of fear that was shooting through Fanny’s veins. Her first party in years! She did beautifully.
Steve had come up for the publication party and afterward he and Sara and Fanny and Donald James went to a small French restaurant for dinner. Sara watched, both amused and impressed, as Fanny set out to captivate both men. Her Kansas drawl grew more lilting and lazy, her vocabulary more ladylike and quaint, her movements more voluptuous, her smile enticing. Sara noticed that Fanny ate almost nothing but drank lots of wine. Sara had never watched a first-class enchantress at work before, and it was a marvelous lesson. How subtle Fanny was, how feminine!
As they were leaving the restaurant, Donald James drew Fanny aside and exacted a promise that she have lunch with him when she returned from London.
“I don’t believe it. That old nun!” Sara said in the car.
“He’s smitten with you, Fanny, you’ve managed to get even him enamored of you.”
“Oh, dear, he just wants to have a business lunch, I’m sure. Find out how London went and all that.” Fanny’s voice was smug. She was slowly rubbing her cheek against the collar of her mink.
“Would you like to meet us for lunch tomorrow?” Sara asked as they stopped in front of Fanny’s Victorian house.
“Oh, goodness, no.” Fanny laughed. “Sara, don’t you know that I shan’t get out of bed at all tomorrow? I’ll probably sleep till three or four—the sleep of the just. It takes me a while to unwind,” she added. “I always did get so excited at parties. I’ll probably be up a few more hours, telling poor old dreary Eloise about my triumphs. Then I’ll have a very hot bath and a glass of—don’t laugh!—cocoa!—and I hope I’ll finally manage to get to sleep about three or four in the morning. I’ve always been this way. It’s one of the reasons I stopped going out. Steve,” she said then, “will you be kind enough to escort me to my door?”
Not until Sara saw Steve assisting Fanny up the winding slate walk did she realize how drunk Fanny was, or perhaps it was that she was drunk and truly exhausted. For her first night out in five years, it had been a strenuous night. Sara saw the draperies parted in the living room and a dark figure watching: Eloise. Then the door opened and Eloise was there, putting her hand under Fanny’s arm. Sara could see Eloise’s face in the light; she was not smiling, but she looked sane and gentle, just what Fanny needed now, Common Sense embodied. She was glad they could leave the excitable Fanny in such good hands.
As Steve and Sara waited outside Fanny’s door the following evening, the terrible fear that Fanny would back out of the trip to London from sheer terror had Sara nearly sick—but at last the door opened, and there Eloise was. Behind her was Fanny in her mink, with an assortment of luggage lined up in the entrance hall. Steve had driven both women to the airport, and bought them a celebratory glass of champagne and kissed Sara and promised that she would return safely and that he would be completely miserable every moment she was gone. They had gone through customs. They had boarded the plane. Almost immediately Fanny had taken another pill and very soon after the plane lifted off, she was deep in sleep.
