The Hot Flash Club Chills Out

by Nancy Thayer

  Here they stopped at the ’Sconset Market, an old-fashioned store with wooden floors and delicious ice cream sold at new-fashioned prices. They each bought a cone to lick as they strolled along gazing at the old fishermen’s cottages now transformed into miniature fairy-tale homes. They drove back into town, went around the rotary, familiarized themselves with the area where Stop & Shop and other stores were located, then rode out past the schools all the way to Surfside Beach.

  Here, the land sloped down to a long golden curve where the waves soared and dropped, churning the water with sand and foam. Sunbathers in swimsuits, with towels and sweatshirts pulled around them to block off the breeze, were making their way up the hill in the late afternoon light, past the gray-shingled concession stand, and back to the parking lot.

  Polly leaned out the window, looking. “We should come here some evening with a little picnic.”

  “Good idea,” Faye agreed, then added, “Why not tonight?”

  Polly jumped out of the Jeep and stood in the open air. “It’s kind of breezy.”

  Faye jumped out, too. “We’ll bring sweaters.”

  They raced to their house to equip themselves, then hurried back to the shore. It was just past the summer equinox, so the sun was still high, but the late June water was still too cold for most swimmers and the evening air too cool for sunbathing. The beach was almost deserted. Snug in quilted jackets and scarves, they established a little nest between the dunes, and laid out a blanket. Faye opened a bottle of wine while Polly made a plate of cheese, crackers, and dark, oily olives.

  “They say if you sail from here in a straight line, the next land you hit would be Portugal,” Faye mused.

  “We should come out here some morning to watch the sun rise,” Polly suggested, leaning back on her elbows and stretching out her legs. “Oh, it’s so peaceful here.” She turned to Faye. “Did you see any places you’d like to paint?”

  “I saw a hundred places!” Faye told her. Waving her hands, she said, “Just look at the light! Sometimes it’s diamond sharp, sometimes the mist diffuses it into a kind of illuminated net. I’m going to paint tomorrow.” She hugged her knees. “I can’t wait.” Glancing over at Polly, she asked, “What will you do tomorrow?”

  Polly thought a moment. “I’ll make us a wonderful dinner.”

  Faye frowned. “Polly, you don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to,” Polly insisted. “I love to cook. And it will be nice to have someone to cook for. I’m in such a funny mood. I never know what’s going to make me start crying. If I see a dog, I think of poor old Roy. If I see a man, I think of Hugh, and when I see couples together, I think of Hugh and his ex-wife!” Tears sprang to her eyes. Polly angrily wiped at her cheeks. “Damn it! I promised myself I was not going to loom around you like Eeyore.” Pushing herself up, she announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

  Faye watched her friend stride off, down to the water’s edge where the tide chased lacy waves up onto the sand, then sank back, hissing. Polly headed to the west, so Faye decided to take a little walk toward the east.

  Polly moved rapidly along, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket, the tip of her scarf flipped by the wind against her cheek. She was angry with herself for being such a blubbery wimp, for spoiling a lovely evening by the sea for herself and Faye. But her entire body seemed to be swollen to overflowing with the salt water of tears. She wanted to cry. She needed to cry. And here on the edge of the island, just now, just this moment on this evening, she allowed herself to weep, for the death of her loyal old dog, for the death of her beloved husband, for the loss of her son to a woman who, for whatever reasons, kept him separated from Polly. And last, for a romance with Hugh that was as lovely as that streak of rose light glowing along the horizon—and as steadfast.

  The sand was pocked with footprints from earlier walkers. The tide rushed up, filling in the hollows, carelessly erasing all signs of human presence. By the shelter of a dune, she came upon a heart drawn into the sand, complete with an arrow through it and the inscription Andrew loves Jenn forever! Polly stood a moment, her sobs lost in the pounding of the surf. Forever. Andrew and Jenn had to be young, and powerful with the hope of the young. For them, their love was larger than the ocean, their lives as bright as a summer day. When you are older, Polly thought, you know that life really is an island, and to be old is to be like this, perched alone on the edge of the land, knowing that forever was as cold and uncaring as this ocean, eternity as dark and unknowable as the swirling jade waves.

  Faye ambled along the golden beach, picking up and discarding shells, skipping out of the way of an unexpected rush of surf, gazing right toward the gray-shingled cottages set back among the beach grass and dunes or left, out to the ocean, infinite, mysterious, and radiantly blue beneath the sinking sun.

  Her mind teemed with thoughts of Winslow Homer’s seascapes, and Childe Hassam’s rainy day Nantucket scenes, and of the way George Inness caught the mess of daily life in a moment of radiant beauty. She meditated on the genius of Eastman Johnson’s Nantucket painting “The Cranberry Harvest.” She thought of color and light and line, of shadow and darkness.

  Then, from nowhere, completely unexpected, came a hot flash, whipping through her body like a creature escaped from a cage, blanking all thoughts from her mind in an inferno of discomfort. Only with great effort did she restrain herself from simply plunging into the ocean, whose waves offered such cool deliverance. She untied her scarf, yanked off her jacket, and still bursting with heat, she collapsed on the sand, untied her sneakers and tore off her socks. She dug her feet into the sand, which felt deliciously icy next to her burning skin.

  She thought as she sat there how her hot flashes were like warning lights, like the flashing lights on streets or the beacons from lighthouses, or the blaze of color in autumn leaves, reminding her that she was approaching the end of her particular travels, that unavoidable dangers loomed ahead, that she should declare her talent now, while she still could. She was falling in love with this island, with its infinite variety of beautiful views. She was eager to paint, not so that she would have the paintings, but so that she would once again be immersed in her work, in the mysterious alchemy Fate had delivered to her between the world, her eye, and her hand. She was falling in love with herself as a woman of a certain age, alone.

  26

  Thursday afternoon, Marilyn was pleased with herself. She was in one of those rare periods when, somehow, she’d managed to arrange to facilitate all the actions necessary for the happiness of her family.

  The first part of the week had been chaotic. Because Marilyn had spent the day going to Nantucket to have lunch with her Hot Flash friends, Ruth had missed her weekly Saturday-afternoon outing, when Marilyn drove her to the library, grocery store, and pharmacy. Ruth was too sweet to complain, but Marilyn knew her mother missed that little island of togetherness in the midst of the solitude of Ruth’s life. In order to make it up to Ruth, she’d taken her out to have a little meal and do errands on Tuesday night, which meant that Marilyn didn’t get all her papers marked for her Intro to Geology class, which meant she either had to stay up until early morning to get it done, or neglect something needing doing in the house, like harassing the landlord from whom they were renting the condo to get the broken central air conditioning fixed or, more importantly, the toilet in the third-floor bathroom unclogged. Marilyn had no idea what had gone wrong with the toilet, but it intermittently overflowed, sending rivulets of water down the wall in Ian’s study and causing the plaster ceiling to bulge ominously. Ian had had to move his desk and drafting table to the center of the room, which made for an unsettling ambience and no doubt threw what Shirley called the feng shui into negative overdrive. Angus had to use the second-floor bathroom that Ian and Marilyn used, and Angus, absentminded about everything, seemed especially clueless about bathroom etiquette. Angus forgot to put the toilet seat down. Worse, he often forgot to flush. What adult, Marilyn thought, wanting to shriek
and pull her hair, forgets to flush?

  She remembered when her son was a toddler being toilet trained. It had seemed for a few months that the core of her life revolved around feces. But that was nothing compared to what was going on now. Not only was Angus forgetful about himself, he still couldn’t seem to remember to take his puppy out. Darwin was adorable, a comedian of a bulldog, good-natured and earnestly eager to please. No, it wasn’t Darwin’s fault that he had “accidents” in the house.

  This afternoon, neither she nor Ian had scheduled classes, so they planned to spend a couple of hours by themselves, discussing wedding plans. But Ruth received a phone call from the daughter of her beau Ernest, telling her that Ernest had had a minor stroke and was in the hospital. So Ian and Marilyn had spent the afternoon with Ruth, calming her and escorting her to the hospital to see her ailing gentleman friend. Afterward, they gathered up Angus and his dog and drove everyone to the Boston Common, where the trees provided wells of cool shade and the dog could get some exercise and Angus could get some sun on his wan, pasty face.

  For a few moments, it was a pleasant family outing. Then Darwin, still in his clumsy puppy phase, raced away from Angus, dragging his leash behind him. Angus yelled, “Come back!” Surprising them all, Darwin obeyed, turning on a dime, then galumphing back. In a flurry of doggy delight, the puppy tripped over his own feet and tumbled into Ruth. Arms flailing, Ruth tottered backward. Ian grabbed her in time to save her from falling. Darwin got up, shook himself, and staggered around in a flash of puppy fur, twining his leash around Ruth’s ankles, paralyzing her, while Angus bumbled around trying to grab the dog and the leash and tripping over his own feet. It was funny, really, and everyone laughed, but Marilyn’s heart had flip-flopped dangerously when she thought her mother might be knocked off her feet. Marilyn could imagine Ruth breaking a hip, and then being hospitalized like Ernest, and then becoming depressed and ill…

  But everyone was fine. They drove to Memorial Drive, bought sandwiches and sodas to enjoy while they sat on benches watching the sailboats skim along the Charles River and the roller skaters glide along the sidewalks. Angus fed Darwin a sandwich, and the puppy, full and exhausted, collapsed at their feet for a snooze, so the humans had almost thirty minutes of peace.

  And now here they were! Home, with no broken bones! Ruth retired to her ground-floor hideaway, happy to be back with her kitten and her television shows. Angus led his adoring pup up the stairs to the attic and reimmersed himself in his computer world. Ian and Marilyn spent a couple of hours on necessary household and university matters, and then—could it be? It was only ten o’clock at night, and they still had enough energy for a bit of bedroom romance.

  They locked the door and turned off the lights. They snuggled up close to one another on the broad bed. The house was quiet around them. Ruth was asleep. Angus might be sleeping or he might be on his computer, but he was engaged. Because the air conditioning was broken, the windows were open, but the night air was muggy and thick, so they’d set an oscillating fan up in one corner of the room. It whirred gently back and forth, wrapping them in a kind of cotton wool of sound. Marilyn burrowed her face into Ian’s chest and for a few moments indulged in his wonderful clean Ian smell. Ian ran his large hand down her back and over the curve of her hip and buttocks.

  He was already erect, but he whispered into Marilyn’s hair, “Let’s take our time. Let’s pretend we have all the time in the world.”

  Marilyn loved the idea of taking time during lovemaking. Her daytime life was lived at such speed, with so many distractions, so many minutes and hours of multitasking, that bringing the rush and roar of life down to this peaceful secret moment seemed like bliss. Because Marilyn and Ian knew and revered the pace at which the planet polished its stones and frilled the slightest ripple of its seas, taking time seemed to be the way the universe loved its humans to make love. And this was what it was all about, really, what books and sonnets and songs were written for, and movies made and beautiful clothing donned and beds created—for two people to lie together, heart to heart, mouth on mouth, bodies cleaving and souls expanding. This was the golden nugget at the core of the universe, this was the radiance spun, like gold from straw, from the bulk of two human beings.

  Ian kissed Marilyn’s mouth softly. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, and she did not mind that they were flattened and flaccid from age, she felt beneath his breath how perfect a thing her body was, that the simple touch of hydrogen, carbon, and oxygen could magic its way from the surface of her skin along her nerves until her entire body unfolded like a flower. She ran her hands over his torso, so warm, so full of power and life, until she felt the curly bristle of his pubic hair. She touched his penis. Ian’s groan was like a rock parted by the green insistence of a plant to reach through and to the sun.

  Everything fell away. The university, her mother, Angus, dogs and cats, computers and laboratories, cars and television sets, age and fear of dying, they all fell away, leaving Marilyn and Ian floating in a sea of sensation, the only sound their exhalations, the only sight each other. Ian raised himself up above her, resting on his elbows, not yet penetrating her but caressing her belly and thighs with the length of his penis. Marilyn put her hands on his face and looked into his eyes, which shone in the dark like lamps.

  “Oh, Ian, I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, Marilyn.” He lowered himself to kiss her. Their bodies trembled against one another, urging for completion. The slightest movement of their legs or torsos shot through them like earthquake tremors.

  “Ian,” Marilyn said urgently. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  Ian smiled. Lifting himself up again, he poised himself just on the brink of entering Marilyn, and his slightest push set pleasure and need radiating through her thighs and groin. He pushed again, entering her just a little. They both groaned then. Marilyn closed her eyes. She tilted her hips, urging him to come further, and slowly Ian did so, pushing into her like a bore into a vein of gold.

  “Oh, Ian,” she cried.

  Ian drew back—

  The phone rang, startling them out of their mood like an alarm clock blasting them out of a dream. They stared at it as if it were a rabid dog.

  Ian slid off Marilyn, resting on his side. “Who would call this late at night?”

  “Only family.” Marilyn sat up in bed, terrified. “Teddy, about Lila—or the baby!”

  Ian tried to soothe her. “It’s probably just a wrong number.”

  Marilyn snatched it up. “Yes? Yes, he’s here.” She handed the phone to Ian, then sat with the sheet clutched to her chest as she watched him talk. An expression of dismay fell over his face and stress threw him into Scottish dialect Marilyn couldn’t understand. “Brae dinna thole merrit oor awfy,” he seemed to blather, punctuated by the occasional, “Ach, Lassie, iss terrible.” She did manage to understand that he was agreeing to fly back to Scotland immediately. Who could it be? Both his parents were dead. His sister and her family were often in touch via e-mail and all seemed to be well there.

  Ian finally hung up the phone, his face drained as he said, “My best friend, Tam Muir, died tonight. That was Fiona, his wife.” He buried his face in his hands.

  Marilyn put her arms around him. “Oh, Ian.”

  “I’ve got to fly over there on the first plane I can catch,” Ian said. “I’ve got to help her with the funeral, and she wants me to speak at the service.”

  “Of course. What can I do?”

  Ian was pale, stunned. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Well, look. You pack. I’ll phone the airlines and get some information. You know there’s a morning flight to Edinburgh.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Marilyn.” But he didn’t move. In only minutes, he’d become an old man. His face was haggard.

  Marilyn’s heart ached for his sorrow. “Ian, tell me about Tam.”

  Ian smiled. “We were best friends since we were five years old. His parents had a wonderful estate w
ith a trout stream. We used to fish, swim, ride ponies together. It was paradise. We went to university together. Tam went into the medical profession, practiced general medicine in Edinburgh.” As Ian continued to talk, something loosened inside him, and tears welled in his eyes, then rained down his face. He broke down, heaving great wracking sobs.

  Later, Marilyn fetched him a brandy, and helped him pack, and phoned the airlines and made the reservation. By the time she set the alarm for five o’clock, it was already two in the morning. They didn’t sleep, but lay curled together on the bed, just trying to rest. When the alarm sounded, they dressed, and Marilyn drove Ian to the airport.

  She didn’t stay to watch the plane take off. She had a class to teach at ten. She drove back home with her head dizzy and stuffy with lack of sleep, scarcely aware of the brilliant summer day and the explosion of flowers everywhere. As she walked from her car to the house, she was vaguely aware of the perfume of a neighbor’s clematis, and the hot beat of sunshine on her shoulders. Her mind churned with thoughts of love and sex, of death and sorrow and aging.

  She was so completely fatigued! Her head ached. She was so shaky, fitting her key in the lock took several tries. She didn’t have the energy to climb to her bedroom. She’d just collapse for a brief nap on the living room sofa. Finally she opened the front door and stepped inside the front hall.

  “Marilyn! Marilyn! Help! Help!”

  Ruth.

  Heart lurching, Marilyn raced down the stairs to the ground floor. “Mother?”

  Her mother stood in front of the sofa, wringing her hands. She was still in her pink flannel robe, which was wet and stained with coffee. “He won’t stop, I can’t get him to stop!” Ruth cried.