by Nancy Thayer
Polly nodded. “I’ve got the same little voice.”
“So…to come back to men, to be frank, it’s partly because I like being with a man that I work so hard not to gain any weight. I do try to be healthy, Polly, you know that. I’ll always eat plenty of broccoli and fresh salads and fruit. But if I eat one piece of bread, or one cookie, or drink a glass of champagne, with my metabolism the way it is—and I exercise, I walk almost every day!—I gain weight. I’ve figured out that the only way I can lose weight is to limit myself to eight hundred calories a day, day after day. Anything over twelve hundred calories and I gain weight. Oh,” she hit the dashboard with her fist, “I’m so disgusted with myself! I’m so sick of obsessing about weight all the time!”
“I know,” Polly murmured. “Me, too.”
“The point is, I’m fighting my body every day, and guess what? I’m getting older anyway! And rounder! I’ve got to believe there’s a genetic clock in my DNA that is telling my entire body that it’s time for me to stop with the vanity, and get—well, jolly!”
“I’ve been ‘jolly’ all my life,” Polly commented.
“No, that’s not true. I’ve seen photos of you, Polly. You were slim once, and even if you were curvy, you weren’t like you are now, and I hope I’m not ruining our friendship by saying this, but you are like I am, you are just getting round. We once were more linear, like willow trees. Now we’re sphere-shaped, like…”
“…like snowmen,” Polly finished for her.
“Snowwomen,” Faye corrected with a grin. “Right. Now here’s my choice: I can continue to obsess about my weight so I can fit into beautiful clothes—and that’s another subject entirely, beautiful clothes shouldn’t be only for skinny women—I can continue to obsess about my weight so Aubrey will be proud of me when we go out in public. I know how vain Aubrey is. I’ve met some of the women he’s dated. They all are bone thin and elegant.” She interrupted herself with a question. “Can a woman be elegant and plump? I don’t know.”
“You are!” Polly insisted heartily.
“Thanks, but…anyway, I see continuing my relationship with Aubrey as work. Partly because I’ll have to continue dieting strenuously to keep in shape for him, and partly because I’ll have to stop painting and spend my time taking care of him. I’m just not sure I want to do that.”
“Or,” Polly prompted.
“Or what?” Faye asked, puzzled.
Polly chuckled. “You said you feel like you have a choice. First, keep dating Aubrey and trying not to gain any more weight. Or… what?”
Faye bonked her head lightly against the back of her seat. “I guess that’s what I don’t know. Oh, Polly, I’d imagined this stage of my life as one full of peace. I’d travel with Jack and spend lots of time with my grandchildren. But Jack died, and my grandchildren live on the other side of the United States. I’ve thought about moving to California, but I really don’t think Laura would like that. She’s very happy now, so capable, she’s found her strength. She needs me on the periphery, not in the inner circle. So I have to reinvent my future.”
“Well, I’m with you there, too. I lost my husband, and I’m certainly not in the inner circle with my son and his family.”
For a while, they sat in silence, contemplating all Faye had said.
Then Polly turned to the backseat. “I think there’s some champagne left in the bottle. We don’t want it to go to waste.”
“Right.” Faye dug the glasses from the picnic basket and Polly poured.
“For the rest…well, first, Faye, you always look beautiful. Your clothes are always beautiful, especially the ones you make yourself, like the Havenly Yours clothes, layered in different colors. True, you don’t look forty anymore. But you do have beautiful clothes, and you did before Aubrey and you will whether you’re with him or not. Second”—she stopped to catch her breath and sip some champagne—“are you so sure Aubrey cares about how much you weigh? I mean, after your fall last Christmas, you packed on the pounds, and then gradually lost them again, and as far as I recall, he never showed any signs of wanting to end your relationship because you’d gotten fat, and you know I’m using ‘fat’ as a relative term!”
“You’re right,” Faye murmured. “Aubrey’s never been bothered by my flab.”
“So your quandary about Aubrey isn’t about your weight. And it shouldn’t be about his health, either, I don’t think. He’s in his early seventies, true, but for heaven’s sake, he’s only got bursitis, not a terminal illness! And you have fun with him, I know you do. We had a fabulous time on our Christmas cruise a year ago! You and Aubrey were gorgeous on the dance floor! And he can be so witty. I think the real question, Faye, is whether you love him or not. Not how long he might live. I mean, come on, at this age any of us could go at any moment.”
Faye sighed. “Everything you say makes sense, Polly. The truth is, I don’t think I know whether or not I love Aubrey. Or whether he loves me. Or even if love is important at our age.”
Suddenly, from one of the neighboring yards, came a series of pops, shrieks, and laughter, as kids set off firecrackers.
“How apropos,” Faye said.
Polly laughed. “The AMA should do one of their famous studies: How Important Are Fireworks in an Over-Fifty Relationship?”
“Love and sex are two different things,” Faye reminded her. “Man, look at the time. We’ve been sitting out here for over an hour. Let’s go in.”
They gathered the picnic basket and empty bottle and glasses and went through the dark, warm night into Nora Salter’s house.
“Maybe I’m thinking about all this because it’s Independence Day,” Faye told Polly, half-joking as they unpacked the basket in the kitchen. “And I have to say one last thing: If I were a man, and if I wanted to concentrate on painting for the rest of my life, my partner would adjust her life to mine. If I were a man, and my wife had bursitis, I wouldn’t be expected to drop everything, I wouldn’t have to give up my work—”
“Faye,” Polly interrupted, “wasn’t there a little silver pheasant up there next to the champagne bucket?”
Faye frowned. “Silver pheasant?”
“Maybe it was a peacock,” Polly blithered. “A bird with a long tail…not a swan, not a parrot…no, I’m sure it was a pheasant.”
Faye yawned. “I didn’t see anything like that.”
“I noticed it when I climbed up on a chair to get the champagne bucket down. I remember thinking it should be in the dining room, not the kitchen, because it’s ornamental, not functional, and perhaps it was put in the kitchen because there’s just too much stuff in the dining room. I’m sure it was there, Faye. And now it’s not.” She shuddered. “Someone’s been in the house!”
“Polly, hon, that’s not possible. I distinctly remember locking the door when we left, and I’m one hundred percent certain I had to use my key to get in just now.”
“Right. Still…” Polly walked over and tested the back door. “This is locked, too.” She put her hands on her hips as she scanned the kitchen. “When Alice took those photos, she forgot to photograph the kitchen. I’ll get a camera and do the kitchen tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Faye said. “And you know what? Let’s have copies made of all the pictures, and we’ll put a copy on each table and bureau, so that if anyone is sneaking in and stealing stuff, they’ll know we know, and furthermore, that we have a record of it.”
Polly considered this. “That might work as a preventative measure….”
Faye could tell Polly was uncomfortable. “For now, let’s look through the house, see if anything else is missing.”
“Or if someone’s here,” Polly whispered.
Faye humored her. She opened a cupboard and took out a flashlight. “For closets.”
“Should I take some kind of weapon?” Polly asked. “A knife, maybe?”
Faye’s laughter had a bit of hysteria in it. “Polly, I just can’t imagine you stabbing someone, not even a burglar hiding in a clos
et!”
“You’re right, I probably couldn’t. But I am going to take a fireplace poker!”
Together the two women went through the house, dining room first, so Polly could grab a poker. Since there were about one zillion objects, they couldn’t notice any single thing missing. Polly was more concerned about someone being in the house, so they looked through all the closets, behind all the curtains, and beneath the various sofas. As they crept up the stairs to the second floor, Polly gripped Faye’s hand for comfort. They flicked on all the lights as they went—not an easy task, because none of the rooms had overhead lights with wall switches just inside the door. They had to walk through the room to the bedside table or the bureau to turn on a table lamp. But a thorough check, under every bed, in every corner of every closet, including the linen closet, revealed no signs of intruders. The door to the third floor was locked.
“Maybe someone got in the first-floor window,” Polly suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Faye argued sensibly as they went through the first floor one more time. “Remember, the windows are a good twelve feet from the ground. We have to climb ten steps or so to get to the front door. Someone would have to put a ladder or stand on a stool at least, to get in through the windows.”
Polly nodded. “You’re right. I must be mistaken.” She returned the poker to the fireplace equipment.
In the kitchen, Faye put the flashlight back in the drawer.
Polly stared up at the shelf. “One good thing. Whoever is stealing stuff doesn’t seem violent.”
“True.” Faye yawned. “I’m beat, and I want to get up early to paint.”
“I’m ready to go up, too.”
They went through the house together, turning off the lights. They climbed the stairs and called out to one another as they got ready for bed. Finally they settled in for the night in their separate bedrooms. Faye turned off her light immediately. Polly plumped up her pillows and tried to focus on a book, but she couldn’t stop straining to hear an unusual sound and her thoughts kept wandering off the sentence on the page.
Finally she relaxed. After reading a few pages, she was drowsy. She took off her glasses, folded them and set them on the bedside table, turned off the lamp, and snuggled down beneath the silky cotton sheet, letting the book fall next to her on the bed.
At least she thought that was what she did. She was surprised, when she woke the next morning, to find her book placed neatly on the table, bookmark inserted between the pages. When she told Faye about this little oddity, Faye assured her she had probably moved the book herself during the night. After all, people did a lot of odd things while they were sleeping.
32
It was the first weekend after the Fourth of July, and Marilyn was trying very hard not to feel sorry for herself. Alice and Shirley had left Friday night for Nantucket. Now, Saturday morning, they were probably sitting around the kitchen table with Polly and Faye, discussing, complaining, planning, laughing. Marilyn missed them terribly. She needed them. She felt she missed and needed them more than she missed and needed Ian. Only at this age in her life was she coming to realize how much the happiness of her relationship with the man she loved depended, at least in part, on how much time she got to spend with her friends. The scientific part of her brain wondered whether this concept had ever been tested and charted. Was it possible to come up with a ratio—thirty minutes of conversation a week with friends equals a thirty percent improvement in personal affairs? Because it wasn’t just Ian for whom she felt more fondness after she’d had a good session with the Hot Flash Club. She also had more patience for her mother and for Angus and his lovable, uncivilized dog.
Ian was still in Scotland. He’d been there ten days now, and still had no plans to come home. Fiona’s children had come for the funeral, but returned to their busy lives and jobs. Ian had stayed behind to help Fiona pack up Tam’s belongings and help her think about her future. Marilyn didn’t begrudge him his time away; how could she, when she valued her time with her friends so highly?
Still, she kept thinking of a silly joke someone had told her recently. What is a honeymoon sandwich? Lettuce alone. Now all the trips she and Ian had made back and forth between Boston and Edinburgh seemed imbued with radiance and romance. They’d had so little time together, they’d spent it making love, talking, constantly focused on one another. Now when they were living together, it seemed they had less time together than when they were living apart.
Oh well, she couldn’t change things, not this weekend. This weekend Ian was in Scotland, her friends were on Nantucket, Angus and Darwin were in the attic, and her mother and Marie were in the garden suite. Marilyn poured herself another cup of coffee and went down for a morning chat with her mother.
Ruth sat in her armchair, her kitten curled on her lap. She wore a rainbow-colored housecoat and pink flip-flops. She was watching television, but when Marilyn entered, Ruth aimed the remote at the TV and clicked it off.
“Good morning, darling!” Ruth held up her arms for a kiss.
“Morning, Mom.” Marilyn bent to embrace her mother. She gave Marie a little pat. The kitten stretched and rolled on her side, showing off her fat belly. “What are you up to this morning?”
“I was listening to PBS. They were performing Andrew Lloyd Wright’s music. Such marvelous tunes!”
Marilyn ignored her mother’s malapropism as she settled on the sofa across from Ruth. “You know, we could buy you a little CD player and some of his CD’s. Or even check one out at the library. Then you could play music down here whenever you wanted.”
Ruth frowned. “I’m not sure I could figure out how to operate one of those new machines.”
“Mom. You’re a scientist. You’re a teacher. You can learn how to push a couple of buttons.”
“I suppose.” Ruth didn’t look entirely convinced.
“Are you up for a little jaunt this morning? We could go to the library and the pharmacy. We could go out for lunch.”
“I’d like that, dear.” Ruth stroked the kitten with her age-spotted, veiny hand. “Have you heard from Ian?”
“Not today.” Marilyn hated the melancholy in her voice. “But he’ll either e-mail or call. Anyway, let’s go out, okay?”
“Give me about an hour to get ready. I’ve had breakfast, but I want to shower and dress.”
Marilyn chewed her thumbnail. “Do you suppose I should ask Angus to go with us?”
“If you want to. I can’t imagine the boy would enjoy being with a doddering old crone like me, going to the library and the pharmacy. You know, Marilyn, Angus really needs to make some friends his own age.”
“I know he does. But how can that happen when he’s always in his room?” She rose. “I’m going to dress, then I’ll see if I can ‘encourage’ Angus to take his dog out, and I’ll ask him if he wants to go with us.” Marilyn felt like her entire body was weighted with chains as she dragged herself across the room.
“Marilyn?” Ruth said in a sprightly tone.
Marilyn turned. “Yes?”
“What do you see when the Pillsbury Doughboy bends over?”
Marilyn grinned. “I don’t know. What?”
“Doughnuts.”
Marilyn laughed. “You guys are pretty saucy down at that Senior Citizens Center!”
She was smiling as she climbed the stairs. Look on the bright side, she admonished herself. The electrician had finally come and the central air was working. The plumber had come and the toilet was working. Ian would be home soon. She’d probably be able to go to Nantucket next weekend.
As she set her foot on the first step to the third floor, she heard Darwin’s excited yip and by the time she reached Angus’s door, Darwin was in full-scale scratch and bark mode. The miracle was that Angus seemed able to sleep through the puppy’s noise. Marilyn pounded on the door.
Finally the knob turned. Marilyn steadied herself for the onslaught as Darwin threw himself at her, exuberantly boinging up and down, as if he were on an
invisible pogo stick, as he tried to get to her face to give her a kiss with his long pink tongue.
Angus was still wearing the clothes he wore last night—jeans and a T-shirt.
“Time to take the dog out, Angus,” Marilyn told him. She learned that simple commands were the most efficient. “Darwin needs to pee. You’ve got to give him a little walk.”
Angus scratched the top of his balding head. He yawned, exhaling noxious fumes into the air. Marilyn took a step back. As she watched, Angus looked around him, puzzled.
“You don’t need your shoes,” Marilyn told him. “You’ll be fine barefoot. It’s hot out, and you don’t have to walk far.”
Slouching, Angus found the leash, fastened it on Darwin’s collar, and followed the eager puppy down to the front door. There, Marilyn handed Angus a plastic bag. “You know the drill. Any doggie poo has to be picked up.” How many times had she told Angus this? Twenty? Thirty? But if she didn’t remind him, he’d ignore the dog’s droppings, and the angry glances of people passing on the street didn’t faze him—he didn’t even notice them.
“And Angus, I’m taking Ruth out on a little excursion this morning. We’re going to the library and the pharmacy. Maybe out to lunch. We’d love to have you join us if you’d like.”
Angus flicked a shy look at Marilyn. “Um.”
Okay, Marilyn thought, I’ve given him too many decisions. “Walk your dog first, Angus. We can talk about lunch when you get back.” As an added incentive, she said, “I’ll have a fresh cup of coffee waiting for you when you get back.”
Angus shuffled off down the sidewalk, his puppy straining at the leash.
Marilyn watched from the kitchen window. Angus wouldn’t be outside long, not even on a sunny day like today. He didn’t seem comfortable anywhere except in front of a computer. Sure enough, he returned within five minutes. Marilyn handed him a mug and repeated her invitation.
