“Of course,” Leslie said. “Susan B. Anthony and women’s right to vote.”
“Right-on,” Kathy said, and the others cheered.
“So is crocheting just a cover?” Leslie asked.
The women tried not to snigger.
“Relax,” Cynthia said. “We don’t need a cover. We’re not commies.”
“We actually do crochet,” Alice said. “Look at that far-out afghan over there on the chair.”
“We’re also strong, politically minded women,” Dolores added.
“Speak, Lucretia, speak,” Cynthia said like a Baptist preacher.
“Lucretia Mott,” Alice whispered. “She goes back to the first wave in the 1800s.”
“Anyways,” Dolores said, “we talk about feminism, what we want from our government, and what’s going on with the ERA. Stuff like that. You know, stuff we can’t talk about with our husbands.”
Cynthia leaned across the center of the circle piled with pillows, patterns, yarn, and hooks, and handed Alice and Leslie glasses of red wine. “So, Leslie,” she said, “since you’re new, why don’t you start us off on a discussion topic?”
Leslie looked around like a sheep surrounded by wolves. “Gee, I’m not really sure. I barely know how to crochet.”
“Look at what I’m doing,” Alice said as she wound the yarn around her hook and pulled it through a loop. “You just need some practice, that’s all.”
“Are you politically active at all?” Kathy asked in a kindly way.
Leslie seemed to shrink into herself. “It’s not that I have anything against it…”
“Let’s go easy on her for her first meeting,” Alice said like a protective older sister. “She was home knee-deep in raising her kids for the last nine years.”
A variety of gasps and eye-rolls emanated from the group.
“Come on, ladies,” Alice said. “It’s still a job.”
“A thankless one you don’t get paid for,” Dolores said. “I should know. I raised four kids, three of whom are actually productive members of society.”
The ladies laughed with Dolores.
“Okay, so she’s not politically active,” Kathy said to the group, then turned to Leslie. “You still have a voice, honey. What’s on your mind?”
“My mind?”
“Yeah.” Kathy gave her an encouraging nod.
“Right now?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said patiently.
Alice gave Leslie a nudge of support on the arm.
“Well, I like that new detective show, Charlie’s Angels. It’s good.”
A groan came from the group. “I wouldn’t know,” Cynthia said. “Whenever I’ve turned it on, I was blinded by big teeth and even bigger tits.”
“Not to mention all that Wella Balsam hair,” Dolores added.
“Sure, they’re attractive,” Leslie said, “but they’re also smart and strong. I like that the characters are more than just someone’s wife. Haven’t we had enough of that?”
A reverent silence descended over the room. Kathy sparked up a joint, nodded as she took a hit, and passed it to her left.
“She’s got a real point there,” Cynthia said.
Kathy finally exhaled. “Yes, we’ve certainly had enough of women only ever playing wives, prostitutes, and victims on television, but look around the room. Real women don’t look like those actresses playing those detectives. They’re sex objects. The show is written for men, and it creates unrealistic expectations about what women should look like.”
“You’re just trying to justify not shaving your armpits,” Alice said with a smirk.
The ladies cackled as Kathy flung a handful of popcorn in Alice’s direction.
“So evidently, this is our discussion topic: the objectification of women through hyper-sexualized characters and the unrealistic depiction of women in television. Far-out. Thank you for this, Leslie.”
Leslie smiled as Alice nudged her with pride before offering her the joint. Leslie looked at it like it was a live hand grenade and raised the “no thanks” hand.
“I have an assignment idea,” Dolores said. “Let’s each write letters to the three television networks complaining about how they’re misrepresenting women.”
“A written protest campaign,” Cynthia said, her eyes gleaming almost demonically. “Wild.”
“I’ll call Information for their addresses,” Dolores said.
“All right, ladies,” Cynthia said. “When we meet in two weeks, have drafts of all three of your letters ready. We’ll review them and mail them in together.”
“This is exciting,” Leslie said, innocence crowning her like a halo. “What should we say?”
Kathy took this one. “We’ll say that while we appreciate them letting women have careers like in Charlie’s Angels, we don’t appreciate them all looking like fashion models flashing their tits and asses in every episode.”
Alice sipped her wine and then took another hit. Still half holding in the puff, she said, “All the networks are run by men. How do you propose we convince them that tits and asses are a bad thing?”
“A boycott,” Dolores said excitedly. “We threaten to boycott the products they’re advertising during these shows.”
“Exactly,” Cynthia said. “We won’t buy their shitty dishwashing liquid. We won’t buy our husbands and boyfriends the lousy aftershave Joe Namath claims he wears.”
“Husbands, hell.” Kathy scoffed. “I won’t buy their aftershave for myself.”
The ladies all looked at Leslie, anticipating her reaction, but Kathy’s insinuation didn’t seem to register.
“Um, Stayfree maxi pads are advertised during that show,” Alice said. “I suggest we let them slide.”
They all muttered in agreement.
“Now that that’s settled, can we get down to the other important business of this meeting?” Dolores said.
“Of course.” Cynthia jumped up. “I’ll get another bottle of wine.”
“I made a spinach quiche,” Dolores said, trailing her to the kitchen.
“My Jell-O mold is in the fridge,” Kathy announced. “With peaches and marshmallows,” she said, following the others.
Alice and Leslie exchanged smiles.
Around ten thirty, as they walked down Cynthia’s mum-lined sidewalk under a harvest moon, Alice’s cheeks hurt from their evening of bona fide sisterhood.
“So what do you think of our little club?” she said.
“It was wonderful,” Leslie said. “I didn’t get very far on my scarf, but I can’t wait for the next meeting. I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself. I’m kind of ashamed I know so little about women’s liberation.”
“Don’t worry. Hang out with these ladies, and you’ll be a radical in no time.”
“I look forward to it,” Leslie said with a smile.
“Sorry about the weed. Hope it didn’t bother you.”
“I didn’t mind,” Leslie said. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll give that a try sometime.”
Alice expressed her approval with a double thumbs-up like the Fonz over the roof of her car.
Chapter Three
After the nurse finished checking Leslie’s vitals and changing an IV line, she informed them that the doctor would be in soon for an update and pushed her portable computer out into the hall. Alice and Rebecca moved back into their positions in the chair and on the foot of the bed, respectively.
“Please tell me my mother tried it,” Rebecca said. “She caught me smoking once when I was in high school, and man, she tore me a new one.”
Alice smiled. “You and your questions. What kind of friend would I be if I revealed all her secrets?”
“I’m not writing a tell-all about her. I’m her daughter. I feel like I only know this one side of her, this Stepford-like Mother-of-the-Year persona. Evidently, you can show me a brand-new side of her.”
Alice quietly considered that one for a moment. “I have to say, if there was such an award, she’d win it hands down
. But yes, even though she loved being a mother more than any other part of her identity, she definitely had more going on, which I discovered as our friendship grew.”
“I want to know that woman,” Rebecca said with a pensive sigh.
“Wouldn’t that discovery have more meaning if it came in a conversation with her?”
Rebecca bit her lip as it began to quiver. “What if I don’t ever get the chance?”
Alice patted Rebecca’s knee. “Honey, if I’ve learned one thing on my journey thus far, it’s that nobody wins in the ‘what if’ game. You have to stay positive until you’re given a solid reason not to.”
Rebecca looked at her mother. “Isn’t this solid enough?”
“I don’t believe so, but then I’m sure it’s easier for me to be optimistic. It’s not my mother lying there.”
“I can’t believe it’s mine.” Rebecca covered her eyes with her hand.
Alice fought with all of her being to temper her emotions. This stoic, stiff-upper-lip bullshit wasn’t any easier decades later. But looking at Rebecca and seeing her as the little girl she’d remembered Leslie doting over, she’d slipped into a sort of protective mode.
“Yes, she tried it,” she blurted.
Rebecca looked up and sniffled. “What?”
“She tried pot.”
Rebecca laughed as she dried her face with the side of her hand. “Finally, some evidence of a wild side.”
Alice cleared her throat at the allusion and shifted her gaze to the nurses’ bulletin board on the opposite wall.
“Was it at one of your feminist-manifesto meetings?”
“No, Christmas, actually. Your parents’ straggler party.”
“I remember those,” Rebecca said with a chuckle. “They would send us to bed, but Billy and I would hide at the top of the stairs listening to everyone getting drunk and dancing to disco records.”
“I’m glad that’s all you heard.”
“Really? Well, happy birthday, Jesus.”
December 1976
“Hey, look, it’s starting to snow.” Leslie called out from her picture window framed with white garland and twinkling Christmas lights.
“Sleepover,” Bob shouted from the opposite corner of the living room, and everyone roared with approval. He adjusted the belt on his rust-colored pantsuit and gave his wife, Candie, a thin brunette with feathered hair and a very low-cut top for December in Connecticut, a look that Alice found suspicious.
The couple had kept her a verbal hostage for the better part of an hour by the roaring fireplace, and Alice was starting to feel damp under her armpits. “I could use more punch,” she said, fanning herself, hoping that excuse would facilitate a clean getaway.
“I’ve got it. You keep Candie company,” Bob insisted, and dashed off to the bar.
“Gee, I’m kind of hoping we all get snowed in tonight,” Candie said. She locked eyes with Alice. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
“Not really,” Alice said. “I don’t have a toothbrush or pajamas.”
“Who needs pajamas? Bob and I sleep in the nude. Our therapist says it helps maintain intimacy.”
Alice stared at them, not sure which was making her more uncomfortable, the conversation topic or the way Candie seemed to be sizing her up as she spoke.
“Ever tried it?” Candie asked.
“What? Sleeping in the nude?” C’mon, Bob. Get back here with those drinks.
“Right on. We’ve found it to be some righteous advice.”
“Unless someone’s offering to pay my winter oil bill along with that advice, I’m sticking with peejays.”
“You’re so funny, Alice.” Candie addressed Bob as he returned with their drinks. “Isn’t she so funny, babe?”
“Funny and gorgeous,” Bob said.
Alice noticed the zipper on his pantsuit had been lowered, revealing a mat of chest hair in which the male circle-and-arrow symbol dangled from a gold chain.
“So, are you open to new experiences, Alice?” Bob said, wrapping his arm around Candie’s waist.
“That depends,” she said, her curiosity getting the better of her.
He moved in closer. “Have you ever had a couple?”
“A couple of what?”
Candie tossed her head back and gave her shoulder a gentle shove. “I just love your sense of humor.”
Bob sent his wife an eye signal as he took a healthy swig of punch.
“Have you ever made love with a couple?” Candie said in a whisper.
As they leered at her, Bob licked his top lip hiding under a bristly mustache.
“Uh, I should go check and see if Leslie needs any help,” Alice said.
“Hey, that’s cool. Do your thing,” Bob said.
Candie took Alice’s arm as she tried to make a break for it. “Think about it. It’s a mind-blowing, sensual experience.”
“We’ve never had any complaints,” Bob added.
“Quite the opposite,” Candie said, resting her head on Bob’s shoulder.
“Well, you’ve certainly got the sales pitch down.” Alice placed her glass on the mantel and spotted Leslie across the room bringing out a tray of mini quiches.
“Well, hi,” Leslie said as Alice approached. “I see you’ve hit it off with our neighbors, Bob and Candie. Aren’t they great?”
Alice peered over her shoulder to be certain she hadn’t been followed. “How close are you with them?”
“They just moved in a few months ago, but they’ve been so friendly to everyone.”
Alice smirked. “I’ll bet they have.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’d just think twice before accepting any slumber-party invitations from them.”
Leslie chuckled. “Why on earth would they invite us over for a slumber party?”
Alice leaned into her ear. “They’re swingers.”
“Swingers? What’s that?” Leslie said out loud.
Alice shushed her. “They swap—you know, orgies?”
“Oh, swingers,” Leslie said, the lightbulb of recognition blazing over her head.
“Will you keep your voice down? They’re going to hear you and come over here.”
“Where’d they go?” Leslie searched the crowd of guests.
“I don’t know, but I smell weed. C’mon, let’s follow the scent.”
“They must be in the family room,” Leslie said. “Let me go get Bill. He’s either going to kick them out or join them.”
“I hope he doesn’t kick them out. Their shit smells good.”
They collided into each other in a fit of laughter.
*
“Mr. and Mrs. Shaw were swingers? Gross.” Rebecca snickered. “If my mother’s pot experience led to my parents swinging with the Shaws, I’m definitely done asking you questions.”
Alice covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. “No, no. Back then, everyone had an ‘anything goes’ attitude, but none of us went in for that sort of thing.”
“So did everyone end up getting wasted that night?”
Alice grinned.
“No way,” Rebecca said, her eyebrows reaching her forehead. “Why don’t I remember any of this?”
“Your grandparents had you and Billy that night. Your parents would never smoke while you kids were in the house.”
“Amazing. My parents were seventies hipsters, and I had no idea. Tell me more.”
December 1976
With most of the guests gone as it neared one a.m., Alice and Leslie sat rapping with the Shaws on the sectional as Bill snored in his well-worn easy chair.
“Thanks for clueing us in on Bill’s disposition,” Bob said as he filled a glass bong with smoke and inhaled. “We’re not about killing anyone’s vibe.”
“No way,” Candie said as she took a hit and bobbed her head to “I Wanna Kiss You All Over” playing softly on the hi-fi.
“Well, we believe in live and let live,” Leslie said as she swiped a potato chip in a glass
dish of clam dip.
Alice smiled as she held in her bong hit and then offered the gadget to Leslie. Leslie looked at the Shaws and then back to Alice, as if seeking someone’s permission. She glanced over at Bill, still sound asleep.
“You don’t have to.” Alice exhaled.
“Wait,” Leslie said as Alice was about to pass it to Bob. She took the glass holder in her hand and fumbled to position it so her index finger covered the hole at the end. Then she sucked at the glass until it filled with smoke and inhaled.
Alice and the Shaws hooted their approval until Leslie started coughing her lungs out. Leslie rubbed smoke from her eye as she sipped from a can of Tab.
“Are you okay?” Alice tried her best to suppress a smile.
After another sip of Tab, Leslie said, “C’mon, pass it back here.”
“Aww sooky, sooky,” Candie said.
The room erupted with whoops and hollers of approval, but Bill only twitched in his chair.
As it neared two o’clock, Alice’s head was spinning. The combination of too much wine and too much weed was starting to play tricks on her.
Leslie was laughing so vigorously, she kept falling against Candie, and each time, Bob would find some excuse to touch her hair, or face, or arm. He seemed to know how far he could go with her husband asleep ten feet away. That was Alice’s first encounter with an unexpected wave of jealousy. She was surprised at herself, suddenly so angry with Bob, and even Candie, for egging on Leslie’s silliness. They should’ve known better. It was Leslie’s first time getting high, and they were baiting her to smoke more.
“Leslie, I think that’s enough. You’re going to get sick.”
“Easy does it, Alice,” Bob said through his stupid mustache. “No one gets sick from weed.”
“Let’s not make Leslie the first case.” Alice stood up and helped her up off the couch.
“I’m starving,” Leslie said and wandered off toward the kitchen.
“You folks can head home,” Alice said, keeping one eye in Leslie’s direction. “I’ll make sure she and Bill get off to bed.”
“It’s after midnight and Cinderella turns into a narc,” Bob said, staying put.
The Second Wave Page 3
