by Nancy Thayer
She dropped her bag on the entrance hall table, walked into her living room, and shrieked.
Alan, her oldest son, her pride and joy, was lying on the sofa, watching TV. Alan had actually listened to his mama and gotten an MBA, so when he applied at a Houston oil corporation, he walked right in at managerial level. At thirty, he pulled in a salary that rivaled Alice’s and allowed him to dress his big, handsome, college-football-fullback body in the finest suits and shirts and ties money could buy.
“Alan!” What was he doing here?
She rushed over to hug him till they both were out of breath. “Darling, how wonderful to see you! Have you got conferences in Boston?”
“Uh-uh.” He wouldn’t look her in the eye.
She studied her boy. Alan had lost at least fifty pounds since the last time she had seen him. His clothes hung off his scrawny body. He needed a haircut and a shave, hell, the boy needed antibiotics, it looked like, the way the whites of his eyes were red.
“What’s going on?” she asked, worries banging around in her head like bumper cars at a carnival.
Alan ran his hands through his hair. “Well, a lot. You could say a lot has happened.”
“Genevieve Anne?” Alice had never liked his wife, a gorgeous beauty queen who intimidated everyone with her slinky long body and African princess cheekbones. Alice thought the woman shallow and pretentious, but she always took pains to hide her opinion, realizing that not only was her son wild about her, he also was lucky to have someone with him who could work the cocktail party crowd as well as Genevieve Anne.
“Yes, Genevieve Anne. She left me for someone else.
But also, Mama, I lost my job and had a kind of nervous breakdown.”
“Oh, honey.” She sank down on the sofa next to him.
“I’m on antidepressants, but I need some time to get my shit together so I can start over. I was thinking maybe I could stay here with you for a while.” “Of course you can,” she assured him. “You can have the guest bedroom.” Her thoughts whirled.
She would have to move her computer and desk and papers and reports into her bedroom, open up the sofa bed, and turn her second bedroom into Alan’s room. Just for a while.
14
Monday morning Jennifer D’Annucio was tapping away at her computer when her office door opened and a woman entered.
The woman didn’t look like anyone their firm would have dealings with. She wore purple leather boots, and a purple cape, with a magenta shawl blazing with astrological signs over her shoulders. She had curly red hair, and violet eye shadow, and silver planets dangling from her earlobes.
“Jennifer D’Annucio?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Jennifer admitted warily.
“Hello, Jennifer.” The woman approached the desk, her cape falling open to reveal layers of nearly fluorescent fabric. “I’m Shirley Gold, and I’m happy to inform you that you’ve been given the gift of six absolutely free weeks of massage therapy.”
Jennifer’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Shirley had this part memorized—with expression. “As a thank-you to their customers, a number of Boston merchants, hairstylists, and health clubs have held a drawing for a variety of excellent prizes!”
“I didn’t enter any contest.”
“Well, either you entered your name or perhaps one of your friends did, because you have won six weeks of massage therapy from me, Shirley Gold.”
“I’m not sure I want—”
“No problem!” With a great big smile on her face, Shirley turned to leave. “We can just draw another name—”
“No, wait.” Jennifer stood up. “It’s just such a surprise.”
“I am, by the way,” Shirley plunked a handsome business card down on the desk, “an accredited masseuse, a member of the American Massage Therapist Association, and also a member of the Associated Body Work and Massage Professionals. If you want any references, I’ve got my résumé right here, and you’ll notice that several physicians in the greater Boston area recommend my services.”
Jennifer looked at the card. “I’m awfully busy—”
“I can come in the evenings or on weekends. Each session lasts an hour. Since you’re so young and fit, you probably aren’t experiencing much tension—”
“Oh, but I am!” Jennifer exclaimed. “I really am! My life is so complicated—” She darted nervous glances at the doors leading into the lawyers’ offices.
“Massage is also good for muscle toning and firming,” Shirley added. “Not, of course, that you need that.”
“But I do. My thighs are just out of control.”
Since Jennifer looked to be about a size 10, Shirley doubted that, but she said, “We can work on that problem area. I have a special heat balm that helps bring blood to the surface, which in turn carries fat away, but I shouldn’t get so technical here. We can schedule an intake appointment for you now, or I’ll just leave my number, and you can phone me to arrange something.”
Just then a man absolutely steaming with vigor strode through the door. He wore a pin-striped suit that was probably worth more than Shirley’s old car, and he carried a heavy leather briefcase. He was a handsome young urban professional, and Shirley could tell by the way he held his shoulders that he carried enough tension there to drop an elephant.
“I need to go over the Phillips contract with you,” he said to Jennifer.
“Right away, Mr. Schneider.” Jennifer’s voice was cool, but a blush crept up her neck when she looked at him.
Mr. Schneider went into an office, slamming the door behind him.
“I’ve got to go,” Jennifer told Shirley.
“How about Saturday morning, nine o’clock?” Shirley asked. “I’d like to schedule it in now before I make my other calls.”
“Saturday at nine, fine,” Jennifer said. “Shall I come to your office?”
“I think it’s more relaxing for the client if I come to their home,” Shirley said smoothly. “I have a portable table.”
“Fine. See you then,” Jennifer said. She scribbled her address on a piece of paper and gave it to Shirley.
“Yes,” Shirley said, smiling. “See you then.”
15
Monday night, Faye and Marilyn were the first to arrive at Legal Seafoods. Shirley came next, in a flash of purple scarves. They’d just settled in at a table when they saw Alice stalking toward them, looking furious.
“Waiter,” Alice called as she sat down. “Double martini, please.”
“Alice,” Faye asked. “What’s wrong?”
“See that guy over there?” Alice jerked her head to the left.
“The man in the suit and tie?”
“Yeah. The arrogant bastard opened the door for me.” The other three stared.
Marilyn said, “Um, Alice, aren’t men supposed to open doors for women?”
“Yeah,” Alice responded, “to be polite. Not because the woman is old and too feeble to open it herself.”
“How old was he?” Marilyn asked, then explained, “Older men tend to be more formal. Younger men are often afraid their behavior will be interpreted as sexist.”
“Yeah,” Shirley chimed in. “How do you know he wasn’t just being polite?”
Alice looked sulky. “I could just tell. Come on, a woman can always tell these things.”
“Alice, I think you’re overreacting,” Faye said.
“Oh, really?” Alice snapped. “You’ve never had this happen?”
Faye took a moment to think about it. “Not about opening doors specifically, but I do know what you mean.” She sighed and signaled the waiter to order her own martini. “It used to be, when I stood in line at the post office, or the grocery store, wherever, I could feel men’s eyes scan my body and face, up and down, quick as a laser. I always pretended I didn’t notice, but now, my God, how I miss it. I’d swear to a panel of medical experts those glances provided me with a good healthy dose of vitamin D, like a flash of sunlight.”
“Ye
ah.” Alice nodded ruefully. “Clerks were always quick to serve me, and when they did, they looked at me. They smiled. Now they act like I’m scarcely worthy of their efforts. Or like that puffed-up turkey who opened the door for me, acting so damned kindly .”
“But Alice,” Marilyn protested, “you’re so beautiful! And so are you, Faye!”
Alice sniffed. “Not like I once was. Have you heard the joke about the little boy and the little girl sitting in the backyard?”
“If I have, I’ve forgotten it,” Shirley said.
Alice took a slug of her drink, then folded her arms on the table. “A little boy brags, ‘I’ve got two pennies.’
“ ‘I’ve got three pennies,’ the little girl counters.
“ ‘Well, I’ve got two lollipops,’ boasts the little boy.
“ ‘I’ve got two lollipops and a candy bar,’ the little girl replies.
“The little boy thinks furiously. Then he pulls down his pants and holds out his penis. Triumphantly he announces, ‘I’ve got one of these!’
“The little girl pulls down her pants and considers a moment. Then she looks back up at the little boy. ‘Well, I’ve got one of these,’ she responds sweetly, ‘and with one of these I can get as many of those as I want.’ ”
Shirley and Faye laughed.
Marilyn said, “I don’t understand.”
“We’re talking about power,” Faye elucidated. “Our youth gave us power we didn’t even think about.”
“You, maybe,” Marilyn said softly. “Not me.”
A handsome young waiter took their orders. He smiled charmingly at Marilyn, Alice, Faye, and Shirley, but as he wrote on his pad, his eyes were drawn by three young women, sleek and flexible as trout, who sped, glimmering, past, to a table where three gorgeous young men rose to greet them.
Faye said softly, “I wouldn’t want to be that age again.”
“I would!” Alice declared.
“Really? Think about it. They’re wondering whether or not those men will marry them, whether or not they’ll be faithful, and they’ll want to have children, but they might have trouble getting pregnant, then the child might have ADD, and if the child’s okay, can they raise him without ruining him and still have a career—”
“Not to mention,” Marilyn added, “they have to deal with PMS every month.”
“Ugh!” Faye and Shirley said together.
Alice relented. “You do have a point. I’d forgotten. All that reproductive stuff—what a fuss! When I was young, I pitied Mack because he’d never be able to experience the pleasure of pregnancy, or the passion of giving birth. But I envied him more, because now he had two sons and the same flawless body he’d started off with, while my overweight body was paisley with stretch marks.”
“Oh, Lord, yes,” Faye reminisced. “And those first few years, I was always so exhausted. Remember those damned Kegel exercises that were supposed to make our inner parts tighten up so we’d be better in bed? I was too tired to do even those when Laura was a baby.”
“And forget sex,” Marilyn added. “Nothing could be more attractive than sleep.”
Alice noticed how quiet Shirley was. “Shirley? Do you have kids?”
Shirley gave a watery smile. “No. I was married three times, and I had a fair number of, shall we say, careless liaisons, but I never got pregnant.”
“Did you mind?” Marilyn asked gently.
“Yeah, I did. It was hard. Probably one of the reasons I became an alcoholic. I felt like a failure. And I felt— picked on , by Fate. I mean, every other woman I saw had children, why couldn’t I?”
“How did you deal with it?” Faye asked.
“Well, first I went to AA. My sponsor, Courtney Green, was a masseuse, and she offered me a free massage. I loved it, and started my own training, and I’ve loved being a masseuse. My work kept me steady, no matter how rocky my personal life was.”
“That’s probably true for all of us,” Faye said.
“At the party celebrating the grand opening of my own massage business,” Shirley continued, “I asked Courtney, ‘What made you offer me a massage that first night? You’re not rich, and you knew I couldn’t afford to become a paying client.’
“Courtney said she liked to put something positive out into the universe for no reason at all. She called it Spiritual Frisbee. So I decided to do the same. For a few months, I volunteered at a hospital for long-term patients, helping brain-damaged children and adults regain some range of motion in their limbs. Then I volunteered at a facility for the elderly, and discovered that was the place for me.”
“You like working with old people?” Alice asked.
“I do.” Shirley’s face glowed and softened as she spoke. “I love their wobbling bald heads and toothless grins. I love how they take such pleasure in something as small as a ten-minute neck and shoulder rub. Their bodies might have shrunk and sagged, been scalpeled open and stitched and stapled shut, but when I walk into their rooms, their faces light up with such joy. And I love brushing the old ladies’ hair and tying it with pink ribbons, or reading Louis L’Amour to the old guys.” Shirley grinned. “So, you see, I’ve found my own babies.”
Marilyn had tears in her eyes. “I hope I know someone like you when I’m old.”
“That’s lovely, Shirley,” Faye agreed.
Embarrassed, Shirley shifted in her chair. “Oh, hey, there are times, when I’m alone, when I imagine having a daughter who’d drop by to chat. We’d do each other’s nails, perm each other’s hair, and laugh about men. Or, a son would be nice, too. By now he’d be grown, a big, burly, hearty guy who’d fix my transmission, my screen door, and my mailbox.” A shadow crossed her face, then she brightened. “Anyway, that’s one of the reasons I want to create my retreat. To leave, or at least spread, something of myself in the world. I’ve wasted too many years enjoying too much booze and too many men, but damn, I’ve learned something along the way! I know how it feels to be down-and-out. I know how it feels to be so lonely I’d long for Mr. Wonderful but settle for Mr. Has a Pulse. And I know what a saving grace the simple human touch can be.”
For a moment the others sat in respectful silence.
Then Alice said, “Well, damn, girl. That’s cool.”
“It is,” Faye agreed. “With that kind of passion, you can really make your dreams come true.”
“You think?” Shirley asked hopefully.
“I do,” Faye said.
“I agree,” Marilyn added.
“Me too,” Alice said.
A waiter appeared. “Dessert, ladies?”
“Absolutely!” they all agreed.
After they’d ordered, Alice leaned back, and said, thoughtfully, “I’m glad I had my boys. They were—still are—the light of my life. But I can’t say that was the greatest part of my life. I prefer logic, order, control—”
“Really?” Shirley made her eyes wide and cocked her head in mock amazement.
Alice cast her an admonishing look. “I love my work, I love the challenge and process and achievement of working. I like being my age, having accumulated so much knowledge and experience.”
“I agree with you completely,” Marilyn said.
Alice continued, “I don’t necessarily want to be lusted after, although I wouldn’t mind. I just don’t want to be considered some old hag.”
“Now the word hag is interesting,” Shirley said. “The word hagia comes from the Greek word for holy. It was once a title of respect for wise, older women. Through time, it’s become hag , with disparaging connotations.”
Alice looked surprised and impressed. “How do you know that?”
“I know lots of stuff like that,” Shirley told her.
“Good for you,” Alice said, with feeling.
Faye weighed in. “I don’t want to be like Jack Nicholson in that movie About Schmidt. The guy who retires and is totally lost.”
“I loved that movie,” Faye said. “Kathy Bates was wonderful.”
“Kathy B
ates is fabulous in everything she does,” Alice agreed.
“If Kathy Bates had a son,” Marilyn mused aloud, “and people addressed him formally, they’d call him Master Bates.” She grinned and blushed.
Alice laughed. “Good to see you’re catching up with the sexual revolution.”
The waiter brought their desserts. They’d each ordered something different, and for a few moments they were busy, dividing the desserts into four parts and exchanging bits and pieces. Then they ate for a while in luxurious silence.
Alice got them on track. “All right,” she announced, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Down to business.” She took her notebook out of her briefcase. “Faye?”
Faye licked her lips, savoring the final bite of chocolate. “I’m pleased to report I’ve been offered the job as the Eastbrooks’ housekeeper.”
“I’m surprised,” Marilyn said. “Frances Corbett says the Eastbrooks haven’t phoned to ask her for a reference for ‘Faye Van Dyke.’ ”
“They haven’t called me, either,” Alice said. “But Faye looks trustworthy. They probably took her at face value.”
“What’s it like out there?” Shirley asked.
Faye thought about it. “Posh. Luxurious. Eugenie Eastbrook looks so perfect, she must make love wearing white gloves. I move in tomorrow morning. I get Mondays and most of my nights free, but some nights I have to help with dinner parties. They’re having one tomorrow night.”
“I know,” said Marilyn. “Theodore, Teddy, and I are invited.”
Alice raised a warning finger. “You two can’t let on that you know one another.”
“We won’t,” Faye promised. “We’ll be as secretive as sphinxes.”
“Good.” Alice checked her list. “Faye, what kind of car do you drive?”
“A BMW. It was Jack’s. But I didn’t drive it out for the interview. I rented an old Toyota.”
“Smart of you,” Alice said. “Look, let’s keep you camouflaged as well as possible, to be sure they can’t ever track Mrs. Van Dyke down to Mrs. Vandermeer.” She tapped her pen against her teeth.
“Don’t do that,” Shirley warned. “You’ll chip a tooth!”
