The Hot Flash Club

by Nancy Thayer

  At the curb, Marilyn waited for the light to change. Next to her stood a young woman with skin like rare silk, a lacy top ending just below her breasts, her trousers hanging from her hipbones, her sleek belly with its navel ring exposed. Across the street, the glances of men flew toward the young woman’s belly button like arrows to a target. An Asian man linked arms with an Asian woman whose face was as perfect as a vase of flowers. Next to him stood a portly, professorial-looking chap with a beret and a tight, smug mouth, accompanied by a gorgeous young woman with wire-rimmed glasses; she was staring up at him as if he were an Adonis.

  It took all Marilyn’s willpower not to slam her forehead repeatedly against the traffic light pole.

  Around there, no one would notice much if she did. But she couldn’t take the chance that someone would notice, and call the cops, who would haul her off to a psych ward. Which was probably exactly where she should be, for thinking any man on the planet could find her sexually appealing.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Marilyn squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists, trying to block the pain. How could she have thought Barton found her desirable? She’d been deranged. She’d been tricked by her new hairstyle, her new cosmetics and clothes, into thinking she was appealing, and then, in an after rush of sexual bliss, she’d blabbed every single thing she knew about Alice Murray.

  Alice must hate her.

  She hated herself.

  “Ma’am?”

  He said it twice before Marilyn realized he was addressing her. She stared at him in confusion.

  “Do you need help crossing the street, ma’am?”

  It was only a polite student with backpack and glasses. Marilyn blinked. Across the street, Navel Ring Girl was strutting along in her impossibly high boots. Marilyn must have been standing in one spot for a while.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she told the student. “I’m old and unattractive, but I’m fine.”

  He gaped in surprise, then scuttled away fast.

  Of course, Harvard Square had its share of unfortunates, too, and as Marilyn dragged herself across the street, they approached her: the babbling man handing out pamphlets predicting the imminent arrival of aliens. The jittery boys with glassy eyes talking to themselves. The woman who never cut or washed her hair, letting it hang in greasy ropes to her waist. Marilyn stopped and put five dollars in her cup.

  “Thank you, my angel,” the crazy woman said.

  Marilyn walked faster toward her house. At least she wasn’t babbling on the street corner, yet. She might not be sexually desirable, but she was married, she had been married for twenty-nine years, she—

  The last time she’d seen her husband, he’d been having sex in his office on his desk with a grad student.

  Marilyn had waited up for him all the previous Saturday night, finally falling asleep on the living room sofa. When she awakened Sunday morning, she discovered Theodore had crept into the house at some point, changed his clothes, gathered some papers, and crept out again.

  Well, she would call him when she got home. She would insist he return for a serious talk. She would tell him that she’d been unfaithful, too, and now they needed to start over. Sex wasn’t so important, after all. Really, it was companionship that mattered, and mutual interests like science. Soon Teddy would be married, and they’d have grandchildren to share.

  She smiled to herself. How silly she’d been, letting herself get carried away with such superficial matters as hairstyle and clothing and silly sex! Marriage was a profound matter, and she was the only one of the four members of the HFC who was actually still married. That was something.

  As she passed through the wrought-iron gate to their yard, the gate creaked anciently and she noticed how the old Victorian looked shabby in the spring sun. It needed painting. Maybe this year she’d actually put flowers in the window boxes.

  Theodore’s Volvo was in the driveway. Did that mean he was home? Probably. He hated to take the T, and he hated to walk even more. Probably he was home to gather more papers; he seldom had lunch at home anymore.

  Maybe he was there to see Marilyn.

  She let herself into the house, dumped her purse on the hall table, and went along the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  “Marilyn?”

  At the sound of her husband’s voice, she veered off to the dining room, which Theodore had taken over a few years ago, needing more room for his piles of papers and books. He was there now, seated at the head of the table, scribbling away in a notebook.

  “Hello, Theodore,” she said quietly.

  He jerked his head impatiently the way he always did, because she was always an interruption to his work. She stood patiently, waiting for him to finish and address her. His bald head shone, his plump fingers clasped his pen tightly, and beneath his gray corduroy jacket he wore a new green paisley vest. When had he bought the vest? She couldn’t remember his caring about such things before.

  “There!” Theodore tossed the pen down. He ran his hand over his eyes. “We have to talk,” he announced, looking in Marilyn’s direction.

  “Yes. We do. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No. Sit down.” He gestured abruptly to a chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Marilyn sat down, pushed a pile of papers to the side, and waited. He had said, Let’s get this over with. So he was going to apologize for his infidelity with that student. That was a start.

  Theodore cleared his throat. He picked up his pen, removed the cap, and put the cap back on. “I want a divorce.”

  “Why, Theodore!” Her hands flew to her heart, she was so surprised.

  “I’m sorry you had to see me like that in my office,” he continued, “it must have been terrible for you.”

  “Well, terrible, yes, but,” she stammered, her thoughts racing.

  “I doubt you can understand.” Theodore rose, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the room, just as he did when lecturing his students. “You might find solace in reflection on evolution and gender. Males are physically capable of procreating even after fifty, while females are not. Their eggs are old, as you know, and undoubtedly damaged or withered. Ergo, the female sex drive diminishes and disappears. It’s only natural.”

  “Oh, but Theodore!” Marilyn protested, “I still have a fine sex drive!” She rose and approached him. “Theodore, I’ve had an affair, too! And I can assure you, my sexuality is still very much in working order!”

  Theodore smiled at her gently. “Marilyn, please don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t pretend you’ve had an affair. It’s unseemly.”

  “But I did! And I enjoyed it! And he was younger than I! And—”

  “Marilyn.” Theodore removed his glasses, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and polished the lenses. “Don’t embarrass yourself further, please.”

  “Theodore—”

  Putting his glasses back on, he aimed a saddened look her way. “My dear. Try to keep your dignity, at least.”

  “My dignity! Theodore, I—”

  He came toward her with arms outstretched. Marilyn walked into them. “Oh, Theodore, I still love you—”

  But he did not pull her into an embrace. He only clapped her shoulder in a comradely sort of way, as a general might buck up a private. “You were a good wife and mother. Remember that.”

  Marilyn twitched. “I’m not dead yet!”

  “No, no, of course you’re not. You have many fine years ahead of you. You still can be useful to the world. There are so many charities that need volunteers. Why, you might consider writing a memoir. About what it was like, being married to me. I’m sure people would love to read about the first half of my life.”

  Marilyn twisted away from him. “You’re serious about a divorce.”

  “Yes, my dear, I am. I’m going to marry Michelle. Actually”—he arched his neck, preening like a pigeon— “she’s pregnant.”

  “Pregnant!” Marilyn collapsed ba
ck into her chair.

  “The baby’s due in the fall. I’ve received a Fulbright to Sweden. The baby will be born there.”

  “Teddy’s wedding’s in the fall,” Marilyn reminded him weakly.

  “Yes, well, obviously I won’t be able to attend.” Theodore strode back to the other end of the dining room.

  “You could fly back.”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. I’ll need to stay near Michelle, and of course I won’t want to take time away from my lab.”

  “But your son’s wedding, Theodore! Your only son!”

  Theodore stroked his throat. “My eldest son.”

  “Your—” She blinked. Of course, amniocentesis. So Theodore was to have another son. “Still, Theodore—”

  “Come now, Marilyn. Teddy’s a big boy. He won’t care whether I attend his wedding. Anyway, he’s bound to take your side in all this. He’ll probably be delighted if I keep away.”

  “Have you told Teddy?”

  “Of course not. I wanted to tell you first. It’s only kind. I thought you might tell Teddy. I’ve got so many other things to do these days.” Theodore dug around in his pockets, looking for his car keys. “I’ve got a class. I expect you’ll want to get a lawyer. I’ve already spoken with Leonard Darby about this, and I’ve told him I want to be generous with the divorce settlement. Of course, you’ll understand that we need to sell the house. It will be too big for you, anyway, now that Teddy and I will be gone. And Michelle doesn’t care for the house, all the stairs, the gloomy corners—”

  “Michelle’s been in the house?”

  “Oh, now, don’t fret. She is not critical of you. She understands how someone your age can’t manage to keep such a large house in order. But she wants a more modern place. Perhaps more of a showcase, something someone of my stature deserves.”

  “Your stature.” Marilyn snorted. “Theodore, you worked on an intestinal fish parasite.”

  “And we’ve lived well on the profits,” Theodore reminded her. “And you will be awarded your fair share in the divorce.” He looked at his watch. “Anything else?”

  Marilyn’s thoughts moved at Paleozoic speed, stuck in primeval slime.

  Theodore continued. “Over the next few days, I’ll be moving my clothes, papers, et cetera, out of the house. You’ll have a year to organize it, sell it, and find a new place. You see, I’m being quite generous.” He patted his vest, straightened his jacket, patted the knot on his tie.

  Marilyn stood up. “Theodore.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got this over with! You’re being a real sport about this, dear.” Briskly he approached her, and rose on tiptoe to peck her forehead, then strutted eagerly out of the room.

  Marilyn heard the door close. She gazed around her at the familiar room, which seemed as alien as the moon.

  31

  Thursday, Dr. and Mrs. Eastbrook drove into Boston to meet prospective patients for lunch, while Lila substituted for the receptionist at the spa who’d come down with a cough.

  Margie, the cook, stuck her head around the door of Faye’s office. “I’m going back to my apartment for a couple of hours. Dinner’s organized. If you want lunch, you can throw something together yourself, okay?”

  “Sure,” Faye agreed.

  Faye finished typing the on-line order for Mrs. Eastbrook’s new linens, but her eyes darted frequently to the window. Finally, she saw Margie hurrying along over the gravel, past the fountain, to her apartment in the nearest staff building.

  She checked her watch. She should have an hour, at least.

  Quickly, she entered into Mrs. Eastbrook’s office, opened her desk, and found the key to the family room door. Stashing it in her pocket, she hurried to her own quarters to grab up the book bag she’d brought from home, then flew over the carpet, down the long hall, and into the family room. She unlocked the door.

  Dora was slumped in her chair, napping. Faye hesitated. She didn’t want to wake the young woman, but who knew when she’d have another chance?

  Dora lifted her head. “Is someone there?”

  “Dora, it’s Faye. The housekeeper.”

  Dora shifted beneath her tentlike dress, pressed a button on her chair, and turned. Her dear little goblin face brightened. “Oh, Faye! I thought you’d forgotten all about me!”

  “Heavens, no, Dora.” Faye kissed the young woman on her cheek. “How are you?”

  Dora grinned. “Bored to tears! What’s in the bag?”

  Faye laughed. “I’ve brought you a present.” She went through the large room to the card table at the back and sat down in a folding chair. Dora whirred along right behind in her power chair.

  Faye pulled out a large wooden box. She opened it. A rainbow of colors nestled in the divided sections like Easter eggs in a wooden nest.

  “These,” Faye said, “are soft pastels.”

  Dora whirred her chair up to the table. She touched the blue pastel, and Faye knew it would feel soft, crumbly, and floury to her fingertips.

  “Pretty colors,” Dora murmured.

  “Yes.” Faye took out another box. “These are pastel pencil sticks. They’re cleaner to use than the soft pastels, which can crumble and break. These are better for making line sketches, and you can combine the two, of course.” She lifted out a loose pile of papers. “These are different papers. Their different textures give different effects. Here, feel.” She held out two samples. Dora touched one fingertip to the velvety velour paper, then the harder, watermarked Ingres paper.

  Faye brought out a book. “This is a basic beginner’s guide to—”

  “Are you nuts?!” Dora angrily stabbed a button on her chair, which sent her zapping backward. “I can’t paint! Or draw! Look at me!”

  “I have looked at you,” Faye answered calmly. “I watched you play cards, and you held them steady. I looked at your Crayola drawings, and I saw the possibility of talent.”

  “Right,” Dora snorted.

  Now Faye took something else from her bag: a postcard, eight-by-six, a photograph of an elf-sized woman with hands gnarled past recognition seated by a window in a one-room cottage. The sleeves of her green sweater had been rolled up several times to accommodate her short limbs, and over the sweater she wore a pink-and-white flowered apron. Her sparse gray hair was held back by a band, allowing her unusual face to show in all its purity: the nose, a little too large; the chin, nonexistent; the skin, wrinkled and weathered from years of brutal Quebec winters; the eyes, shining with intelligence; the entire face, glowing with a contagious love for life.

  Faye held out the card. “Meet Maud Lewis.”

  Dora whirred closer. “Oh, my,” she said softly, for no one could look at this photo of Maud Lewis without smiling back. Dora took the card and studied it. The woman’s hands resembled swollen, misshapen feet, the fingers atrophied and shrunk, the knuckles swollen like marbles. “She’s beautiful,” Dora said.

  “Yes.” Faye agreed. “You’re looking at real beauty there. And look what she has in her hand, and look what’s on the wall behind her and on the windows, and on the windowsill.”

  Dora looked. Behind Maud was a painting, in a cheerful folk style, its flat perspective offset by the bright charm of the colors and the simple, childlike drawing of a black Model T on a road between a bank of yellow and red tulips, and a white house with a bright red roof. On the window next to her was a drawing of two black horses pulling a red sleigh.

  “Maud Lewis lived in Quebec,” Faye said. “Her family was poor, and when she was a teenager, a disease—I don’t know which one—ravaged her body, deforming her face and her hands. But she married when she was eighteen, and lived her whole life with her husband in a one-room house. Well, they did have a loft bedroom, but she eventually was so crippled she couldn’t climb the stairs. She painted postcards to sell to make money, then painted all kinds of pictures, all of them vivid with colors and life. Her pictures hang in museums now, one hangs in the White House, a documentary movie has been made of her life, and
a book written about her. She’s on the Net, too, if you want to see more.”

  Faye was quiet then, to let Dora contemplate the photo. After a while, she handed her another card, this one of two cows on a green field, framed by pink apple blossoms and a multitude of tulips. The cows wore golden bells and a red wooden yoke and long black girlish lashes framed their beautiful dark eyes.

  “Oh, how pretty,” Dora cried.

  “You could do this,” Faye told her. When Dora didn’t protest, she continued. “Maud Lewis used paints, and you can, too, eventually, but I thought you might prefer pastels to begin with.”

  “But I don’t know how to draw,” Dora demurred.

  “Maud Lewis never had art instruction,” Faye said. “Maud Lewis probably never was able to enter an art museum. But her heart was full of color and beauty, and look, Dora,” Faye reached over and picked up one of Dora’s drawings of a white rabbit sitting up beneath an apple tree. “Look. I can see by the way you’ve drawn his white ears that he’s alert, poised to jump.”

  “Oh, you’re right!”

  “If you can make a Crayola drawing that expresses so much, you can do anything you want. And I can help you. I want to help you.”

  Dora lifted her face to Faye’s, and it was shining with hope. “Okay,” she whispered. “I guess I can try.”

  “One more thing.” Faye brought out a book, a beginner’s guide to painting and drawing. “Scan this. It might give you some ideas.”

  Dora chewed her lip, suddenly nervous. “Where will I tell my family I got all these things?”

  As housekeeper, Faye knew nothing came in the mail addressed to Dora. She’d given this some thought. “Your parents and your sister are all seldom with you at one time, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes. Lila comes in the morning and late afternoon, Mother at night. Father, well, he’s so busy he seldom comes.”

  “Then let your mother assume Lila gave these to you, and let Lila assume your mother did. You don’t have to lie, you don’t have to volunteer anything. When you’ve figured out which paper you like and whether you want to try paints, you can tell Lila, and she’ll pick them up for you.”