The Hot Flash Club

by Nancy Thayer

  Dora nodded. “Okay.”

  “Now. I’ve got a few minutes more before I need to get back. Let me give you some pointers about line and color.”

  Friday, Faye’s day off, Faye told Margie she was going into Boston to walk through the Public Gardens to see the early daffodils, tulips, and flowering trees. Later, she’d have lunch and a stroll around the MFA.

  The truth was, the HFC was meeting that night at Alice’s. All their efforts had stirred things up, and the other three were having a crisis.

  Faye might very well be having a crisis, too. It all depended on what Shirley found out, which Shirley would report at the meeting.

  For the moment, it was enough simply to be on her way home. She longed for her own house as never before. Once inside, she planned to relax in a way she hadn’t been able to out at the Eastbrooks, not even in the privacy of her bed or shower. Their relentless compulsion for perfection sapped her of emotional and physical energy, and she was looking forward to moving through her own rooms at her own pace. The HFC meeting didn’t start until eight. She would have time to pull on jeans and a flannel shirt, brew a pot of coffee, catch up on her mail and the messages on her answering machine. She’d graze through the new catalogues like a sheep through a pasture. Perhaps she’d snuggle up and nap on the sofa just like Jack used to do. Because she’d given her housecleaning lady the month off, the furniture would be sprinkled with dust, but Faye wouldn’t even bother about that. She could live with a little dust.

  She turned onto her street. The neighbors’ cherry tree had exploded with masses of pink buds. In all the yards, tulips clustered, erect and blazing, like miniature balloons tethered to the green grass. Sunlight glinted from the windows. The scent of freshly cut grass drifted through the air.

  Home.

  Her pulse smoothed, her blood pressure dropped. Then she saw Laura’s yellow Saab in her driveway. She unlocked her door and stepped into the front hall, where she was assailed by a battalion of sounds and odors. The television blared from the back of the house, a sour smell cut through the air, and as she walked through the rooms, too stunned to remember to remove her light spring coat, she tripped over a soft pile consisting of a blanket, a soiled disposable diaper, and her favorite blue cotton sweater, inside out and matted with baby puke.

  “Laura?”

  She found her daughter in the den. It had always been the favorite room in the house. Jack would stretch out in his recliner while Faye and Laura curled up on the sofa, all of them munching buttered popcorn as they watched a video. On Sunday afternoons there was always time for a board game—Jack inevitably beat them both at Scrabble. When Laura was younger, she held sleepovers there, pushing the bulky recliner against the wall and unfolding the sofa to make a bed, or shoving it away, too, so everyone could curl up in sleeping bags on the floor—not that much sleeping actually happened. The girls would sneak into the kitchen to raid the refrigerator, their high, piercing giggles rising like bubbles to Faye and Jack in their bedroom. Later, Laura’s boyfriends, those she really liked, spent time there, too, watching videos or listening to CDs. Several of them, the serious boyfriends, lasted long enough to be invited to play board games on Sunday afternoons. Lars had lasted the longest of them all.

  Now the pull-out bed was open, pillows and quilts jumbled all over it, hanging down, dragging onto the floor, mingling with clothes overflowing from several duffel bags dumped around the room. The coffee table, floor, and several shelves were stacked with dirty cups, soda cans, and dishes. In spite of the rock music blaring from MTV, Megan was asleep in the wicker cradle Faye had bought for her grandchild. In the center of the chaos sat Laura, wearing Faye’s turquoise kimono, surrounded by her high school yearbooks.

  “Oh, Mom, look!” Laura cried. “Look how pretty I was in high school!”

  Faye perched on the edge of a chair. “Honey, what are you doing here?”

  Laura continued to gaze down at the photos, all the expectant faces caught in their youth. “I don’t know, Mom. I guess I just needed a break.”

  “What about Lars?”

  “Oh, who cares about Lars!” Like a petulant child, she stuck out her lower lip.

  Faye stood up. “I’m going up to change clothes.”

  “Mom?” Laura called wistfully. “Do you know what I’d like?”

  “What, honey?” Turning, she looked down at her daughter. Laura’s hair was lank and greasy, her fingernails a ragged mess.

  “I’d love it if you’d make me a plate of cinnamon toast like you used to when I was sick.”

  Faye took a step back into the room. “Are you sick, Laura?”

  “No, Mom. I just would like cinnamon toast.”

  “Okay. Well, when I come back downstairs—”

  Her heart was heavy as she climbed to the second floor, and it dropped like lead when she saw her bedroom. It looked as if it had been ransacked by burglars. Bureau drawers gaped open, spilling out sweaters, lingerie, and scarves in a tangle of silk and wool. Her closet doors stood wide, exposing a visual bedlam of skirts, jackets, dresses, blouses, vests, some dangling by one shoulder off the hangers, others puddling on the floor. Her pretty little slipper chair, the bench at the end of her bed, and most of the floor swirled with more discarded clothing. Her jewelry box was open. Pearls, silver and gold chains, earrings and bracelets twisted together in a glittering jumble.

  Faye sank onto the edge of her bed, hands twisting with worry. This was not like Laura, not at all like the young woman who had walked down the aisle on Jack’s arm only two years ago, who had smiled up at her husband Lars as if he were the sun. This was not like the good-natured, optimistic child Laura had been or the kindhearted, thoughtful young woman Laura had become. Laura was not lazy, inconsiderate, or spoiled. She married Lars because they were madly in love and wanted to live their lives together. In college, Laura had majored in art history, thinking she might someday work in a gallery or museum or as an art conservationist, but what she really wanted was to have a home, a husband, and lots of children, because as an only child she’d yearned for brothers and sisters. Lars had been an only child, too; they had shared a dream of babies, a house with a white picket fence, and an SUV piled with children and a golden Lab.

  What had happened? What had gone wrong?

  Faye smoothed the wrinkled sheet. Obviously Laura had slept there last night. Perhaps she’d been there more than one night. Had Lars asked for a divorce? Had Laura left her husband?

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” Laura stood in the doorway. “I didn’t know you’d be here today. I was going to tidy up.” She looked fragile and pale in Faye’s kimono, her eyes deeply shadowed.

  Faye rose and took her daughter in a slightly awkward hug; Laura was taller than she. But except for her breasts, Laura was so thin! At Faye’s touch, she crumpled against her mother, weeping.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” Laura sobbed. “I thought I could be like you, I thought I could be better than you! I wanted so many children, and now I can’t even handle one!”

  Faye walked her daughter to the bed, found a tissue for her, then sat beside her, her arm around her. “Have you talked with your doctor about this?”

  Laura sniffed. “He says all new mothers are tired.”

  Faye nodded. “That’s true.”

  “No, actually, it’s not!” Laura crushed the tissue in her hand angrily. “Clara’s baby is only three months old and already sleeping through the night! Dominique’s little boy is six months, and she’s already back at work, teaching! And you’ve always told me what a good little baby I was, you never had any problems at all.”

  Faye smiled, staring out the window, as if watching the past flash by. “You were a good little baby. But I’m sure I had problems, and doubts. I’m sure I was exhausted. As you get older, you remember the good times and the hard times somehow just fade.”

  “You had Daddy. Daddy always loved you, he never—”

  A thin wail from the first floor interrupted Lau
ra, who, to Faye’s surprise, clenched her fists tight.

  “She’s only been asleep for thirty minutes! I can’t stand it, Mom! I can’t do this, I’m too tired, I’m going to lose my mind!”

  Faye was heartsick for her daughter, and she was worried. “Look, honey. Why don’t you lie down here and take a long nap? I’ll tend to Megan.”

  “No,” Laura sobbed wearily, “I have to nurse her.” She sounded as if she had to walk a hundred miles.

  “All right then, nurse her, while I fix you some cinnamon toast.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Laura pushed her lank hair back from her face and blew her nose.

  Faye hurried down to the family room. She snapped off the blaring television, picked up her screaming granddaughter, and carried her, on her hip, into the kitchen. Sorrow and fear for her daughter swamped her. At the same time irritation burned like acid reflux in her throat. Thank God she was going to see the HFC that night.

  32

  The emergency meeting of the Hot Flash Club convened Friday night in Alice’s living room. One by one they arrived, ignoring the spectacular view of Boston Harbor and collapsing on the sofas, as if too exhausted to move a step farther.

  Faye was the most presentable, in jeans and flannel shirt stained with baby food. Marilyn’s orange turtleneck, burgundy plaid trousers, and sagging pink cardigan hurt the eyes. Shirley was remarkably colorless, in black leggings and a gray T-shirt.

  With a thud, Alice set the coffeepot on the coffee table next to the cups, spoons, milk, and sugar she’d already brought out, then dropped into a chair. She knew she looked sloppy in her loose brown sweat suit. She didn’t care.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Faye asked, “Where’s Alan?”

  “Out for the evening,” Alice murmured.

  “How’s he doing?” Shirley inquired.

  “Better. He’s looking for an apartment and checking out job possibilities. With an MBA and all his experience, he won’t have to settle for anything but the best.”

  “He likes the high-power stuff?” Shirley asked.

  Alice looked surprised at the question. “Well, of course!”

  “So Alan’s doing all right. That’s good.” Faye sounded artificially cheerful, like the coach of a losing team.

  “Yeah,” Alice agreed.

  Then they just sat, staring down at the floor. Faye scanned their faces: Alice scowled. Marilyn sagged. Shirley was listless.

  Faye tried again. “Hot Flash Club? More like No Clue Club.”

  No one laughed.

  “Okay,” Faye said briskly. “I don’t know what’s going on with the rest of you, but I, for one, have something positive to report!” She turned to the stimulating clash of colors on her right. “Marilyn, I’ve lived intimately with the Eastbrooks for three weeks now, and I can say with certainty that Lila truly loves your son.”

  Marilyn perked up. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Marilyn said, and burst into tears.

  Surprised, Faye asked, “Honey, what’s wrong?” Marilyn could hardly speak for sobbing. “I ruined Alice’s life!”

  Faye glanced at Alice for confirmation.

  Alice nodded grimly. “True. She cost me my job.”

  Astonished, Faye asked, “How?”

  Alice jerked her chin toward Marilyn. “She was supposed to get information about Alison from Barton, remember? Instead, she lets Barton seduce her, she tells him everything, and he tells Alison, who tells my superior, who decides I’ve ‘lost my vision’ and retires me.”

  “I’m sorry, Alice. So sorry.” Marilyn wept. “I thought he—” She was too humiliated to continue.

  “That’s terrible,” Faye murmured. “Still, we ought to be able to do something about it.” She chewed on her thumbnail, thinking.

  “I don’t have good news, either,” Shirley announced somberly.

  Faye looked at Shirley.

  Shirley nodded. “Sorry. Jennifer D’Annucio is having an affair with your son-in-law.”

  Faye’s face crumpled. “I’m not surprised.”

  Shirley felt tears sting her eyes. “What a mess everything is!”

  “But the Golden Moments meeting went off beautifully!” Alice said.

  “Yes, but Julie Martin won’t invest any money in my retreat!”

  “And I—” Marilyn began, but couldn’t go on. “Oh, Alice,” she wailed, “I’m so sorry!”

  Alice took a deep breath. “It’s not your fault, Marilyn.”

  “Of course it is!”

  Abruptly, Alice left the room. She returned with a box of tissues she handed to Marilyn. “Come on, Marilyn, cheer up. The truth of the matter is, I got myself retired. You’re only a human being, Marilyn, and you tried your best, and I did find out that Alison wants my job, so you could say you completed your HFC assignment.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Marilyn murmured. “Will you forgive me?”

  “I’d better. Life’s too short, and I have too few friends to do without you.”

  “Why, Alice, that’s admirable,” Faye said.

  “And surprising,” Shirley added.

  “Thanks,” Alice said sarcastically, throwing a caustic look Shirley’s way.

  Shirley just grinned.

  Marilyn dried her eyes. “God, what a weight off my mind. And what a relief that Lila loves Teddy.”

  “But there is a problem,” Faye reluctantly admitted. “Well, not a problem. Just a—complication. Or maybe not—”

  “Just spit it out,” Alice advised.

  “Lila has a younger sister confined to a wheelchair and slightly deformed. The Eastbrooks are afraid Teddy won’t marry her if he knows.”

  Marilyn put her hands to her cheeks. “What happened?”

  “She was born with spina bifada. Dora’s bright, she’s good-natured, she’s mentally acute. But physically crippled.”

  “Oh, the poor little thing.” A thought struck Marilyn. “Is it my responsibility to inform Teddy?”

  “Is it my responsibility to inform my daughter that her husband’s definitely having an affair with Jennifer D’Annucio?” Faye asked.

  Marilyn said, “My son believes we should all live our lives according to Star Trek’s Prime Directive.”

  “Which is what?” Shirley asked.

  “Briefly stated, Do Not Interfere.”

  The four women were quiet for a moment, thinking.

  Then Alice slapped her hand on the coffee table, making them all jump.

  “Hell, no! We’ve got over two hundred years of wisdom in this room. I think the Prime Directive of the Hot Flash Club should be—”

  They said it all together. “In—ter—fere!”

  They smiled at one another, blasting the mood-swamping emotional fog right out of the room.

  “Phase Two begins now,” Alice announced decisively. “I’ll get my notebook.”

  Faye stood up, hooking her purse over her shoulder. “And I’m running out to get some chocolate.”

  “Good idea,” Marilyn said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Me too,” Shirley said.

  “I’ll make a batch of strawberry daiquiris,” Alice said. “And for you, Shirley, I’ll concoct an alcohol-free Strawberry Slurpy Supreme.”

  “What’s that?” Shirley asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m going to invent it right now.” Alice headed into her kitchen.

  The other three women raced away.

  Thirty minutes later, Shirley, Faye, and Marilyn returned with their arms full of grocery bags. They set out éclairs, cakes, mousse, pie, cookies, candies, and cartons of ice cream. They raided Alice’s kitchen, carrying out plates, bowls, serving spoons, spoons, forks, and napkins.

  Alice presented them with two pitchers of cheery pink drinks and wineglasses misted from the freezer.

  For a while, the only sound was the clink of silver against china and contented murmurs.

  It was Alice who finally put down he
r spoon and picked up her pen and pad of paper. “All right, ladies,” she said, licking her lips, “let’s get to work. And Shirley, don’t eat all that Black Forest cake. I haven’t had any yet. Try the mousse.”

  Shirley saluted and obeyed.

  “Now.” Alice began scribbling. “First. Faye wanted to know whether her son-in-law’s having an affair with another woman, and Shirley investigated.”

  “And she found out,” Marilyn added. “She completed her assignment.”

  “You pulled it off, Shirley,” Alice agreed. “Good for you.”

  “That’s right,” Faye agreed. “I might not like what she discovered, but she did find out the truth. Thank you, Shirley.”

  Shirley blinked rapidly, as the information streaked into her brain like light beams. “I did!”

  Alice looked at Faye. “So now we have to move on to the next step, which is what to do about it.”

  “I’m not sure I can blame Lars,” Faye told them. “My daughter’s depressed. She’s not at all like her normal self.”

  “Postpartum depression perhaps,” Marilyn suggested. “Could be treated with drugs, if she’s not nursing. Prozac, maybe.”

  “She’s nursing,” Faye said.

  “So she puts the kid on the bottle,” Alice advised briskly.

  “She could try herbal remedies,” Shirley added.

  “She should spend some time alone with her husband.” Alice was making notes. “You’ve got money, Faye. Get Laura to a doctor. Get her on some meds. Hire a baby-sitter, send Laura and Lars away for a honeymoon weekend.”

  “Right,” Faye agreed, nodding. “And if Lars wants to tell her about his affair, he can.” She looked up at the group. “What if Laura can’t accept that he’s had an affair?”

  “That’s up to Laura,” Marilyn replied.

  “Fine, but he should end the affair.” Alice tapped her pen like a gavel.

  “Absolutely,” Faye agreed. “But how—”

  “Hey.” Shirley moved to the edge of the sofa. “I have an idea. Jennifer’s a nice girl, trust me on this. Why don’t we have another little party? For Golden Moments. She came to the last one. She brought those amazing brownies. She drove Julie Martin home. You didn’t come to the last Golden Moments meeting, Faye, but come this time, and bring Megan . I think when this girl sees the baby, she’ll do some serious thinking. Maybe she’ll dump him!”