Read The Girls of Tonsil Lake Online
Authors: Liz Flaherty
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction, #Romance, #late life, #girlfriends, #sweet
The Girls of Tonsil Lake
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Girls
of Tonsil Lake
by
Liz Flaherty
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Girls of Tonsil Lake
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Liz Flaherty
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First
Last Rose of Summer
Women’s Fiction Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-249-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-250-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Judith Palmer, Jenni Licata, and Tina Runge.
Although we haven’t always traveled
publishing’s bumpy road together,
it was a letter Jenni wrote that started the journey.
With thanks and affection to you all.
And for Muriel Jensen, who told me to never give up.
Bless you!
Praise for Liz Flaherty
“Liz Flaherty is one of my favorite authors, and
THE GIRLS OF TONSIL LAKE
is more delicious storytelling from this amazing writer. The bond between the four women is exquisitely wrought—I felt their closeness even when they drove each other crazy. We all hope to have friendships like these.”
~Nan Reinhardt, author
~*~
BECAUSE OF JOE
“A touching romance about the power of love, forgiveness, and family. The characters will stay with you and leave an impression on your heart.”
~M. Parcel
~*~
“Ms. Flaherty knows how to build and develop her characters so they become three dimensional friends to her audience.”
~LAS Reviewer
~*~
HOME TO SINGING TREES
“The author has done an excellent job of capturing the flavor of life in a small Midwestern town in 1876, and I didn’t want to leave. Highly recommended!”
~Alicia Croft, Got Romance Reviews (5 Diamonds)
Part One
“The last thing I remember seeing was a cobweb above the lights that looked lethal. When I woke up, I felt as though I had been put in a stranger’s body.
Therefore, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly don’t know who in the hell I am and have developed an unreasonable fear of spiders.”
Andrea Hart Logan
Let There Be Hope
Gunderson Publishing, 2007
Chapter One
Andie
When my friends Jean and Suzanne were visiting me in the hospital, Jean told me I should write everything down. “If it’s on paper,” she said, “it won’t be on your mind so much.”
Right away, Suzanne, who’s never had an original thought in her life, ran out and bought me this fancy-dancey journal to write in along with a package of gel pens in all different ink colors. When I tried to get her to take them back, saying I’d do fine with a coil-bound notebook and a few fine-point black stick pens, she got this hurt look on her face. I had to hurry up and smooth her ruffled blonde feathers. There, that sounded literary, didn’t it? Ruffled blonde feathers—hmm, I like that.
Anyway, my first entry read, “This hurts like a sonofabitch.” When Jean read it the next day, she complimented my succinctness but suggested I try a little description, so the next entry was, “It hurts like a goddamned sonofabitch,” written in putrid purple ink. She said I was catching on. Jean knows these things because she writes romance novels.
When I said maybe she should send my journal to her publishers, she told me that wouldn’t work because they wouldn’t let a writer say things like “goddamned sonofabitch” even if she was lying in a hospital bed with her one real boob sunk into her armpit while her new, fake one stood up proud on her chest like the left half of her was seventeen years old instead of fifty-goddamned-one.
That made Suzanne start staring at my chest with something like horror in her eyes. I reminded her that she was going to be fifty-one on her next birthday and if her tits weren’t already falling into her armpits, they soon would be.
Jean told me I was being a bitch, because we all knew Suzanne was going to have hers stitched permanently into place.
We got to laughing so hard one of the nurses came in and said I was giving mastectomies a bad name. But that’s how I’ve gotten through this whole thing. Laughing and writing stuff down in that journal Suzanne got me. I got so attached to those silly gel pens that I asked her to buy me some more when they all, except the brown one I didn’t like, ran out of ink. It made her so happy, doing that for me, that I felt guilty because I’d never been as good a friend to her as she was to me. But I can’t help it. She drives me forny nuts.
(“Forny,” in case you’re wondering, is a word we Tonsil Lake girls coined when we were young and we wanted to say the f-bomb but couldn’t make ourselves do it because deep down inside we knew we’d go to hell for it. Jean had read the Bible some and she knew what fornicate meant, so we created “forny.” It’s been real handy over the years.)
Suzanne’s a beauty consultant. I mean, really, she is. She’s been with this same makeup company for over twenty years, and she looks so good her picture’s in their flyers that urge you to buy their stuff instead of what’s at eye level in the drugstore.
Even though we laugh at the shallowness of her
career
, we accept the free makeup she’s always giving us and feel like we’re being punished if we have to use off-the-discount-shelf. The stuff she gives us never clumps up on your lashes unless you leave it untouched in your medicine cabinet for two years the way I do sometimes. Especially during chemotherapy, when I didn’t have any eyelashes, clumpy or otherwise.
Suzanne’s got a heart of gold, but she’s like a southern belle caught in some kind of time warp. She’s always thin, always cute, and always able to coerce a man into doing what she doesn’t want to.
She even uses this breathy little southern accent sometimes, which just drives me over the edge because she grew up in a trailer down from me on Tonsil Lake. Other than the occasional “y’all” no one else on the lake has even a trace of a drawl.
And, yes, the lake’s shaped just like a tonsil. Or at least some drunk’s idea of a tonsil’s shape, since most of us have no idea what one really looks like. But I’m digressing here.
By the time I finished chemo and radiation and had gotten a nipple put on my stand-up boob, I had filled that journal. I’d been declared cancer-free—at least for the moment—and my hair had grown back, sort of.
Only instead of being long and straight and the color of brown I’d kept it ever since I got up close and personal with do-it-yourself hair color while I was still in my thirties, it was as white as Christmas snow and so curly Suzanne took a curling iron to me to straighten it out some. She burned my neck, too, and I yelled like a banshee. She got smart right away, saying it looked like a hickey, probably the first one I’d had since high school, and I should be grateful.
Jean, who was cooking supper for me because the radiation made me so tired I couldn’t see straight, laughed so hard she wet her pants. When I told her I was real glad to have entertained her so, she called
me
a bitch.
When I got to feeling enough better I set about getting my house cleaned the way I like to do it a time or two a year. I got to looking for that journal, thinking maybe I’d burn it before one of my kids got their hands on it and decided their mother was a fruitcake. Well, the damned thing wasn’t to be found anywhere.
And that’s when I learned that Jean had sent it off to Vin Stillson, a Tonsil Lake girl who had moved to New York after high school and made good. She’s an editor in one of those snotty publishing houses—the kind that doesn’t print books like Jean writes.
Vin comes back to Indiana once a year to see her mother at the nearby retirement community she lives in. Vin stays with one of us while she’s here and at least once while she’s around, we load into a car and drive the fifty miles to Tonsil Lake just to convince ourselves we don’t mind going back.
Not much has changed—though we always go in the dark; we’re only so brave. There is a little mom-and-pop tavern where the schoolhouse used to be, and we go in there and end up getting so drunk we have to call Jean’s husband David to come and get us.
The first few times this happened, it took him an hour to get there. By that time, at least one of us would be to the puking stage and another—usually Suzanne—would be bawling. This made for a miserable ride home. Finally David went to giving us a few hours to get started and then would head on out toward the lake, bringing along someone to drive the other car home.
Vin’s different from us. In the first place, once we finished going to elementary school at the lake and started riding into town on the high school bus, she started hanging out with kids who were a few rungs higher on the social ladder than Tonsil Lake kids were. This didn’t take much, since Tonsil Lake was caught somewhere between the county dump and the rows of ramshackle cabins where the migrant workers stayed come tomato-picking time.
Later on, we all went to college because abject poverty looked good to financial aid offices. While the rest of us went to one of the state universities, Vin got a full scholarship to Bryn Mawr. After graduation, we settled into smallish Indiana towns and got married to guys we’d met while we were in school at Indiana University or Indiana State.
Vin settled into a New York brownstone. She married a guy old enough to be her father who was also richer than any of us, who mostly lived paycheck to paycheck, could begin to understand. She had a housekeeper before any of us even had houses.
Mark, her husband, died last spring. We all wanted to go to New York for the funeral, but she told us not to, so we made do with a planter. Jean sent it, so it was probably very tasteful.
Oh, damn, I’m digressing again. I never used to do that, but cancer and medication and having lopsided breasts all conspire to do weird things to you. The point I’m trying to get to in this new journal I’ve started—in a coil-bound notebook full of lined yellow paper—is that Vin wants to publish the old one.
Apparently her publishing house has no objection to the use of “goddamned sonofabitch.” They want to make my illness into a hardcover book and pay me a nice little bundle of money for it. I think I’m going to let them.
Jean
Sometimes when David’s gone to play golf, which he does at least once a day and sometimes twice, I sit and stare at my computer screen and think about getting divorced. I did not spend thirty years being married to his job just to turn around and be married to Fallen Tree Golf Course when he retired.
If I got a divorce, the first thing I’d do is turn one of the kids’ bedrooms into an office. Our youngest daughter got married six weeks ago, for heaven’s sake, so why is it necessary that their rooms remain intact?
“Megan might want this bed someday,” said Carrie, leaning against the poster of her old canopy bed with her arms crossed under her breasts.
I caught myself staring at her, wondering how her thirty-six B-minus mother ever gave birth to two daughters who grew into thirty-four C-pluses. I also thought it was going to be at least a couple of years before my granddaughter Megan was ready for the tall white bed. She couldn’t even climb into it yet, though she was making a mess of the counterpane by trying.
And then there was, “What if I need to come home?” Kelly stood in her underwear on the day of her wedding, her hand in a possessive grip on the footboard of her sleigh bed with her C-plus breasts spilling over the top of her strapless bra. “Do you want me sleeping on the couch? Or maybe on a cot in the basement?”
