The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (7 page)

Gradually, Polly gave up. During the later years, when only Polly, Tucker, and Claudia sat at the long table with its white linen cloth, silver candlesticks, and elaborate meal, Polly felt a kind of desperation filling her with hysterical laughter. She fantasized saying or doing something outrageous, like sticking carrots in her ears or starting a food fight with Tucker, something that would offend Claudia so terribly Claudia would never speak to her again.

But she didn’t live out her fantasies. Claudia was Tucker’s
mother.
These were, after all,
family
occasions. Polly
had
to invite her, and for a few days a year she tried her best to please her.

——————————

Two years ago, on a beautiful June day, Tucker had had a heart attack while playing tennis. He collapsed on the court and died before Polly could even say good-bye.

Claudia wore a hat to her son’s funeral and chastised Polly for not wearing one. She berated Polly for having “Let It Be” sung at the service, though Polly told her Tucker had always said that was the song he would want. Claudia told Polly a sleeveless dress was inappropriate, though it was a hot, humid day. That David’s hair was too long. That David’s girlfriend Amy’s dress, a rather Victorian-looking floral sundress, was inexcusably tasteless.

For a few moments, the exhilaration of battle swelled in Polly’s chest as she contemplated telling Claudia off in language that would make Robert De Niro recoil. She stared at her mother-in-law, so properly dressed in black suit and black hat, so arrogant and ruthless and unkind. Then she reminded herself that this was the day of Claudia’s son’s funeral. Claudia now had no one on the planet who mattered to her.

“Oh, God,
Tucker,
” Polly had cried. “Claudia, how will we live without him?” Tears streaming down her face, she bent toward her mother-in-law for a comforting embrace.

Claudia sniffed and stepped away. “Get control of yourself,” she ordered. “At least
pretend
you’ve got some class.”

Polly had closed her eyes and blown her nose in her cocktail napkin. David came up and put a consoling arm around Polly. Claudia stalked away, called a cab, and went home.

——————————

For three weeks after Tucker’s funeral, grief enclosed Polly in its bitter grip. She didn’t phone Claudia; why should she? Claudia hadn’t phoned her.

But Claudia was an elderly woman living alone. Tucker had found his mother exhausting and infuriating, but as much as he was permitted, he had loved her. Polly knew
she
must live up to some basic standard of moral conduct out of respect for her husband, and her own sense of values as well.

So Polly phoned Claudia every week to chat. It was as easy as pulling her teeth out with her own hands and just about as pleasant, but Polly assumed that the very fact that Claudia deigned to spend time on the phone with Polly was evidence of some kind of bond. She felt obligated to continue to try.

That Christmas, Polly hadn’t felt like buying a tree. All the carols made her cry, so instead of inviting Claudia for a full-scale Christmas feast, Polly had Claudia, David, and his fiancée, Amy, over for a low-key Christmas-night meal, after which they exchanged presents. Polly gave Claudia several glossy coffee-table books. Claudia gave Polly what she gave her every year for Christmas and for her birthday: jewelry from a charity thrift shop. Polly knew this was the source because bits of glass were always missing, or the clasps didn’t work, or Claudia “accidentally” forgot to remove the little white tag that priced the item at $1.00, the implied message being that Polly wouldn’t appreciate and didn’t deserve anything better.

That winter was a blur for Polly. She couldn’t sew. She could scarcely dress herself. She took Roy Orbison for walks and sat up all night long watching old movies and sobbing. She slept during the day. She ate too much, or she forgot to eat. Still, she phoned Claudia once a week. Whatever else the older woman was, she was a connection to the man Polly had loved with all her heart.

By the spring, Polly had recovered much of her natural good spirits. She invited Claudia for tea at the Ritz. To her astonishment, Claudia agreed to go. Their conversation was as stilted as always, but wasn’t it better than nothing? She hoped Tucker was floating around on a cloud somewhere, looking down to see his wife and his mother together.

During the past year, driven by a sense of duty and the hope that Tucker, and God, especially if She kept records, were watching, Polly had continued to phone Claudia and occasionally to accompany her out to tea.

But
Claudia
had never phoned
her.

Why was she calling now?

Polly collapsed in a chair, dug a box of chocolates from their hiding place, and ate five in a row.

7

Sunday morning, Beth paced her apartment like a Pavlovian dog torn between a bell and a buzzer. In five minutes Sonny would pick her up to take her to spend the day with his family. His only words of advice had been “Don’t dress up!” This surprised Beth, because Sonny never seemed to notice what she or anyone else wore. So he
meant
it when he said it, but still, it
was
Sunday dinner, and she
was
going to meet his family. For an occasion like this, the good manners her parents had drilled into her demanded a certain standard of “dressing up.” She decided on blue jeans ironed till the creases snapped, leather loafers, and a simple blue cashmere sweater. She brushed her hair until it shone and added a blue velvet headband.

As she stood by her window, watching for Sonny, Beth reviewed what Sonny had told her about his family. Sonny worked with his father, Merle, and his younger brother, Mark, in their carpentry business, Young’s Construction, in Methuen, Massachusetts, where Sonny and his parents and his grandparents had all grown up. His mother, Bobbie, was the bookkeeper. His sister, Suze, coached high school sports. Sonny had moved out of his parents’ house when he was twenty, into an apartment only a short walk away, but far enough to provide him some privacy for his adult life, by which he meant, Beth could tell by his sheepish expression, sleeping with lots and lots of women.

Sonny’s white pickup pulled up to the curb. Beth grabbed her jacket and ran outside. The autumn air was crisp, but Sonny wore no coat, only jeans and a tartan flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He smelled of leaves and sunshine and tasted, when he drew her to him in a kiss, of apple cider.

“Ready?” he asked.

As they drove along toward Methuen and his family’s home, Sonny listened to a pre-Patriots-game radio program. Beth leaned her head against the window and tried to let her mind drift, but it wouldn’t
drift.
Like a record stuck in a groove, her thoughts constantly replayed her fears: what if Sonny’s family didn’t like her?

But Sonny
loved her,
she reminded herself. He’d told her so.

But he’d told another woman he loved her, too. He’d told
only one other woman
in all his life that he loved her.

Gently, Beth tapped her head against the window. How could being in love make her so euphoric one moment, and so miserable the next?

“Here we are,” Sonny said, pulling into a double driveway, behind a black pickup, a tan SUV, and a red Corvette.

The Youngs’ home sprawled before her, a hodgepodge of architectural styles and materials, set on several acres of land loosely separated into particular areas. Behind the house, the workshop loomed. Nearby were heaps of metal and piles of wood waiting, Beth assumed, to be recycled. She could glimpse a small apple orchard blending into a dark forest, and between the orchard and the house lay a vegetable garden, fenced against deer and rabbits. A few bright orange pumpkins shone like lights from the brown earth.

Beth followed Sonny up the steps to the long porch, each step set with a pot of orange mums or a colorful gourd. The door Sonny pushed open was hung with Indian corn.

“Hey, everyone!” Sonny shouted. “We’re here!”

Immediately, Beth was blasted with sensory overload. Here in the living room a television blared, while from another room a woman called, and Sonny was pulling Beth through the living room into an enormous kitchen smelling of roast beef and pumpkin pie. A woman turned from the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, “Beth! I’m Bobbie, Sonny’s mom! It’s so nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Beth said, just as a shaggy overcoat exploded from the other end of the room and galloped toward Beth, emitting a noise that was half-bark, half-yodel.

“Tinkerbelle!” Sonny said.

The dog threw herself on Sonny, who fell to the floor with her. Back and forth they rolled, wrestling, until Sonny tickled the dog’s stomach, which made Tinkerbelle lie on her back with her hind legs kicking the air spasmodically, as if she were pedaling a bike.

Beth stared, fascinated. No one in her family had ever thrown themselves on the floor. They never even
sat
on the floor.

“All the girls do that for Sonny,” Bobbie joked fondly. She was a large, vigorous woman, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt beneath her apron. Her black hair, salted with white, was chopped in a short, sensible cut. She wore no jewelry or makeup, which would have been unnecessary, because she had large, beautiful, dark blue eyes like Sonny’s, and like Sonny, an irresistible smile, which shone full force as she watched her adorable son.

“Hey, dinner’s just about ready,” Bobbie told Sonny. “You go out and round up the others. I’ll show Beth the house.”

Sonny jumped up and went out. Beth followed Bobbie from the kitchen.

“This place is a do-it-yourself dream.” Bobbie gestured as she led Beth through a maze. “The original three rooms were once a farmhouse when we bought it thirty years ago. Merle added rooms whenever he had the time. I guess it’s still a work in progress. We enlarged the upstairs when Sonny and Mark and Suze were born. Then we turned the little dining room into a large family room and enlarged the kitchen, because everybody’s always in the kitchen, anyway. When Sonny and Mark got into their teens, Merle turned the garage into a weight room, then built on a garage.”

Beth thought the Young house had the wandering rectangular coherence of a game of Scrabble. “It’s great,” she said.

Bobbie stopped in the family room with its huge television. One wall of shelves was crammed with trophies and photographs. “Our rogues’ gallery,” she announced with pride.

A pictorial history of the Young family spread out before Beth, who leaned forward, genuinely interested.

“Is this your wedding picture?” Beth asked, gazing at a photo of a younger Bobbie in a short white dress, next to a man who looked almost exactly like Sonny.

“Yes.” Bobbie’s voice warmed as she spoke. “We couldn’t afford a proper big wedding. We couldn’t even afford a honeymoon. But we couldn’t have been any happier if we’d spent a week in the Bahamas.”

“Is this Sonny? Gosh, wasn’t he a cute baby!”

“All my babies were.”

“Look at Sonny in his baseball uniform!” Beth gushed. “He’s adorable!”

“Nine years old. The best hitter in his league.”

“Did he ever think of playing professional ball?”

“No, I don’t think he did. He always wanted to be like his dad.”

“And is this Suze?” Beth nodded toward a picture of a girl with pigtails, matching snowflake mittens and cap, spinning on an ice rink.

“Yes. For a while we thought she might become a professional skater, but she had a nasty fall when she was fifteen. Broke her ankle. Ended
that
career.”

“Oh, how terrible.” Beth studied the next few pictures. “Is this Suze, playing field hockey?”

“Yes. She was able to play her junior and senior years in high school. Developed a taste for it, and now she’s the girls’ field hockey coach at Methuen High.”

“Good for her!” The next photo drew Beth closer. Squinting, she studied the color photograph of Sonny in a powder blue tux with a gorgeous, buxom blonde in a pale blue, strapless gown. Sonny’s arm was around the girl’s slender waist, his hand resting possessively on her hip. Their faces shone with the gloss of young love.

“That’s Sonny and Robin just before the junior prom,” Bobbie said, adding matter-of-factly, “Sonny must have told you about Robin.”

“Um,” Beth murmured uncertainly.

“They were high school sweethearts. Man, were they in love!” Bobbie sighed. “They were so adorable together. Here they are, king and queen of the senior prom. And here they are when Sonny was captain of the football team and Robin was head of the cheerleading squad. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She certainly is,” Beth agreed.

“That was taken after Robin helped me paint the family room.” Bobbie pointed to a photo of Robin and Bobbie, both in overalls, both spattered with paint, holding up brushes and laughing triumphantly at the camera. “She hung out here so much as a kid. She idolized Merle and used to beg him to let her help him. She got to be a pretty good little carpenter. We were so thrilled when Sonny was dating Robin. Thought they’d get married and take over Merle’s business eventually.”

Beth stood frozen in uncomfortable silence, unable to think of a response.

“Hey!” someone yelled. “You must be Beth. I’m Sonny’s father. Call me Merle.” Merle Young strode into the room, bringing a burst of fresh air with him. He was bald, with hazel eyes, and he was just Sonny’s height, but stockier. His hand, as he shook Beth’s, was hard and calloused.

“And I’m Mark.” Sonny’s brother was a stocky, brown-haired, hazel-eyed copy of his father. Bits of leaves poked from his old wool sweater. “Nice to meet you, Beth.”

“And I’m Suze.” Sonny’s sister looked just like her photos, only healthier. Her skin glowed, her black hair shone, and she carried her strong body with the ease of a natural athlete.

“Dinner’s ready,” Bobbie told the gang. “Let’s go in the kitchen.” Over her shoulder, she said to Beth, “I gave up the dining room to have a family room, but now I want Merle to build us a real dining room we can use for holidays and birthdays.”

“No dining room,” Mark protested, throwing an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “You’d make us sit up straight and not belch in a dining room.”

“Please!” Suze rolled her eyes at Beth as they followed the others.

“Mom!” Sonny was at the stove, stirring a pan. “You let the gravy get lumpy.”

“I did no such thing,” Bobbie protested, taking the spoon from him. “Put the roast on the platter,” she told him.

Everyone else grabbed bowls and carried them to the long pine table.

“Can I help?” Beth asked.

“Sure,” Sonny told her. “Get the platter out of the cupboard and hold it for me while I get the roast from the oven.” He pulled on a pair of oven mitts.

Beth opened a cupboard door. Glasses. She opened the next door. Mugs. The next cupboard was crammed with Tupperware.

“It’s on the lower shelf,” someone said silkily.

Beth turned to see a beautiful woman laying silverware on either side of the plates.

“I’m Robin.” Her voice poured out like honey.

Beth almost whimpered. Robin was more beautiful than in the photos. Clad in jeans and a white, long-sleeved tee that showed her spectacular figure, her blond hair pulled up in a high ponytail, she looked like every man’s dream.

“Hi, Robin.” Beth forced herself to smile. “I’m Beth.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you.” Robin picked up a pile of paper napkins.

Beth lifted up a white ironstone platter that must have weighed twenty pounds. “Is this the right one?”

“Perfect.” With two enormous forks, Sonny hefted a roast the size of Texas onto the platter.

Beth staggered at the combined weight. Bobbie chuckled, “Oh, honey, you’re going to drop that!” and took it from her.

Sonny put his arm around Beth’s shoulders. “Robin’s helping Mom try to slap some sense into this house.”

“Robin’s a painter,” Bobbie proclaimed proudly as she set the roast on the table.

“Oh? An artist?” Beth asked.

Everyone laughed. “Robin doesn’t have time for sissy stuff,” Mark said, punching Robin lightly on the arm. “She paints houses, and makes a good bit of money doing it, too.”

“She’s got her own scaffolding and her own crew,” Bobbie added. “Come on, everyone, sit down.”

Bobbie took her seat at one end of the table, Merle at the other, Beth and Sonny on one side, facing Mark, Suze, and Robin, who had to squeeze together to fit. It was clear Beth was sitting in Robin’s usual place.

“It’s grab, root, and growl in this family,” Merle informed Beth as the others reached for bowls, helped themselves, and passed the food on.

“Take bigger helpings,” Merle ordered Beth. “You’re too skinny.”

“Dad,” Sonny objected.

Gorgeous Robin laughed, showing perfect white teeth. “Better get used to it,” she warned Beth. “One thing about this family. They’re not shy.”

“Now what is it you do?” Merle asked.

Pleased to be asked, Beth said, “I’m completing work on my Ph.D. in English, and working in the BU library.”

“I almost went to BU!” Mark told her.

“Yeah,” Bobbie reminisced fondly. “Back in his rebel days.” She poured gravy over her food.

“Decided to work for Dad instead,” Mark said.

“Sonny wanted to be an architect.” Robin smiled warmly across the table at Sonny, who was focused on his food.

“Really?” Sonny hadn’t told her this. She turned to look at him. “Why—”

“College just costs too much,” Bobbie remarked.

“Anyway, they
had
to put
me
through college,” Suze piped up. “I’m the smart one in the family.”

“Just because you go to college doesn’t mean you’re smart,” Merle grumbled. “I know lots of morons with college degrees.” He glared at Beth’s plate. “Don’t you like the food?”

Beth quickly lifted a fork of potatoes and gravy to her mouth, just as Tinkerbelle knocked Beth’s arm with her eager, wet nose. The fork flew from Beth’s hand onto the floor, leaving a trail of gravy across Beth’s cashmere sweater.

“You’ll get wise to old Tinkerbelle’s tricks,” Robin assured Beth.

But will I get wise to yours?
Beth wondered, forcing a smile.