The Hot Flash Club (18 page)

“But do you want to spend the next three years working with this new team?” Before she could answer, Melvin plowed ahead. “I don’t think so, Alice. You haven’t given me any signs over the past six months that you’d enjoy the work, or, frankly, that you’d have anything to offer. This is definitely the best solution for everyone involved.”

A stinging sensation pushed at the skin of Alice’s face. God in heaven, she was going to cry. She was going to
wail
. She was going to fall on her knees, crawl around the desk, kiss the toes of Melvin’s shiny wing tips, and beg him not to do this to her.

She swallowed her pride. “TransContinent is my
life
, Melvin.”

He shook his head sadly. “It’s TransWorld now.”

Alice recoiled. Melvin spoke gently, but his words hit her like a blow in the chest. Then, in a flash of mortification, she understood the depth of her own failure, so clearly,
precisely
, betrayed by her use of the name of the former company, the
old
company. TransContinent, and the entire world it represented, had been, like a discontinued item, yanked off the shelf, replaced by a shinier, more efficient, and flashier toy.

“Can I get you something, Alice?” Melvin pulled open a desk drawer and brought out a silver flask. “How about a little brandy?”

Alice shook her head, not trusting her voice not to quaver. She, who had once held the fates of hundreds of people’s lives in her hands, was now considered obsolescent, passé—
worthless.

“A glass of water, then? How about a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you, Melvin.” Long ago, she might have said to Melvin, her old friend and colleague, “Are you kidding? Coffee gives me indigestion and makes me pee like Niagara Falls.” Now she could only salvage what little dignity she had left. Clenching her hands and jaw, she rose. She was relieved to find her legs actually supported her; she’d half expected her knees to buckle or shake.

Once again Melvin extended his hand across the desk. “Good luck, Alice. And I’ll be in touch.”

She could not bring herself to shake his hand. She gave herself that much satisfaction: Head high, she sneered at him, but her insult was lost, because at just that moment, Melvin’s eyes flickered down to check his watch. She’d overstayed her allotted time.

Alice pulled Melvin’s door shut, firmly, and quietly, but she could tell by Elvira Gray’s frozen face that the secretary knew exactly what had just happened. With a flash, Alice realized
everyone
in TransWorld knew about her termination. Her
retirement
.

Melvin couldn’t have made the decision alone. He must have discussed it with the other execs, the new TransWorld people and some of Alice’s old cronies as well. The thought of
that
, of muttered private discussions about her competence, her failures, her
uselessness
, made her nearly sick with shame.

Briskly she moved down the corridor, face implacable, eyes fixed in front of her to prevent catching even a glimpse of anyone staring at her with amusement or triumph or—
gag
—pity.

“Alice?” Marilyn glanced up from her desk, her face tense. “Tech support came. They took your computer—”

Alice swept past her, shut her office door, rushed into her bathroom, and closed that door. Turning on both faucets full blast, she prayed the noise would cover her sounds as she fell to her knees over the toilet and regurgitated her breakfast. Her heart thumped so rapidly! She was afraid it would explode in her chest, and only the fear of being found dead against the toilet made her lurch to her feet. She rinsed out her mouth, drank some water, and stared at her wide-eyed face in the mirror. Jesus Christ, was this the last time she’d be in this room?

It was.

Frantically she began retrieving personal items from her cabinet. Mouthwash, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, face cream, all the stuff she needed for working late or rushing off to a business dinner. Under the sink, she found her box of Kotex. She’d finished with periods long ago, but the past ten or so years, whenever she sneezed, coughed, or laughed, she leaked— it was like her damn bladder was attached by a rubber band directly to her nose. How clever she’d thought she was, instead of buying Depend or Poise or any of the other “incontinence” pads, she’d bought sanitary napkins, in case anyone, from the cleaning lady on up, ever looked in her bathroom cabinet. She’d actually thought she’d prevented everyone from knowing she was getting older.

But she
was
older.

And everyone knew.

Clutching the sink, Alice threw her head back and grimaced, expelling a silent howl. She was in so much pain she thought she might die. Perhaps this was how people did die of heart attacks.

She had to keep going. She grabbed the makeup pouch, stuffed with her hygienic needs, and stepped back into her office. Now, to clean out her desk.

Slumping in her chair, she pulled open her drawers, discovering to her shock how little, really, there was for her to take. A roll of breath mints. A handful of change. A zippered leather nail kit. Several emergency packets of panty hose. From the top of her desk, framed photographs of her two sons and their families.

One wall was hung with beautifully framed photos: a black-and-white shot of Alice with Arthur Hudson, in Kansas, in 1966, when he first started the company. Well, Arthur had died two years ago. A color shot of Alice, Arthur, and three other men on the site of the new TransContinent building in ’76. Bill Weaver was standing next to her, and after all the intervening years, the radiance of his sexuality still plucked at Alice’s nerves like a harpist’s fingers. The next shot was taken in 1980, when TransContinent moved to Boston and Alice left Kansas, and Bill Weaver, with his wife, behind. In that photo, Alice looked gaunt. After four years of secret passion, Bill had chosen his wife. Alice had had to move on, and although she smiled, her eyes told of pain.

Several wooden plaques were interspersed among the pictures. The smaller, plainer wooden ones made her smile. Best Secretary of the Year, 1968. Most Valued Employee, 1979. The newer ones, won when TransContinent had grown huge, weren’t so meaningful; some motivational type had insisted they give out lots of awards, claiming it would improve company morale. Hell, it had been
her
decision to hire the motivational consultant.

Alice took the earliest two plaques and the photos down. They left pale rectangles on the wall.

She paused, staring at the small collection of articles. Did she really have so little to carry with her?

Probably there were files on her computer she’d want to copy or send to her laptop. She’d have to wait until tech support cleaned off the virus. How long would that take? Should she wait there?

Doing what?

Dear God, she no longer belonged in her own office! It wasn’t
her
office any longer, or it wouldn’t be, once she walked out the door. And after she walked out that door—why, her entire life would be over! She’d been married to TransContinent longer than to Mack! Her head held more information about TransContinent personnel than any damned computer—how could they
imagine
they could exist without her?

A tap came at her door, then Marilyn stuck her head in. “Got a moment?”

Alice glared at Marilyn, who looked pretty in a pale rose silk top, not one of the neutral shades the HFC had helped her buy. Did this mean Marilyn had actually gone shopping for herself? Yes, of course, to be more seductive to Barton, who had obviously hypnotized her. Marilyn, whose purpose was to
help
Alice.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Alice stated flatly.

Marilyn stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her. “Tech support—”

Alice cut her off. “You got me fired.”

Marilyn blinked. “What?”

Leaning forward, Alice growled, “Oh, not
fired
,
per
se,
they’re not about to
fire
an aging African-American female. No,
retired
is the word. Because of
you
, I’m being forced to retire.”

Marilyn’s mouth fell open.

“You were supposed to
help
me!” As she spoke, all the anger and humiliation of the past hour gathered force inside her, bubbling beneath her breastbone like lava. “Instead, you blabbed my fears about Alison to her
secretary
? Thanks, Marilyn,
thanks a lot.
”

Marilyn went pale. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

“Oh, no, what? Oh, no, lover boy Barton wouldn’t betray you? What did he do, tell you you’re beautiful? Did he
make love
to you?” Her voice oozed irony. She could see she was hitting the truth. “He seduced you, didn’t he? You told him
everything
, didn’t you? And
he
told Alison, who told Melvin Watertown and probably every other executive on this floor. Now
I’m
an object of ridicule, but that’s all right, I won’t be around to be laughed at, because I’ve just been handed my walking papers!”

“My God,” Marilyn cried, “I’m so sorry! I was sure—”

“You’ve cost me my job, my income, my reputation. You’ve ruined my life.” Alice had to look away from the other woman’s horrified face. She’d be damned if
she
’d be the one to console
her
! With savage movements, she snatched up her photos, her makeup kit, her briefcase. Stalking around the desk, she growled, “Open the door.”

Marilyn reached out a shaking hand and pulled the door open. “Alice. Let me—”

Wearily, Alice said, “Go home, Marilyn. It’s all over.”

To reach the elevators, Alice had to walk by all the other offices and desks, past Alison’s office, and Barton Baker’s desk.

She felt like Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine. Joan of Arc on her way to the stake.

She felt her failure dragging behind her like a piece of toilet paper caught on her shoe.

She hesitated, looking back at Marilyn’s desk, hoping to appear as if she’d forgotten something, when in fact she was only stalling. This was going to be the longest walk of her life, and she felt as if she had to do it stark naked. And in a way, this was true, because she had been stripped of all her power, prestige, and pride.

Well, she couldn’t stand there all day. Suck it up, she told herself, and began to walk the plank.

As she passed Barton Baker’s desk, he rose. “May I help you carry anything?” His voice was greasy with self-satisfaction.

Alice whipped her eyes his way, caught his smug smirk, and saw, behind him, Alison leaning one slender hip against her secretary’s desk. Alison wore a red power suit the size of one of Alice’s thighs, red heels with points sharp enough to puncture a heart, and a cat-that’s-got-the-cream smile.

Without speaking, Alice moved on. All around her, the normal office business noises stopped dead, as if the entire floor had been paralyzed by a rush of toxic gas. Men and women stopped laughing and chatting. They looked up from their desks and stared openly as Alice strode past.

But no one said a word.

When she reached the bank of elevators, she saw old reliable Frances come around her desk toward her.

“Alice.” Frances’s voice was rich with sympathy.

Sympathy.
That stung worse than snideness. Alice ignored her.

“Could I help you carry anything?” Frances asked.

Brusquely, Alice shook her head. She would
die
if this woman offered one word of pity.

“Alice—I’ll miss you so much,” Frances said. “Will you call me sometime?”

The elevator doors opened. Alice stepped on and hit the DOWN button without replying. She fixed a look of disdain on her face. At the moment, it was all she could do.

30

Beneath the buzzing light of the MIT lab, the slab of shale lay, gray, mute, and dead. Marilyn sighed as she stared at it. No one knew why, 500 million years ago, all trilobites had been decimated. Other creatures had begun life then, the rugose and tabulate corals, starfishes, even some vertebrates. Time always crept on, carrying nature on its back.

Some trilobites had been able to protect themselves by rolling the ventral side of their tails up to meet the ventral side of their heads, forming little armored balls. She imagined them, curled inside their hard shells, snoozing away in peace.

She wished she were a trilobite.

Marilyn covered her specimen, then reached up and turned off the buzzing light, which crackled accusingly at her. She had accomplished nothing the whole day. That morning she’d hauled her dispirited self to her lab, intending to find comfort and reassurance in her familiar and beloved work, hoping to recover from the terrible shock of Barton’s betrayal. But for the first time in her life, fossils could not fascinate. She’d just stood staring, replaying her asinine after-sex chatter that had cost Alice her job.

It was the worst thing Marilyn had ever done in all her life.

And all because she’d been suckered in by Barton, by the way he’d touched her, by the words he’d said— deeper than her guilt was a burning pit of shame at her foolish,
eager
gullibility!

She turned her back on the lab, trudged along the corridor, up the stairs, and through a door to the fresh air. The bright sunlight made her blink, but as she traced a familiar path through the campus, the warmth of the early-spring day gave her no consolation. She was glad to head back down underground to the T.

She slid her token into its slot and plodded along with the anonymous mass, down the steps to the subway stop. She liked being underground, it usually made her feel at home, and as she leaned against the wall, waiting for the train, she thought, not for the first time, how simple life must have been for the trilobites, how uncomplicated! Trilobite mating would have been so easy, so pure, unriddled with doubts about aging or sincerity.
They
never would have used the breeding process for bizarre motives, such as finding out whether one’s friend’s new assistant was after her job. They
couldn’t
have had sexual intercourse for political reasons.

With a roar and a squealing of brakes, her train rumbled into the station. She duly boarded and collapsed in a seat. The train rushed forward. Marilyn watched the windows fill with light and dark and movement, like clips from a jumble of movies. At the Harvard Square stop, she got off, climbing back up to ground level, her heart so heavy she thought she’d have to crawl up the steps to street level on her hands and knees.

On the street, crowds flowed around her, students and professors, salespeople and secretaries, hurrying to and from classes, work, coffee breaks, early lunches. Young women passed by, lithe in their bodies, fresh in their skin, and men, young and old, followed them with their eyes.

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 back 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.