The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (29 page)

34

Here we are, superstar.” Julia kept tight hold of Belinda’s hand as they left the Volvo and threaded through the rows of parked cars, heading across the parking lot toward the new cement-and-cedar structure attached to Theodore Roosevelt High School.

The high school auditorium seemed an overambitious and perhaps daunting venue for the midwinter ballet recital, since it seated eight hundred and only about forty little girls would dance today. Julia wished the recital could have been in the evening, when Tim and a lot other parents could have come, but this wasn’t the enormous extravaganza that would take place at the end of May. This was more a kind of rehearsal, giving the children a chance to experience the full joy/trauma of performing in front of an audience, or as the teacher preferred to say, providing them with the opportunity to feel like real ballerinas for a day.

As they walked into the room backstage where all the other little girls and mothers were, Belinda’s grip tightened. A swarming, buzzing, pastel hive of tutued girls from seven to thirteen filled the room, bending to tie on their ballet slippers and pull up their tights while their mothers made fussy last adjustments to their hair. Some of the older girls were stationed at the wall of mirrors, gliding lipstick over their mouth or mascara over their lashes. Belinda, usually entranced by older girls, was too wired to pay them any attention today.

Kneeling down, Julia helped Belinda out of her parka and boots. Julia fitted on the soft, pink leather ballet slippers. She fluffed up Belinda’s tutu and retied the pink ribbons on her French braid.

“Oh, wow! You look just like a princess! A princess ballerina!”

Carter, a diminutive redhead in a matching tutu, twirled up. “Hi, Belinda!” Belinda beamed. The girls joined hands, bobbing up and down together.

Baylor, Carter’s mother, joined Julia. “Could they be any cuter?”

“Not possible.”

“All right, parents!” The ballet teacher, Judy Preston, a slim, young woman with dark hair sternly skewered back in a bun, clapped her hands. “It’s time! Please take your seats!”

Julia leaned forward to whisper into Belinda’s ear. “Good luck, Daffy Duck.”

Baylor and Julia trailed the other parents out of the room, through a door, and down a set of steps to the auditorium. A pair of mothers handed out programs printed on pale pink paper. As they seated themselves, Baylor leaned over to whisper, “I’m so nervous, I wish I had a Valium.”

Julia laughed. “I know. I had a glass of wine.” She took her small camcorder out and focused it.

“Oh, wow, I wish I’d brought mine. Will you make me a copy?” Baylor pleaded.

“Sure.” Julia scanned the program. The classes would appear according to age, the youngest first. Belinda’s group had to lead off. Julia crossed her fingers, saying a private prayer.

The houselights went down, the stage lights came up. From the backstage stereo system, an overture burst into the air. The curtain rose. Nine little girls in pink and white tutus pranced out onto the stage, their arms, cuffed in white chiffon, beating up and down. They were ponies. Pink princess ponies, and their parents nearly melted with adoration to watch them.

They paraded around the stage twice, then formed a line at the back, trotting in unison like a chorus line of pink pixies, as each little girl detached herself from the front of the line, trit-trotted up the center stage, pranced in a circle, then trotted back to the line.

When Belinda’s turn came, Julia’s heart banged away inside her chest like a drum. Belinda was so sweet, so vulnerable, so proud! She made a perfect circle, while Julia wept behind her camera. Next came Carter, also giving a flawless performance.

“A star is born!” Baylor gasped.

Carter clip-clopped back to the line. The next little girl hesitated. The child behind her nudged her, then gave a little shove. The girl, a tiny brunette with an angular frame, inched toward the front like Marie Antoinette toward the guillotine, not keeping in character or in step with the music. When she reached center stage, she pranced once, reluctantly, then faltered, staring out at the audience as if they’d all grown monster heads. She stopped moving. Hands at her side, she burst into tears.

“Oh, the poor thing,” Baylor whispered.

The chirpy CD music continued, a bouncy counterpoint to the child’s frozen terror.

“The teacher should help her get offstage,” Julia told Baylor. “Someone’s got to do something!”

Suddenly, a little girl left the line. Still prancing, in sync with the music, Belinda trotted to the front of the stage, took the weeping pony by her hand/hoof, and led her back to the line, all without missing a step. The audience watching breathed such enormous sighs of relief the noise blew through the auditorium like a breeze, and spatterings of applause broke out.

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” Baylor said. “Did you get that on tape?”

Julia nodded. Tears were streaming down her face and her throat was so choked she couldn’t speak. She felt Baylor looking at her. They were not close friends, they only saw each other at ballet and school occasions, but now Baylor reached over and took the hand not holding the little digital camera.

“Belinda is so brave! She wouldn’t have been able to do that if you hadn’t been such a good stepmother. You should be proud of yourself.”

Julia bit her lip,
hard.
Those kind words made her nearly break down and blubber.

The rest of the recital passed with the speed of a tortoise as far as Julia was concerned. The other groups were older, more graceful and accomplished, but
none
of the other girls could compare with Belinda.

Finally it ended. All forty-three ballerinas came out onstage, arranged by height, so Belinda and Carter were in the first row. Julia couldn’t clap while she was filming their bows, so she stomped her feet, hooted, and slapped her leg with her left hand. The curtain fell, the audience rose, the parents rushed backstage. As Julia and Baylor filed back with the crowd, several other parents, people Julia didn’t even know, came up to her to tell her how adorable, clever, brave, Belinda had been.

“I feel like a stage mother,” Julia told Baylor. “The scary thing is, I like it.”

They found Carter and Belinda against the wall near their coats, holding hands and jumping up and down, still jazzed from their performance.

Julia knelt to face her stepdaughter. “Belinda, you were
wonderful
! You danced beautifully, and you were so good to rescue that other little girl! I got it on tape, I can’t wait to show your father, and we’ll make copies to send to your grandparents. Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

“Shall we go get some ice cream to celebrate?” Baylor asked.

Julia looked at Belinda. “Want to?”

Belinda nodded. Loosening her grip around Julia’s neck, she turned back to Carter, grabbed her hands, and the children went back into Mexican jumping bean mode.

——————————

At home that evening, they couldn’t stop watching the video.

“I’m going to bring dinner in here,” Julia said.

Belinda remained glued to the TV. Tim followed Julia into the kitchen, where she bent over the oven, taking out a casserole she’d prepared earlier in the day. He put his arms around her. Julia leaned back into his embrace.

“I love you,” Tim whispered.

“I love you.” Julia turned in his arms and nestled against him.

They kissed, agreeing with their eyes to continue this particular conversation later that night. Julia spooned the casserole onto plates and filled water glasses while Tim carried the plates in and set them on the coffee table. Belinda knelt on the floor, eating with absentminded hunger, her attention still focused on the ballet recital.

“That little girl behind Belinda?” Julia pointed with her fork. “That’s Carter. She’s Belinda’s friend. Her mother, Baylor, sat next to me. She’s a good little dancer, isn’t she, Belinda?”

Belinda nodded her head enthusiastically, not taking her eyes from the screen.

“Here she comes!” Julia cried, as excited as if this were the first instead of the fifth time they’d seen it. “Look, Tim. Belinda is
perfectly
in step. Just perfect. What a little ballerina.”

“You’re the prettiest girl there,” Tim told his daughter.

“Now, look!” Tears welled in Julia’s eyes again. “That poor little child! Now watch! Belinda to the rescue! Just as if she’s been doing it all her life! And she never once got out of step! Look at her, prancing while she leads that little girl back to the line. You know what, Belinda, we’ve got to phone your grandmother to tell her about this!”

After dinner, Julia rose to take their empty plates back to the kitchen. “Tim, would you like an apple or some cookies? Belinda and I already had our dessert, we had ice cream with Carter and her mom.”

“An apple would be great.” Tim picked up his daughter and cuddled her next to him.

Julia set the three plates on the counter and took an apple from the bowl. Her hands were under the running water when a thought struck her. Her head whipped to the side. She stared back at the plates. The three empty plates.

Three empty plates.

Tonight, without her even noticing, so many things had changed. Belinda had eaten without a fuss, even though for the first time ever, they hadn’t sat at their routine places at the dining room table.
Plus,
Belinda had eaten
all
her food, even though Julia had forgotten to pick out the broccoli or separate the rice and the chicken; she’d intended to, when she made the casserole. But she’d forgotten in the heat of the moment.

So had Belinda.

It was a tiny miracle.

Winging a silent prayer of thanks, Julia carried the apple and the portable phone into the living room. They watched the video another time, then Tim froze it on Belinda at center stage. He punched in Agnes and George’s phone number.

He handed the phone to Julia. “You should tell them. You were the one who saw it.”

With Belinda watching, Julia had to disguise her emotions as she took the receiver. Belinda’s grandmother answered. “Agnes? Are you busy? I’ve got such a wonderful story to tell you! Do you want to get George on the extension?” Tim had left the room, returning now with another portable phone, which he handed to Belinda. “Belinda’s listening, too. Hi, George. Oh, my gosh, you have no idea how amazing Belinda was at her ballet recital.” Julia described the entire affair second by second, prance by prance. When she’d finished, the line was strangely quiet. For a moment, Julia thought they’d been disconnected.

Then Agnes spoke, her voice choked with tears. “I wish I could have been there. I would have been there if I’d known the date three months ago. We couldn’t cancel George’s colonoscopy appointment.”

Julia braced herself for battle, but managed to keep her voice sympathetic. “Agnes, we didn’t
know
the date of the recital three months ago. We only found out two weeks ago, and we told you then.”

Agnes sniffed.

“How is George?” Julia asked.

“Oh, he’s fine. He had some blood in his stool a while ago, but it turns out it was probably from a hemorrhoid.”

Thanks for sharing,
Julia thought with an inward grin. “What good news. We’re all so glad!”

“George and I have been talking.” Agnes blew her nose, then continued, “I hate being out here in the Berkshires, with my little grandchild so far away. We’ve decided. We’re going to move. We’re going to start looking at houses in your area.”

“Oh!”
Julia’s stomach lurched. She glanced at Belinda, who looked as if a bug had just crawled out of the handset. “But, Agnes, won’t you miss all your friends? And your wonderful house?”

“Not as much as I miss seeing my granddaughter every day.”

“Um, here, why don’t you tell Tim about your plans!” Julia thrust the handset at her husband. Her dinner was on an internal elevator, rising up from her stomach to her mouth. She smiled brightly at Belinda, then raced out of the living room, down the hall to her bedroom, and into the bathroom, where she knelt on the cold tiles and delivered the casserole into the toilet.

35

At four in the morning, Polly stood in the front hall of Claudia’s elegant house, saying good-bye to Martha Wright, the Home Health nurse, who had come immediately, as she had promised, to note officially Claudia’s death. They had phoned Claudia’s mortician of choice. When he and his assistant arrived, Martha had led Polly into the dining room, a practice, Polly assumed, to protect the living from observing the physical transfer of a person, now a body, out of the house.

Martha’s face was puffy from lack of sleep. “Will you be okay?” she asked Polly as she pulled on her wool cap and gloves.

“Yes, of course,” Polly replied automatically.

“You do realize you’re crying, don’t you?” Martha asked gently.

Polly touched her cheeks, her fingertips finding wetness. “Oh. I am.”

“Yes, you were crying when I came to the door. You’ve been crying steadily for about two hours now. Quietly, of course. Like a British rain.”

Polly chuckled. “Claudia would have approved.”

Martha adjusted her heavy shoulder bag. “Tell me, what are you going to do now? I mean right now, after I leave?”

“Um—” Polly rubbed her eyes. “I’ll lock up the house and drive home.”

“It will be nice to be in your own home, won’t it?”

“It will.”

“Do you have anyone waiting for you? Or a friend you could call to come be with you for a while?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Polly assured the other woman. “I’m just very tired.”

“Will you be able to sleep?”

“I think so. I have some Ambien my doctor prescribed. I doubt if I’ll need that, though.”

“Remember, you’re in a gentle kind of shock. It’s never easy, when someone dies.”

“I’ll be fine,” Polly said again. “Thank you for everything.”

Martha folded Polly into a warm hug, then went out into the darkness. Polly shut the door.

The house was silent. The lights glared harshly. The hospital bed where Claudia had taken her last breath loomed in emptiness. Martha had helped Polly remove the soiled sheets, blankets, and pads and stuff them into a large plastic bag, which tilted sideways next to a table littered with glasses and cups, tissue boxes, bottles, and a kidney-shaped stainless steel pan. Polly’s knitting needles protruded from her canvas bag, a spot of bright color. Claudia’s teeth, floating in a water-filled glass, seemed oddly alive.

“Well.” Polly’s voice sounded loud in the empty room. “I guess I’ll go home.”

She walked through the house, checking to be sure the back and side doors were locked. She turned off the lights. She put on her coat, hat, and gloves and picked up her purse. She went out into the dark night.

Driving home, she made a mental list of things to do: visit the funeral home to make the arrangements Claudia desired; that would be easy enough, because Claudia had written them down, just as she had written the obituary Polly would send to the Boston papers. There were no acquaintances to phone; Claudia had explicitly forbid Polly to phone anyone. She would call Robert Gershong, Claudia’s lawyer, who would probate the will. Who would write the check to the Historical Society? Polly wondered. Who would handle the sale of Claudia’s house? Polly had to phone the pharmacy to tell them to come take the hospital bed and commode. Fairly soon she needed to ask Pearl to help clean the house. What about all of Claudia’s antiques? Her clothes? Her silver?

Polly’s head swam. Her eyes burned.

By the time she reached her own house, it was almost five in the morning. She hadn’t left a light burning, and when she entered, Roy Orbison wasn’t there to greet her. She’d call the Pecks later, to ask them to bring her good old dog home.

The house was cold. Polly adjusted the thermostat, then walked through her house, still wearing her coat. In the kitchen she paused. Did she want a cup of tea? Weren’t you supposed to drink tea when someone died? Or perhaps a drink? She was too tired to know what she wanted.

“Oh, Tucker,” she said aloud. “I miss you so much.”

Down in the basement, the oil-fired furnace clicked on, rumbling companionably. Slowly, as if each foot weighed a ton, Polly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. For a moment she just sat on her bed, staring at the wall. What next?

——————————

At ten o’clock, Polly woke with a start. At some point she’d simply fallen over backward on her bed. She still wore her coat, but her wool cap had slipped and hung from one ear.

Outside, rain poured down. Had she ever lived through a winter with so much rain? But the house was warm, and it was her
home.
Her stomach rumbled. She wanted breakfast, a shower, and her dog.

Shower, first. The pounding hot water relaxed her body and invigorated her spirits. The fragrance of her citrus and honey shampoo made her take deep, grateful breaths. Wrapped in her favorite old terry-cloth bathrobe, hair turbaned in a thick towel, she slid into her slippers and hurried down to the kitchen to make coffee. After she’d savored a cup, she picked up her phone and dialed her son.

Katrina, David’s mother-in-law, answered. “Oh, hello, Polly. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. I’m calling to speak to David, if I could.”

“Sorry. He’s not here now. Could I take a message?”

Polly would not let her son hear of Claudia’s death through Katrina. “Please just ask him to phone me as soon as possible.”

Putting the phone back in its cradle, she turned to make breakfast, but instead sank into a chair, overcome with weariness. Never had she felt so all alone. She missed her husband, she missed her son, she even missed her mother-in-law. Whatever else Claudia had done, she had claimed Polly, in her own tyrannical way, at least at the end of her life. Polly knew she was only kidding herself to think that now Claudia was gone, David would be part of her life again. It was not what his wife, Amy, wanted. Polly couldn’t understand why, but really, that didn’t matter. Polly had to face it: the largest chunk of her life belonged to the past. She’d already had most of the allotted three score years and ten, and who knew when death’s irrevocable grip would reach for her? Cancer, heart disease, plane crashes—there were so many ways to die. She had lived a wonderful life. She shouldn’t be greedy. Glancing around the kitchen, she wondered for the first time if she should sell her house now while the market was good. She could buy a place in a retirement community, put the rest of the money in a money-market account, so her savings would carry her through her senior years. She wanted to be cautious, while still allowing herself the luxury of doing, at last, all the things she’d dreamed of over the years. One problem—the things she’d dreamed about had been centered around her family. Taking her grandchildren to Disney World, that sort of thing.

Well. Time for a new plan.

She hoped she’d enjoy a long life, and if so, she needed to be careful. What if she developed a long-term illness, even a minor, only slightly debilitating one? She could not expect David to help her, and certainly not Amy. Never had she intended to rely on her son in her old age, but after this interlude with Claudia, Polly was even more determined. She was alone in the world. She had to prepare for her death, and for the rest of her solitary life.

——————————

Beth had invited Bobbie to her apartment for lunch, hoping to gain some slight psychological advantage by removing her from her home territory. But Bobbie declined, saying that she had to stay home to make lunch for her husband or to take messages for Young’s Construction. Beth was welcome for lunch, Bobbie had said. Beth had replied that she didn’t really want lunch, she just wanted to talk.

Sure, Bobbie had said. Anytime.

So here Beth was, driving to the Youngs’ house, just as if she were sane. She parked her car behind a red Ford truck, walked to the back of the house, and let herself into the kitchen.

Bobbie was at the counter, in jeans and a teal blue sweatshirt that set off her dark blue eyes. “Hi, hon. Good timing, I’m just about done icing this cake.”

Framed by tied-back blue gingham curtains, the kitchen windows were steamy. A pot bubbled on the back burner of the stove, filling the air with the rich aroma of herbs. Tinkerbelle, snoozing on a rag rug, opened one lackadaisical eye, thumped her tail to greet Beth, then continued snoring. Beth hung her coat on the rack near the door but kept her handbag, with the cassette inside, in her hand.

“Pour yourself a cup of coffee, hon.” Bobbie motioned with a jerk of her head toward the coffeepot, kept fresh and full all day.

Beth obeyed, taking a mug from the cupboard, milk from the refrigerator. She leaned against the counter, watching Bobbie ice the cake. The older woman was deft with her knife, scooping up the final clumps of icing from the sides and bottom of the bowl, swirling it onto the cake with swift, practiced gestures.

“Looks delicious,” Beth said.

Bobbie smiled at her handiwork. “It does, doesn’t it? Sometimes I try a new recipe, but this old devil’s food cake is their favorite. I’ve made it so many times, I don’t need to read the recipe. I think I could make it in my sleep.” She held the bowl out to Beth. “Want to lick the sides?”

“No, thanks.” Coffee, Beth felt, was neutral, eating icing too intimate right now.

Bobbie set the bowl in the sink and ran hot water in it. “Okay, I guess I can sit down for a few minutes.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. “What’s up?”

Beth swallowed. She took a minute to force air into her lungs, as deeply as she could get it to go, at the same time summoning up the spirits of Julia, Polly, and Carolyn for moral support.

Still, when she began her prepared speech, she felt her face turn scarlet. “Bobbie, this is difficult for me to say. But—I think you and I have a problem.”

“Oh?” Bobbie leaned back in her chair, lifting her feet to the seat of another chair, getting comfortable.

“What I mean is—I know you don’t like me. Or perhaps you like me, but you don’t want Sonny to marry me. You want Sonny to marry Robin.” Beth reached into her purse. “I know you do, because—” It was now or never, Beth thought, her nerve failing her. If Bobbie wanted to sabotage Beth before now, how would she feel after discovering Beth had taped a private conversation?

Bobbie arched an eyebrow. “Because I make it obvious?”

Beth hesitated. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to use the tape. Perhaps they could just talk it out. “Well, yes, partly. I—”

“I won’t stop, you know.” In an instant, Bobbie’s voice rang with steel. Her face changed; with just a few muscles, her smile turned threatening.

“But why?” Beth cried, leaning forward. “I’m not so bad! I’m good! Plus, I love Sonny, and he loves me, and—”

“You don’t fit into my family. You never will. You don’t belong. Sonny still loves Robin.”

Now Beth was fighting mad. “You are
so
wrong! Sonny loves
me.
We’re going to get married. We’re going to have a life together, and we’re going to have children. What you have to decide is whether or not you want to see your grandchildren, because believe me, I’m not bringing them around here for you to insult me.”

Bobbie slammed her mug on the table so hard it cracked. “Get out.”

“Not until I’m finished.” Beth whipped the cassette from her purse. “Before I go, I want you to see just a few minutes from the tape taken at your anniversary party.”

Bobbie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the conversation you had with Robin. When you said Sonny was having ‘just a little fling’ with me. When you said you’d pushed me when I was ice skating.”

Bobbie’s face was ashen. “You little bitch.”

Julia and the others had called Beth that during their role-playing session. Now Beth didn’t even flinch. The word actually triggered a prepared response. “Oh, I could be worse than that! I could show Sonny this tape, and I could cry, and I could ask him to move to another state with me, I could say he has to choose between me and you, and you’d better believe it, Sonny would choose me.”

Bobbie almost growled. The tension in the room and the anger in their voices woke Tinkerbelle, who rose, looking from Bobbie to Beth with alarm. “Don’t be so sure.”

Beth relaxed her voice. “The point is, Bobbie, I don’t want to be a divisive factor. I want Sonny to remain part of this family. But he needs his own life, too, he needs independence, he needs to try to get his architect’s degree, because that’s who he is. I know you think he’ll be different if he marries me and goes to college, and he will be, but why can’t you love him if he does? Think of him as challenged or something! Furthermore, what about Robin? I could tell from the tape that she’s not in love with Sonny anymore. She has no illusions that he’s in love with her. Anyway, she doesn’t want to be your daughter-in-law, Bobbie, she wants to be your daughter! She loves this family, she needs this family, it’s the only family she really has. She doesn’t want to offend you by hooking up with someone else, and that’s terrible. That’s just plain sad! Why not let Sonny marry me, and let Robin fall in love with some other guy, and let
him
be part of this family, too!”

Bobbie held up her hand like a stop sign. “Enough. I’m not listening to any more of this. You have no right to tell me what to do.” She rubbed her forehead, looking older now, and tired. “You’re just a snotty, conniving, little—”

“Conniving, yes. Snotty, no. Little physically, yes. But psychologically, Bobbie, I’m
huge.
”

The kitchen door flew open. “Anybody home?” A large woman in OshKoshes and boots stomped in. “Oh, good, Bobbie, you’re here. I need to borrow your springform pan.”

Bobbie stood up. “Hi, Milly. What are you making?”

“I’ve got a new recipe for a flourless chocolate cake.”

“Got time for coffee?” Bobbie asked.

“Sure do.” Milly threw her coat over the back of a chair. “Am I interrupting something?”

Beth held her breath.

“Not at all.” Bobbie looked as if she were chewing glass, but she said, “We were just gabbing. This is Beth. Sonny’s fiancée.”

“Oh, I’ve been dying to meet you! I didn’t get to at the party, it was so crowded.” Milly held her hand out to Beth. “I’m Milly, an old friend of the family.”