Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons

by Lorna Landvik

  The young man with the shoulder-length hair saluted Faith with his white paper bag as he walked toward the door.

  “Have a good one,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Have a good what?” asked Patsy, but Faith was too surprised by the people coming in to answer her.

  “Hey, Kari! Hey, Slip!” She greeted her friends with a big smile even as she felt a little twist in her chest. She didn’t like feeling left out.

  “Joe!” said Bonnie.

  “Show!” said Beau.

  Slip’s son raced over to the booth, followed by his mother and Kari, whose baby was was buttoned up inside her mother’s jacket, her little head framed by corduroy lapels.

  As the children scampered away to the display case, Faith introduced her mother-in-law to her friends, and even though she extended an invitation to join them, she was glad when they said they couldn’t.

  “We’re going to see Flannery in a little program she’s in at school,” said Slip. “I volunteered to pick up some cookies.”

  “Oh,” said Faith, the familiar feelings of being left out and jealousy twisting again inside her. Why hadn’t Slip invited her to see the program?

  “Say, as long as I’m here, maybe I should get something for book club,” said Slip. “What do you need, Faith?”

  “Huh?” asked Faith, and a second before Slip reminded her, a bell of realization clanged in her head: she was hosting book club tonight.

  “Maybe we should postpone it,” said Kari, seeing a look akin to panic in Faith’s eyes, “what with your in-laws here and all.”

  “Don’t cancel anything on my account!” said Patsy. “Wade and his daddy—my husband, Dex—went fishing, and their usual pattern is to stay out until Johnny Carson comes on—y’all get Johnny Carson here, don’t you? Anyway, Faith and I sure don’t have anything planned tonight, as far as I know. So come on by, it sounds fun—I’ll make my famous butterscotch pie and we can all get to know one another.”

  Walking home, as the twins kicked up the fallen leaves with a violent glee and Patsy chattered on about God knows what, Faith fumed.

  She kept a meticulous calendar; the more organized she was, the more in control she felt, and that she could forget about book club baffled her. She certainly would have postponed it—how could she prepare the way she liked to in just a few hours?—but no, her big-mouthed mother-in-law thought it sounded fun.

  “So how did she wind up with that little pickaninny?”

  Patsy’s words punctured Faith’s thoughts.

  “What did you say?”

  Her mother-in-law smiled her brightest smile.

  “Well, your friend. My gosh, she’s as fair as Heidi, and I—”

  “Patsy, no one says pickaninny anymore,” said Faith, her voice sharp.

  The older woman’s eyes filled with tears, and she drew her mouth in until her lips completely disappeared.

  “Mommy, look!” shouted Bonnie.

  “Yes, honey,” said Faith absently, not seeing the chipmunk that had zipped across the leaves and into a hole in the ground.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you,” said Patsy, whose girlish little chin was quivering. “I know Negroes don’t like certain terms these days—Lord, they don’t even like Negroes. What is it now, blacks? Excuse me if I’m not up on all the current lingo.”

  “Pickaninny has never been the current lingo. That phrase went out with carpetbaggers and Reconstruction.”

  Patsy’s mouth was a thin coral line again, and Faith was glad that she had been able to quiet her. As they walked the rest of the way home in the warm autumn sun, the only voices heard were Bonnie’s and Beau’s.

  FAITH MANAGED to set a theme table (as much as she liked time to prepare, she was the type of person who was good in a pinch, able to create atmosphere with a pair of scissors and some paper, to whip up soufflés to someone else’s scrambled eggs): she placed torn-up grass in the center of the table, and during the twins’ nap time, while Patsy was making her famous butterscotch pie, she made a Main Street, drawing a row of buildings on a shoe box and making several other storefronts out of stiff white paper. She taped a sign up in the living room that read, GOPHER PRAIRIE, POPULATION: IT SURE FEELS SMALL.

  When each member of the book club arrived, Faith handed her an apron, explaining that the strings represented constraints.

  “Ooh, that’s deep, Faith,” laughed Audrey, tying the apron around her thickening waist. “But I’m surprised you didn’t rent straitjackets.”

  It was a good meeting. The discussion was rousing (surprisingly, Kari thought Carol was pathetic, whereas Audrey thought she was “sort of a hero”), Patsy’s butterscotch pie was a hit, and Merit actually made cookies that weren’t burned and didn’t threaten the integrity of anyone’s molars.

  Patsy, not having read Main Street, was quiet during the discussion, but she did exactly what she was supposed to do during social hour: she socialized.

  “Oh, yes,” she told the group, “I was raised in Georgia—on a peach farm, no less—but when Dex and me got married, he dragged me off to Texas. In fact, he likes to tell everybody his bride was a southern belle, but his wife’s a cowgirl. And it’s true—I wear cowboy boots more’n I wear heels!”

  “So what did you think of Faith when Wade brought her home?” asked Audrey, lighting a cigarette now that she had finished her second piece of pie.

  “Well, I just loved her right away, of course,” said Patsy, raising her brown penciled brows as she smiled at Faith. “Wade brought us to watch her cheerlead at a big football game—it was homecoming, wasn’t it, Faith?—and if there’s ever been a cuter girl in a short pleated skirt and letter sweater, I’d like to know about her.”

  “Merit,” said Faith, “more pie?”

  Merit held her hands up as if she were being held at gunpoint. “Oh, I couldn’t. I’m stuffed.”

  “Faith,” said Audrey with a smile, “maybe you’d like to show us one of your cheers.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t,” said Faith, pushing a smile of her own on her face. “Now, would anyone like another drink? More coffee?”

  “What about her wedding?” asked Slip. “Did the minister really chase after the maid of honor at the wedding reception?”

  “I never said that,” said Faith, her face red.

  Patsy stared at her daughter-in-law for a moment. “Well, you wouldn’t have been lyin’.” Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes. “Chased her like a mad dog! Dex finally threw ’im into the car and drove him home—I heard later he ran off with the children’s choir director!”

  “Surely someone wants more coffee,” said Faith, her voice almost a plea.

  “So,” said Merit, “were you there when Faith’s father—Faith, what’s your maiden name again?”

  “Reynolds,” said Faith, as defeated as a GI giving his name, rank, and serial number to an enemy interrogator.

  “Were you still there when the best man fell on the dance floor and broke his wrist and Dr. Reynolds set it with a table napkin?”

  Patsy leveled her stare at Faith, whose face looked as if all the blood in her body were pooling there, and then at Merit (it was her firmly held belief that southern women were the prettiest in the country, but this gal sure shook that belief).

  “No, we had already left by then,” she said after a moment. “Lady Bird had invited us to the ranch the next day, and we wanted to get rested up for that.”

  “Lady Bird Johnson?” chorused the women.

  Patsy shrugged. “We were only there that once. They were throwing a party for Dex’s partner’s brother—he and Lyndon were good friends from way back—and we somehow finagled an invitation.”

  After everyone made their impressed exclamations, Audrey said, “You know what they say about Mr. Johnson’s johnson, don’t you? It’s huge.”

  “Audrey!” said Merit, who took a beat longer than the others to understand what Audrey was talking about. “He’s our president! Show a little respect!”


  SLIP VOLUNTEERED to help clean up, but Pasty said no, that’s what mothers-in-law were for, and why didn’t she run along and get back to her husband and children.

  “I really enjoyed meeting y’all,” she said, seeing Slip to the door. “I’d start a book club of my own, only I’m not that big a fan of fiction.”

  Faith felt her last word as if it were a dart thrown at her. She began emptying ashtrays and stacking cups, taking precise care not to look at her mother-in-law.

  “Pee-yew,” said Patsy, standing by the staircase, waving the air, “it’s as smoky as a tavern in here.”

  Torn between gratitude toward Patsy for covering for her and shame that she had forced her to, Faith wanted to run to her mother-in-law and hug her, but she only nodded and, gripping a cluster of dirty glasses with curled fingers, went into the kitchen.

  Patsy was at the sink a minute later with her own collection of lipstick-smeared cups and crumb-splotched plates.

  “Faith, honey,” she said as Faith squirted dishwashing liquid into a stream of water, “we need to have a talk.”

  Biting the inside of her mouth, Faith watched the soapy water rise in the sink.

  “Listen, I know you’ve had a hard life—”

  “You don’t know the half of it!” It was true; she wouldn’t, even if Wade had repeated verbatim what Faith had told him about her past.

  “I know your daddy wasn’t a doctor,” Patsy said softly.

  Shame heated the tears that sprang to Faith’s eyes.

  “And even if he was, he didn’t set any best man’s broken wrist, because your best man didn’t break his wrist on the dance floor. As I recall, you didn’t have a dance reception.”

  “So I lied!” said Faith, spinning around to face her mother-in-law. “And what about you? What were all those stories of yours? The minister ran off with the children’s choir director? Lady Bird invited you to the ranch?”

  Patsy chuckled. “Well, I figured as long as I was embellishing, I might as well really embellish.”

  Faith’s face crumpled as if she were going to either laugh or cry, and, being a betting woman, Patsy would put her money on the latter. She was right.

  “Oh, now, Faith,” she said, taking her daughter-in-law by the arm and leading her to the kitchen table, “it’s all right. Everybody jazzes up a story now and then.”

  “Not like I do!” blubbered Faith.

  “Well, then, you must have your reasons,” said Patsy, setting Faith down and sitting opposite her on the silver-flecked vinyl chair. She patted the back of her lacquered hair and then rearranged the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. “Did I ever tell you about Wade’s girlfriend—the one he had before you?”

  Faith shook her head.

  “Her name was Missy Geroux,” said Patsy, making a face that gave a very broad clue as to what she thought of this particular young lady. “Missy came from a family that had lots of money and and lots of position, and you know what? She couldn’t have been more boring if she’d just been declared brain dead.”

  Faith laughed in surprise, and Patsy smiled at her.

  “When Wade brought you home, I thought, Now here’s a girl with a little fire in her. And where there’s fire, there’s usually smoke.”

  Patsy smiled again, satisfied with her little parable. Unfortunately, Faith had no idea what she meant and said so.

  “What I mean is,” Patsy said, impatience rushing her words, “is so what if you’ve got a past? Most everybody does—at least the people I want to know.”

  Faith looked at her hands. Patsy made the word past sound exotic, and hers certainly wasn’t.

  “Let me tell you something, Faith,” said Patsy. “You don’t need to jazz up your story as much as you think you do.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Faith, misery pressing down on her so that she felt she might fall off her chair.

  “I mean no one’s going to like you any less knowing that your daddy wasn’t a doctor but a—”

  “But a what? What do you know about my daddy? How can you know anything about my daddy when I don’t? When he ran off before I was born?”

  Patsy opened her mouth to speak but after a few seconds closed it again. Finally she took her daughter-in-law’s hand in her own.

  “Listen, Faith, you’re a fine young woman. Now, don’t sit there shakin’ your head—you are. Your friends like you because you’re you, not because they think your daddy’s a doctor.”

  “Thanks for not giving me away,” said Faith.

  “You’re my son’s wife. My grandchildren’s mother. I love you, Faith.”

  “You do?” asked Faith, squeezing the words past the lump in her throat.

  “Sure. And if that means telling a whopper to protect you, I will.”

  “The LBJ ranch thing,” said Faith with a smile, “that was a whopper.”

  “I couldn’t believe it came out of my mouth,” admitted Patsy after they laughed. “I think that’s the trouble with lying—once you get started, you can’t really take away. You just have to keep adding.”

  Faith nodded, understanding perfectly, and the two women sat quietly for a moment.

  “I’m sorry I called Kari’s baby a pickaninny,” said Patsy finally. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

  “I know you didn’t,” said Faith.

  “Times are sure changing.”

  “They sure are.”

  “I’m sorry about your daddy, Faith.”

  Nodding, Faith sighed. There was so much to be sorry about.

  November 1968

  HOSTESS: SLIP

  BOOK: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

  REASON CHOSEN: “A woman at the McCarthy rally recommended it to me.”

  When my dad called, I thought it was to wish me an early Thanksgiving.

  “How’s my Warrior Bear?” he asked.

  “Ready to go shopping. I’m getting a twenty-pound turkey this year.”

  I expected him to ask me what else was on the menu or how Jerry and the kids were, but he said nothing and his silence scared me.

  “Dad? Dad, what’s the matter?”

  He exhaled a long stream of air. “Slip, your brother Fred enlisted in the army today.”

  “What? He what? Put him on the phone!”

  “He’s not here. He just called to tell us he wouldn’t be here for Thanksgiving—he’s staying down at Penn—but he wanted us to know he’d enlisted.”

  “Doesn’t he need permission from you or Mom?” I asked, feeling like I’d just run a hundred miles. “Can’t you stop it, Dad?”

  “I wish we could, Slip. But he’s over eighteen.”

  “Well, let’s call the recruitment board! Or our senators, or the president!”

  “My Warrior Bear,” he said with a tired chuckle. “We can’t do anything.”

  “LET’S ALL BE PILGRIMS / Sharing and caring / Let’s all be Indians / Caring and sharing / Let’s all be pilgrims / Let’s all be Indians / Let’s all be friends / Amen.”

  I looked at Flannery across the table, across the steam rising from the dressing and creamed onions, looked at my daughter in her green plaid dress and thought what you’re supposed to think on Thanksgiving: Thank you.

  “My goodness, that was a beautiful prayer,” said Jerry’s mother.

  “It’s not really a prayer,” said Flannery, “it’s more a poem. I just added the ‘amen’ because it sounded good.”

  “It did,” agreed Jerry’s father.

  I tried to keep hold of all my gratitude and good, smooth feelings, but after Jerry carved the turkey and we began to load our plates, I couldn’t help thinking that all this food could feed a starving family for a week. Not just any family, either: a Vietnamese family whose farmlands had been burned, whose ox had been napalmed, whose little boy had blown up when he stepped on a land mine.

  I looked at my plate and the piles of glazed carrots and syrupy yams, the crater of gravy in the volcano of mashed potatoes, and felt a
flutter of dizziness.

  “Slip, are you all right?” asked my sister-in-law, Wendy.

  “Just a little morning sickness,” I lied.

  “But it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, Mommy,” said Flannery.

  I smiled. “Pregnant women can feel morning sickness any time of the day, honey.”

  “Then they shouldn’t call it morning sickness,” said Flan. “That’s dumb.”

  “I didn’t get any turkey, Mommy,” said Joe.

  And there are children who get nothing, I thought, spearing him a ragged wedge of dark meat.

  Jerry was looking at me in that way of his that makes me know he understands perfectly, and I summoned up a smile for him, telling him I’d be all right.

  “Slip, I understand your brother enlisted in the army,” said Wendy, offering us all an unpleasant view of green bean casserole as she spoke. “I wouldn’t be too worried—I think the whole thing will be over by Christmas.”

  I shot Jerry a dirty look—I hadn’t told him not to tell anybody about Fred, but I still felt betrayed that he had.

  “Auntie Wendy,” said Flan, “you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”

  “And you shouldn’t correct your aunt,” I said. “I hope you’re right, Wendy, but I can see this thing going on and on.”

  “Well, we’ve got to be a presence there,” said Jerry’s dad. “Or else the communists will keep taking small countries—ones we normally don’t even pay attention to—and the next thing we know we’re renaming Washington, D.C., ‘Marxland’ and saluting the hammer and sickle.”

  Jerry’s look said, I apologize for my father a million times over, but I didn’t let him off the hook with a shrug and my own what-can-we-do look; I was still mad at my husband for announcing the news of Fred’s enlistment.

  “What’s a hammer and sickle?” asked Flannery.

  “It’s a travesty, is what it is,” said Jerry’s father. “It’s the opposite of our flag—it stands for no liberty and no justice for all.”

  “Why’d you get him started, Wendy?” asked Jerry’s mother.

  “I didn’t!” whined Wendy. “I just asked Slip about her brother.”