“Oh, yes, I am,” I said, feeling as if my lungs had shrunk in size. “Because Flannery McMahon, Little Miss Tattletale 1977, tells me so. Only maybe you can’t see your own children’s flaws because you’re so busy with saving the world at large, running around like a maniac—literally and figuratively.”
“Oh, literally and figuratively, huh? Speaking purely figure-atively”—she let her eyes slowly track my body—“yours could use some running, or some kind of exercise other than chasing after men.”
“So I chase men, do I?”
“No, let me amend that—hunt them. My God, Audrey, a man can’t walk by you without you pushing yourself up to him—I still can’t believe how you came on to my brother Fred.”
“I came on to Fred? Slip, I wasn’t coming on to your brother, I was offering him a little sympathy. Your brother not only needed sympathy, he needed psychotherapy. And as far as pushing myself on men—maybe you should try to push yourself on your own husband, who probably only gets laid when you want to procreate!”
This was getting beyond low—we were hitting all the topics that were verboten to criticize: children, mothering style, weight, family craziness, sexuality. Slip looked at me as if I were a big huge load of dog shit she’d had the misfortune to stumble over, and I returned the look.
“Is that something you’re seeing psychically? Something you’re getting a sense of?” She wiggled her hands in front of her face. “Because you’d be dead wrong, Nosferatu. Just because you weren’t enough for your man doesn’t mean I’m not enough for mine.”
If she had slugged me in the stomach, I’m sure I could have breathed more easily. We stared at each other for a long moment, atoms and molecules of hate swirling in a furious cloud around us, before we both turned away. I don’t know about Slip, but as soon as my back was to her, my face was wet with tears.
SITTING BETWEEN GRANT AND STUART, I was crying now.
“My God,” said Grant. “That was no catfight, that was a brawl between two tigresses.”
“Tigers,” I corrected, bawling. “Slip says it diminishes women when you feminize nouns.”
“Oh, Audrey,” said Grant with a tenderness that made the tears pick up their pace. “You miss her, don’t you?”
My head bobbled. “I’m not a part of her life anymore. I feel like my sister—and I don’t even have a sister—told me she doesn’t want me to be in the family anymore!”
“You know what she needs, Stuart?” asked Grant.
“What, Grant?”
“She needs to go to church with us tomorrow.”
It was the last thing I thought he’d suggest, and the absolute last thing I thought I needed.
October 1977
HOST: MERIT
BOOK: Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell
FOOD SERVED: “Faith helped me with this one:
greens and grits, and I laid out a pouch of tobacco
for anyone who wanted a chew, but no one did.”
nder no condition (except sick children) would Merit miss an Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons meeting, but it wasn’t as fun a group without Audrey.
Divorce had forged a deeper friendship between the two—they understood what the other was going through in a way those still married did not, in a way even Kari couldn’t understand because she certainly would still be married had Bjorn not died.
Audrey was like the big sister Merit had never had, the funny, popular, been-around-the-block sister who had answers to questions that Merit hadn’t even thought of yet.
Trying to bring about peace between the two warring parties, Merit had urged both Audrey and Slip to be the big one who apologized first, but now she was trying to put into practice the lessons she had learned from Eric the Brute. And one of those lessons was that she could only do so much. She could try to be a good friend to both Audrey and Slip, but she couldn’t make them be good friends to each other. Her days of thinking that if she were perfect then the world might follow suit were over.
An attractive blond woman drove the girls home one afternoon after they’d spent the weekend with Eric, who was house-sitting his parents’ grand Lake of the Isles house now that the senior Iversons spent most of their time in Florida.
“My God, Merit—you look wonderful! Younger somehow . . . but wiser.”
“Joanie?” said Merit, flustered, as each of her daughters wrapped themselves around her. “What are you doing here?”
Her former sister-in-law laughed at the blunt question. “Soren and I are in the states for a couple of conferences,” she said as the girls ran off to jump in the pile of leaves Merit had been raking. “I don’t have to be anywhere for a while. Can I bother you for a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, yes, please, of course,” said Merit, thinking her manners had run off with her poise. “Sure, come on in.”
“My gosh, what a pretty kitchen!” said Joanie as they entered the sunny yellow room.
“Thanks,” said Merit. “My friend Faith—she’s gone back to school for interior design—helped me paint it. I’ll take you on a tour of the rest of the house later. You won’t believe the colors she talked me into.”
“I love the curtains,” said Joanie.
“Thanks. Faith picked out the fabric—she says sunflowers are always a good thing to look at in the morning—and my friend Kari sewed them up.”
“Sounds as if you have some good friends.”
Merit nodded. “So when was the last time I saw you?” she asked as she poured coffee and served the brownies left over from last night’s AHEB.
“At least three years ago,” said Joanie, “when we were here for Christmas, remember? Soren tried to teach everyone to sing ‘Jolly Old St. Nicholas’ in Danish.”
“Oh, yes,” said Merit, smiling. She had only seen Joanie and Soren a few times during her marriage, and she had enjoyed every visit. “How is Soren?”
“Great, his practice is doing great. There’re so many new things happening in heart surgery—that’s what this conference at the university is for, and . . . oh, Merit, I’m so sorry about the way things turned out. I should have told you before you got married what you were in for.”
Merit’s mind swirled. “I beg your pardon?”
Joanie’s smile was apologetic. “Well, of course, if you hadn’t gotten married, you’d never have those beautiful girls—and my God, Merit, they’re stunning and so nice, even though Eric treats them like second-class citizens. I chose not to have children myself; what if I were my parents all over again? I mean, I broke the pattern in marrying Soren—the dear man’s never laid a hand on me. But who knows? A crying child, a whining child, and—there goes the back of my hand!”
The only indication Merit had that she was breathing was that she was still conscious. “What . . . ,” she said finally, her voice a whisper, “what exactly are you talking about?”
“God, these brownies are good,” said Joanie, helping herself to a second. “Danish pastries are world-famous, but to me, you can’t beat American desserts like chocolate brownies and pecan and apple pie.” She made fast work of the brownie, washing it down with the coffee Merit refilled her cup with.
“All right,” she said, the business of satisfying her American cravings out of the way. “I know you know the story of the illustrious Iverson clan—our great tradition in medicine, blah, blah, blah—but what you probably didn’t know is that Eric didn’t become a wife-beater out of the blue. I mean, he had an excellent teacher in my father.”
Merit’s jaw dropped. “Dr. Iverson? Dr. Iverson . . . hit your mother?”
“Hit her, punched her, slapped her, and once sent her headfirst down the staircase.”
“I had no idea.”
Joanie’s smile was grim. “That’s because she’s a good actress—just like you were, I’ll bet. But unlike you, she wasn’t brave enough to get out. She stayed, clinging to her pretty house and her status as if they could somehow keep her aloft. Of course they couldn’t, which is why she’s always half drunk
.”
“Your mother?” said Merit. Everything Joanie said was like a zap of electricity, shocking her even more. “I’ve never seen your mother anything but a gracious hostess, a—”
“Aha! That’s the role she plays—gracious hostess! She’ll make sure you have all you want to eat and drink, served of course on the finest china and best crystal—but did you ever have a heart-to-heart with her? Did she ever break out of being a gracious hostess to be a friend, a mother-in-law?”
Merit bit the middle of her upper lip.
“No,” she said finally, “I can’t say we ever had any sort of deep discussion.”
“It’s so sad,” said Joanie, shaking her head, “and what’s even sadder is she probably knew Eric was hitting you before anyone else. Knew and yet would never say a word.”
“How can you—what makes you think—”
“Merit, my God, when I saw you that time at Christmas, I knew. It hurt me to watch you watch Eric. You hardly ever looked away from him. Really, you were just like a dog ready to jump and get him whatever he needed—exactly the way my mother is with my dad.” She stared at her coffee cup. “I should have taken you aside right then and there and told you you didn’t have to put up with that kind of shit, but it was Christmas and I hadn’t been home for years and . . . oh, Merit, I’m so sorry.”
Merit reached across the table and placed her hand over her sister-in-law’s. A tear splashed on her knuckle and she said softly, “It’s all right, Joanie. I don’t know if I would have let you tell me those things then. I think I would have been too afraid to listen.” She squeezed her hand. “But I’m glad you’re here now, glad I can listen. It makes me . . . understand things more.”
“Well,” said Joanie, dabbing her nose with a napkin, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again, so I . . . well, I just feel so guilty. I feel I owe you something for all the trouble my family put you through.”
“Your family didn’t put me through any trouble,” said Merit softly. “Just Eric.”
“I don’t mean to excuse him, I really don’t,” said Joanie, pushing her blond bangs off her forehead. “But he got it as bad as my mother. Anytime any of us kids did something wrong, it was Eric who got punished. Oh, once in a while Douglas and I got walloped if we defended Eric a little too much, but mostly we became experts at cowering in our rooms while Eric got bounced around.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Dad also had this particular nickname for Eric. He thought it was really funny to pronounce his name ‘Earache.’ ‘You’re a pain, did I ever tell you that, Earache?’ ” Joanie’s eyes searched Merit’s as if trying to find an answer there. “I felt so sorry for him, but more than feeling bad, I’d find myself resenting him because, just like my mother, he took it—took the abuse and never fought back.”
A sadness settled in Merit’s heart, thinking of Eric as a boy being slapped and hit and called “Earache” by the man who was supposed to hug him and call him names like “Sport” or “Tiger.”
The coffee cup clattered as Joanie stirred cream into it.
“He . . . Eric’s never hurt the girls, has he?”
“He’s never hit them, but he hurts their feelings all the time.”
Joanie bit her lip. “I know,” she said finally. “I saw it this weekend—he runs hot and cold with them. I tried to talk to him about it, but my dear brother wasn’t interested in what I had to say about his fathering.”
“He wasn’t interested in what I had to say either,” said Merit. “About his fathering or anything.”
“He’s as insane as my parents,” she said. She took a deep breath and expelled it. “So are you going to be all right financially?”
“Well, he’s making the house payments, and with alimony and child support, I’m doing all right. I’m thinking of ways to bring in some more money—I don’t want to go work until Jewel starts school—but for now I’m doing all right.”
It was then that her girls decided to entertain their mother and aunt with a parade. They marched through the kitchen in their finest dress-up clothes, dripping with strings of pop beads and costume jewelry, asking if it was possible for princesses to have some of those brownies.
“Oh, yes, your highnesses,” said Merit, standing up so she could formally curtsy. “And perhaps some milk to soothe your royal thirst?”
“Milk would be fine,” said Jewel in her best haughty princess voice. She looked to her older sisters. “Wouldn’t it, miladies?”
October 1977
Dear Mama,
Happy Halloween! Bonnie says this is her last year trick-or-treating—she says that next year, when she’s twelve, she’ll be “too mature for such kid stuff” (get her!), whereas Beau says he hopes to go trick-or-treating until he’s at least in college.
I had a little scare at dinner that had nothing to do with Halloween—Bonnie announced that she was writing a story for school and she had to interview Wade (who, if I’m remembering his flight schedule correctly, should be in Philadelphia about now) and me about our families “as far back as you can remember.”
“So, Mom,” she said, “what do you remember most about your mom and dad?”
“Bonnie, put that away,” I said about the notebook and pen she wielded. “We’re eating.”
“I’m done,” said Bonnie, pushing aside her empty bowl. (Whenever I use one of Kari’s recipes, the kids practically lick their plates clean.) “Now come on, Mom, tell me about Grandma and Grandpa.”
I chewed a piece of meat extra long, giving myself some time.
“PawPaw was a doctor,” said Beau. “And MawMaw was a housewife.”
Bonnie put on her irritated face, an ever-popular look of hers.
“MawMaw and PawPaw,” she said, shaking her head. “What are you, Beau, a hillbilly?”
“Well, that’s what Mama calls them.”
Bonnie rolled her eyes at her brother’s idiocy. “Okay,” she said, tapping her pen on the table. “Your mom’s name was Primrose Reynolds and your dad’s was James Reynolds. What were the names of your mom’s mom and dad?”
“Um, Elmira Reynolds and um—he died before I was born—and Reed Reynolds.”
Bonnie replaced her irritated look with her skeptical look.
“Wait a second, Mom—I thought Reynolds was your mom’s married name. How come her parents have the same name?”
“Isn’t that funny?” I said, my heart racing. “But actually, Reynolds is a very common name in the South.”
“Really?” said Wade, pleased to have learned something new. “Like Olson or Anderson is here?”
I spooned some more beef stew into Bonnie’s bowl. “You’d better eat a little more, Bonnie. You’ll need your strength to tote around all that candy.”
“So James Reynolds, your dad, was a doctor,” continued Bonnie. “What kind of doctor was he?”
I felt as if someone had turned up the heat in the room around twenty degrees. “He was an . . . an obstetrician. That means he delivered babies.”
“Yuck,” said Beau, no doubt remembering the time he’d witnessed Merit giving birth, “I’d never want to be that kind of doctor.”
“What did his dad do?”
“Uh, he was a lawyer,” I said, the lie falling easily from my mouth.
“Jeannie Applebaum’s great-grandpa was a furrier,” said Bonnie. “So’s her grandpa, and he says she gets a mink coat when she turns eighteen.”
“A mink coat,” I said. “My goodness.”
“Hey, Bonnie, we’d better get ready,” said Beau, looking at the clock above the sink.
“All right,” said Bonnie, like a CEO with too many demands on her. “You’re still going to paint my face, aren’t you, Beau?”
My son looked at the clock again. “Mom, do you mind if we don’t do the dishes right now? Or we could when we get back.”
I smiled at my son, who’s always so thoughtful about helping me. “I’ll do them, honey.”
“Okay, Mom,” said Bonnie, dashing out of the kitchen, “we’l
l talk more when I get back home.”
They were out until nine, Mama, and by the time they dumped their pillowcases full of Baby Ruths and Butterfingers on the newspaper I’d laid out in the living room, I had created a whole family tree that spanned five generations and included a captain in the rebel army as well as a celebrated pianist. And as I regaled Bonnie and Beau with stories of our illustrious ancestors, my pride almost, but not quite, overpowered my shame.
I’m sorry,
Faith
November 1977
HOST: KARI
BOOK: Terms of Endearment by Larry McMurtry
REASON CHOSEN: “I like how the man writes.”
“Listen,” said Kari over the phone, “this dumb fight of yours—it’s not fair to the rest of us. We want both you and Audrey at the meetings.”
“I never said she couldn’t go to any of the meetings,” said Slip coolly.
“Come on, Slip, stop being so stubborn. Why don’t you make up with her tonight?”
“Because I’m not coming to the meeting,” said Slip. “You’re right—it’s not fair that Audrey misses all the meetings, so I’ll sit this one out, okay?”
“Oh, honestly,” said Kari, but Slip had hung up.
“I FEEL like the whole thing’s going to unravel,” Kari said that evening to Faith and Merit as they sat waiting for Audrey’s arrival.
“It can’t,” said Merit. “I need my Angry Housewives.”
“We’ve got to think of a way to get them back together,” said Faith.
Kari shrugged. “I don’t know what we can do when one person wants to reconcile and the other doesn’t.”
Faith finished the last quarter inch of wine in her glass. “What is her problem anyway? What’s it been? Three months? Four months? Wouldn’t you have thought they would have made up a long time ago?”
Flicka ambled over to Kari for a pat on the head. “Well,” she said, obliging her, “I know they said some terrible things to each other.”
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