Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons

by Lorna Landvik

  Roxanne is Beau’s high school girlfriend, who pledged her undying love to him, even though she’s going to school in Illinois and Beau’s in Louisiana.

  “I don’t know, Mama. So when do you want to come out?”

  “You tell me.”

  “How about in a month or so, Mama? School’s just starting, and I’d like to get settled into my classes first.”

  “Of course,” I said. Beau doesn’t make the dean’s list by not managing his time properly.

  By the time I got done talking, I was cheered up enough to call Bonnie. She was full of news, and I submerged myself in her chatter about roommates and professors and cafeteria food like it was a cool blue balm.

  Then Dex called me with the news about Patsy. Why did I have to answer the phone? Would it have been too much to ask for a good mood that lasted more than an hour?

  I’m sorry,

  Faith

  December 1986

  HOST: SLIP

  BOOK: West with the Night by Beryl Markham

  REASON CHOSEN: “For the vicarious thrill.”

  Kari always resisted offers to turn her annual Christmas party into a potluck affair; this was one party that she liked to host by herself. She spent weeks making and then freezing elaborate cookies—spritz, pfeffernuss, chocolate-cherry pinwheels, almond crescents, meringue snowballs, and of course her always requested brownies. Julia had been helping her in the Christmas party preparations since she was a little girl, and this year she had asked, shyly, if Kari might allow her and Reni to make all the food.

  Julia’s enthusiasm was such that Kari hated to turn her down, even as she hated to relinquish her duties. She did relinquish them, though; it was her daughter’s last year at home (Julia was waiting to hear from several colleges, particularly Northwestern, which was her first choice), and Kari was willing to give Julia practically everything she wanted. Fortunately, Julia hadn’t caught on to that yet.

  The day before the party they shopped, and that evening and the next afternoon the two girls sliced and diced, whisked and folded, baked and fried while listening to Christmas carols. An hour before the first guests were to arrive, they called Kari down from her banishment in her upstairs sewing room.

  “Oh, my,” said Kari as they shyly took her to the dining room table, which had been set with her Christmas table linens and dishes and trays of hors d’oeuvres and Christmas cookies.

  “Plus we’ve got cheese and shrimp puffs that we’ll put in the oven right when the guests arrive,” said Julia proudly.

  “It’s absolutely lovely,” said Kari, admiring an arrangement of tiny quiches. “Where did you get all these recipes?”

  “Mostly from The Joy of Cooking,” said Reni, “and some are just things that I thought up.”

  “She was the head chef,” said Julia, “I just did what she told me to.”

  “Well, it looks absolutely wonderful, girls, and I can’t wait to try everything.” Now it was her turn to be shy. “Of course, you don’t have to wear these, but while you were cooking up a storm, I was sewing up one, and . . . well, I just thought it might be fun for you to have something to wear that matched.”

  “Wow,” said Reni when Kari presented the vests to them. “You made these while we were cooking? They’re beautiful!”

  “That’s my mom,” said Julia proudly. “Come on, let’s try them on.”

  They were fitted, lined vests, made out of a soft Santa-suit-red wool, with an appliqué of a Christmas tree on one of the pockets.

  After fastening the gold buttons, the girls gave Kari an impromptu fashion show, complete with sucked-in cheekbones and I-can-barely-stand-to-be-bothered looks.

  “Thanks, Mom!” said Julia, enveloping the sewing wizard in a hug.

  “Yeah, thanks, Kari!” said Reni, joining in.

  “You’re welcome,” said Kari, not wanting to smell anything but their clean hair, not wanting to hold anything but their slender teenage bodies, not wanting to let go.

  SNIFFLING, Kari told me all of this when I went over to her house to help her before the guests arrived. (She might not accept food contributions, but she will accept manual labor.)

  “I wasn’t prepared for how fast she’d grow up,” said Kari as we checked the glasses and silverware for any spots.

  “I know. They tell you that when your baby’s got colic and you’re sleep-deprived and you think, ‘I wish the time would fly’ and then boom—the next thing you know they’re asking for car keys or informing you they’re on the pill.”

  “Flannery’s on birth control pills?”

  I had to laugh; Kari looked as if she’d just been bitten by a scorpion.

  “Kari, I told you that. She’s been on the pill since she was a senior in high school.”

  Muttering some Norwegian epithet, Kari sat down heavily on the dining room chair.

  “That’s not to say she needed them,” I said. “In fact, she didn’t lose her virginity until she went away to college, but she wanted to be prepared, and I certainly supported that.” I looked at my friend, who was still muttering. “And I distinctly remember you telling me you’d support Julia whenever she asked for birth control.”

  “Good gravy,” said Kari, “I must have completely blocked that conversation from my mind.” She tucked a sheaf of white hair behind her ears. “I guess it’s easy to say you’d support your daughter’s birth control choices when it’s a hypothetical situation, but now that Julia’s a senior . . . oh, my gosh, what if she’s already had sex? What if she’s pregnant this very minute?”

  “Calm down, Kari. Julia doesn’t even have a boyfriend, does she?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’d know it if she did. But either way, I’d talk to her, let her know what her options are.”

  “But I don’t want her to have any options about sex!”

  I had to laugh. “Of course you do, Kari. You want her to have options about everything—especially sex.”

  ALL OF THE CHILDREN who were away at college (except for Beau, who chose to go skiing with a group of friends) were home and came to the party, and they were grown-up enough so that they could enjoy themselves among us adults—at least for a little while—before they retreated to the basement and their superior music and better conversation.

  Audrey’s handsome boys filled the room with their tall, muscular bodies, and Dave, whose personality finally seemed to have caught up with his looks, joked and flirted with everyone, even his old nemesis, Flannery, who, surprise surprise, looked anything but bothered by his attention.

  Bryan, who went to USC, and my son Joe, who went to the University of Wisconsin, reunited with yelps and punches on the arms. Michael and Gil followed them around like trainees, awed by these college boys.

  Bonnie and Flan (when she wasn’t laughing at Dave’s jokes) sat together on the couch, talking to Merit and Helen Hammond about how they still kept up their book club by phone and mail.

  “She’s the only one whose taste I respect as much as mine,” said Flannery, “although I cannot understand her infatuation with AnaÏs Nin.” She smiled as Bonnie made a face at her. “So, Mrs. Hammond, why didn’t you ever join the Angry Housewives?”

  “Oh, I’m not much of a reader,” said Helen with a shrug, not aware of the look of surprise and pity that passed among Flannery and Bonnie and Merit.

  Reni and Julia, in their matching vests, patrolled the crowd, offering trays of cheese puffs and mini shish kebabs. Reni’s younger sisters, like Michael and Gil, were occupied trying to appear older (and cooler) than they were.

  I was making the rounds with a tray of the girls’ cheese puffs when I saw Faith. She was wearing the fancy green crocheted gloves (obviously Kari’s work) her Secret Santa had given her, and she was dipping into the punch bowl once again as Grant walked over to her.

  “Hi, Faith,” said Grant. “It’s so nice to see Bonnie again. Hearing her talk about midnight pizza parties makes me want to live in a dorm again.” Aft
er a long, uncomfortable pause, he asked, “Is Beau back too?”

  “No,” said Faith, and instead of meeting his eyes, she looked at his bright red bow tie patterned with snowflakes. “He took a ski trip with some of his friends.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun,” said Grant but seeing Faith’s expression harden, he added, “but not so fun for you, I’ll bet.”

  “What do you know about what’s fun for me?”

  “I . . . I was just thinking—”

  “Well, don’t think. Especially about things you know nothing about.”

  Relief flooded Grant’s face when he saw Kari carrying a tray of glasses, and he excused himself, practically running toward her, asking her if she needed help.

  “Cheese puff?” I asked Faith, sticking the tray in Faith’s face, “or will you be sticking to liquids this evening?”

  A smirk puckered Faith’s mouth. “Who are you, the drinks police?”

  “If I were, I think I’d have to give you a citation, ma’am.”

  “Very funny. Ha ha ha.”

  “Really, Faith, maybe you should cool it a little. This is a Christmas party—you’re supposed to be feeling jolly and full of goodwill toward men.”

  “Goodwill toward men—isn’t that Grant’s job?”

  Sometimes a cutting remark is just that—you feel you’ve been nicked, pricked, hurt by meanness.

  “I don’t know what your problem is, Faith, but whatever’s making you feel bad enough to be so mean, you’d better get over it.”

  She dipped the big ladle into the spiked punch and filled her glass again. “I’m sure there are people just dying for some of those cheese puffs,” she said, dismissing me, and like a kid facing my least-liked teacher, I was happy to be dismissed.

  WADE WAS ON HIS WAY up from the basement after losing a game of pool to Dave when I met him on the staircase.

  “Hi, Rudolph,” he said, looking at the felt antlers I wore.

  “My Secret Santa gift,” I explained. “I always expect something like Chanel Number Five and I always wind up with something like this.”

  “Well, antlers suit you,” said Wade, smiling.

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  Wade took my arm. “Actually,” he said, “you’re just the person I wanted to see. Got a minute?”

  “Not for pool,” I said. “I don’t play.”

  “Neither do I, judging from my last game.” He looked over at Dave, who was racking the balls up to play against his next victim. “No, I just wanted to talk to you . . . just for a minute.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I was going to hide out down here anyway—Melody and Jewel are trying to organize a sing-along, and I figure if they can’t find me, I can’t wreck it.”

  “Thanks for warning me,” said Wade. “Choir’s the only class I ever got a D in.”

  We sat down on a couch on the other side of the rec room.

  “So what’s up?” I asked. “You want some advice on what to get Faith for Christmas?”

  Over the years, I had changed my opinion of Wade, who with his crew cut and military posture had struck me as something of a hardass. As time passed, he grew out his hair a bit (even perming it once, which gave him the sort of frizz I’ve spent my whole life trying to get rid of) and didn’t think it always necessary to tuck his shirt in, relaxing enough in the mid-seventies to actually wear a pukka-shell necklace and flared pants. More importantly, he didn’t automatically dismiss my politics the way Eric and occasionally Paul had; he asked me questions but didn’t seem to patronize me. I thought Faith was lucky to have him and didn’t like seeing the sad smile on his face.

  “Wade,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

  Sitting forward, Wade wrung his hands and blew air out of his lips so that they vibrated.

  “It’s just . . . I . . .” His hands made a papery sound as he wrung them, and he sat for a moment staring at them. Finally he looked up at me and asked, “Does Faith seem unhappy to you?”

  I didn’t need much time to answer yes.

  “Well, more mad than unhappy—she and I just had a little altercation at the punch bowl.”

  “She’s not drunk, is she?”

  “You know Faith, Wade. She doesn’t get drunk . . . she just gets mean.”

  Wade wrung his hands again as if they were sopping wet, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see water drip.

  “I don’t think she means to be mean, but . . . well, you know how disappointed she was when Beau asked her to postpone her visit until after the new year, and then when he didn’t come home for Christmas . . .”

  I nodded. “Still, Wade, you have to admit she’s not the most pleasant person to be around when she drinks.”

  “It’s not only when she drinks,” he said, looking pained. “Hasn’t she seemed, in general, sort of sad, or mad, or both?”

  Again, it was a question I didn’t need to mull over.

  “Yes, Wade. She has. She seems to have less patience for things lately—even us Angry Housewives. We hardly see her anymore outside of book club.”

  “She’s so wound up. I ask her to tell me what’s wrong and she acts like I’m making an accusation.”

  Across the room, there was a muted crack and then Dave whooped as he made a shot.

  “She does seem to be extra-sensitive lately.”

  “Lately?” said Wade. “It’s been going on for months.”

  I thought of Faith getting all bent out of shape when I had said she might have been Houdini in a past life; thought of how snotty her response had been to my visit to the peace march.

  “You’re right. She hasn’t been herself for a while.”

  “Is it . . . is she going through the change or something?”

  I laughed at Wade’s pronunciation.

  “You make menopause sound like leprosy,” I said. “And no, I don’t think she is—but she’d tell you if she was, wouldn’t she?” I reached for a handful of mixed nuts set on the coffee table before us. “What does she say to you?” I cupped my hand to my mouth and dropped the nuts in.

  “That’s just it—she won’t tell me anything. Faith likes to keep a close counsel. Not that that’s bad, that’s just how she is. But, knowing how you girls—uh, women—talk, I thought maybe she told you what’s been—”

  “Well, there you are!” said Faith, waving to us as she careened down the staircase. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Wade. We’re all singing upstairs, and it’s just like a Hallmark card come to life!”

  “Hi, Faith,” I said, brushing a peanut skin off my skirt. “Wade and I were holing up down here so we wouldn’t have to sing.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Faith, taking Wade’s hand. “You can stay down here and be a Scrooge, but I’m taking my husband upstairs for a little Christmas spirit!” Her voice was as bright as a siren, with just as much of an edge to it.

  “Faith,” said Wade, standing up, “really, I’d rather—”

  “Come on, they were singing ‘Little Drummer Boy,’ your favorite.”

  As Faith pulled him along, Wade turned back to shrug at me. I shrugged back.

  I picked through the nut bowl, trying to find those elusive cashews. I knew the way to shake this sudden disquiet was to go upstairs and listen to “Little Drummer Boy” and the rest of the sing-along’s repertoire, but finding three cashews and a pecan, I settled back on the couch to watch Dave congratulate Don Hammond on a good shot and to think about what might be the matter with Faith. Was she going through menopause? If so, someone would have to take her aside and tell her that the change of life didn’t have to mean a change of personality too.

  January 1987

  HOST: AUDREY

  BOOK: The Fountain Overflows by Rebecca West

  MEETING HIGHLIGHT: “Audrey insisted we all speak in English accents (Faith sounded just like Glenda Jackson) and served us tea and these hard biscuits called scones.”

  It’s not often you get to really surprise someone, but I really surprised F
aith.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, one hand splayed on her chest, the other clutching at the wing of one of the damask chairs that decorated the small, antique-filled lobby. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the mood for some strong coffee and a beignet.”

  I didn’t expect Faith to burst out laughing, but I was hoping the mortification on her face would ease up a bit. Really, if faces could break, the concierge would have been picking up pieces of Faith’s nose and forehead off the thin Persian rug.

  “Could you at least pretend to be somewhat pleasantly surprised?”

  “I . . . I just would have liked to have been warned.”

  Feeling like a virus Faith wished she’d been inoculated against, I decided to go for bright and cheery. “So, what shall we do tonight?”

  “Actually, I’m expecting Beau.”

  “Oh,” I said, finally deciding to take the hint she was so desperately shoving in my face. “Maybe we could get together afterward; I’m in room—”

  “Beau!” Faith shouted.

  “Beau!” I said as a tall, lanky, and absolutely gorgeous man walked into the lobby.

  As Slip would say, holy Adonis. Now, I remember Beau being a cute kid, in sort of a dorky way, but I had no idea he was harboring this hunk inside himself.

  “My goodness!” he said in a real live drawl, “it’s an Angry Housewife! Mama, you didn’t tell me Mrs. Forrest was coming!”

  “I . . . I didn’t know,” said Faith, clinging to him as if he had the word lifesaver printed on his sleeve. The arrival of her son had loosened the tension in her face, and she offered a genuine smile. “She just showed up, minutes ago.”

  “The temperature last night was twenty-eight below,” I said. “So my question to myself was: who needs this? Why don’t I just fly on down to New Orleans and surprise Faith?”

  I failed to mention that I had had a feeling—a deep feeling—that Faith was in trouble.

  “She scared the livin’ daylights out of me,” said Faith, matching her son’s new drawl with her old one. “First I thought something had happened at home—” She looked at me, a flash of fear falling over her face. “Nothing bad has happened, has it?”