by Nancy Thayer
The phone rang. Faye raced to grab it up, hoping it would be Tank canceling their date, but something held her back, and she simply stood over the answering machine, listening.
“Faye?” Shirley sounded bossy. She was probably in another part of the building, in her office or condo. “Good, you’re not there. You’d better not be there! I’m going to see if your car’s in the lot, and if it’s not gone, I’m going to come to your condo and drag you out to that bar myself. So I hope you’re on your way to your date with Tank right now. Call me when you get home, I want to hear all about it!”
“Oh, leave me alone!” Faye told the answering machine. She hadn’t been this frustrated since she was an adolescent being ordered around by her parents. If this was how it felt to be young again, she could do without it, thank you very much!
——————————
The November night was cold and crisp. Faye was glad she’d worn her tweed trousers, glad, too, that the frosty air meant she had to wear her bulky camel-hair car coat, and beneath it, a thick wool sweater, all of it hiding her fat.
She drove slowly toward the lights of Boston and Mass. Ave. O’Malley’s was on the corner. It had a green-and-white-striped awning, a massive oak door, and handsome gold lettering. Through the window, she spotted a table with people laughing—young people, a man and a woman.
Not so bad, then. She could do this. She pulled her car into the lot behind the bar and turned off the engine. Quickly, automatically, she pulled the visor down. Did she have lipstick on her teeth? Was her hair okay?
Oh, God. The small rectangular mirror reflected the face of a chubby old troll. Maybe she wouldn’t do this after all. She didn’t have to go out on dates. She didn’t have to do what the Hot Flash Club told her to. She could, well, move! She could move to Florida, find a nice little town where everyone was old. Really old, in their nineties. It would be sunny in Florida. She could teach art classes there.
It was getting cold in the car. The thing was, she didn’t want to move to Florida. She’d been so brave when she’d pulled off her disguise at the Eastbrooks—couldn’t she be that brave now? It would take only one hour. One painful hour.
She left her car. Straightening her spine, holding her head high, she walked around the corner, found the front door to O’Malley’s, and entered.
The smoke-free air smelled like whiskey and beer. Well-polished wooden floors and a long mahogany bar made the room dark and masculine, but pockets of light glittered on the bottles and glasses behind the bar and at the back of the room over the Exit and Rest Rooms signs. Rock music throbbed beneath the chatter and laughter.
The place was packed, a good sign. The barstools were crowded. Faye looked around the room. All the tables seemed occupied. A few men at the bar glanced over at her, then looked away.
“Faye?”
She was grateful for the social instincts that made her smile. The man standing before her was a tank—tall, big-boned, meaty—but most of all, he was old. The beard hanging down to his chest was white, as was what was left of the hair on his head, most of which he’d gathered back into a low ponytail. Bifocals rested on a giant strawberry nose. Over his jeans, his denim shirt hung, barely managing to stay buttoned across the expanse of his gut.
“Hello.” She extended her hand. Funny, how she’d expected someone younger somehow.
“Nice ta meetcha.” His hand was rough and calloused. “I’ve got a table in the back.”
She followed him through the crowd. If it was hard for her to get old, how much harder must it be for someone like this macho action-figure kind of fellow?
They reached a small table crammed into the corner. With a jerk of his head, Tank indicated her chair. “I’ll go get you a drink. If we wait for the waitress, we’ll wait all night. What’ll you have?”
“A glass of red wine?”
“Sure.” He went off.
Faye sat down, draping her coat on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t touch the floor. Settling back, she pulled her sweater down to her thighs, at the same time glancing around the room. No one was looking at her. She relaxed a little.
Tank returned with a glass of red wine and a basket of popcorn. He set both on the table. To her surprise, he pulled his chair right next to Faye’s before sitting down.
Slightly alarmed, Faye started to scoot her own chair away a few inches, but Tank leaned over first. “Sorry. Deaf in one ear, not so hot in the other.”
“Oh.” Faye smiled in sympathy. “The joys of getting older.”
“In my case, the joys of Nam. Shell exploded, been deaf in one ear ever since.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Her mind began a demented rendition of Deborah Kerr singing “Getting to Know You.”
Tank leaned closer, extending his arm along the back of her chair, encircling her in a bouquet of beer, onions, and tobacco. “Yeah. Took some shrapnel in my thigh, too.” He glanced downward.
Faye’s eyes followed his, lighting on a jean-encased thigh the size of an adolescent rottweiler. “Well,” she said perkily, “you must have recovered well enough, if you ride a motorcycle.”
“True. But I’m sure that’s why I’ve got such terrible arthritis.”
“Oh, dear.” Faye took a sip of red wine.
“My tackle’s intact, though, in case you’re wondering.”
It took her a moment to interpret this. Realizing she was still staring at his thigh, she wrenched her eyes away so fast they nearly left their sockets. Faintly she said, “Well, that’s good.” Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “So, what kind of work do you do, Tank?”
“Any kind I get offered. Used to work on construction crews, but my back’s all twisted up, so physical labor’s pretty much out these days.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Certain kinds of physical labor I’m still good for.”
Faye fastened her eyes on the TV above the bar. “Do you follow the Red Sox? My husband used to be a fanatic.”
“Yeah, I follow them. Even used to spend money for seats at Fenway. These days I’m happy to watch from the comfort of my recliner. My hemorrhoids make it a bitch to sit on those bleachers.” His hand moved to her shoulder. “I got a big TV. You ought to come over and see it sometime.”
One good thing, Faye thought, she was no longer nervous. Oddly, she was having a good time. She’d never met a man quite like this one. He seemed to be hitting on her, and she took another swallow of wine to keep from giggling.
“Have you ever been married, Tank?”
Tank grunted. “Twice. Shoulda known better the first time.”
“Any children?”
“One son. Lives down in Arizona.”
“Oh, too bad, you must miss him.”
“Not really. Never really knew the kid. His ma went off with another guy and wasn’t good about keeping in touch, less she wanted some child support checks.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
“You?”
“One daughter. Laura. She’s married and has a little girl, the sweetest little child, my granddaughter, Megan. Laura’s husband just took a job in California, so they moved a few weeks ago.”
“Sucks for you.”
“Yes,” Faye agreed, “it does suck for me. I miss them terribly.”
He pulled her against him, his mouth so close to her ear his whiskers tickled. “I know something could cheer you up.”
Faye bristled. “Look, Tank, we’ve just met—”
His har-har-har laugh exploded like a jackhammer. “I wasn’t referring to that, although when you’re ready, I’ll be only too happy to oblige. What I meant was, you oughtta come have a ride on my cycle.”
Faye choked on her wine. Wiping her mouth with her paper napkin, she said, “Maybe another time.”
“Why not now?” Tank pressed. “It’s Friday night. You got an appointment?”
“Well, no, but—it’s so cold outside.”
“Ah, that’s nothing.” He looked her over. “You’ve got a coat, hat,
gloves.”
“To be honest, Tank, I’d really rather not. I guess I’m just a little afraid of riding a motorcycle.”
“Ever been on one before?”
“No.”
“I’ve got an extra helmet. How about if I promise I won’t go fast?” Tank belched, exuding a hot breath of onions and beer.
Well, Faye thought, if we ride the motorcycle, he’ll be facing the other way.
“We’ll just go around the block a few times.”
Faye finished off her wine. It would be fun to tell the Hot Flash Club she’d been on a motorcycle. And she didn’t feel afraid; certainly this arthritic, shrapnel-thighed, hemorrhoid-troubled man wasn’t going to drive her into an alley and rape her.
“All right.”
Tank slapped her hard on her back. “Excellent!” He rose, jerked his black leather jacket off the back of his chair, and put it on.
“Just around the block.”
“Absolutely.” He pulled back her chair and held her coat out, then took her hand in his and pulled her through the bar and out into the cold night air.
His motorcycle was parked by the curb just down the street. Tank handed her a helmet.
“Put this on.”
She obeyed, as visions of accidents danced through her head. Tank smoothed on his leather gloves. Faye imagined Laura getting the phone call, hearing the news that her mother had died in a motorcycle accident, crumbling in a heap of grief—
“Now.” Tank swung his leg over the leather saddle. “You just climb on and hunker yourself down right behind me.” He patted the seat.
There was no ladylike way to do this. Putting her hands on Hank’s shoulders for balance, Faye swung a leg over and settled down behind him. The seat was comfortably cushioned, but she could feel the cold through her trousers.
“Keep your feet here. Keep your arms around me.” He chuckled. “Oh, I do love the feel of a woman’s arms.” He kicked the starter, and with a roar and a shudder the machine came to life beneath them.
Across the street, a crowd stood in line to enter a movie. A few glanced their way at the sound of the cycle, but no one stared in amazement. The tilt of the seat made her belly push forward, pressing against Tank’s back, and in an instinctive act of vanity she didn’t know she possessed, she wriggled and changed position, so that her breasts rested against him instead.
“That’s good,” Tank yelled. “I’ll run interference on the cold air for you.”
His gloved hands twisted the handlebars and they took off, pulling away from the curb, slanting to one side, then straightening. Faye felt as if someone had put a hallucinogenic in her wine—everything was so vivid, so intense! It was like riding naked, Faye thought, everything was frighteningly close. She was so unprotected. Tank turned a corner. The cycle leaned like a sailboat heeling in the wind.
“All right back there?” Tank yelled.
“Yes!” she yelled back. It was just a little bit exhilarating. The cold air stung her eyes and slapped her cheeks. Lights, shop windows, cars, pedestrians, streaked away in a kind of dream. Between her legs, the machine throbbed like a purring animal.
“Little more?” Tank yelled, or she thought that was what he said.
“Okay,” she yelled back, and Tank rounded a corner, heading along a residential street leading to Route 128.
Faye’s breath caught in her throat. Not Route 128! It was eight lanes of traffic racing like the Indianapolis 500. He had to turn around, take her back to the bar . . .
Faye clutched Tank tighter, closed her eyes, opened her mouth to scream, and she felt a change in the wind. She opened her eyes. They were on the highway, with cars on either side of them. Without the insulation of a car to protect her, the noise was astonishing. It was like being in a coliseum with a roaring mob, or on a runway with a 747 coming in for a landing. Her exhilaration turned to fear. Only inches away, hundreds of pounds of hard metal sped past. The cycle was like a gazelle caught in a stampede of elephants. Her stomach turned. She gagged.
“Enough!” she shouted.
“Hell, yes, it’s fun!” he yelled back.
Great, she was trapped on the back of a motorcycle with a deaf man.
Which ear was his good one? “Stop!” she yelled. “Tank! Stop! I’m scared!”
He lifted his hand in a thumbs-up sign and she nearly fainted to think only one arthritic hand was keeping them on track.
She burrowed her head against his back and began to pray.
Soon she felt the cycle tip sideways. Terrified, she waited to feel the impact, the scrapes along her skin, the breaking of her bones—but they straightened. They went down an off-ramp and were back on the sane streets with their blessed speed limits. Faye relaxed a little. Now she didn’t have to throw up. But she really had to pee.
The ride back to the bar took forever. The reverberations of the cycle between her thighs shook her bladder so hard she felt like a washing machine about to overflow. The only good thing about it was, she had to concentrate so hard on not leaking, she didn’t have a chance to be afraid.
Finally they were back in O’Malley’s parking lot. Tank steered the cycle to a stop and turned off the engine. The machine quieted, then slept. Faye unclenched her hands, surprised they hadn’t hardened into claws from her fierce clutching.
“Have to use the bathroom!” she said urgently, ripped the helmet off her head, thrust it at him, and rushed to the back door of the bar without waiting to see whether Tank followed.
Her legs were trembling. Her entire body was trembling. The bar bathroom was not the most hygienic one she’d ever been in, but she sank gratefully onto the commode. Not only did she have to pee like Niagara Falls, her body also responded to the ride with a gush of diarrhea.
Well, maybe she’d lose some weight.
She washed her hands and nearly screamed at her reflection in the mirror. The helmet had mashed her hair flat against her head, pushing it into pads on either side of her face. She took her hair down, fussed with it, stuck it back in a sloppy bun. Her hands were still shaking.
Back in the bar, she found Tank at a table with another glass of wine waiting for her and his own mug of beer already half gone.
“How’d you like that?” he asked.
“It was wonderful until we got on the highway,” Faye said truthfully. “Then I was terrified.”
“Yeah, it’s a rush, isn’t it? Like flying.”
“Have you ever been in any accidents?”
“Oh, sure.” He rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt to show off a long, jagged scar. “Broke this arm, one time. Another time, broke my back. Another time—”
Faye gulped her wine. She was glad she hadn’t asked him about accidents before he offered her a ride. As she listened to his litany of injuries, she decided he was the oddest combination of daredevil and crybaby she’d ever met.
“. . . gonna be needing a woman in my life,” Tank was saying.
His hand was back on her shoulder. His face was coming close to hers. His onion-beer breath hung in a mist right in front of her nose; she had to inhale it or stop breathing.
“A nice little woman who likes to cook, and clean, and be a nursemaid, but the kinda nursemaid that wears those cute little short skirts, you know what I mean?” He nuzzled her cheek. “You’d look good in one of them.”
The good news was he found her attractive enough to proposition, if this was what he was doing. The bad news was, he’d obviously proposition anyone.
She pulled away. “Tank, listen, I got cold on that ride. I need to go home, take a long hot shower, and get in bed.”
Tank’s eyes lit up. “Well, all right, then, let’s do it!”
Faye’s jaw dropped. “Oh, I didn’t mean with you. I just met you!”
Tank tilted his head playfully, reached out, and tickled Faye under her chin. “Come on, honey. Shirley told me you’ve been without a man for a long time.”
Faye jerked her head away. “And I like my solitary state just fine!�
� For the second time that evening, she pulled on her coat and gathered up her gloves and purse. “Thanks for the drinks and the ride, Tank.”
“Sure thing, doll. You take care of yourself. I’ll call.”
16
How was your Thanksgiving?” Faye asked the other members of the Hot Flash Club after they settled at their Legal Seafoods table and ordered their drinks.
Alice was the first to answer. “Bizarre, thanks for asking. Gideon and his daughter and her family came to my house. The kids got bored at the table after two minutes and threw fits until they were allowed to watch television, Gideon had terrible heartburn which gave him the hiccups, and all I wanted to do was play bridge.”
Shirley laughed. “Sounds like a typical Thanksgiving.”
“What did Alan do for Thanksgiving?” Marilyn asked.
Alice kept her eyes on the menu. “He and Jennifer went to her family’s house on the Cape.”
“Do you think Alan and Jennifer will get married?” Faye asked.
“I really couldn’t say.” This was a touchy topic for Alice.
“They should!” Shirley said. “They’re in love! And their bakery is taking off, they can’t keep up with the orders!”
“It would be kind of nice if Gideon’s daughter married your son,” Faye mused. “Then you could both be grandparents of the same children even though you and Gideon never had children together.”
Alice laughed. “Oh, Faye, you think the world begins and ends with grandchildren.”
“You mean it doesn’t?” Faye joked. She turned to Marilyn. “How’s it going with Teddy and Lila?”
Before Marilyn could answer, Alice cut in, “MILDEW: Mother-in-Law Daily Exercises Wrath.”
Faye flinched but kept quiet.
Marilyn smiled wryly. “You’re right about that, Alice. Eugenie’s like someone out of a Greek tragedy.”