Hot Flash Holidays

by Nancy Thayer

  The silver lining had been that she’d taken a membership at The Haven, hoping to work off some of the stress. There, she’d met three younger women who became her friends, and later, the members of the Hot Flash Club, with whom she could laugh about the gritty realities of aging. Thanks to all her new friends, she’d developed the courage to persist in her attempts to forge some kind of relationship with her grandson and his mother’s tightly knit, terribly superior family.

  And tonight, on Christmas Eve, Amy had agreed to come to Polly’s house! This was a magnificent milestone. Jehoshaphat was fifteen months old, and he’d never visited his grandmother before.

  Polly began arranging her evening’s culinary offerings as artistically as possible on plain white ironstone platters.

  “Let’s see, I’ve got cheese made from the milk of goats fed by the Dalai Lama and crackers made from flour ground by French nuns during a full moon,” she joked to Roy Orbison, who waddled hopefully at her feet, waiting for something to drop. “I have several kinds of fruit. I have plain nuts and salted nuts. Carrots and celery. Everything from the health food store.” Because it was, after all, Christmas, she’d also used her grandmother’s recipes to make the gingerbread cookies and sugar cookies David had always loved.

  She carried the platters into the living room, setting them on tables out of the dog’s reach.

  Back in the kitchen, she surveyed the drink possibilities. From a health food store: mango juice, carrot juice, papaya juice, apple juice. Also beer, which David used to drink, and Champagne, just in case. And eggnog, whole and skim milk, sparkling and plain spring water, and a staggering assortment of herbal teas.

  She glanced at her watch: five thirty. They would be here in an hour. She rushed to the living room to double-check everything. The tree’s lights—the only non-organic decoration—were glowing. Gingerbread characters grinned from the boughs, among angels, elves, and animals that Polly, who was a talented seamstress, had made from scraps of fabric. Presents for everyone lay under the tree, wrapped in paper Polly had recycled from brown paper grocery bags and tied with yarn. She was especially proud of this touch of environmental support; Amy had to approve of that! From the mantel hung stockings Polly had made herself for Amy, Jehoshaphat, and Polly’s boyfriend, Hugh. David’s stocking she’d made years ago, when he was a toddler. She’d considered giving it to Amy when they married, but quickly realized Amy would want to hang stockings of her own choosing.

  She nodded admiringly at her mantel, decorated with laurel and candles. “I bought the greens myself, at Odell’s farm, which is totally organic,” she told her hound. “The candles are beeswax, also organic. I bought the wooden candleholders at a farm fair this fall. Can’t wait for Amy to notice them!”

  Roy snorted.

  “I know, you think I’m going overboard, trying to please Amy, but come on, Roy, David’s my only child. And Amy’s the mother of my only grandchild!”

  Her grandfather clock chimed. “Eeek!” she cried. It was time to shower and dress.

  She’d laid a fire of natural woods—was there any other kind? Now she knelt to light it, so it would be blazing heartily when David and his family arrived. She clicked on the CD player, and Christmas carols rolled their golden notes out into the room. Everything was clean, dusted, polished, shining. She lit the candles on the mantelpiece. Their little flames danced, giving a lively, festive touch to the room.

  “I don’t think Amy can complain about a single thing,” Polly assured herself.

  She hurried up to her bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and turned on the bath water. As the tub filled, she stared in the mirror at her naked, sexagenarian body. She looked grandmotherly. That was appropriate. After all, she was a grandmother.

  But she was also, to her surprise, at her advanced age, newly in love, or at least in serious like.

  After Polly’s mother-in-law died last year, her physician, Hugh Monroe, had asked Polly out on a date, at which point Polly, who liked to consider the glass half-full, decided Fate was getting around to balancing things out. Polly had taken good care of Claudia in her final months. She considered Hugh a kind of karmic reward. In her most sentimental moments, she even imagined that Claudia had engineered this somehow.

  Hugh was so wonderful! Polly sank into her bubble bath and closed her eyes, surrendering for just a moment to the heat, the peace, and her dreams. Fragrant bubbles surged over the mounds of her round thighs, belly, and breasts.

  Hugh didn’t seem to mind how much Polly weighed. A jovial, energetic, portly man, Hugh liked to eat, cook, and drink. Polly hadn’t discussed the philosophy of this with him, but she guessed that he alleviated the stresses of his work as an oncologist with as many vigorous sensual pleasures as he could conjure up on any given day.

  She had such a good time with Hugh on their dates! He took her to elegant restaurants, but also to amusement parks where they rode roller coasters and merry-go-rounds and ate cotton candy. They’d spent a day on a small boat plunging around off Boston’s coast on a whale watch—and they’d seen two whales. Polly would never forget how her heart leapt at the sight. On his next vacation, Hugh wanted to take her scuba-diving in the Caribbean, something Polly had never done, and he was trying to persuade her to take riding lessons with him. Polly wasn’t so sure about that. She hadn’t ridden since she was a teenager, and she had visions of swinging her hefty hind end into a saddle and the horse going “Oofh!” and fainting.

  The good thing about Hugh was that she was able to confide such fears to him. When she’d confessed her equestrian vision, Hugh had replied, “Ah, Polly, any horse would be thrilled to bear your gorgeous derrière!” That night, he’d given her a full back massage that ended with kisses all up and down her spine and all over her round rear end. Until then, she hadn’t realized her nerves had valiantly sneaked through the cellulite and were there waiting to receive the sweetness of his warm breath, his soft lips, like a hive when the bee buzzes back with its load of honey.

  Polly smiled and hugged herself.

  But enough daydreaming. She stepped dripping onto the bath mat, grabbed a towel, and began drying off. As she dressed, she could feel her courage fading beneath an onslaught of nerves.

  David’s wife, Amy, and her parents, Katrina and Buck, all lived and worked on the same farm. Their schedules were closely knit together, their conversation related to matters Polly didn’t understand—fertilizer, insects, spinning wheels. The Andersons had lived on their land since the Revolutionary War, which indeed was something to be proud about, but the Andersons were more than proud. They were smug. They belonged to their own elite club with its private language and rituals, and Polly was not admitted. Last Christmas, she’d been invited for two hours only on Christmas night, to share eggnog with her son, grandson, and daughter-in-law while they exchanged presents that, Polly suspected, they never used.

  Nothing Polly gave Amy and her family was ever good enough. When Polly mailed her grandson a funny card and present on Valentine’s Day, she never heard whether it had even arrived. Very occasionally she was asked to baby-sit her grandson, but when she did, Amy was always just in the next room. What was that about?

  Polly pulled on her wool slacks and the green cashmere sweater she’d knit herself. Cashmere and wool, natural, that ought to satisfy Amy. She sat on the edge of her bed to put on her socks and shoes. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the crystal bowl filled with Brach’s Chocolate Mix that she’d brought upstairs, to keep away from Amy’s critical eye.

  For courage, Polly grabbed the bag, delved inside, and pulled out a chocolate-covered Brazil nut. It was especially satisfying to eat nuts, because she could crunch them. Hard.

  The chocolate, sugar, and fat blasted into her system like a team of miniature superheroes, lifting her spirits high. She nibbled more as she brushed her red—well, white and red—hair and put on a bit of lipstick and eye-liner.

  Any moment now, they’d be here. She’d get to hold her grandson, hand him a pr
esent, watch him as he opened it.

  Where was the camera! She was standing here chewing away like a squirrel, and where was the camera?

  In the kitchen? Probably.

  The doorbell chimed. Polly raced down the stairs, Roy Orbison hurrying with her, his long, chubby body swaying, nearly tripping her as they went.

  The air downstairs was smoky. Hadn’t she pushed up the fireplace flue? She’d have to open the windows, let the smoke out. First, though, she hurried to the front door.

  “David!” she cried. “Amy! And Jehoshaphat!”

  Amy’s brown braids were looped on the top of her head in a kind of Fräulein milkmaid look. Instead of a coat, she wore a hairy brown poncho. Jehoshaphat’s chubby baby face stared over his mother’s shoulder from her backpack.

  They were really here! Polly was so thrilled, she nearly burst into a flamboyant flamenco. At her feet, Roy Orbison danced and barked his hoarse old dog bark. “Come in, come in.”

  David bent to pat the basset hound. He smelled faintly of manure and Lysol. “Mom, why is it so smoky in here?”

  “Oh, darling, I lighted a fire, and I need to—” There were so many things to do at once, she couldn’t finish her sentence. “Let me hold Jehoshaphat while you take off your things,” she told Amy, reaching out for her grandson. Amy allowed her to lift the little boy from the backpack.

  “Mom, something’s wrong.” David pushed past her, still in his coat.

  “Darling, it’s just—” Carrying Jehoshaphat, who was squirming around, looking in all directions at this new environment, Polly followed her son down the hall and into the living room.

  “Jesus Christ!” David exclaimed. “Mom, call 911! The house is on fire!”

  But Polly was paralyzed as she stood in the doorway to her living room. What she saw was so bizarre, her mind couldn’t, for a moment, force it to make sense. Flames shot up from the mantel, where her organic greenery was crackling and popping as it burned, and her wooden candlesticks glowed orange.

  “Oh my God!” Amy shrieked. Lunging forward, she snatched Jehoshaphat from Polly’s arms. The little boy began to scream along with his mother as she flew back outside.

  The dog, confused and frightened, stood in the middle of the hall, threw back his head, and bayed like a lost soul.

  David had his cell phone out and was dialing 911.

  “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” a choir sang from the CD player.

  Fire, Polly thought. Water. Breaking out of her stupor, she ran into the kitchen, found her big lobster pot, set it in the sink, and turned on both faucets. The water ran and ran, and yet, as if she were caught in some kind of nightmare, the pot would not fill. Slowly, slowly, the level of the water rose, while black smoke drifted down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Finally the pot was almost full. Polly hoisted it from the sink, turned, and started to run toward the living room. But with her first step, the water sloshed out of the pot, spilling onto her slacks and puddling onto the floor. Slipping, slithering, she almost went down.

  Carefully, slowly, Polly regained her balance. She moved her legs as quickly as she could while keeping her upper torso and arms completely still, to prevent more water spilling. Arms stiff, she walked zombielike to the living room.

  David was by the fireplace, poker in hand, knocking the burning greenery and blackened candleholders onto the tile hearth and into the fireplace.

  “Oh, David,” she cried, “be careful! Don’t burn yourself!”

  “It’s all right now, Mom. I’ve got it under control. When the fire department gets here, they can check whether it got into the walls somehow, but I think we’re okay.”

  Polly stood helplessly, holding her heavy pot of water. Above the mantel, the wall was streaked with black, and the beautiful oil painting she and Tucker had inherited from his family was scorched and curled into fragments of ruined canvas. Roy Orbison had stopped bellowing and sniffed nervously at her feet.

  “Aaah, Mom, it’s all right.” David put the poker back in its stand. “I’ll put the pot here on the hearth. In case we need it.” He lifted the heavy vessel of water from Polly’s hands. “Look,” he said, trying to cheer her up. “The tree, the stockings, the presents—none of them burned.”

  Polly’s lip quivered. “That’s right. That’s good.” “Come sit down here,” David said gently. “You’ve had a shock.”

  Polly had forgotten how to move her legs.

  “Mom.” David put his arms around her and hugged her for a long time. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s really okay.”

  He ushered her to the sofa. Docilely, she sat. Her dog sat, too, leaning against her legs for comfort.

  “I’m just going to check on Amy and Jehoshaphat.” David left the room.

  Because the front door was open to let the smoke escape, her son’s conversation floated in with perfect clarity.

  “It’s okay now, Amy, come on in.”

  “I’m not going in there! I’m not taking my child into a burning house!”

  “The fire’s out.”

  “I’m not taking a chance. What if a spark got up in the ceiling? Everything could go at once!”

  “Amy—”

  “When the fire department says it’s safe, I’ll go in.”

  “Then take Jehoshaphat and sit in the car. You’ll freeze out here.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Then, closer. The wails pierced the Christmas Eve air as they screeched to a stop at Polly’s house. Moments later, Polly heard men speaking with her son and then two firemen stomped into the living room, garbed in rubber coats, boots, and gear.

  Behind them came Amy, David, and the baby. Amy stood in the doorway, refusing to enter the room, which was just as well, because the room was crowded. Somehow the firemen were twice as big as normal persons. Roy Orbison waddled around, wagging his tail and sniffing the firemen’s interesting ankles.

  They checked the walls, ceiling, and hearth. They stomped upstairs and down again.

  The older one, with grizzled hair, had kind eyes. “This happens more often than you’d think,” he assured Polly. “Christmas candles, dry greenery, there you are.”

  The younger fireman said to Polly, “I notice you have smoke alarms upstairs and down. Didn’t they go off?”

  Polly cringed. “I took the batteries out this week. I was doing a lot of cooking, and they’re so sensitive, they were going off all the time and driving me crazy.”

  Behind him, Amy’s mouth crimped disapprovingly.

  “Yeah, that happens a lot,” the older fireman said. “You’d better connect them.”

  By the time the firemen left, all the smoke had dissipated. Polly longed to pour half a bottle of rum into a cup of eggnog and chug it down.

  But instead she rallied. “Sit down, now, please. We can still have Christmas Eve,” she told David and Amy. “The presents and stockings are okay. And I’ve made some delicious—”

  “I think we’d better go home,” Amy said. “The smoke gave me a headache, and heaven knows what it did to little Jehoshaphat’s lungs.”

  “But the smoke’s gone!” Polly protested, waving her arms.

  “Yes, and it’s freezing in here,” Amy pointed out.

  “It will warm up soon,” Polly promised. “I’ll make you some tea. I’ve got so many different kinds—”

  With a sigh, Amy acquiesced.

  The next hour dragged by. With the patience of Mother Teresa tending to the ill, Amy accepted Polly’s Christmas gifts and allowed her son to touch his. The entire time, Amy darted frightened little glances at her husband, making it clear she was terrified that the house was about to spontaneously combust. She did not allow Polly’s grandson to taste any cookies—too much sugar— or to drink any of the juice Polly had bought. Instead, she pulled a juice bottle from her woven bag.

  Amy and David’s gift to Polly was a set of woven reed place mats that Polly had seen on the sale table of the Andersons’ little store over the summer. But Amy did permit Jehosh
aphat to touch the set of natural wood blocks Polly gave him, and for five blissful minutes, Polly was allowed to sit playing on the floor with her grandson.

  In spite of the herbal tea Polly brewed, Amy complained that her headache was growing worse.

  You need caffeine, honey, you need chocolate, Polly thought. You need a personality transplant.

  She walked them to the door, waving until their pickup truck was out of sight. For a moment, she stood looking out at the black sky with its frosty stars. All the houses up and down the block glowed with Christmas lights.

  Polly returned to her smoke-stained living room. Her artistically decorated brown wrapping paper and yarn ribbons lay discarded on the floor like yesterday’s trash. The present from Amy and David, the woven place mats, looked like hair shirts for a clan of masochistic dwarves. Roy Orbison sniffed through the crumpled paper and found a bit of unsalted cashew. From the CD player, the little drummer boy drummed for the fiftyninth time that evening. Polly turned off the music.

  “Merry Christmas, humbug!” she told her dog, and collapsed on the sofa.

  It was only a little after eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. If only Hugh had been here! He wouldn’t have let the place catch fire. Or he would have assured everyone, with his gentle physician’s authority, that everything was really all right. He would have lent authenticity and gravity to Polly’s gifts and food.

  But Hugh wasn’t here, and he wouldn’t be tonight.

  Tonight Hugh was spending with his grown children, their spouses, and his ex-wife, Carol.

  Carol was—Polly had seen pictures—a tiny size six, and if that wasn’t irritating enough, she was also a dependent little princess. Hugh and Carol had been divorced for several years now, but Carol, who had kept the house in which she and Hugh had raised their three children, was forever phoning him when the downstairs bathroom’s pipes froze, or a bat got into the attic, or one of their grandchildren lost a tooth. Carol desperately needed daily conversations with Hugh, and Hugh took it all in his stride, listening to her complaints and soothing her with the same kind manner with which he spoke to his patients when they phoned. Also, he was diligent about attending his grandchildren’s plays, recitals, and soccer games as often as possible. Polly admired him for this at the same time she hated how it limited their time together.