The Hot Flash Club Chills Out

by Nancy Thayer

  She’d felt even more bored. Boredom made her cranky, and that hadn’t been good for her blood pressure, and for a while she felt almost itchy with ennui.

  And then her granddaughter was born.

  Alice had never known such love, such pure unadulterated joy. When she was with her grandchild, the music of life transformed from irritating rap to a soaring symphony. She’d never had much interest in babies before, but then little Aly wasn’t any normal baby. Aly was the most beautiful, fascinating, precious infant ever born.

  Her son and his wife had paid her the ultimate compliment, naming their daughter after her. When she offered to take care of the infant while Alan and Jennifer ran their catering and bakery business, they eagerly accepted, which made Alice love them so much she had to restrain herself from becoming a babbling fool. The baby was born prematurely, and Jennifer had suffered from toxemia, so for the first couple of months worry clouded Alice’s joy. Gradually both mother and child flourished. Things went back to normal. Alice’s morning and evening drives became routine.

  Since both grandmother and grandchild were named Alice, the three adults deliberated on how to nickname them to avoid confusion. Little Alice and Big Alice didn’t work, because Alice—tall, broad-shouldered, big-boned, and well-padded—was just slightly sensitive about the word “big.” Young Alice and Old Alice wasn’t so great, either. Alice One and Alice Two? Nope. Numbers carried too many negative connotations. When Alan and Jennifer considered Granny, big, old Alice diplomatically refrained from telling them that while she loved being a grandmother, the word Granny made her feel even older and grayer than ever. Fortunately, they all three fell into the habit of calling the baby Aly, and the problem was solved.

  Today, Alice took care of Aly while Alan and Jennifer ran the bakery. While Aly slept, Alice did the piles of laundry a baby makes, and scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom because her son and his wife hadn’t the time or energy, and put a hen in the oven to roast for the dinner Alan and Jennifer would eat with the potatoes, vegetables, and salad she’d prepared. Alan and Jennifer were so grateful for all her help. They were working furiously, taking all the private orders and catering jobs they could get, because they wanted to save enough money for a down payment on a house. They loved living in the tidy stone gatehouse of The Haven, but it was small, and they hoped to have more children eventually, and naturally wanted their own home.

  At five o’clock, they closed the bakery at the back of the house and came through the industrial kitchen into the cottage kitchen, where they hugged Alice and showered her with gratitude. They told her she was an angel. They said they couldn’t imagine what they’d do without her.

  Now the universe’s crankiest angel was driving home. She adjusted the seat on her BMW, grateful for the technology that allowed her to relieve the stress on her back as she began the long slog east, toward home and the blissful quiet of her apartment. WGBH was playing a Vivaldi piece she’d heard a thousand times before. She turned from the country road onto Route 2, and then entered the eight thundering lanes of cars, trucks, and SUVs speeding along 128 in a hypnotic blur, like a pack of roaring metallic monsters. The bright spring sun bounced off the hoods and roofs, lasering into her eyes.

  Now Vivaldi’s perky little notes irritated her. She snapped the radio off. Usually classical music buoyed her, providing a psychological lift that helped her survive the drive in heavy traffic. Tonight it just wasn’t working. She craved chocolate, so she reached over, opened the glove compartment, and brought out a bag of chocolate-covered almonds. She knew she shouldn’t eat them, she knew she was gaining weight again, but almonds were good for one’s health, and the caffeine and sugar and sheer pleasure of the candy was a necessity tonight. She was tired.

  Behind her, an impatient driver honked his horn. Alice flicked her turn indicator and began to edge over into the slower middle lane just as an idiot on a motorcycle cut in front of her with suicidal recklessness. She missed hitting him by only inches. Her heart jumped into her throat.

  She hit the button that rolled down the window. “Watch what you’re doing, you moron!” she yelled, realizing, as the warm, gasoline-scented air flooded in, that of course the moron couldn’t hear her.

  Behind her, Mr. Impatience’s horn blared. She jerked her wheel right, lurching into the next lane, nearly kissing the bumper of a lumbering cement truck.

  Her heart quivered and kicked inside her chest. She hated this feeling. She tried to remember all the advice she’d received about calming down. She couldn’t visualize a cool pool of water because she had to keep visualizing the freaking traffic, so she forced herself to inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Gideon was always reminding her to relax. Get in the right lane and just poke along, he advised. Well, she would, except at the end of the day, in spite of the aspirin she took, arthritis threatened to cripple her with cramps in her legs, hands, and back. At any moment she’d find herself curling up like a pretzel, not the safest posture while driving seventy miles an hour. At home, she’d take a hot soaking bath, or collapse on her heating pad, or have a nice glass of wine. She wanted to get home. She didn’t want to dawdle.

  She was so tired, so stressed—tears rolled down her cheeks. Was it possible that she’d gone from being a woman who had it all to a woman who had too much?

  Finally she reached her exit and threaded her way through the narrow Boston streets to her condo. As she slid her car into its calm, waiting spot in the cool shade of the parking garage, her pulse slowed. She took a minute to redo her makeup—she didn’t want Gideon to see her with tear marks. Gideon kept telling her to step back and let Alan and Jennifer manage their lives without her, but she saw, every day, firsthand and close-up, how overwhelmed the younger people were. Gideon’s advice was well-meant, but it only increased the tension Alice felt. She didn’t want to argue—which was only another sign of her exhaustion. Alice usually loved a good argument. In her younger days, her talent for confrontation had sent her flying right up the corporate ladder. In her younger days, she’d always won her arguments. In her younger days, the drumroll of her excited heart and the flush of blood through her body had been an exhilarating experience, making her keen, articulate, triumphant.

  Now the same drumroll made her anxious. She couldn’t let Gideon know how often, how easily, her heart went trippy.

  It was so quiet in the garage. So soothing. Alice wanted to recline her seat and fall asleep right there. But of course that would only present her cranky old bones with brand new ways of aching. Besides, Gideon was waiting for her. Most evenings he fixed dinner, which she truly appreciated. He was a retired schoolteacher with lots of hobbies and interests. Thank heavens one of them was cooking.

  Alice left her car and entered the elevator. As it ascended, the sleek chrome box soothed her. She felt as if she were in one of Star Trek’s transporters, conveying herself from chaos to calm.

  Gideon looked up at her from his recliner when she entered the living room. “Damn, Alice. You look beat.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “I look beat?” Alice burst into tears. “What you mean is I look old, right? Just go ahead and spit it out, don’t pussyfoot around!” Slinging her purse onto a chair, she stomped into the kitchen and snatched out the ice-cube tray. She wanted a drink. A nice cool vodka tonic. She twisted the tray to release the ice, but she must have used more force than necessary, because ice cubes exploded from the tray, flying around the room like manic ping pong balls. “Damn!” she cursed.

  “Alice.” Gideon was calm, in control. “Go sit down. Let me make you a drink.”

  “I’ll do it myself! I’m not too beat to make my own damned drink!”

  “Really.”

  Alice glared. “Don’t you go all superior on me!”

  Gideon stared at her. He looked sad. He said, “Alice.” The warmth in his voice made her cry even harder. He took the ice tray from her, set it in the sink, and wrapped his huge arms around her, pulling her against him. He was so b
ig, so strong, so calm. He was infinitely comforting.

  “Why don’t you go sit down and take your shoes off, and I’ll fix your drink,” he suggested.

  She gave in. “All right.” She sniffed. “Thanks.”

  Man, it felt good to sink down onto her sofa. She eased off her shoes, brought her legs up, and stretched out. Gideon brought her the drink, then sat at the other end of the sofa, taking her feet in his lap. He began to massage them gently.

  “Heaven,” Alice sighed.

  “I’ve had a thought,” Gideon said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I think Jennifer’s mother ought to come up for a while. I’m sure she’d love to spend some time with her grandchild.”

  “Jennifer’s mother is a babbling hysteric.”

  “Not really. She was pretty upset when Jennifer was having such a tough time when the baby came early. But that’s only natural. She did manage to raise Jennifer, after all, and Jennifer’s a gem.”

  “She was younger when she raised Jennifer.”

  “And you were younger when you raised Alan.”

  Alice closed her eyes. She really was too tired to argue.

  “I worry about you, Alice.” Gideon’s voice was soft. With his thumbs, he pressed the balls of her feet, then the arches. “You’re not taking care of yourself. When was the last time you went to yoga or rode your exercise bike? I’d bet all the money I have you’re having heart episodes you’re not telling me about.”

  “This really isn’t fair.” Alice forced herself to pull her feet away, drawing her legs under her as she readjusted herself on the sofa. She was relaxed now and had regained her sense of humor. “Seduction by foot massage—if men only knew, they’d never have to buy flowers.”

  “Have you been hearing a word I’ve said?” Gideon looked stern.

  “I hear you.” Alice stared at her glass, rattling the ice cubes. “Gideon, I appreciate your concern. But first, I’m just fine. And second, the kids really need help. They want to buy a house. They need someone to take care of Aly. Otherwise, they’ll have to hire help in the bakery, and there goes part of their profits. Besides, I love taking care of little Aly. She’s the light of my life.”

  “But why not let Jennifer’s mom take over now and then?”

  “I don’t know if she’d do it.”

  “You don’t know that she wouldn’t. Has Jennifer asked her?”

  Alice shrugged. She thought of Jennifer’s mother, whom she’d met only a few times. The woman was like some kind of overwound mechanical toy, talking incessantly, throwing her arms out in manic gestures, unable to sit still for a minute.

  “The baby won’t stop loving you if you’re not there every day,” Gideon said softly. “She won’t forget you if you’re not there all the time.”

  “I know that!” Alice snapped. “I just don’t think Jennifer’s mother can run that house as well as I can.”

  “Because you’re a control freak,” Gideon said bluntly.

  Alice opened her mouth to object, but she knew what he said was true. “I’ll think about it, Gideon, all right?” She frowned. “But if I suggest it to Jennifer and Alan, will it hurt their feelings?”

  “Of course not. Jennifer might be thrilled to have her mother around.”

  As Alice bit her lip, thinking, the phone rang. Gideon rose, picked it up, and brought the handset over to Alice.

  “Hi, Mom.” It was Alan. “Listen, there’s a movie Jennifer and I really want to see. Is there any chance you’d want to do a little more babysitting for Aly this evening?”

  Alice closed her eyes. She knew her son and his wife hadn’t seen a movie for at least six months. Probably more, because Jennifer had been confined to bed rest for the last few months of her pregnancy. If Gideon drove her out, she wouldn’t mind making the trip again. It was only forty minutes, more or less.

  “I’d love to,” she told him. “We’ll leave right away.”

  3

  As sunlight filled the room, Marilyn floated out of her dreams into a dream come true. She lay on her side in the warm bed, her fiancé Ian next to her, his arm wrapped over her, holding her close. Never before in her life had she felt so secure with a man. Never before had she been so much in love.

  Marilyn had lived her life like a tugboat: sturdy, homely, helpful, significant only in her usefulness to others.

  Now, at fifty-three, she found herself transformed into a pleasure barge like the one Cleopatra rode gliding down the Nile: sensual, laden with rose petals, scented with exotic perfumes.

  “Awake?” Ian whispered.

  Marilyn turned over to face him. “Awake.” She nuzzled her face into his chest. It was a bit scrawny and bony…she thought of it as an intellectual chest.

  “I wish we didn’t have to get up,” Ian murmured, caressing her back.

  Marilyn sighed as the myriad complexities of real life claimed her thoughts, turning her romantic mood into a vanishing mist.

  It was early May, and she had to give her final lecture at MIT in Analytic Techniques for Studying Geologic Samples at nine o’clock. Ian had to be at Boston University to teach his classes.

  “We’ll talk about the wedding tonight?” she suggested.

  “Tonight.” He kissed her forehead and threw back the covers.

  Marilyn slid from bed, and the day began.

  She rushed into the shower while Ian hurried downstairs to start the coffee. By the time she was zipping up her brown skirt, he arrived with a mug for her, just the way she liked it. She sipped it as she bumbled around the bedroom, searching for her comfortable gray pumps, strapping on her watch, wondering where she’d left her briefcase. She headed down to the kitchen for a quick bowl of All-Bran. As she gobbled her food, she moved around the kitchen, preparing a tray of coffee, juice, toast, and a banana. She set her bowl in the dishwasher. Ian hurried down, hair still wet from the shower, pecked her forehead, and left for the university. Marilyn picked up the tray and climbed the steps to the attic.

  This past December, when her beloved Ian Foster appeared at Marilyn’s door with the amazing news he’d taken a job at Boston University and was moving from Scotland so he could be with her, Marilyn had been overwhelmed with joy. With Ian she had found, at last, true, abiding—and, oh, yeah, sexually fantastic!—love, something she’d assumed, now that she was fifty-three, she would never have.

  Even the mundane complexities of existence seemed to melt into honey in the warmth of their love. The condo she was renting for herself and her vaguely senile mother Ruth proved to be much too small the moment Ian entered, carrying his briefcase and suitcase and baggage claims for the books and other possessions he’d brought. He was to start his professorship in January. He had to have a private study for his books, computer, drafting table, monographs, and professional journals. Besides, Ruth had been agitating for a little attached apartment of her own where she could be independent.

  So Marilyn and Ian had phoned a Realtor, toured a series of houses, and rented a charming, narrow, triple-decker row house in Cambridge. After they were married, they’d find a wonderful house, one that satisfied all their needs and fantasies. But for now, this peculiar little house was sufficient.

  Ruth had her apartment in the basement—the Realtor had called it the “garden floor”—with an intercom in every room, so she could alert Marilyn if she needed something.

  The first floor had a living room, dining room, and kitchen, all tidy and modern. The second floor had three bedrooms and two baths. Just perfect. Ian and Marilyn shared the master bedroom, and they each had an office. It meant running up and down the stairs a lot, but they agreed this was a good thing. It would keep them in shape.

  They settled in, treating themselves to a handsome new bed, ordering the newest, sleekest, most efficient furniture for their offices, and comfortable furniture in neutral colors for the main floor. Neither Marilyn nor Ian cared much about décor. They were so busy teaching, working on their scientific projects, and making love, th
ey had no time to care whether the sofa coordinated with the carpet.

  In her garden apartment, Ruth pottered about blissfully, knitting her endless scarves, laboring over her crossword puzzles, carefully clipping recipes from magazines, pasting them onto cards, and filing them neatly away in cheerful little boxes that often got lost beneath her knitting. She went to the Senior Citizen Center several days a week, and at least once a week she went to dinner or a movie with her eighty-seven-year-old beau, Ernest Eberhart, whom she’d met when he’d asked her to pull up his baggy pants, which he’d been unable to do without taking his hands off his walker. Each day Marilyn made many trips down to Ruth’s quarters, to share afternoon tea or a joke she’d just heard, and at night to kiss her mother good night, while surreptitiously checking to be sure the burners and oven were off.

  Sometimes, rushing up or down the stairs, Marilyn thought about the wedding. It was the second marriage for both Marilyn and Ian. Still, they wanted an occasion, attended by family and friends. There was no rush—at their age, they both agreed they could take their time and enjoy the journey instead of hurrying to the destination. But when? Where? What kind of reception? They never had time to talk about it, busy as they were with teaching, and Ruth, and—

  And Ian’s son, Angus, who had just moved in with them.

  She tapped and softly called Angus’s name. There was no response and she didn’t hear the tap of his computer keys, so it was possible that for once he hadn’t fallen asleep at his desk but had actually slept in his bed. She left the tray outside his bedroom door and tiptoed down to her office on the second floor.

  Angus was a genius. At twenty-nine, he’d finished his Ph.D. in computer science. Now he was engrossed in what he called “divide-and-conquer algorithms,” which involved “hyperthreading” and “speculative execution,” and other incomprehensible electronic acts. Marilyn and Ian had set him up with temporary quarters in the attic. He didn’t want much furniture, only a bed, a chair, and a desk for his computer. Now, never caring or even knowing whether it was day or night, Angus hid away in his lair, typing and muttering maniacally, like an oversized, chittering goggle-eyed bat.