Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons

  “What about me?” said Slip, who smelled of the Noxzema she had put on her sunburned face. “Don’t you think I look dazzling?”

  “We told you to use sunblock, Slip,” said Faith. “But you said this time you could tell you were going to tan.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Slip, “can I help it I’m a natural optimist?”

  As they entered the bar, it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark interior.

  “There’s a booth,” said Audrey, pointing to the far corner, and as they walked toward it a chorus of whistles from the patrons at the bar followed them.

  Giggling, they sat down and ordered a couple pitchers of beer from a wiry waitress whose tattooed arm read Tiny.

  “Oh, my gosh,” said Merit. “Who do you suppose Tiny is?”

  “Probably that guy,” said Slip, nodding toward the bar. “That big fat guy in the sleeveless T-shirt and the foot-long beard.”

  “Can you imagine that thing on top of you?” asked Audrey.

  None of them could, but the idea of it restarted their giggles.

  “You’re a happy bunch,” said the waitress, plunking down two pitchers of beer.

  “We’re celebrating,” said Audrey.

  “Somebody’s birthday?” said the waitress, and if she yawned she couldn’t have sounded more bored.

  “No, this one,” said Audrey, nodding at Kari, “just got out of the slammer. First beer she’s had in fifteen years.”

  “I’ll bet,” said the waitress, but a flicker of a smile appeared on her bored, tough face. “Fifteen years, huh? Must have been some crime.”

  “She ran an illegal Tupperware ring,” said Slip. “In fact, she can get you some mixing bowls if you play your cards right.”

  A real smile grew on the waitress’ face. “Can’t say as I need any mixing bowls, but if you got one of them cake holders, I’ll take it.”

  Shaking her head, Kari watched the waitress return to the bar.

  “An illegal Tupperware ring,” she said. “Couldn’t you have given me a real crime?”

  “Like any one of these guys around here has committed?” said Audrey. “I can’t believe it. There always used to be a few motorcycles around, but man alive, I have never seen so much leather in all my life.”

  “Is it headquarters for the Hell’s Angels or something?” asked Merit, with such seriousness that everyone burst out laughing.

  “I don’t know,” said Slip, “but I think it would be in our best interest not to say anything derogatory about Harleys.”

  “Well,” said Merit, “before a brawl breaks out, why don’t we talk about the book?”

  “What?” she said as her friends looked at her with a combination of bemusement and surprise.

  “That didn’t sound like you,” said Audrey. “You sounded so decisive.”

  “So bossy,” said Slip.

  “Just like the rest of us,” said Faith.

  “They’re right,” said Kari, nodding.

  Merit flushed. “It’s just that I loved this book so much.” She took the paperback out of her purse and held it to her chest. “My gosh, I don’t know how many times I sobbed through it.”

  “Is that how you measure the success of a book?” asked Kari. “By how many times it makes you cry?”

  “Well,” said Merit, who long ago had realized that Kari liked to play devil’s advocate in book discussions and that she shouldn’t take anything she said personally, “if you care so much about the characters that you cry about them, something’s working.”

  “But Merit,” chimed in Slip, “you have to realize that some writers are good at manipulating emotions and will purposely kill off sympathetic characters so you’ll cry. Remember Love Story?”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me,” said Kari. “But I didn’t find Judy—or Jenny, or whatever her name was—particularly sympathetic.”

  Faith set down her glass of beer. “But none of you can say this book was even in the same stratosphere as Love Story. The depth of this book, my Lord! Styron is such a good writer, and the questions he raises . . .”

  “Like what would have been your choice?” asked Slip, her voice soft.

  “That,” said Kari, no longer the devil’s advocate, “was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to read.” She rubbed her arms. “I still get goose bumps.”

  Audrey tapped a cigarette out of her pack and halfheartedly offered one to Faith, the only other Angry Housewife who still smoked, although not with the regularity of Audrey.

  “I guess a biker bar’s as good a place as any to smoke in,” said Faith, taking the cigarette.

  “So what would be your choice?” Audrey asked, turning to Slip after she’d lit up. “If a Nazi was telling you that only one of your children was going to be allowed to live, which child would you pick?”

  Slip’s sunburned face blanched. “I couldn’t pick.”

  “Neither could I,” whispered Merit.

  “Well, none of us could,” said Audrey, “but admit it, didn’t you think: if I really had to, which child would it be?”

  “Thank God I only have one,” said Kari, and goose bumps rose on her arms again.

  “I tried to decide,” said Merit, holding her beer glass with two hands and pressing it against her chin. “But I couldn’t. Just thinking about it made me so scared . . . made me feel like I was going to throw up.”

  “Well, I was able to decide,” said Faith, and even as the jukebox cranked out an old Johnny Cash song, as the line of leather-clad men up at the bar joked with one another, as someone in the back room shouted as the billiard ball fell into the pocket he had called, a hush fell over the corner table.

  “Who?” asked Slip. “Who would it be?”

  Faith’s heart hammered. Why had she confessed this? The fact that she could pick and no one else could obviously showed what a terrible mother she was. Should she just make a quick joke? Tell them that she was only kidding?

  “Bonnie,” she said, and as soon as the name was out of her mouth, tears collected in her eyes. “I would have chosen Bonnie—and believe me, I thought about this from every angle—because if I chose Beau to live over Bonnie, he wouldn’t have lived. I mean, maybe now, at the age the twins are now, but if they were little like Sophie’s kids, then Beau would absolutely not have lived if he were taken away from me and put into a concentration camp.” She blinked, feeling the wetness on her eyelashes. “Whereas Bonnie . . . well, Bonnie would not only live, she’d probably form a children’s resistance unit and organize a massive breakout.”

  Faith eyes searched her friends. “It doesn’t mean that by choosing Bonnie to live that I love her more,” she said, her voice catching, “I’d just want to make sure the one who got to live would live.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Audrey, signaling the waitress after she dabbed at her own tears. “We need another round.”

  The waitress, who was leaning over the bar, examining an earring a man with a thick silver braid was wearing, acknowledged the summons with a nod but took her time getting to the table.

  “You girls are thirsty,” she said, setting down the pitcher. Then, seeing the book on the table, said, “Oh, Sophie’s Choice—I loved that book.”

  “You read it?” asked Faith, and the disbelief in her voice was so evident that Audrey kicked her under the table.

  “You act surprised,” said the waitress with a smirk.

  “No, I—”

  “How about that Nathan, huh?” asked the waitress, ignoring Faith. “Who was fooled by him?”

  An informal poll was taken, and the waitress, one hand on a narrow hip, joined in on the discussion until a biker at another table yelled, “Hey, Shirley, get your skinny ass over here so I can order some food!”

  “My public awaits,” said the waitress, and after lifting her eyebrows in a look of bored resignation, she cocked her head toward the Angry Housewives. “You should check out The Confessions of Nat Turner, too. A whole different world, but Styron takes you ri
ght there.”

  AN HOUR LATER the little roadhouse was packed with men and women and cigarette smoke hovered like cloud cover. The smell of hamburger grease and beer and perspiration was strong but not offensive; it smelled like a party.

  The volume of the jukebox had been cranked up, and couples in leather and denim danced to a selection that hadn’t been updated since the ’50s: Elvis (lots of Elvis), Buddy Holly, Little Richard.

  When Hank Williams started singing about how lonesome he was, the fat man at the bar the Angry Housewives had supposed was Tiny sauntered over to the table and asked, “Dance?” Faith assumed he was talking to Audrey, who in her tube top and short shorts looked most like a biker chick, but it was Merit for whom he held out his slabby hand. Merit’s hand went to her chest and her eyes bugged out, and the word apoplexy popped into Kari’s head.

  But, surprising everyone, Merit took the hammy paw of the 350-pound biker and let him lead her to the worn oak dance floor, where men and women were pressed together, barely moving.

  “Oh, my Lord,” said Faith as they all watched Tiny lift one of Merit’s hands to his shoulder. “It’s Beauty and the Beast.”

  The biker’s other hand spanned the entirety of the small of Merit’s back. Holding her as if he were an archaeologist and she were a prehistoric vase, he began to weave her through the crowd.

  “He’s actually dancing,” said Slip. “He knows steps.”

  Once they began moving, Merit’s stunned expression faded away and she smiled at her partner, seeing only her happy face in his reflector sunglasses. It was obvious Merit loved to dance; she moved so gracefully and assuredly in his arms that Tiny, with his bush of a beard and his too-tight sleeveless T-shirt, didn’t look silly at all, but equally graceful and assured.

  “Why, it’s Fred and Ginger,” said Audrey, and her opinion was shared by the couples out on the floor, who stopped their simple foot-shuffling to give the masters some room.

  Another song came on, “Tutti Frutti,” and Merit spun and twirled in a series of moves that her partner immediately picked up. Kari felt goose bumps on her arm again, but these were the kind that acknowledge an unexpected magic.

  They danced to one more song—“Oh, Donna”—and when they were finished they earned explosive applause not only from the Angry Housewives, but from everyone else in the bar.

  Tiny escorted Merit back to the table, executing a slight bow before kissing her hand.

  “Thank you, milady.”

  “Thank you, Lionel,” said Merit, flushed pink and as lovely as a child’s idea of a princess.

  “Lionel?” came the chorus of whispers as the hairy behemoth and his huge stomach made their way back to the bar.

  “He said everyone calls him Lion,” said Merit, pouring more beer into her glass. “But I reminded him of his mother, so I could call him what she calls him: Lionel.”

  “If that don’t beat all,” said Faith, and her accent came out, as it always did when she was truly flummoxed.

  EVERYONE GOT OUT ON THE DANCE FLOOR at least once (Kari with a biker whose bald pate was decorated with a tattoo of the marine slogan, “Semper Fi”), and when the bar closed they had numerous offers to continue the party elsewhere. Lionel even posed for a picture with them and reminded Merit that if she ever wanted to hit the road, she was welcome to hit it with him.

  “And how ’bout you,” said a guy named Deke, pulling Audrey toward a massive Harley. “You want to hit the road with me?”

  “Sorry, Deke,” said Audrey, finagling her way out of his grasp, “but after midnight we turn back into housewives.”

  “Angry housewives,” growled Slip, assuming the pose of a gunfighter. The others, finding this hilarious, mimicked the pose, and the sight of five women aiming imaginary pistols at him did something to temper Deke’s libido.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said, giving Audrey’s behind a playful slap.

  “Oh, now I think I do,” said Audrey, watching as he listed toward his bike.

  They sat in Audrey’s parents’ roomy Mercedes with the windows open, listening to the thundering power of dozens of motorcycles starting up, and watched as one by one they eased out into the black night like metal insects flying home after their nectar-gathering.

  Shirley, the waitress, got on her own motorcycle and in low gear rumbled over to them.

  “Going home to Tiny?” asked Faith.

  Shirley laughed. “Nah, someone much more exciting—Sherwood Anderson.”

  Kari laughed. “Sherwood Anderson the writer?”

  “I’m rereading Winesburg, Ohio and fuckin’ crying all over again.”

  With that, she revved the throttle and was off.

  December 1982

  HOST: KARI

  BOOK: My Home Is Far Away by Dawn Powell

  REASON CHOSEN: “I think she’s an American treasure.”

  When Kari received the invitation to Mary Jo’s wedding, her impulse was to send off a check with her best wishes.

  She had good excuses not to attend. After all, the wedding was to be held in Washington, D.C., which involved a bit more of a commute than just going over the bridge to St. Paul; Kari didn’t want to pull Julia out of school with Christmas break just two weeks away; she didn’t have time to sew a semiformal dress . . . well, at least the long trip was a good excuse.

  What held her back from responding yes was of course fear.

  Mary Jo had made it easy for Kari. She had only seen Julia twice, at two family reunions, and while she had cooed over the child, she cooed just as much at her brother Randy’s kids or her cousins’. Kari had been on pins and needles, certain someone would find out something, but on both occasions she had gone home nearly weak with relief: no one had found out or suspected anything.

  Occasionally Kari got a postcard from a far-flung place whose exact location in the world she would have to look up on the huge globe she’d gotten for Julia (once a teacher, always a teacher). Kari was thrilled that Mary Jo had fulfilled her college wishes by studying abroad and after her graduation, traveling extensively. Glad for her niece, and glad for herself.

  And so, realizing that her excuses weren’t good after all, Kari found herself in a mauve silk dress sitting in a hotel ballroom, watching her daughter dance with her uncle Scott as a woman sang about how she would survive.

  “Hello,” said a bald man, pulling out a chair next to Kari’s. “It’s Mrs. Nelson, right?”

  Kari peered into the man’s face, and familiarity flickered in her brain until it ignited into an image.

  “Larry,” said Kari, “Larry the lawyer. I hardly recognized you without the love beads and the long hair.” She looked down at his feet, clad in shiny dress shoes. “And where are your sandals?”

  Larry smiled. “I was a man of my times.”

  “And times have obviously changed,” said Kari, taking in his well-cut suit and plain red tie.

  “So . . . how are things?”

  “Things are well.”

  Larry followed her gaze to the dance floor. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  Kari’s heart hammered. “Yes, she is. She’s more than I could have ever imagined.”

  One of the groom’s relatives (a builder who claimed to have developed most of Bethesda) sat down at the table with a refilled plate from the sumptuous buffet table.

  “Tried the prime rib?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Kari. “It’s excellent.” She turned back to Larry. Now that there was an audience, it wasn’t safe to stay on the same subject. “So, are you still a lawyer?”

  Larry shook his head. “Not anymore. Now I’m a judge.”

  “Oh,” said Kari, fiddling with the neckline of her dress. “Bjorn . . . my husband was a judge.”

  Larry nodded. “I think Mary Jo told me that, way back when.” He suddenly sat up straight, as if he’d gotten a mild shock. “Hey, would you like to dance?”

  “I don’t know how to dance to this kind of music.”

  L
arry laughed as he stood up and took her hand. “Let’s just waltz fast and call it disco.”

  Kari had expected to feel silly and out of touch; she certainly hadn’t expected to feel such exultation. The music (this was the first wedding party she’d been to that didn’t have a band, but a DJ spinning records) was loud and she couldn’t understand any lyrics other than “stayin’ alive,” but she’d never had more fun on a dance floor. She and Larry had started off doing an up-tempo waltz, which, when coupled with a few do-si-dos, turned into a square dance which everyone seemed to pick up. Partners changed and swirled by, and Kari, whose deep laugh boomed across the dance floor, was swung and flung until she was dizzy.

  “Aunt Kari,” said Mary Jo, passing by her in a swirl of ivory satin, “I see you met Larry!”

  “I almost didn’t recognize him!” she shouted back, gasping as her partner nearly hurled her off the dance floor and into one of the tables.

  “Hi, Mom!” said Julia, whizzling by, tendrils of hair springing out like curly ribbons around her forehead.

  “Hi, honey!” said Kari, finding herself in the arms of Mark, the groom.

  “Mary Jo told me you were a woman of many talents, but I didn’t know you could dance, too.”

  “Is that what I’m doing? I thought I was just trying to stay on my feet.”

  “You have a beautiful daughter,” said Mark. “Although, considering her mother, how could she not be?”

  The music suddenly dimmed for Kari, and the colors of the party dresses and the sprays of flowers faded. He knew what Kari didn’t want known.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and sidestepped her way through the dancers back to her table and the prime rib eater.

  “You tried the shrimp?” he asked.

  She shook her head, grabbed her purse off the table, and looked for someplace that might offer her a little air.

  I’m being silly, she scolded herself as she race-walked toward a French door. Of course Mary Jo’s going to tell her husband about the baby she had long ago; a good marriage is based on trust.