looked at her for a moment. Clearly, she was not fine. She was confused, lonesome, and about to become a teenager. Nan's heart ached for her. “I love you,” said Nan.
“I love you, too,” said Lola forlornly, looking up at her mother. Nan went over and hugged Lola, held her close. Their Siamese cat, Bobby, jumped from Lola's lap to the floor. Nan smelled cigarette smoke in her daughter's clothes but said nothing.
“Do you think he's having an affair?” said Claude dramatically.
“Right,” said Nan, laughing. Claude pressed foil packets full of dye around chunks of her hair. “He's working on a very important deal,” said Nan, lying. In truth, as Fred's drinking had grown worse, he'd been cut out of the important deals. Late at night, Nan wondered if her husband would lose his job. Perhaps he had already lost it—he was a mystery to her.
“Of course,” said Claude. “He's a very important man, your Fred.”
“How is your lovely wife?” said Nan.
“She is wonderful,” said Claude.
Nan can still remember returning home that night, eating chewy barbecue while she watched 60 Minutes . Lola came down stairs as Nan was doing the dishes. “He's left us,” said Lola, her eyes puffy from crying.
“What on earth are you talking about?” said Nan.
Lola pointed to their brand-new answering machine. Lola had held her boom box to its speaker the weekend before, painstakingly recording a snippet of song, some druggie woman singing, “If you want me, you can find me left of center, off of the strip.” After the song, Lola said flatly, “Please leave your name and number after the beep.”
Now, Nan pressed the red button. “Hello, Nan,” said Fred's voice. He was carefully enunciating, trying to pretend he was sober. “It's Fred. Look, the time has arrived for me to take a break. This whole lifestyle is killing me … the work, work, work, and you—always asking for more, more, more. It's never enough. I just can't do it. So, good-bye, Nan. I'm sorry. Lola, I love you, honey.”
Three weeks later, Nan used her daughter's Brother word processor to type up a resume. With shaking hands, she placed it on the desk of the Apawamis Club's personnel director, Kit MacMillan. “Is this a joke?” said Kit, taking off his bifocals to look at Nan.
“It's not a joke,” said Nan. “Fred left me.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Kit. But he hired her, and she began lessons right away. On the same court where she'd once reigned supreme, Nan taught her friends' children how to volley and use their backhand. Nan and Lola moved to a small house on the other side of Rye, near the YMCA. Nan's golf caddy lived across the street, and enjoyed fixing cars on his front lawn.
Nan decided that she could not live without Claude, though she could ill afford him. At her next appointment, Claude asked, “So give me the gossip, cheri . Was Fred planning a romantic surprise or working late? I want all the details.”
Nan contemplated telling the truth for a minute, but when she spoke, her voice was as breezy and sure as ever. “Just as I thought,” she said. “A big investment deal. Lucky for him, he did bring roses.” At the thought of Fred walking in the front door, holding a box from Rockridge Flowers, Nan's eyes welled up, but Claude was concentrating on her layers, and didn't notice.
“Roses?” said Claude. “So cliché.”
“I like roses,” said Nan softly. And then it was done: she took a deep breath and complained, as she always had, about the difficulties of managing a house and schisms at the club. As the weeks became months, Nan made up a boyfriend for Lola, fake promotions for Fred, imagined vacations to Venice and St. Barts.
Claude's life also took a turn for the worse: he was spotted inside an AIDS clinic in Port Chester, and as the visible signs of the disease began to appear, he closed Claude's. Whether there had ever been a lovely wife, no one knew for sure. Claude stopped mentioning her, in any case.
“I love you, too,” said Lola forlornly, looking up at her mother. Nan went over and hugged Lola, held her close. Their Siamese cat, Bobby, jumped from Lola's lap to the floor. Nan smelled cigarette smoke in her daughter's clothes but said nothing.
“Do you think he's having an affair?” said Claude dramatically.
“Right,” said Nan, laughing. Claude pressed foil packets full of dye around chunks of her hair. “He's working on a very important deal,” said Nan, lying. In truth, as Fred's drinking had grown worse, he'd been cut out of the important deals. Late at night, Nan wondered if her husband would lose his job. Perhaps he had already lost it—he was a mystery to her.
“Of course,” said Claude. “He's a very important man, your Fred.”
“How is your lovely wife?” said Nan.
“She is wonderful,” said Claude.
Nan can still remember returning home that night, eating chewy barbecue while she watched 60 Minutes . Lola came down stairs as Nan was doing the dishes. “He's left us,” said Lola, her eyes puffy from crying.
“What on earth are you talking about?” said Nan.
Lola pointed to their brand-new answering machine. Lola had held her boom box to its speaker the weekend before, painstakingly recording a snippet of song, some druggie woman singing, “If you want me, you can find me left of center, off of the strip.” After the song, Lola said flatly, “Please leave your name and number after the beep.”
Now, Nan pressed the red button. “Hello, Nan,” said Fred's voice. He was carefully enunciating, trying to pretend he was sober. “It's Fred. Look, the time has arrived for me to take a break. This whole lifestyle is killing me … the work, work, work, and you—always asking for more, more, more. It's never enough. I just can't do it. So, good-bye, Nan. I'm sorry. Lola, I love you, honey.”
Three weeks later, Nan used her daughter's Brother word processor to type up a resume. With shaking hands, she placed it on the desk of the Apawamis Club's personnel director, Kit MacMillan. “Is this a joke?” said Kit, taking off his bifocals to look at Nan.
“It's not a joke,” said Nan. “Fred left me.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Kit. But he hired her, and she began lessons right away. On the same court where she'd once reigned supreme, Nan taught her friends' children how to volley and use their backhand. Nan and Lola moved to a small house on the other side of Rye, near the YMCA. Nan's golf caddy lived across the street, and enjoyed fixing cars on his front lawn.
Nan decided that she could not live without Claude, though she could ill afford him. At her next appointment, Claude asked, “So give me the gossip, cheri . Was Fred planning a romantic surprise or working late? I want all the details.”
Nan contemplated telling the truth for a minute, but when she spoke, her voice was as breezy and sure as ever. “Just as I thought,” she said. “A big investment deal. Lucky for him, he did bring roses.” At the thought of Fred walking in the front door, holding a box from Rockridge Flowers, Nan's eyes welled up, but Claude was concentrating on her layers, and didn't notice.
“Roses?” said Claude. “So cliché.”
“I like roses,” said Nan softly. And then it was done: she took a deep breath and complained, as she always had, about the difficulties of managing a house and schisms at the club. As the weeks became months, Nan made up a boyfriend for Lola, fake promotions for Fred, imagined vacations to Venice and St. Barts.
Claude's life also took a turn for the worse: he was spotted inside an AIDS clinic in Port Chester, and as the visible signs of the disease began to appear, he closed Claude's. Whether there had ever been a lovely wife, no one knew for sure. Claude stopped mentioning her, in any case.
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