The older the fiddle, the better the tune. Anonymous Arab
A milestone: our Confessions Club agreed on the topic “older women and younger men” without armored egos clashing like warriors on a battlefield. During our last meeting even the Maoist monster championed the choice. Today Tiffany wore white cotton gloves that left her fingertips bare, a tight-fitting white suit and a smart black beret. Tiffany favored ensembles with impeccable tailoring fresh from Parisian runways. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one afternoon she stood up and burst into singing the Marseillaise.
“I have some news, folks,” chimed in Candy. “Gabbing about the deal, might hex things. Maybe it’s a pipe dream.”
“Deal?” we echoed.
“This editor wants me to have lunch with her tomorrow. Can you believe it? She’s considering my burlesque book!”
“Wow, how come?” Sarah, oozing envy, stared at Candy as though she’d pole-vaulted over Siberia. “Amazing, you’re almost finished. Every time I try to write about what my father did, I’m blocked. The pain hits me like it happened yesterday.” Something carnivorous seemed to be gnawing at Sarah’s body. Although next to the youngest among this complement of brainy bombshells, Sarah resembled an emaciated grandmother. I noticed that her once abundant grey hair, now lackluster, lay plastered to her head; her eyes resembled a mummy’s.
“I sent a sample chapter months ago,” Candy babbled on. “Yesterday I got a call from the editor. Marilyn, mind if I stay over tonight?”
“Why ask, the invitation’s always open. Remember last time you stayed over? We went to Bistro Jules in the East Village for Brazilian music. A slender young guy with long sideburns named Alejandro chatted me up at the bar.”
“He reminded me of that skunk, Jorge,” scoffed Candy. “The rat’s living with a blonde accountant in Noho. Your guy might be trying to hook up for a green card.”
“Stop being suspicious,” Marilyn grinned. “He’s had a fascinating life mining in Minas Gerais and panning for gold in Alaska. Now he’s a psychiatric nurse practitioner in Perth Amboy. A supervisor! Twenty years younger than me, maybe more. We’re emailing every day.”
“You should have grabbed his behind,” interjected Chloe. “Why dilly dally?”
“I was so dizzy,” sighed Marilyn. “Lucky I didn’t fall off the bar stool.”
Taking Marilyn’s distraction as a cue, irrepressible Tiffany recited a poem that she had been clutching tightly in her hand. She always occupied the same beige chair as though seated on a throne, expecting homage. The rest of our gaggle clustered together around the couch, trading our writings back and forth.
I wondered why Marilyn had put the pusses’ empty feeding bowls underneath Tiffany’s chair. Sniffing at the bowls, they hung around, while Tiffany repeatedly shooed them away. Demeter, the psychic queen cat, red-haired like Tiffany, was determined to make friends. But Tiffany’s aversion to cats was equaled only by her aversion to men without means, except for Leftists.
After the short poem, Tiffany elaborated: “Entre nous that experience happened two years ago. In Paris for the fall fashion collections, I walked along the Rue de Rosiers in the Marais. What a superb lunch I had at Chez Marianne, a quaint bistro named after the female symbol of the French Republic. As I nibbled an artichoke leaf, a boy with the dew of youth on his cheeks winked at me. Gaston swore that I resembled a young Catherine Deneuve.”
A curious Demeter crept over to entreat Tiffany with saucer-shaped, agate eyes. Marilyn, to lure the cat away, waved a shiny blue ball.
“En France, mes amis, the older woman provides her young partner with an education sentimental, an initiation to the finer arts of love,” continued Tiffany, visibly moved. “In France such love is revered, not criticized as in our puritanical country. I heard the other day about a female schoolteacher thrown in jail for teaching her young student about the oldest game on the planet. Darling Gaston wrote me just last week begging for his petite copine to visit him.”
“Let’s drink champagne in honor of Candy’s potential sale. I count it as an auspicious omen.” Marilyn, scurrying to the kitchen, wheeled out a tea cart on top of which was a bottle of Dom Perignon, which she’d tied with a blue ribbon and surrounded by six gold-rimmed flutes.
“We’ve been a great group for years,” exclaimed Candy. “Soon, I’ll be middle-aged with grey hair. It would be wonderful to have a publishing deal.”
“I propose we drink to fifty more years,” said Chloe. “Our Club has encouraged me to be more brave, imaginative, and even whimsical. I resent the corporate grind and headhunters tempting me with ever more lucrative jobs. One day I’m going to chuck everything and travel around the world carrying a backpack.”
“Come, drink up, Sarah. I cooked some delicious dishes today. “ Marilyn popped the champagne cork and poured Sarah a glass.
“Eating and drinking hampers my critical faculties,” carped Sarah, pushing the champagne away. “Too much carrying on. Last time Bella didn’t read. Let’s give her a chance!”
I drank a few sips of champagne to bolster my courage. A poem I wrote about a recent difficult love affair fit the occasion. Sensing my anxiety, Robespierre bounced up on my lap. As I stroked his fur, I found his purring encouraging. Boldly, I shared my poem “Stacked Deck”:
I’ll miss your electric smile
And your caressing hands
child lover
My tongue always will remember
The silky feel of your pliant
mouth
At least I’ll be spared
The cruel scrutiny of morning
light
Dancing across my vulnerable
thighs
Furrowed as a field
During the primordial dance
Tell-tale blonde hairs
Curled menacing as snakes
On your pillow
Plotting revenge, I cursed
the sneak thief
Who stole your kisses
I envied her orgasms
Competed with her
between the sheets
Alas, my age
Was the cheat.
Everyone except Tiffany complimented the work. Two more glasses of champagne floated me into a rosier realm.
“Get ready,” cried Marilyn. “Maybe it’s not Cordon Bleu but we try to please.” Candy finished off two full plates of the delectable banquet Marilyn had prepared before Sarah took her first bite.
“Magnifique!” raved the monster. “Oeufs à la tripe, Rouelles de veau bourgeoisie, Bar poché au champagne...”
I wondered if Tiffany got the names right. But who cared when the food was so divine.
“If we pig out and get drunk our topic will get short shrift,” complained Sarah.
“Demi Moore, Madonna, Susan Sarandon, Cher, and Joan Collins all have younger men. It’s a trend. Right?” chirped Candy.
“Sure, our puritanical, money-driven society awards spoils to vulgar celebrities like the ancient Romans did to victorious gladiators,” complained Tiffany. “But most older women are pushed aside to make room for young ‘trophy wives.’” Gobbling a pastry fritter in apricot sauce, she spoke with less conviction than usual.
“Twice a month our Confessions Club bathes us in the elixir of support and true friendship,” declared Marilyn. The Maoist monster, eating and drinking with relish, shouted: “Vive le Club!” Spontaneously, we hugged each other, except for Tiffany, who remained an eagle on her lonely perch.
“Can I read now?” asked Candy. When we all agreed, Candy charged toward the writer’s chair. Ready to sit down, she clutched her stomach. “Maybe I ate too much or I’m nervous about tomorrow.” Gasping, Candy wobbled toward the bathroom.
“Poor thing, her ulcer kicks up sometimes,” explained Marilyn.
“Personally, I think she’s paralyzed with fear about exposing her burlesque memoir to an authority figure,” clucked Sarah. “It could be that beneath her brash facade she suffers from low self-esteem. Should we see how she’s doing?”
“Let Candy be for now,” said Marilyn. “Anybody else have something on older women and younger men?” I raised my hand. So did Chloe.
“I’ve been too busy to write this down,” confided Chloe. “A couple of years ago, working at HSBC I met a young bank officer. We started to date, then took a trip to Puerto Rico over Easter.”
“Why’d you break up?” asked Sarah.
“Nick met my daughter when she came home for a holiday from Vassar. After graduation she moved in with me. To make a long story short, I came back from a business trip and found them in bed together. Isabelle made a terrible scene accusing me of being a neglectful mother! The upshot is they moved to Forest Hills. Now she won’t answer my calls or emails. She might as well be dead.”
Chloe sobbed and mascara ran down her face until she looked like Robespierre, black and white. Marilyn, insisting that she stretch out on the couch, stroked Chloe’s forehead. After two cups of rose hips tea, Chloe sat up and smiled. Confessing her unhappiness to sympathetic friends had lifted an albatross of pain off her chest.
“You think you had a bad time with a younger man!” My outburst captured everyone’s attention. “The poem I read earlier only hinted at what would unfold as a horror occult tale worthy of Poe. Want to hear the gruesome particulars?”
A unanimous “yes” resounded from the Club. Even shy Miss Mops perked up and sniffed. Encouraged, I read “Rats in my Belfry.”