Chapter 29

So, with a renewed plan of defense against LuAnne’s bombardment of words, I returned to the library. Apologizing for leaving her alone, I took a seat and began to head her off by making a suggestion.

“Speaking of grocery stores,” I said, “would you like to go shopping with me? Lillian can’t very well go, and she shouldn’t, but the pantry and refrigerator need to be restocked. It won’t take long—Lillian will give us a list. And I thought there might be a few things you need.”

“Well, I guess I could, but it’s certainly been a relief to be free of that chore for a few days. You know, there’re some things that Leonard can’t eat—he gets indigestion real bad—so I have to plan his meals carefully. Of course, who knows what he’s eating now. I hope he’s suffering for it, too. Wonder if that woman would take care of him like I do? I bet she wouldn’t, don’t you?” LuAnne took a deep breath, then went on as I frantically searched for a change of subject. “And, you know, Julia, I don’t even know who she is. That ought to be the first thing on my list—find out who she is. I should know my enemy, shouldn’t I? Be thinking about how I can find out, if you will. I’ll bet half the town knows, but would anyone tell me? No, they wouldn’t. Do you know, Julia? I want you to tell me if you do.”

“No, LuAnne, I don’t have any idea, but—”

“Well, anyway, I keep thinking I ought to kick him out, or leave him, or something. I mean, who wants an unfaithful husband? But, Julia, at one time—and you may not believe this but it’s true—Leonard was an absolute dreamboat. Every girl in school tried to get his attention, but he had eyes only for me.” She leaned back against the sofa, a faraway look on her face. “He was the strong, silent type, don’t you know.” Then she sat straight up. “Of course I didn’t know he’d stay that way the rest of his life.” Which of course was a good thing because she’d had no competition.

But now, she was just beginning to warm to her subject again. So I sat there, wracking my brain for a change of subject—any subject. Any topic would do if it would replace the one that constantly monopolized our conversation.

“Have you ever noticed,” I began, landing on something as far from Leonard as possible, “how everything seems to be abbreviated to initials these days?”

“What?”

“Why, you know, on television. They do it on practically every commercial, although I’ve noticed that it’s mostly on commercials about medical disorders. It’s as if all the commercial makers have gotten together and decided they should use a kind of shorthand.”

“What’re you talking about?” LuAnne was staring at me with a befuddled look on her face.

“Well, just listen to this—IBS, OIC, UTI, COPD, RA, OAB, BED, and AMD. Now, I can understand using initials for some disorders. After all, some of them stand for problems that one shouldn’t discuss publicly, especially in mixed company. But why discuss them on television in the first place? They belong in the sanctity of a doctor’s office, it seems to me. At least, that’s where I’d discuss them if I had any.”

“Julia . . . ?”

“But, see, LuAnne, here’s what I think. I think that rather than being reticent about airing a personal problem, those afflicted are actually and deep down quite proud of it. So proud, in fact, that using initials indicates their membership in an exclusive group, and only other afflictees will recognize a fellow member. Sort of like a particular handshake which I’ve heard is used by Masons in order to recognize one another. Have you ever heard of that?”

LuAnne frowned even more. “Maybe, but—”

“Well, maybe not. I don’t know, but I’ve heard that early Christians had certain signs that enabled them to recognize each other, but which unbelievers wouldn’t understand. But I don’t think that would work with these commercials. After all, they’re right out in public for anybody to see and understand if they listen carefully. Because they’ll say—at least once—in each commercial the full name of the disorder so the uninitiated, if they’re quick, can interpret the initials.”

“Julia, I—”

“Oh,” I said, quickly resuming, “I understand if you don’t catch it the first time, but just wait. They’ll run the thing a dozen times a day, and if you’re suffering from chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder, or age-related macular degeneration, or binge-eating disorder, or rhematoid arthritis, you’ll be able to place yourself in the right club because you’ll know the password. Pass initials, I mean.”

By this time, LuAnne had leaned far enough away from me that she was practically hanging off the arm of the sofa. The look on her face would’ve deterred a less determined woman than I. But I was on a roll now.

“But when it comes to urinary tract infections, overactive bladders, and irritable bowel syndrome, I can understand the need for initials. Oh, they still imply exclusiveness, but at least it takes a few minutes for the images of bowels and bladders to form in your mind, even as you sympathize with the poor afflicted actors who can’t find a bathroom.”

LuAnne sprang from the sofa and began gathering coffee cups and saucers. Stacking them on the tray, she said, “I’ll just take these to Lillian, and, Julia, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you need to rest a while. I’ll get a list from Lillian and go to the store for you.”

“No, wait, I wanted to tell you what I overheard in a gift shop at the mall one day. It just illustrates what I’ve been talking about.”

“Well, just for a minute,” she said with a sigh as she sank again onto the sofa. “I have to get the groceries.”

“This won’t take long, but I was just wandering around the shop, looking at the pretty things, and all of a sudden I realized that two women were talking on the other side of a rack of note cards I was looking at. One of them whispered something like, ‘My OAB is giving me fits. I can’t get anything done for having to go to the bathroom.’ And the other one whispered back, ‘Honey, you don’t know about an OAB until you have a UTI. You’d really have something to complain about then.’ Now, see, LuAnne, I would’ve thought they were members of some secret society talking in code if I hadn’t learned about such things from television ads.

“But listen,” I went on, “I had to look up one on Lloyd’s computer because I couldn’t ask him to do it. Now, see, everybody by this time knows what ED means, which is shameful enough. I mean, they’ve been beaming ads about that into family homes for years, which I think is highly inappropriate. Don’t you? But now they’ve added BPH to it, and at first I thought they were talking about a gas station, which I thought was strange. They don’t explain or spell it out at all, and it’s a good thing they don’t because nobody would understand it, but it’s not a gas station. Let me tell you, anybody with ED would not want BPH too. And, LuAnne, would you believe that there’s something worse than IBS? You could have a D tacked onto it as well, and that really puts you in an exclusive group, especially if it’s the explosive type, which it’s likely to be.”

LuAnne, looking around frantically, hopped up again. “Go lie down awhile, Julia. You could use a nice little rest. I’ll look in on you when I get back from the store.” Forgetting the coffee tray, she scurried off to the kitchen and, as the back door closed, on to the grocery store.

And I, having outflanked another repetitive discourse on LuAnne’s marital options, sighed and leaned my head back, as the blessed sound of silence surrounded me. Maybe now that she had left the house to get away from my endless talking, she would better understand Leonard’s search for solace—read that as peace and quiet.