Chapter 1
“I just. Want. To get. Laid,” said Lucy. Her married friends hadn’t heard her put it quite that way before.
“There are lots of single men out there,” said Nancy.
“No, there are not,” Lucy shot back. Her voice squeaked with the effort. She was so tired of hearing that phrase she wanted to put a Nerf bullet in her head. She steadied herself then slipped into her teacher voice—frank and authoritative. “There are not scads of smart, attractive, disease-free men out there. That is a myth, my friends, a myth I’m through subscribing to. There are, in fact, very few. I just want sweaty sex with a killer orgasm and oxytocin coursing through my body. I want to be out of my conscious mind and feel alive and connected to another adult. I want my neurons high-fiving each other. Then, after I get my rocks off, I want to walk away. No laundry, or bitching about the gutters, or would you please turn off the game and help me with whatsis. None of that. No strings attached. I just want a nice roll in the hay—about once a week would probably do it. Twice would be ideal. By someone kind. And hot. And ideally funny and smart. But I’ll settle for kind. And smart. No, hot and funny. No, funny and fit. And smart. Just not a slob, please.”
“You sound like a hormonal teenage boy,” said Nancy.
“Exactly. But without the acne.”
“You could have sex with Duncan,” said Gina. “It would be nice to get a break once in a while.” Nancy looked over at Gina incredulously. Gina was texting, totally blasé. She looked up. “What?” Gina said. “The incessant pawing in the morning gets old.”
“You mean at like 6 A.M.?” said Nancy.
“Hate it. Poke, poke,” said Gina. She looked over at Lucy. “Can I send Duncan over to you before work?”
“Sure,” said Lucy, “how’s about Thursdays?”
“Deal,” said Gina.
“Sign Ted up, too,” said Nancy. “I love the guy but it’s nonstop, and by the end of the day I’m wiped. I can’t take the guilt.”
“Fine. I’ll take Ted every other Wednesday night at 8:30, after Gus is in bed asleep.”
“I’ll pencil that in,” said Nancy.
“What should I wear?” asked Lucy.
Gina said, “Something trashy. Duncan loves all that French boudoir bullcrap but won’t admit it. Do you own garters?”
Lucy said, “No, but I bet that place in Penn Station has them.”
Nancy looked aghast. “Okay, enough kidding around,” she said in all earnestness, “this is making me uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine, Nance, we’re just joking,” said Lucy.
“I’m not,” said Gina matter-of-factly, looking up from her phone. “When do we start?”
“I think it’s wrong to be talking so flippantly about infidelity,” said Nancy.
“It’s not infidelity if the wife’s in control,” said Lucy.
“I still don’t think it’s anything to joke about, with 20 percent of husbands cheating—”
“And 20 percent of wives cheating,” added Gina.
Nancy continued, “—and everyone prowling around Facebook, looking up old flames, not to mention the 50 percent divorce rate—”
“Actually,” Gina said, “they say it’s higher but the government doesn’t want us to know, because a healthy economy depends on people getting married.”
“I read that somewhere, too,” said Lucy. “It’s all wrapped up in real estate and home goods and services. Something about selling more wall paint and vacuum cleaners and keeping landscapers and furnace-repair guys employed.”
Gina said, “Our whole economy is tied up in people thinking it’s a good idea to get married and buy a house. The real estate industry subsists on it.”
“You’re wrong,” said Nancy.
Gina said, “We’re not saying people shouldn’t fall in love and buy a house and a vacuum and have a family. We’re just saying that they don’t need to get married to do that.”
Lucy added, “Yeah, maybe there should be a ten-year lease renewal program instead. Every ten years you get to decide whether to renew each other or move on.”
“Are you shitting me?” railed Nancy. She ripped her bread in half, then in half again. “Marriage is not a car-lease agreement! And I don’t think it’s anything to joke about. It’s hard enough!” With that the table fell silent. Forks were adjusted and wine was sipped. Sitting positions shifted. Lucy reached over to touch Nancy’s arm, but Nancy moved it away before she could. Gina looked at Nancy and spoke evenly, so as not to come off as patronizing. “Everything okay with you and Ted?” she said.
“Everything’s fine,” Nancy shot back, then stopped herself. “We’re in a rut, but we’ve had them before. We’ll be fine.” Lucy took notice of her change in tone.
“Okay, good,” said Lucy. “You know you can always tell us if—”
“I know,” said Nancy, “I know, thanks. Let’s skip it.”
* * *
The maitre d’ asked if they wanted more white wine. An oblong lighting fixture hung beneath a hand-woven fishing net, and a red polyester napkin, which had been folded like a teepee, still sat untouched at Kit’s place setting. This was a two-fork Italian joint, Lucy thought, so Gina must have chosen the restaurant. Gina Martell had married Duncan Cho—a corporate attorney—and she herself was in maritime law, one of many degrees. Lawyers marrying lawyers, Lucy thought, shouldn’t work in theory, but their marriage was solid and Lucy considered theirs the gold standard. After fourteen years and two kids, Duncan was still mad about Gina’s quick wit, slow smile and chunky glasses frames. She was a little odd, which Lucy valued in any woman, and was rarely fazed by anything, which was comforting in a friend. Duncan was so flabbergasted that he caught such a dish, he would tell anyone outright, “I’m the luckiest bastard,” then shake his head in wonderment. Gina agreed and loved him right back. They rarely bickered, occasionally fought, and always made each other laugh.
Nancy’s marriage to Ted was something else entirely.
“Well,” began Lucy, “Kit is going to be late—”
Gina interrupted, “Again.”
“Something about one of her kids finding a pack of bubble gum and a Sharpie.”
“Yikes,” said Nancy, and made an uh-oh face. She was quick to rebound in social situations.
Lucy said, “Gina, did I hear you got another lawyer promotion?”
“A lawyer promotion,” said Nancy. “Is that like a teacher promotion?”
“I get a private plane with my name stenciled on the side,” Gina said, texting.
“Yup, just like a teacher promotion,” said Lucy.
“I should have gone to business school,” said Nancy.
“It’s the least they can do for those poor lawyers,” said Lucy.
“To lawyers,” Lucy and Nancy said, raising their glasses. Gina looked up.
Lucy said, “May God bless their sweet, generous, selfless souls—”
“That’s enough, it’s just a change in title,” said Gina, and she went back to texting.
Nancy said, “When do I get a stay-at-home mom promotion?”
“Never,” Lucy and Gina said simultaneously.
Lucy leaned towards Nancy and spoke with a singsong lilt, “Don’t worry if your work is small and your rewards are few, remember that the mighty oak was once a nut like you.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said. “Emily Dickinson?”
“Sylvia Plath.”
“Right,” said Nancy, then she proceeded with the monthly update. “Kit apparently has bunions. Or hammertoe, maybe. We’re still not sure. She’ll clarify when she gets here.”
Lucy said, “She may need minor surgery, according to Nurse Nancy.” Nancy Brisbane had applied and been accepted to business school before switching to nursing to appease her parents’ financial scenario. She was an ER nurse before quitting to have her three kids and the most seemingly responsible of the group—not that all nurses weren’t a little batty, they were, and Nancy had stories to prove it. She’d met Ted right after nursing school in a summer group share at the Jersey Shore. Both tall and blond, they made a striking couple—Nordic stunners. Ted had skipped college to take over his dad’s lucrative car dealership and was a good guy, and that’s all anyone ever said about him. Their marriage always seemed status quo and Nancy rarely discussed it.
Nancy asked, “Lucy, how’s your electrolysis coming along?”
“Oh, swimmingly, thanks for asking. I’m almost done.”
“You’re still not done, yet?!” said Gina.
“No,” said Lucy, “I’ve been blessed with tenacious upper-thigh hair, but thanks for your concern.”
“But you’re so fair. Aren’t you, like, Danish or something?” said Gina, looking up from her phone.
Lucy said, “Half Danish, half Italian. The Danes have pubic hair, too, you know.”
“Viking pubic hair,” said Gina. “I’m full Italian and I haven’t had the electrolysis odyssey you’ve had.”
“Some girls are just lucky,” said Lucy. “What about you, Gina. What are your unmentionable health issues of late?”
“Same old herpes cold sore b.s.,” said Gina. “And the damn dog ate my good underwear. Surgery was beyond expensive.”
“You had surgery for your herpes?”
“No, the dog needed surgery to remove the underwear.”
“You’ve got to get rid of that friggin’ dog,” said Nancy, half serious.
“I can’t. Our kids’ favorite babysitter died,” Gina said, as if that explained everything. Lucy and Nancy looked at her blankly.
“How come you never see these conversations on TV?” Nancy said.
“You have to ask?” said Lucy.
“I’m just sayin’ that in the movies women either have cancer or the flu. But nothing in between, nothing embarrassingly lame.”
“At least we’re not discussing our kids’ sports schedules,” said Gina.
Lucy said, “Yeah, kill me now. Is our pact still in effect?”
“Now and forever. No one’s mentioned their kids yet, have they?”
“No, thank God,” Nancy said, and exhaled, visibly relieved, “I couldn’t take it.”
Lucy said, “Nance, I mean it, are you okay?”
Before Nancy could answer, Kit arrived at the table breathless, and by way of greeting said, “Bunions.”
Gina said, “That answers that.”
“And hemorrhoids.”
“Still?” Lucy said.
“No, they were gone and now they’re back,” said Kit as she hung her coat on her chair, put her napkin in her lap, and swigged from the glass of pinot grigio they’d ordered her. Then Kit sighed, looked around the table, and asked, “What’d I miss?”
In unison, the other three said, “Nothing.”
Copyright © 2016 by V. C. Chickering
