The Widows Club

slow foot at a time. I opened the bedroom door. Within, all appeared tranquil. Poppa was seated in the Lloyd Loom chair by the window, carving the wooden icing for my cake. He had not taken kindly to my suggestion that cardboard would do. The atmosphere was like Delacorte Antiques: too idyllic. I got the nasty feeling that the moment the car disappeared in a fog of exhaust fumes, Ben would be out of bed and phoning for a taxi to take him to Abigail’s. And in such a crisis, Poppa would be useless. Even to cry, “Halt!” would be a violation of his principles.

I crept across the floor, turned the key in the lock of Ben’s wardrobe, then slipped it into my bag. Eli glanced up; I waved at him, kissed the air inches above my husband’s face and tiptoed out.

4:45 P.M. It was raining as I crossed the courtyard to the car. Magdalene was in the front passenger seat holding the silver punch bowl, wrapped in newspaper, on her lap. The smile she gave me as I yanked the door closed was a little frayed at the edges. She kept fingering the bowl. I was sure second thoughts had been attacking her since the sky began to darken. Would she have stayed at home if she hadn’t overheard Poppa telling me to keep my eye on her at all times because she wasn’t used to rich food and alcoholic beverages?

Roxie was in the back seat with the chicken tarts. She had kept finding things to keep her busy until she missed the bus and required a lift into the village, but she wouldn’t hear a word about my running her on home. Why was she so determined to work this evening, unless it was all the behind-the-scenes booze?

Magdalene made little whispering noises beside me. I started a prayer of my own. “Please God, let Heinz have benefitted from his latest treatment at the garage. Grant that we may make this journey without doors or wheels flying off.” I turned the ignition key. Noises-harsh, grinding noises. Magdalene clutched the punch bowl. I grasped the wheel, pressed down hard on the accelerator and blew on the windshield to defrost it. My best hope was to outrace whatever was about to succumb to gravity.

Waves of Attar of Roses as Roxie leaned forward to tap Magdalene on the shoulder. “Want to know what put me off the Catholic Church for life? Well, I’ll tell you irregardless. It was all that talk about coming together and then Rome knocks off St. Christopher, the only one of the lot that nonbelievers like me thought did his job.”

5:00 P.M. Two waiters, impeccable down to their smiles, greeted us at the door of Abigail’s. Each took a tray of chicken tarts, but Magdalene was adamant about retaining control of the punch bowl. They preceded us up the Persian carpeted stairs to the second floor hallway. Facing us a few feet to the right was the alcove leading into the reception room. Standing within was a sight to make my blood boil. Freddy!

To my revulsion, he dropped to his knees and groveled forward to clutch at the hem of my dress. The waiters exchanged a significant look.

“Ellie, forgive! I have come to my senses. I want to work. Or at least get paid.”

“Stop it!” I tried to shake him off, but he was like static cling. Magdalene gave a little yelp. Pressing down on the newspaper covering the punch bowl, she exclaimed, “I’ll put this where it’s supposed to go.” With a bobbing flit, she headed down the hall like a sparrow trying for lift-off. The waiters, smiles back in place, followed. Roxie didn’t budge. Freddy gave her a wink.

“Ellie, I know I’ve made you wretched. You look a hundred years old, but maybe it’s the dress; not telling its age, is it?”

This gorgeous original (only two others on the rack) bought for the honeymoon I never attended! I eyed my watch. Was there time to dash home and change? Absolutely not. Not even time to push Freddy down the stairs.

6:15 P.M. I stepped through the alcove into the reception room and savoured a moment alone. All was magnificence. The tables flanking the walls were covered with white damask cloths and laden with the sort of spread commonly glimpsed only on the pages of magazines where the meals coordinate with the decor. Wall sconces added their brilliance to the gloss of panelling, the sparkle of silver and crystal. There were flowers everywhere; the air was scented like a springtime country garden. Raindrops spattered the tall latticed windows overlooking Market Street. Pretty, but would the room be warmer looking if I drew the Jacobean print curtains? My hand brushed the fabric. From here, the cars and buses below looked like they were playing tag, sending up sprays of slush. People scurried along, umbrellas and raincoat collars up. A shiver decided me. But before I could pull the curtains, one of the waiters came in to speak to me about the positioning of the punch bowl.

6:25 P.M. Five minutes to go. Was Ben lying awake and tense, listening for the striking of the hall clock? Should I phone home? Yes. I rushed into the office, two doors to the right of the reception room. Since there was no phone in our bedroom, I would only get to speak to Poppa. My fingers stumbled as they dialed. Surely he would write down my message and hand it to Ben. What shall it be? A triumph is in sight, or simply, I love you. The phone rang at least twenty times; my panic escalated with each brrp, brrp, until I remembered that Poppa must have had his earphones on. I quickly hung up before Ben decided to crawl out of bed to silence the phone.

6:30 P.M. The waiters were stationed at the foot of the stairs. Magdalene and I positioned ourselves at the top like characters in a Jane Austen novel. I fully expected to hear the words, The Dowager Duchess of Plooth and Her Daughter Esmerelda, floating up to us. I unhooked and rehooked my belt. Magdalene straightened her black lace mantilla. Like me, she was wearing a black dress. We should have discussed our ensembles, I thought.

Mr. Howard from the bank and his wife Cynthia, their coats darkened with rain, headed toward us. “So pleased you could both come. I would like you to meet my mother-in-law Magdalene Haskell. Unfortunately my husband

They passed on by, as did the Wilsons and the Peckworths. I kept eyeing Magdalene to see if she was enjoying herself. Her expression was intent, but she addressed Mr. Bremmer as Mr. Barking. Now came someone whose name provided august emanations-Lady Theodora Peerless in a check raincoat. Her peach lipstick emphasised her protruding teeth. I liked the effect; it made her look warmer. What was she like before life turned her into a brown paper parcel, giving little hint what was inside?

“I’m sure, Ellie, you will do fine. Your husband, and your mother-in-law”-a nod-“will be proud of you.” There was a hint of something winning under her smile; perhaps underneath she might be as colourful as her history.

My eyes strayed after her-how did she come to be in that photo with Mr. Digby and his daughter, Wren? Mrs. Melrose introduced herself, reminding me in a voice as strident as her mustard and plum tweeds that this was the doctor’s night at the hospital.

“Good to hear, Mrs. Haskell, that your man is on the mend. Mine needs his sleep, you know.”

Behind her came Charles and Ann Delacorte. She was the picture of World War II elegance in the emerald green dress she wore for my wedding; he was as glacial as ever. I turned to introduce Magdalene, but she was gone. Probably to the loo. Ann and Charles moved through the alcove and I saw two people I had not anticipated would come when I added their names to the guest list: Jenny Spender and Dr. Simon Bordeaux. Black cashmere coat hanging capelike from his shoulders, a white silk scarf streaming down the front of his dinner jacket, the doctor looked as though he ate only caviar for breakfast on his toasty wheats. A patron to be cultivated. Jenny’s hair wasn’t in plaits tonight. It was held back by a satin band that matched her turquoise dress. Why didn’t someone encourage her to dress like a teenager? I thought of the invalid mother and the old-world nanny. Would it be thought interfering if I offered to take Jenny shopping?

“It is good of you both to come.”

Dr. Bordeaux’s deep-set eyes flickered across my face. He ignored my outstretched hand. “There is nothing like a hint of infamy to push one to the top of the social ladder, Mrs. Haskell.”

What an arrogant man to think I had invited him because he was suspected of callously murdering old ladies!

Jenny glanced up at him, smiled, and touched the white plastic raincoat folded over her arm.

“We can’t stay long because Nonna tends to doze off in the evening. It was kind of you, Mrs. Haskell, to include Mummy’s name on the invitation card, but you do understand, she doesn’t go to parties-or anywhere.”

Dr. Bordeaux interpreted the question in my eyes. “Except once a year when Jenny and I take Mrs. Spender to a nightclub in London for her birthday celebration. For a few hours we watch her come alive again.”

What a pathetic situation. Did I detect repressed passion in his voice? Was the invalid Mrs. Spender once his lover? Was he still ensnared by the memory of what they had shared? I dragged my eyes away from him and Jenny.