Girls’ Night Out
Phoebe Waite looked at her almost-empty beer glass and considered. Another one or not? She’d had two already and knew from experience three was the point of no return. Drink that third one and it wouldn’t stop until she was drunk. Not that she had any plans or commitments that required her to be sober. George, her husband, had gone to a Bruins game in Boston with two buddies, and when she told Jackie Fraser that she was free, her friend suggested they have a girls’ night out. They asked another woman, Tammy Duclos, who worked with them at the department store at the intown mall in Waska, to join them, but she had a date. Three would have been a party; two was just a couple friends having a beer. They had talked about going to a movie if nothing was happening at the Keltic Pub, the usual drinking hole for young people in town, so the choice was between either having another beer followed by many more or a movie. Giving fleeting consideration to the hangover she would have tomorrow, she decided to put the decision on Jackie.
Draining her beer, she said, “What’s it going to be, a movie or more beer?”
Jackie surveyed the bar. It was a little before seven, and the place was starting to fill with new clientele taking the place of those who had come for Friday Happy Hour after work. Many of the newcomers were unattached males. “The hell with the movie. Another beer!” Her eyes came back to the table. “Did you see those new sweaters that came in today? I’ve already used up my employee discount for the year—and it’s only March—but I’m still tempted.”
Phoebe was eying the waitress, who finally glanced their way. She raised two fingers. “No, what’s so special?”
“They’re light spring sweaters and have a deep V-neck that really would display my boobs nicely and the colors are fantastic.”
Phoebe frowned at this reminder of the curse of her life. She was homely, stocky and flat-chested. “Well, are you going to buy one?”
“Or two even. I was looking at a lavender one and a light blue one. The blue would match my eyes, and the lavender would accent my brown hair.”
She nodded. Clothes were not as interesting to her as they were to Jackie, who, though plain, used clothes and makeup to be as attractive as possible. Phoebe’s husband George was no prize, but he was a husband. She was out of the hunt and always wore jeans and loose blouses and sweaters. Jackie had on her usual outfit, a short skirt and a tight sweater.
The beers came. Danielle St. Croix, the waitress, was getting married this spring, and Jackie asked her how things were going. “Good and bad. My parents wish I’d elope—they don’t have the money for a big wedding.”
“What are you going to do?” Phoebe asked.
“Phil and me said we’d pay for a lot of it. I’m working twenty hours more each week to get extra money. Feel free to leave me a big tip. It goes into my favorite charity, The Danielle St. Croix wedding fund.” She smiled broadly, then said, “Gotta go” when she saw someone impatiently waving at her.
“Sounds like a good cause,” Jackie said to her retreating back.
“When do you plan to get married?” Phoebe asked.
“As soon as I meet Mr. Right. Maybe he’ll come through the door tonight.” She looked in that direction, but nobody appeared.
“Will your parents be able to help—you know, more than Jackie’s can? My parents didn’t give us a cent.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No, but I don’t care. Just as long as it’s a man standing beside me at the altar.”
Phoebe emitted a scornful laugh. “That reminds me. Someone told me Meg Sirois wants one of those lesbian commitment ceremonies, but that dyke Tara doesn’t want to.”
“You say your father didn’t help at your wedding?”
“No. He was just coming down with the emphysema that caused him to have to retire early. He and my mother hardly have enough to live on themselves.”
Jackie’s face softened. “I’d forgotten about your father’s illness. That’s too bad.”
“Yeah,” she said dismissively. She didn’t particularly like her parents. Her adolescence was one long battle against rules and their attempt to control her. They didn’t like George, they didn’t like her playing softball to the detriment of her studies, and they didn’t like her rowdy friends. Her father drove a delivery truck for a local bakery and her mother worked at a laundry. She used to think their emphasis on education was absurd. Only the last few years when the only job she could find was clerking in a store for a pittance, and when it seemed she and George were never going to be able to afford a house, did she see that they might actually have had her best interests at heart. Even so, the memory of those adolescent battles was so strong she was still not ready to forgive them. She rarely visited.
“What are you thinking about? Tara?” Jackie asked.
“Nothing. So you heard me?”
“About the commitment ceremony?”
“Yeah. What do you think? Ridiculous?”
“I guess so. I can’t really understand why someone would prefer a woman to a man, so the commitment bit isn’t any more stupid than the other stuff.”
“What I can’t understand is her friendship with that bitch Marilyn. She’s a nymphomaniac and would screw a fire hydrant if it had a dick. She’s the most self-centered creep I’ve ever met. She thinks she’s God’s gift to the world.”
“And you’re still mad at Tara?”
“Damn right. She made the choice. She sided with Marilyn and called me a drunk. You’re damned right I’m still mad at her. She’s no longer a friend of mine. And that goes for Meg and Fiona too. They all made the choice.”
“When she called you that, you were drunk, weren’t you?”
That fact being beyond dispute, she nodded.
“So what’s the problem?”
Remembering how George was stupidly ogling Marilyn, she bristled. “It was the way she disrespected me, that’s what. It wasn’t just the word. It was years of being regarded as just another player. You know, the way she’d look at me if I struck out at a key moment in a game, or how she would be cool if I did get a hit and drive in a run. You could tell she didn’t think much of me. You can only take that shit so long, and then… Well, I’ve had it with her and those on her side.”
“It’s too bad. It was fun going to those tournaments and rooting for you guys.”
“Yeah, but you know how aggravation can happen at work and you can’t do anything about it because you need the job? It was getting like that with the team, except since it wasn’t a job I decided I didn’t have to put up with it anymore.”
“That reminds me of something that happened today. Some old lady returned a toaster. It burns the toast, she says. I looked at the settings, and she’s got it all the way over to the darkest setting.”
“Did she know that?”
“Are you kidding? She didn’t know anything about settings. She kept saying her old toaster never burned her bread. I tell her it’s because her old toaster was set to medium. But she says—”
“Let me guess,” Phoebe interrupted. “She claims there were no settings on her old toaster.”
“You got it. Nothing I could say would convince her otherwise.”
“Well, it’s never the customer’s fault—that’s what Bill Ricker says.”
Jackie made a face like she was gagging. “Don’t remind me of that creep.”
“He’s my boss too. There’s nothing you could say about him that would surprise me.”
“If he isn’t the biggest phony in the world, I don’t know who is—some politician probably.”
“Or Marilyn.”
“Marilyn,” Jackie said. “At least she’s getting some action. See that guy standing by the door? He looked over here twice. I’m telling you, I haven’t been with a man for two months. If he came over, do you—you know, mind?”
“Mind? Why should I?” She grinned, then self-consciously covered her uneven teeth by looking down at the table. “Jackie, if you get laid tonight, more power to you. When you get
married, you’ll find it isn’t all that exciting.”
“Well, it’s not going to be that guy. He just met some woman.” Her eyes scanned the room looking for another Mr. Right.
Phoebe started to say something about there being plenty of guys in the place, but a group of people a few tables over suddenly became very loud, so she turned, threw her arm over her chair and looked over the crowd. For the first time she became aware that shamrocks and leprechaun decorations for St. Patrick’s Day were taped above the bar and on any empty spot on the wall, which were mostly filled with sports posters.
“Hey,” Jackie yelled over the noisy louts, “who’s that blond guy at the bar?”
She looked to see Bill Paine sitting on a stool with Denny Genier standing beside him and another guy whose name she couldn’t remember sitting on the other side of him. “Him? I know him. He was a friend of my brother’s in high school. He was two or three years ahead of us. Bill Paine’s his name.”
“Don’t you think he’s a hunk?”
She shrugged, giving nothing away. “Yeah, he’s okay.”
“Okay! He’s handsome as hell. Blond hair, blue eyes, great bod—he’s an all-American boy.”
“He’s not my type,” she lied. In high school she had had a crush on him. One time when he was at the house waiting for her brother to get ready, she walked by him in her new bathing suit pretending she wanted to show it to her mother. He was reading a magazine and didn’t look up until she spoke. “Have you seen my mother? I want to show her my bathing suit.” He glanced at her and said, “I think she’s in the backyard,” then went back to his reading. She could still remember the stinging feeling that hurt so bad she wanted to cry at his complete indifference. She got over him, but what she learned that day—that she wasn’t pretty and no movie-star faces would be gathered around her—was still with her. George was her only prize in life, George, who was no prize.
The recollection of that day made the bile rise in her, and it was only with great effort that she could say something neutral. “I don’t think he’s available anyways. Remember I told you about Marilyn Prence stealing another woman’s man for the hundredth time? Well, Bill was the guy. I heard a rumor that the affair is over now, but I’m not sure it’s true.”
Jackie kept staring at him. His two friends were talking a lot, but Bill would only say a brief word now and then. He looked unhappy, so maybe the rumor was true.
She verbalized the thought, and Jackie, wetting her lips with her tongue, said, “I’d be glad to make him forget his unhappiness.”
For a moment a cruel thought shot through her mind, You’re dreaming, Jackie. He wouldn’t be interested in you. But luckily she censored herself before it spilled out and said something safer. “When a guy’s down like he looks, I don’t think he’s looking for action.”
“Oh yeah? Wait till he gets drunk. Then he’ll forget everything.” She giggled and added, “That’s when I forget my Sunday school lessons.”
A minute or two went by and suddenly she grew serious when she saw Bill coming towards their table on his way to the men’s room. “He’s coming this way,” she whispered.
Phoebe looked up just as he spotted her and said, “Hi, Phoebe. Heard from your brother lately?”
“Hi, Bill. He wrote my parents a few weeks ago. He’s in the Caribbean on a cruise.”
He nodded and continued on his way.
“Why didn’t you introduce me?” Jackie asked with just a tinge of anger in her voice.
“Because I can tell he’s not looking. He’s either with his wife—which I doubt because he is out with the boys on Friday night and also because he doesn’t look happy—or more likely getting a divorce. Either way he’s not interested.”
“If he’s getting a divorce he would be.”
“No. Everyone I’ve seen getting a divorce needs time before they play the field again.”
“Oh yeah? What about the ones who’re getting divorces because they played the field?”
“Guys like that wouldn’t be in a bar with the guys. My guess is Marilyn dumped him and his wife won’t take him back. Marilyn’s done it before and has done it again, I bet. The bitch never stays with a man for long.”
Jackie frowned as she pondered this information, but all she said after her big think was, “We need another beer.” Her hand went up and waved at Danielle.
When the waitress came over, Phoebe said, “We need two more. What’s the story with Bill Paine?”
“The guy with Pat Williams and Denny Genier? He’s had some affair and his wife won’t take him back. At least that’s what I heard. He’s been in here frequently lately and drinking a lot.” She took their two empty glasses and went up to the bartender.
“You’re quite the detective,” Jackie said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You sure you’re just guessing because of how he looked?”
“Yeah, and because I’ve seen what Marilyn has done before. You see what I mean when I say she’s a bitch. She broke our team up in high school when she stole Nicole Tourigny’s boyfriend. The strange thing is this time all the weird members of the team are on her side.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jackie asked, her eyes wide with interest.
Their beers arrived. Phoebe said, “Don’t work too hard, Danielle,” to which the waitress answered, “As long as it leads to my wedding, I don’t mind.”
“I mean the two lesbians and the black on the team. Everyone who was normal was on my side.”
“What about Fiona?” Jackie asked and repeated when a loud laugh burst forth from the rowdy table. “I remember in high school she was quiet as a church mouse, shy and harmless.”
“Well, she’s Marilyn’s cousin, and besides, that was then, this is now. I used to think she was all right. If you asked her in high school who she dreamed of marrying, she’d always say a leader of the civil rights movement. That was okay, but what happened? First chance she gets to get a white boy, she shows her true colors.”
“Isn’t the guy rich?”
“Yeah, he made a lot of money in computers or something.”
“And he’s Bill’s brother, right?”
“His half brother.”
“Well, I never had anything against her. I hope she’s happy.”
“I’m sure she is—happy with her white boy.”
Jackie lit a cigarette and inhaled. “If they love each other, what’s the harm?”
“So you think it’s okay? You like the idea of blacks and whites marrying?”
Jackie pursed her lips, then freshened them with a swallow of beer. “I probably wouldn’t like it if everybody did it, but I don’t see any harm in Fiona. As I say, I never had anything against her.”
“And I say, I didn’t either. Not till now. You let one do it, and the doors are opened. What’s wrong with being white anyways? Nowadays we’re supposed to feel guilty about our superiority.”
Jackie wasn’t listening. She was looking at the door. “There’s a guy I know,” she said.
Phoebe followed her eyes to the front of the bar to see Darren French standing by the door and looking around for a place to sit. The place was completely filled with people now. “Darren French,” she said. “I know him too. He wouldn’t be Mr. Right, though.”
Jackie laughed. “It doesn’t have to be Mr. Right after a certain point. Any man will do when it gets late.”
He had caught sight of them and walked over. “Mind if I join you?” he said, already pulling the chair out from under the table.
After greeting each other, Jackie said, “We were talking about blacks marrying whites awhile ago. I bet you have an opinion on that.”
“So what were you saying?”
Danielle came up and took his order.
“We were talking about Fiona Sparrow, the black girl who played softball on Phoebe’s team.”
“Jackie thinks it’s okay she’s going with a white guy.”
“I didn’t say I liked the idea of whites and blacks marryi
ng all the time,” Jackie said defensively. “But Fiona’s already half white, and besides, she’s harmless. It’s worse when black men marry white women.”
“Yeah, I agree with you,” Darren said. “She’s harmless.”
For a moment Phoebe thought he was putting them on. “Didn’t you have a run-in with the pair? Tara Wright told me something.”
“Yeah, we did. But it was no big deal.”
“Tara said it was.”
He shrugged, perfectly unconcerned that she was trying to contradict him. “Tara never liked me. We’re fighting for the principle of America for Americans. Sure, we prefer the white race, but don’t you?”
Phoebe nodded. “Put that way, sure I do.”
“Because, you see,” Darren continued in a lecturing tone, “the Democrats and Republicans ain’t doing diddly. Rett Murray says it’s because the big boys want the immigrants—it keeps American workers down. He says the big boys who run companies and the government, and especially the ones with big noses, they like to get spics and blacks and Asians looking for jobs. That way if a white man wants a raise, he can be threatened with the loss of his job.”
“Do you really think that’s true?” Jackie asked. She was starting to slur her words. She pronounced “true” as “twoo.”
“Yeah, I do. A lot of people think Nazis are hatemongers and evil, but we’re just trying to help regular folks like you. I bet you’ve had trouble with your boss?”
“Have we ever! We was just talking about him awhile ago, weren’t we, Phoebe? He’s a real creep. Bill Ricker. Do you know him?”
Darren took a big swallow of beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. He ever threatened you?”
“Not with an immigrant taking our jobs, but I bet he would if he could. One Cambodian family and Fiona is all he’d have to work with. No, he does stuff like take credit for ideas we’ve had, and he’s a sexist pig.”
“I know the type. The guy I work for does the same thing. A guy I work with thought that the bar code on boxes should tell the quantity inside instead of having it written any old place on the box, which makes us have to look for it. That way we could instantly know the number from the bar code reader. It was a good idea—so good my foreman told the boss he thought of it.”
“That sounds just like our boss. Hey, Darren, where do you work anyways?”
For a moment Darren appeared embarrassed, and Phoebe knew why. Whenever high school classmates who’d gone on to college and were on their way to a professional career came into the store and saw her working there, she could read in their eyes the condescension they felt.
“The distribution warehouse for You Save supermarkets. But I regard my work as the stuff I do for the party. The warehouse is my job.” He drained his beer. Earlier Phoebe had seen him checking out the crowd, but now he seemed quite comfortable with them. “Can I get the next round?” he said.
They offered no resistance to the idea, and in a few minutes Danielle had delivered three beers to their table. Jackie lit a cigarette and offered one to Darren.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’m tempted, but my boss—I mean Mr. Carter—thinks we should live clean lives and doesn’t approve of smoking.”
“No kidding. Phoebe’s never smoked because she was an athlete, but not to smoke to be a clean liver, that’s a new one.”
Darren shrugged modestly. “We should be an example. Show people we’re not the monsters they think we are. You don’t think I’m a monster, do you?”
Jackie laughed. “No, of course not. I’ve known you since we were five. Fraser, French—you sat behind me in every homeroom at Courtney Academy.” She looked at Phoebe.
She had never thought one way or the other about it. But Jackie expected an answer, so she said, “Neither do I.”
“Because I’m not. I’m just a man trying to make our country better.”
She considered this remark for a moment. Something wasn’t quite right about it, but Jackie wasn’t the only one whose head was getting foggy. “You surprise me, Darren. People sometimes say things about you that aren’t very nice.”
For the third or fourth time that she had noticed, he shrugged philosophically. “I’ve come to expect it, but really—live and let live, that’s my philosophy. Don’t you think that’s the way? I’d only interfere in someone else’s life if they were hurting people.”
Jackie, trying to stub out her half-smoked cigarette, pressed too hard on the ashtray and tipped it over. Cigarette butts and live embers scattered across the table and onto the floor. Darren jumped up and stomped on the embers, then kneeled down and with the napkin from under his beer gathered up the butts. Briefly Phoebe caught a look of disgust on his face and wondered again if he was handing them a load of bull, but the idea slipped away.
When everyone had settled back in their seats, she said, “My husband George doesn’t like immigrants. In what way are you different from him?”
“Only in one way. He doesn’t try to do anything about it.”
“That sounds like George,” Jackie said, then looked embarrassed. “No offense,” she said to Phoebe.
“Where is George, by the way?”
“He and two buddies went to a Bruins game in Boston. It’s girls’ night out,” she giggled.
“Hmm. I haven’t seen him around much lately. Haven’t seen Fiona Sparrow either. I take it she’s moved?”
“Not far. She lives with her boyfriend Lowell Edgecomb at the lake. He built a new cottage himself.”
“Is that so? Sounds nice. I bet it’s pretty there.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I was up there with the softball team last summer.”
“They have a good view of the mountain?”
“Yeah, they’re off the East Shore Road right across from it.”
“Sounds great. I was at a guy’s cottage awhile back. That was off the East Shore Road too, but he still didn’t have a good view of the mountain.”
“Lowell’s place is two cottages up from where Bobby Wilcox’s family used to have a place. Remember the big party on graduation night where the bonfire caused the cops and firemen to come and about six people got arrested?”
“I remember hearing about that, though I can’t say I was invited to that party.”
“Neither was I. But Lowell’s place is just two cottages from there. It has the same great view of the mountain.”
“So Fiona’s turned into a nature girl?”
“Did you know her in high school?”
“No. I don’t think she knew I existed.”
“That’s because of softball. That was her main interest.”
“What was your interest?”
“The same. Then you can add beer.”
“And boys!” Jackie said, speaking loudly. “I didn’t care for sports.”
“Me, I regret not playing sports at C.A.,” Darren said. “I played football freshman year but didn’t like it—it took too much time. Has Fiona’s boyfriend really fixed the place up nice?”
“Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “He’s rich, you know, so it’s very nice.”
“Probably expensive wood siding, huh? None of that cheap vinyl stuff.”
“Oh, no. It’s wood shingles, natural, not painted.”
“Yeah, that’s a popular look. Any other fancy things? I dream of having my own cottage some day.”
“Not that I remember. Oh, wait, there is something. The sign at the beginning of his road not only has his name but also a pine tree painted on it. It was real fancy. I really liked it.”
“I can understand that. I think we all have an instinct to decorate and beautify. I had a car in high school that I fixed up. I spent way too much time and money on it, but I wanted it to be the most beautiful car in the world. It was a souped-up, twenty-year-old Pontiac with a new engine, dual carbs, painted fire-engine red, black leather seats, white ivory steering wheel, great sound system. I worked two jobs to pay for all that stuff. With all that working,
I didn’t study much and wasn’t a good student.” He sighed and his eyes went far away.
“Do you regret it now?” Jackie asked.
“I do. I wish I had studied more, become educated, you know. But it’s too late now.”
“It’s spilled milk, Darren,” Jackie said with drunken solemnity. “I almost got married three years ago but then had cold feet. I thought he wasn’t Mr. Right. Now sometimes when I start regretting that, I stop and say ‘spilled milk’ to myself.”
They continued talking about cars and high school and spilled milk, but it all began getting foggier and foggier for Phoebe. At some point she thought Darren left, but then it seemed he was still there. She had a vague recollection that Darren gave her a ride home and drove off with Jackie, but whether it was in Jackie’s car or his, she did not know. Nor had she any recollection whatsoever of getting undressed and crawling into bed, not even of the bedroom spinning, which in these situations she usually could recall. In the morning when she woke to bright sunlight, a pounding headache and the vague feeling that she had done something wrong, she chalked the uneasiness she felt to her guilt for drinking too much. George was in the bed snoring with his mouth open, so he must have gotten home sometime in the night, though she either slept through his arrival or lost it in the alcoholic haze. Later when he would ask her what she had done last night, she would answer that she and Jackie had a girls’ night out and leave it at that. Now, after rising to take some aspirin washed down with a glass of orange juice, she just wanted to go back to sleep and hope that when she woke again she wouldn’t feel that she wanted to die.