Jennifer Archer - Sandwiched

I yawn. Okay, so maybe I do have an idea why the reading group has dwindled.

Halfway through the second scene, a loud snuffle brings my head up.

Mary Fran Hawkins and Frances Green, otherwise known as “The Frans” since they share not only similar names, but also an apartment, snore in rhythm, their chins on their chests. Mary Fran’s book is on the floor. Frances still holds hers open, though it’s migrating toward her knees.

I guessed the first second I met them that The Frans are lesbians, but Mother refuses to discuss it. According to her, it’s an inappropriate assumption on my part and none of our business one way or another. But whether she’ll admit it or not, I’m sure she knows it’s true. Like she’s always telling me, her eyesight’s bad, but she’s not blind.

Between The Frans and my mother, Doris Quinn files her nails and hums quietly to herself. Not a single silver hair on her head is out of place. She’s a tiny, twittery, totally feminine woman. Always upbeat. Always ready to bat an eye at any man who happens to glance at her. Eager to sympathize with their hard luck stories. I can imagine Doris being the “other” woman in her younger days. The equivalent of Roger Hoyt’s Bitsy or one of Bert’s baby-faced…

There I go, doing it again. Transferring my anger at Bert to someone else. Comparing a sweet, romantic woman of eighty who loves people and life to one of Bert’s bimbos.

At the end of the row of book lovers in front of me, jolly Oliver something-or-other, his book face-down in his lap, grins as he whispers something to Mother. She blushes, but pretends to ignore him, her gaze fixed on her copy of A Room For Eleanor, which she holds in both hands upside down.

“Eleanor opened her eyes, gazed up through the rippling water. Life shimmered above her, painful, chaotic, unpredictable life. She—”

“The End,” I say five paragraphs before the final line. I slap the book closed. The noise snaps The Frans to attention.

“So, what did you think?”

Doris stops filing her nails and sighs. “Remarkable. A masterpiece.” She presses a palm to her chest. “The ending…” She sighs. “It makes a person think, doesn’t it? There was so much wisdom in it, so much hope, so much—”

“Bullshit,” Mary Fran mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes and eliciting a snicker from Frances.

Doris flinches. “I beg your pardon?”

“I thought it was an interesting selection, Cecilia,” Mother cuts in before Mary Fran can elaborate. “Another fine choice on your part. Very thought-provoking, as Doris said.”

Oliver smirks at her. “Come on now, Belle. It was a real stinker, and you know it.”

Doris points her fingernail file straight up. “Perhaps one person’s odor is another’s perfume.”

The Frans snort.

“Thanks for the show of support, Mother. You, too, Doris. But I have to agree with the others.” I tap a finger against the book’s cover. “I don’t get it. The book’s been at the top of the bestseller lists for over a month.”

Oliver winks at me. “There’s no accountin’ for taste, CiCi.” He scans the room. “No offense, but we’re gonna have to liven things up around here or pretty soon you’ll be reading to a bunch of empty chairs.”

I’m surprised by the look of distress that passes across Mother’s face at his comment. Wondering about it, I reach down for my briefcase then place it in my lap. I pop the latches, open the lid, pull another Oprah-esque book from inside. “I’d planned this for our next selection.” I hold the book up so the group can see the bland cover.

Everyone groans. Even Doris and my mother.

“Okay. I’m open for suggestions.”

As they debate whether the next title should be a mystery, a family saga or an action adventure, I return both books to my briefcase. That’s when Penelope’s Passion catches my eye. The story has become my new addiction; I can’t get enough of it. Or, to be honest, I can’t get enough of the captain. I’ve been trying to squeeze in a paragraph or two between patients whenever possible. I tell myself it’s a healthy diversion from reality. What’s the harm in a little fun?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Yesterday I met with two of my regulars, a sixty-year-old shoe salesman and his wife of thirty-five years. They blame his mother’s penchant for going barefoot and wearing red toe-nail polish when he was a boy for his obsession with women’s footwear and feet. Toes specifically. He’s partial to sucking them and struggles to restrain the urge at work. While they talked, I caught myself thinking about a scene in Penelope’s Passion where the captain and Penelope make love for the first time. In my daydream, though, I was Penelope.

Pathetic, I know. My mind should be on my patient’s abnormal preoccupation with Jimmy Choo shoes, not on being seduced by some make-believe macho man. Still, the toe-sucker left my office happy, so I suppose it didn’t hurt that my mind wandered a bit while he talked.

Studying the wrinkled faces before me, I remember Mother’s bread beater, which I’ve nicknamed “BOB,” as in battery-operated-boyfriend. Maybe she isn’t the only one here, me included, who misses intimacy. These senior citizens would probably appreciate a healthy diversion, too. The next best thing to sex I’ve found. Some relatively harmless fun. I’m betting even The Frans’ relationship could use a shot in the arm.

“Ladies,” I say in a raised voice to be heard over the chatter. I stand, put my open briefcase on the stool and clap my hands. “Ladies! You, too, Oliver.”

The talking stops. They all look up at me.

“What do you think about this?” I pick up Erin’s book, turn it over, read the blurb on back….

“When Lady Penelope Waterford stowed away on

The Voyager

She wanted only to escape an arranged marriage

To be carried away in the arms of a powerful ship

Toward a fresh start in a new, untamed land.

When Captain Damian Stonewall set sail

He wanted only to deliver his cargo on time,

To see his crew safely to the opposite shore

And collect the money owed him.

The captain never suspected he harbored a passenger

Or that one glimpse of her creamy skin, flaming hair

And flashing blue eyes would force him to question

His priorities and tempt him to break his own rules.

The lady never expected she might be forced to marry

The hot-tempered captain who found her hiding, soaked

And exhausted, below deck. Or that his touch would

Make her tremble with lust as well as with anger.

But as land disappears from sight

And the wind rages around them

Penelope and the captain discover their biggest

Surprise of all:

A passion more vast and powerful than the sea….”

I lower the book to my lap and look up.

Doris whispers, “Oh, my.”

The Frans snort, then smile at each other.

Oliver chuckles. “Now you’re talkin’.”

Mother looks from my briefcase, to the book, to me. She lifts an eyebrow.

Shrugging, I smirk at her. “Ladies and gentleman, I believe we just found our next selection.” I turn the book around to show the group the sexy cover. “I give you, Penelope’s Passion.”

A hush falls over the room, but is broken seconds later by the sound of an ear-piercing alarm.

I hope it isn’t someone’s pacemaker going off.

My kitchen smells like chicken and dumplings tonight. I think Mother’s trying to fatten up Erin, but I’m sure it’ll be me who ends up waddling, not my teenaged daughter. She can exist on a diet of French fries without gaining a pound.

We’ve fallen into a routine. One instigated by Mother. She cooks. We eat as a family at the table. Erin and I clean up. I’m amazed it’s lasted an entire five nights; I don’t know how she managed to recruit Erin in the first place, much less keep her coming back. But, though I enjoy the family time, I’m also a tiny bit jealous that my mother pulled off what I couldn’t. Since this school year began, my offers of a home-cooked meal have been turned down. Erin’s either had other plans for dinner or says she’d rather get takeout. I realize I’m not Julia Child or even my mother when it comes to the kitchen. But I whip up a decent omelet, and my spaghetti’s not bad. I add spices to the Ragu.