Amy Frazier - Independence Day

Shuffling papers, he spotted a petition from a large section of last year’s female student body, requesting the addition of an elective course on women’s studies.

“Hattie.” He held up the petition. “I think we’ve been vigilant in updating our curriculum. We’ve tried to include important contributions, events, philosophies from all groups regardless of ethnicity or gender.”

“Yes?”

“So why would we need a separate women’s studies class?” He noted her sharply raised eyebrows. “I mean, if we’re sincerely trying to appreciate the accomplishments of women in the curriculum at large, why would women want to segregate the issue? What do women want or need that’s so different from what men want or need?”

She eyed him sharply without speaking, and he wondered if she didn’t see clear through to his real question.

“Do you want a professional opinion or a personal one?”

He swallowed hard and took the plunge. “Personal.”

“Women of any age want to be taken seriously. Need to be noticed for the whole of who and what we are.” A hint of mischief warmed her eyes. “Sometimes we have to get demonstrative. With, say…petitions.”

She picked up her coffee mug and turned to leave his office. Over her shoulder she added, “If I were you, I’d okay the women’s studies course…and I’d pick up a big box of Chessie’s favorite chocolates on your way home tonight. It’s not a solution, but it’s a start.”

Nick rubbed his eyes. Everyone wanted to be taken seriously. To be noticed for their skills and accomplishments. Women couldn’t claim that need as their own. But Chessie felt strongly enough about it that she was afraid of turning forty and faded.

How could his own red, white and blue trumpeter feel faded? She was Technicolor, for crying out loud. Neon. Hadn’t he told her as much time and time again?

Hadn’t he?

Hattie was right. He’d pick up chocolates on his way home from work. And he’d find out all about that pottery project the museum trustee had shown interest in—a fifteen hundred dollar interest, no less. Maybe then Chessie would forget about her ridiculous no-sex challenge.

And if she didn’t? Well, Nick might just have to admit he had a problem. But wasn’t solving problems his stock-in-trade?

CHESSIE SUPPRESSED A SCREAM and the urge to hose down her heel-dragging daughter, who didn’t seem to care that her mother couldn’t wait to hook up with the art class that would begin in fifteen minutes. Couldn’t wait to be in the company of artists like herself. Self-motivated adults. As compared to her girls, who’d fought her at every turn today.

“Isabel,” she said, trying desperately not to nag. “I’ll be back in two hours. Your dad should be home from work by then. We can eat any time after that.” With dismay she viewed the mountain of dirty Fourth-of-July dishes. Obviously, she needed to provide some impetus. Not nagging, but nudging. “You can’t prepare supper, and we can’t eat without clean recruits from the dish department.”

“This is so unfair,” the teenager complained.

“Unfair or not, dishes happen.”

“But I have a headache.” With a pained expression, Isabel sank against the counter.

Chessie felt no sympathy. Her elder daughter was prone to hypochondria and a sort of Victorian lethargy. “A lovely hand-soak in dishwater should cure it.”

“We have to be the only house in Maine without a dishwasher. It’s absolutely prehistoric.”

“Nevertheless.” Chessie heard Gabriella thumping down the stairs. “Ah, reinforcements. I’m sure you and your sister—” She gasped in shock.

Gabriella, whose wavy strawberry-blond hair had been her crowning glory, now sported a buzz cut with only a fringe of bangs, which she had dyed a startling lime-green.

“Gabriella!” Chessie squeaked. “What have you done?”

“Don’t go ballistic.” Her younger daughter shrugged. “You’re not the only one in this family entitled to a little recognition.”

“But your hair…” Even Isabel seemed stunned by her sister’s daring.

Gabriella slouched against the door frame. “It’s not as if I pierced anything.”

“Oh, gawd! Just wait till Dad sees,” Isabel drawled dramatically. “You do remember Dad. The principal of your school for the next four years. You might as well learn early he’s a dictator when it comes to the dress code.”

“It’ll grow back by September.”

The new Chessie bit her tongue. Let Gabby deal with her ’do and any consequences. Chessie was headed for professional development.

“Dishes and dinner, girls.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Gabriella replied, reaching into the Mason jar that held money for emergencies. “On our way back from the mall we’ll stop at Boston Market and pick up supper.”

More tongue biting on Chessie’s part. She’d told Nick she didn’t care if takeout was on the menu. “Okay,” she conceded, “but feed the cats, please.”

She had to leave quickly before she reverted to form.

Once outside and hustling toward the town square, she spied the Art Guild members coming out of the Atlantic Hall where the class was to convene in the huge community room above the library. “What’s happening?” she called to Betsy O’Meara, a watercolorist.

“Our model canceled. She broke a leg, hiking.”

Chessie’s spirits fell. She had so looked forward to this, two hours of escape from worrying about her uncooperative daughters and the silent treatment Nick had given her since her declaration last night. She needed to test her fragile wings, to feel a part of a supportive like-minded community, if only temporarily. And, at this point, she didn’t care how she engineered it.

“I’ll take the model’s place,” she volunteered, jogging up to Betsy.

“You will?” The bushy white eyebrows of eighty-year-old sculptor Sandy Weston shot skyward.

“Not nude,” Chessie clarified. “My college days are over. Draped will have to do. Is there anything I can use to wrap myself in?”

“Perhaps.” Betsy looked dubious as she led the way up the stairs to the multipurpose room. “We share this space with so many other groups that we don’t like to leave much behind. Things tend to disappear.” She headed for the easels and stools pushed into the corner. “There’s this backdrop fabric.”

“Eew!” Glancing with dismay at the ratty piece of cloth, Chessie shivered at the thought of it against her skin. “I have an old white sheet that should make me look quite Greco-Roman. It won’t take a minute to get it.”

A chorus of thank-yous met her offer as she hastened downstairs and back across the square. It was the sheet she’d thrown over the studio sofa last night. Hopefully she could be in and out with it before anyone even knew she’d been back. So she didn’t have to explain…. Suddenly she felt angry at herself for feeling furtive. She’d suggested posing draped, for pity’s sake. Not nude. A big difference. She wasn’t certain, however, that Nick would, should he hear of it, see the distinction. Well, he didn’t have to hear of it.

The sheet fetched and bundled under her arm, she fairly flew back to the hall. It was so exciting to be part of an art class again.

“Chessie!” Thomas Crane, the UPS driver, called out to her from his truck parked in front of the hardware store. “Chasing Nick with leftover laundry?”

Exhilarated by the divergence from routine, she laughed. “No! I’m posing at the Art Guild,” she replied over her shoulder as she gained the Atlantic Hall doorway, immediately regretting her words. Thomas was an awful gossip.

Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Hope sprang eternal.

Hurrying up the stairs, she burst into the class as the members finished pushing the easels and stools into place.