Late Lunch; Early Dinner

We’re having a late lunch, five women, widows now, who have been meeting once a month for forty years. “Dress-up time” we call it because when you are our ages—86, 87, 91, and 93– few events encourage one to don a cape, drape a rope of pearls around a neck, or apply eye shadow if the 2 X mirror cooperates.  Of course, there are concerts, plays, the opera– and the ballet, though only Lillian appreciates that silly art.  For funerals, our “little black dresses” have long since acquired little black sweaters.  Grace calls them our cremation wardrobe.  In truth, she only said this once, but it caused such dismay that we left a far smaller tip than usual. 

Years ago, after our husbands died in person, and died again in tedious conversations describing their various illnesses, we unanimously agreed to never talk about medical concerns, prognoses, medications, or. The exception –if one of us is in the hospital where such a stricture would be burying our heads in the sandbox.

But there’s always much to talk about: deliciously snarky reviews of undeserving prize-winning books, TV series watched or slept through, the trials, tribulations and rare successes of our children, the trivial exploits of grandchildren.  Their occasional weddings and frequent divorces.  The absence of men.  This last from Olive, though always soon dropped when someone says, “What men.” 

Tonight, I am trying to decide which Roads Scholars Cruise to take– the smaller ship perusing the stunning Alaska coast, or the elegant barge that traverses the peaceful Seine.  I would welcome any of the assembled friends as a roommate but when I leave to use the Ladies, I suspect that for sure someone will recall sotto voce my propensity for snoring. 

Toward dessert, we catch up on recent unpleasantnesses.  We insist on this gentle word.  Today Olive laments that in a moment of weakness, she gave her meddlesome daughter-in-law her rope of heirloom pearls.  Her hand flutters above the plateau of her ample empty chest. “I thought there was something missing,” Kelsey says, causing Grace–of the cremation wardrobe remark– to remark that, given the predictability of the future, at some point, we will all be missing.  Oh, that Grace. 

Surely one at a time, I offer.  A weak offering.  After a pregnant silence, we summon the waiter and order a third bottle of vintage wine.