Three’s a Crowd
Written for NYC Midnight’s #ShortStoryChallenge2019, September 2019.
Also available in audio on the podcast Story Time with Darcie: Episode 4.
by Darcie T. Kelly
It’s a love to end all loves. Literally. Not ‘literally’ like the kids use it. I dislike how each generation finds new ways to pervert the language. About thirty years ago my granddaughter told me “Cool means hot, Gramma,” echoing my daughter, twenty years before saying “Hot means fashionable, Mom.” I shudder to think how my great-grandchildren are further deforming the English language. No, when I say ‘literally’, I mean literally. At eighty-four years old, I’ll be with Hank until the end. Well, that was the plan. Before Stella came back.
Stella. Hank’s childhood sweetheart left after barely a year of marriage. Hank calls it his ‘wedded miss’. Ten lost months resulting in zero children and forty years of bachelor-style healing (“if you know what I mean” he adds with a mischievous wink on the rare occasion he tells the story). I suppose I should thank her. If Stella hadn’t broken his heart all those decades ago, he wouldn’t be the man I love. But no. My inner-teenager resents that she abandoned him, hurt him. But mostly that she came back.
I didn’t expect to love again after George died. We met when I was sixteen, married a year later, raised four amazing children and witnessed the high-school graduations of nine grandchildren before he died holding my hand. I mourned for six years, one for each decade we were married. Then I met Hank.
I turned my hearing aid off as Doris hit twenty-minutes of talking about her husband’s latest bout of pneumonia, and my attention started wandering around the senior centre. A man, easily twenty years my junior given the apparent health of his knees, crawled on all fours, hunting like a hound dog. “Pardon me, ladies,” he interrupted, loud enough to hear unamplified, “but my friend has misplaced his dentures. I assured him I’d find them if it took searching every nook and ‘granny’.” The delight on his face was radiant as he rolled lips over teeth feigning toothless distress and playfully ‘searched’. I burst into laughter as he barely tickled me and haven’t stopped since.
Until Stella that is. That woman walked into my life with her ample, lycra-wrapped, sixty-two-year-old ass and Hank’s eyes clouded with nostalgia and boyhood yearning. Stella, all sweetness and sunshine, purred “I’m so happy you’re happy,” as Hank introduced me with a kiss on my cheek, but when Hank turned away her expression asked, You up for a fight? I pressed to his side with a smile and kissed him so deeply my dentures fell into his mouth.
***
Hank is always up for an adventure. Today, it’s swing-dancing. While our group is young at heart, we’re slightly older in other places. I foresee tragedy as a dozen bags of brittle bones and hunched backs play snap-the-whip with each other. As the big-band music hammers away, Saul’s walker crushes Tess’s toes, Betty shuffles in solo circles hands flapping overhead, and Vera performs the sign of the cross, praying not to fall and break a hip. Then there is Hank, gyrating and bopping, kicking and jumping, gently holding my hand and coming in for a hug-and-sway before he’s off again.
I’m mid-way through a full-throated chortle as Hank swoops in for another snuggly-wiggle when Stella arrives. “Oh good! She made it.” Hank Charlestons in her direction and launches her in a spinning whirl before dancing back to me. For the rest of the song, Hank prances between us. Twirling me in, then Stella. Sashaying around the room holding us each by a hand.
I feel a gentle pull as Stella tugs him closer, tossing her hair flirtatiously. I respond with a yank of my own, a shy smile and ‘was that me’ eyebrows. “Happy to let you lead, ladies.” Hank, enjoying every moment, has no idea he’s the object of a tug-of-war. With her next twirl, Stella plants a hand firmly on Hank’s rump. During my turn, I land a lip-lock. Stella shimmies her boobs in his face and I – I attempt to arch my back and lean in breasts first with ‘come hither’ eyes. Instead, I throw-out my back and fall into Hank’s arms wishing I could move enough to writhe in agony. The news spreads unevenly through the dancing crowd like the fall of badly placed dominoes. Eventually a staff member calls an ambulance. I lay in Hank’s arms, gazing into his eyes as he strokes my hair and seniors dance around us.
Hank and I haven’t married. When he first started getting a little handsy, I brought it up. “Shouldn’t we get married first?”
Hank stepped back, “Whoa! Once was enough.” I was showing my age, needed to update my perspective. Luckily, I already had plans with my girls.
“Dad wants you to be happy, Mom. Since he can’t be the only man you ever loved, he can at least be the only man you ever married.”
“You don’t need to buy the cow when he’s giving the milk away for free, Gramma.”
“Isn’t Hank already your prince, GeeGee?” My great-granddaughter showed wisdom beyond her years. A signed paper won’t change how we feel about each other. How committed we are to each other. We share a house, a bed and our hearts. He is my love-to-end-all-loves!
Once the paramedics confirm nothing is broken, lift me to a chair, administer muscle relaxants and suggest swing dancing be left to those a little younger, Stella shimmies over to me, bosom bouncing off-beat and wheezes, “We’re still married. Never got divorced.” I’m dumbfounded. Heartsick with dawning awareness that I am a doped-up, octogenarian adulterer.
***
“He never got a divorce?!”
“They’ve been separated for how long?”
“What’s ‘adulterer’, GeeGee?”
Having just taken a sip, the surprised guffaw twinges my tender back while forcing tea out my mouth and up my nose. Trying to regain my dignity by dabbing a napkin against my lips and adjusting the pillow supporting my injured muscles, I glance at my great-granddaughter. “Isn’t she a little young for this conversation?” Our multi-generational tea party has become quite educational for little Sophie today.
“She’s fine.” Her mom, my granddaughter, Jeana wets a napkin in Sophie’s cup and, holding the back of the child’s head firmly, scrubs chocolate and crumbs off her face. “She doesn’t understand most of what we say, and what she does is good to learn. I’m raising a fierce, female future-leader.”
Sophie fights free of her mother’s facial attack and wipes a crinkled nose with a frilly forearm before smiling sweetly. “May I please be excused?”
As Sophie rushes to her video games, Sarah, my daughter, turns to me with a serious expression. “You’re telling us that she left him over forty years ago, after less than a year of marriage, they haven’t seen each other since,” she pauses for emphasis, “but they’re still married.”
I set my teacup down, forcibly relax my jaw and answer, “Yes.”
“Isn’t there a statute of limitations or something?” Jeana chimes in. “I mean, you can get an annulment if you’ve never had sex, so if you haven’t had sex in forty years, doesn’t that automatically mean you’re not married anymore?”
“That would save some hassle.” Sarah is in the middle of a divorce. She’s jaded, tired and evidently hasn’t had sex in a while.
“We’re definitely coming back to that, Mom,” Jeana assures Sarah. Our family never was one to ignore or pretend, “but let’s finish with the ‘Hank crisis’ first.”
“It’s not a crisis,” I’m horrified enough already, “and there is nothing to discuss. Hank is married. The end.”
“No, not the end!” Teacups clink and a slosh of pale-brown water dampens the tablecloth as Jeana starts pontificating. “You love him, right?”
“Of course.”
“And he loves you?”
“Yes, but –”
“No buts!” Jeana slams the table hard and I hear Sophie giggle from the other room, ‘Mom said butts.’ “You’ve been together for over two years. That’s more than twice the time they were ‘married’. Who does she think she is, anyway, after forty years?” Jeana has a point. “He’s your love-to-end-all-loves, damn it. Are you going to let that hoochy broad steal your man?”
That description might be overreaching, but her fervor is catching, even Sarah is sitting up straighter. “No! I’m not!”
“Then what are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to fight for Hank.”
“Is that all?” My granddaughter; the rebel-leader.
“Hell no.” In frenzied passion I spring from my seat throwing a fist in the air. “I’m gonna win!” I stand too fast. Muscle-relaxant-dosed blood rushes to my head. The world spins and I wobble back to the chair undercutting my conviction.
***
I glance around ensuring no one can see the screen over my shoulder. For the first time, I wish I had a home-computer instead of relying on the one at the senior centre. Trying to look casual, my arthritic hand coaxes the mouse to open the internet. The screen flashes and colourful letters shout GOOGLE. A small grey line blinks at the beginning of a question; ‘What are you looking for?’ I check the coast is clear and, letter by letter, peck out ‘How to keep my man.’ Unsure what comes next, I pause, cradling my aching hands. The words ‘I feel lucky’ catch my attention. I like the optimism of that. Wishing I’d brought my Bengay, I move the mouse, click and am rewarded with a fresh screen.
1. Compliment him: Tell him he looks good, smells good, is hot, smart and sexy.
2. Heat things up in the bedroom: Share your fantasies.
3. Let him know you think of him: Wear sexy underwear under your clothes and tell him.
“Any emails from the kids?” Hank wraps his arms around my shoulders, nuzzles my neck. My heart races as I fumble to find an off switch. The screen finally fizzles to black as Hank spins my swivel chair around to face him. “With a heart rate like that, I hope it wasn’t the kids you were thinking about.” I blush, flustered. He growls. “Let’s get out of here.” Guess we’re starting with step two. Heat things up in the bedroom.
***
Sex isn’t the same in my eighties as it was in my twenties. For one thing, lubrication is significantly more important. In moderation. Things get rather slippery when an aching hand squeezes the lube tube too hard. Add to that joints that don’t bend and muscles that don’t stretch and it’s easy to understand why sex is a risky activity for the chronologically challenged. While I used to share a post-coital cigarette with George, I now share a post-coital pot of Bengay with Hank.
As I try to decide where I hurt most, my research pops in my head: Share your fantasies. I take a deep, steadying breath before asking, “What are your fantasies, Hank?”
Continuing to rub salve in his shoulder, Hank tosses a wistful look my way. “I fantasize about being forty again. Heck, I’d even take fifty!” He starts to laugh then twinges and rubs some magic tonic into what on a younger man would be a six pack. I don’t think that’s the sort of fantasy they meant but decide to leave it for now. I need to pee.
***
I’m juggling the newspaper and magnifying glass to see the crossword puzzle when the phone rings. “You’ve reached the nut house,” Hank answers. “Head squirrel speaking.” I chuckle. Hank’s phone etiquette has been called many things. Cheesy, juvenile, annoying, disrespectful. I find it endearing. Especially since my great-grandchildren often call Hank’s laugh-line and I get a chance to speak with them.
I gave up on two down, when two’s not enough and three’s not a crowd, eleven letters, and am trying to fit S-T-E-L-L-A into five down, an unwelcome distraction, when I hear Hank, still on the phone, say “We’d love to join you for dinner, Stella.” I feel my wrinkles deepen to canyons before remembering my research. Compliment him.
As Hank hangs up the phone, I set aside the crossword and try to add longing to my sunken eyes. “Hanky Panky,” I reach up to him, pull him closer, “you smell gooood.” As I start what I intend as a long, sexy sniff, Hanky Panky rips off a long, loud, oh-so-unerotic fart. The air might not turn green with stink waves, but my face sure does.
“How many farts does it take to empty a room?” Hank asks, picking up the newspaper to fan away the tainted air. “A phew.”
***
With mere hours before Stella’s dinner, I prepare to wear sexy underwear under my clothes, by acquiring said sexy underwear. It’s my first time in Sweet Tease. I dismiss it every time I visit the mall, completely content with my granny-panties. But today, I’m on a mission to keep my man, and if sexy underwear is what it’ll take then sexy underwear is what he’ll get.
The back of the store, where a Tease sign hangs from the ceiling, is filled with straps, feathers, and buckles. I pick up an item, hold it against myself, glancing in a mirror, try to decide how I’d put it on. By the time I realize it’s not meant to contain bosoms so much as accentuate them – bosoms that don’t need external support that is – I have an audience. The salesclerk and cashier try to contain their glee. I flush with a heat that’s reminiscent of menopause as I quickly retreat to the area under a gently swaying Sweet sign. From a wall of bras and matching panties, I grab something in light blue (Hank’s favourite colour) that is advertised to “perfect your shape” and head to the register.
“Mabel?” Stella appears, “I thought that was you.” The cashier starts wrapping my purchase, assuming, or perhaps hoping, it’s a gift. “New lingerie? Hank’s a lucky man.”
I’ve stretched so far beyond my comfort zone this final tug causes me to snap. “Yes! Lucky to have me! Not you, me. You had your shot and you left. Well, now it’s my turn. Mine!” The cashier doesn’t even bother to stifle her laugh. I grab the bag and leave the store.
Stella matches me pace for pace. “You’re right. I did leave.”
“Then why come back?” I don’t pause for her answer.
“When Jimmy died, I realized my friends were superficial flakes who cared more about gossip and manicures than supporting each other.” I stop abruptly. Stella bumps me and we catch each other before falling. “Other than Jimmy, Hank was the last person to make me feel … special.”
Still holding her, I look into Stella’s eyes for the first time and see loneliness. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know how it hurts.” I really do. “But Hank’s with me now.”
“I realized that when my dinner-date turned into a group event.” She rolls her eyes, laughing at herself, not me. “To him, you’ll always be included.”
I glance at my Sweet Treats bag. Did I even ask Hank how he feels? I shake my head, clearing space for new thoughts. “And so will you.” My inner teenager is flabbergasted. Disgusted. She urges me to throw a rude comment. To tear this woman down. Why did I ever listen to her? I have eighty-four years of hard-earned wisdom. I’m kind. I’m empathetic. And I’ve been through what Stella is struggling with now. If I didn’t have my girls might I have sought comfort in my past?
Stella’s brow is knit. Part heartbreak, part protective wall, part curious confusion. I laugh. At the bag in my hand. At Hank’s laugh line. At Sophie’s sweet innocence. Mostly at myself.
“You’re Hank’s wife.” I link arms with Stella and continue walking. “Technically family.” Stella matches my pace. Puts her free hand gently atop mine. I smile, delighted by this turn of events. In addition to my love-to-end-all-loves, I have a newfound friend-for-the-end-of-the-world. Afterall, I won’t be around forever.