Part I
As a result of the humdrum conditions that are unfairly flung upon housewives following marriage and motherhood, the ladies of First Avenue have each developed unique habits in order to experience some sense of melodramatic reprieve.
The ladies still keep their wifely manners to avoid their husbands’ suspicions, limiting their interests to the most dim-witted of activities when in their presence. If the men of First Avenue are asked to relay their wives’ favourite pastimes, it’s likely they could offer nothing more specific than the acts of matching lipstick to nail polish or watering home-grown vegetables.
Yes, the ladies of First Avenue are good at playing their parts, though secrets only remain secret for so long before they induce wrinkles. Every Wednesday afternoon, a few hours after the women have seen their children off to school and a few hours before their husbands will come home from work, they get together to triumph in each other’s scandal.
Mrs. Smith, the eldest of the six, hosts their weekly luncheons, incurring envy among her peers through her mastery of domesticity. She doesn’t mind the glares that her perfectly-baked ladyfingers receive, nor the wandering hands that swipe every possible surface for dust when they think she’s not looking. In fact, these anxious acts of jealousy give her the drive she needs to continue outperforming them in all avenues of womanhood.
Today’s meeting begins no differently than the others. Mrs. Smith glances out the front window and watches as each lady approaches her home, opening the door to her picket fence with elegantly gloved hands, careful not to drop whatever casseroled dishes they bring with them.
They follow the impeccably-laid masonry to the steps of her wrap-around porch, careful not to step their pumps of patent leather in the lawn sprinkler’s puddles. She lets them open the screen door and knock, leaving a moment between their arrival and her approach to make it seem as if she had been preoccupied before greeting them.
After each woman has been shown to the sitting room, Mrs. Smith prepares six glasses of sweet tea, respective to their preferred amounts of ice. Once they’ve all settled in, noses powdered and drinks in hand, Mrs. Smith stands before them with her hands clasped in front of her chest.
“It’s wonderful to see all five of you together on this beautiful Wednesday afternoon.”
She swivels her head from side-to-side to make eye contact with each one of her guests, taking a mental note of those who might have been skimping on their skincare routines recently. The ladies return her compliment with identical smiles.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Smith,” replies Mrs. Johnson. “Your home looks positively baroque, and always so welcoming!” The other women in the room audibly concur.
“Why, thank you ladies, you all are much too kind for your own good!” She takes a sip of her sweet tea before continuing. “As I always say, honesty is a woman’s best outlet—”
“—though only if she’s honest with the right people!” chimes Mrs. Goldberg, placing a hand on her bosom and laughing. “How wise you are, Mrs. Smith!”
The other guests begin to laugh along with her, though rather than joining them, Mrs. Smith purses her lips and furrows her brow. The ladies of First Avenue stop and clear their throats. Mrs. Goldberg looks at her lap, blushing while consuming herself with the creases of her swing skirt.
“Now, ladies, why don’t we get started. Mrs. Johnson, would you like to begin?”
“I would love to, Mrs. Smith,” says Mrs. Johnson, twirling a strand of stringy white-blonde hair between her fingers. “Well, all of you are familiar with the boy my Roger has been bringing to the house to clean the pool every Saturday, yes?”
“Of course,” says Mrs. Miller from the windowsill, “the Hispanic one.”
“He can’t be more than, what, 17 years old?” adds Mrs. Jones. “Oh, but he is quite handsome. What I wouldn’t give to have him scoop the guck from my pool.”
“I’m happy to share that he’s even more attractive up close,” replies Mrs. Johnson, snickering into her veiny hand. “Yes, he’s quite a respectful boy. Always does exactly what Roger says, never looking him directly in the eye and pretending to not notice me strutting in my swimsuit.”
Her falsetto voice grows hushed, leaning in as she continues. “Though this weekend, I finally convinced him to let me have him—right there, in the backyard!”
The others gasp in unison. “Oh, you are just awful, Mrs. Johnson!” exclaims a smiling Mrs. Brown. “Was he more sensitive than Roger?”
“Oh, please,” scoffs Mrs. Johnson, “Anything with a pulse is likely to be more sensitive than Roger.” She pauses. “It’s not necessarily that, though. There’s just something about the underaged… so fresh-faced and eager to please, especially when you’re holding the chance of being able to afford college tuition over their heads!”
Again, the women laugh. Over the course of the afternoon, the laughs will become less and less candid, though they shall never cease as long as the lead is taken by Mrs. Smith.
Graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
