Part II
“I’ll go next!” pipes Mrs. Brown, popping up from her place on the ottoman. She rolls up the sleeve of her baby pink cardigan to reveal a glimmering string of princess-cut diamonds encased in white gold. The ladies scoot themselves closer to admire the beautiful bauble, fawning over the colour and clarity of the stones.
“Why, it’s gorgeous, Mrs. Brown!” cries Mrs. Johnson. “How ever did you acquire it?”
Mrs. Brown’s smile deepens, greatly accentuating her crow’s feet, much to Mrs. Smith’s amusement.
“Why, I took it, of course!”
The others nod as they recall the other stories Mrs. Brown had recounted in previous weeks. Since settling down on First Avenue with Albert about a year ago, she had managed to shoplift a set of emerald earrings from Tiffany’s, a pearl necklace from Birks, and a platinum watch from Piaget.
“Did it give you that rush again?” asks Mrs. Jones.
“Oh yes,” moans Mrs. Brown. “And I relished in it, too. Even my fantasies can’t replicate that sense of euphoria, anymore.” She sighs. “Only the real thing pleases me now.”
“Where did you take it from?” asks Mrs. Miller.
Mrs. Brown bubbles over with excitement. “Cartier’s, on Lord Street! I must admit, it was almost too easy. They had just hired this new girl, you see—red hair, chalky skin—a sickly-looking youth, if I’m being honest. Regardless, I approached her earlier this week and asked to try on bracelet after bracelet until she had given up on being thorough. While I had this one on, I asked her to fetch a mirror further down the counter, and while she had her back turned, I simply walked out with it!”
“Terrible!” flatters Mrs. Johnson.
“Atrocious!” lauds Mrs. Miller.
“Remarkable!” blurts Mrs. Goldberg, earning a few hawkish glances.
“You haven’t even heard the best part,” Mrs. Brown divulges between fits of laughter. “Last I heard, the manager blamed the whole thing on the girl simply ‘misplacing merchandise’ after she tried to tell him what had happened, and fired her!”
Mrs. Smith’s sitting room roars with laughter. Mrs. Brown is by far the most enraptured in her own story, as well as the last to collect herself.
“What about you, Mrs. Miller?” she asks, once calm. “Is Dick still sleeping with the nanny?”
Mrs. Miller takes a large gulp of her sweet tea, licking her lips and rolling her eyes. “Well, I don’t actually know for sure if he’s sleeping with her. He might as well be, considering the way she prances around my house in those thigh-highs and knee-lengths, and that dewy skin—positively loose.” She pulls a cigarette box from her handbag, sliding one out and lighting it.
“And we all know you can’t blame a man for lacking control when it comes to his vices,” adds Mrs. Smith. “It’s simply how God made them.”
Mrs. Miller sneers. “I completely agree. Especially when their vices go around… baiting themselves.” She takes a puff of her cigarette. “Regardless, I’m simply taking precautions.”
Mrs. Smith nods in approval, the others following suit. “That’s very pragmatic of you, Mrs. Miller.”
Mrs. Miller thanks Mrs. Smith for the compliment. “This week, I smacked her across the face right where the end of the eye meets the cheekbone. Oh, the way it made me feel! That’s how you know they deserve it, when it excites you afterwards.”
She stops for a moment, cherishing the way in which she is able to hold the other women’s attention, even if just for a minute. “My wedding ring must have cut her right on the cheek, the way she bled all over my carpet. Would have left stain, too, had I not made her clean it up right after.”
The ladies laugh. “Oh, you are too cruel, Mrs. Miller,” applauds Mrs. Jones.
“Oh please,” Mrs. Miller retorts. “I’ve done far worse. I whacked the last nanny upside the head so hard, she forgot all about how I slit her right across the hand with the meat knife the week before!”
The ladies howl, their laughter growing hoarser with each heave. It is the point in the afternoon where their amusement begins to grow forced, although Mrs. Smith never allows them to let up the facade.
“But aren’t you afraid she might say something?” Mrs. Goldberg asks, after the laughter has died down. “You know, to the police, or what have you?”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Miller scoffs as the other ladies roll their eyes at Mrs. Goldberg’s question. “The woman hardly even knows English. I don’t think she could speak to the police if she tried.”
“And besides,” cuts in Mrs. Smith, “the police don’t arrest ladies who live on First Avenue.”
A few moments of silence penetrate the room before the conversation is continued.
“And you, Mrs. Jones,” says Mrs. Brown, “how is little Jimmy doing these days? I haven’t seen him walking to the bus stop lately.”
“Oh, you know how it is with boys,” says Mrs. Jones. “Always getting sick. I swear, almost once every two weeks he has to stay home from school. It’s striking!”
“It must be difficult caring for a sick child so often,” coos Mrs. Johnson.
“Mrs. Jones, you are undoubtedly strong,” purrs Mrs. Miller.
Mrs. Jones sighs. “Your sympathies mean the absolute world to me, ladies. Although, I must admit, it’s been much too long since Jimmy has been ill. I’ve had to start increasing the amount of methanol I’ve been slipping into his milk more and more as of late. I think he’s starting to build a resistance.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Jones begins to weep. Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Johnson gather around her, rubbing her back and dabbing tissues at her eyes before her mascara runs.
“There, there, Mrs. Jones,” says Mrs. Brown.
“Don’t cry, Mrs. Jones,” says Mrs. Johnson.
“It’s just so difficult!” she sobs. “Keeping up with the measurements, never knowing if they’re enough, or if he might taste it and tell his father.” She pulls a tissue from the box Mrs. Smith offers her, blowing her nose into it.
“The sympathy you get does make it worth it, though,” says Mrs. Smith, licking her lips.
Graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
