“But then later, when it became obvious I wasn’t Donna,” Frannie inhaled, but it hurt, so she took another swallow. “Well, it was already too late to do anything. I had no way to support myself. No talent. No money put away. If I’d worked, of course, I might have had a little now. Although,” she went on, musing, “I wouldn’t have made a good librarian, or a secretary or a nurse. And, of course, there’s not a whole lot you can do with art history. Also, I’m not actually very pretty.” Her hand moved to her neck. “I just couldn’t know if I’d make it out there, to tell you the truth. Unless I met someone new. Two of my girlfriends tried that,” Frannie frowned, “and they were so much prettier than I was. All confident and sure, they left their husbands in their thirties. And they’re still alone today. Would you believe it? Though, you know what?” She straightened and added indignantly, “lots of my friends are alone because their husbands left them. For younger women, of course.” She searched Randi’s face for confirmation. Randi nodded knowingly while she hiked up a bra strap. “So sometimes,” she continued, the anger melting away, “sometimes I think I’ve been more or less lucky. Less, probably …” she finished weakly.
Frannie drank off the remainder of her Bloody, caught some ground pepper in her throat and started choking yet again. At last, with watery eyes and a rueful smile, she tapped Randi on the arm. “Anyhow, isn’t there that old saying about the devil you know being better than the devil you don’t?”
“Ha!” Randi tossed back her head, her impossible hair glinting in the gloom, and laughed so shrilly that Frannie cringed and looked around, embarrassed a little for her friend.
It hadn’t been that funny. She hadn’t meant to be funny at all. Was this woman laughing at her?
Then, all at once, because she felt vulnerable and odd and exposed and ill at ease, she realized she was seriously annoyed.
“What are you laughing at? I don’t see anything all that funny in what I just said.”
“No, I wasn’t laughing at you, Frannie. Really.”
The soothing voice – the combing voice.
“It’s only that I’m confused, and a little astonished, maybe,” Randi went on, “that you don’t seem to understand that what you’ve been calling ‘love’ – what women think of as ‘love’ – is … I can’t think of another way to say it … isn’t something fine. It’s this miserable, lifelong affliction. ‘Love’!” She barked another harsh “Ha.” “You know, I’ve made a lot of friends through my work, Frannie, and like you, there are so many women who haven’t tumbled to the fact that love is sacrifice by this other, prettier name. It’s more than sacrifice, even. It’s self-immolation, I think. Sometimes I even ask myself,” grabbing a paper napkin, she wiped furiously at a wet ring on the bar, “are women just crazy? Giving their souls away to men? To children? Neither of which is remotely aware of the magnitude of their sacrifice. Let alone, grateful.”
“Only look at yourself,” Randi put the napkin in her purse and went on more quietly. Frannie had to lean in to hear. “You’ve been married for years and years and you’ve been a good wife and a good housekeeper and a good buddy and all those good things and here you are – after how many years – wondering if he loves you or you love him, as I understand it. ‘More or less lucky’ you said? Oh, definitely less, Frannie, my friend. A whole lot less. Which is why I need to ask. What even makes you think there is any man – anywhere on earth – who might actually be what you’ve told me you want?”
For a few more moments, purse dangling from her arm, hands in her lap, Frannie sat there enthralled. Not just because of the power and terrific sense of Randi’s argument, but also because … it felt as if the most popular girl in her high school had not only noticed her, but liked her. Liked her enough to have this serious heart-to-heart.
But where was it going? Again, she had that testy, gypped feeling. She hadn’t come out this evening to this awful, gaudy place to discuss the meaning of love. Not her marriage, either. Not for a second time today. So what about that beauty advice? All those life-changing tips?
These drinks were making her fuzzy and, besides, she was really feeling it now, a little sick. Things had gotten out of hand.
Frannie unclasped her hands, put her purse on the bar, and purposefully, pushed her third (third!) new drink away. Randi was just a stranger, not a friend. She hadn’t even known her yesterday and here she was confessing her innermost longings to this suggestively dressed, probably not-ever-married woman, who was laughing at her foolish confidences and presuming to advise her on her life.
But she’d be polite. Manners were important.
“How did we get so sidetracked, Randi? I was sort of expecting makeup tips or clothing tips or complexion tips or something, not marriage counseling.” She was hoping to sound playful, yet she heard the words fall flat. “Frankly, I don’t know exactly what I thought. But instead, you keep wanting to know about my personal life. And I know, yes, I brought it on myself. But basically, we don’t know each other well enough for this. And I don’t think I want to tell you any more about myself. So you know what?” She surprised herself by standing. “I think I’m going home.”
“Don’t go, Frannie. Please. I’m so sorry.”
Remorsefully, tenderly, Randi touched her arm. “It’s only that I wanted to know more about you. To know you better. You’re interesting to me. I’m so sorry if I’ve seemed intrusive. I didn’t mean to be.”
Frannie’s attention was caught by that “interesting.” Interesting? Her? Okay. She’d find out why, then she’d go home.
To Stanley and TV.
Leaning so near her breath stirred Frannie’s hair, Randi seemed to whisper, “Would you mind very much if I asked just one last question? Then we’ll talk beauty tips. I promise.”
For a minute, Frannie studied the impossibly beautiful face, the skin, those lips, that voice. This woman was courting her. She was. And that was kind of thrilling, in a way. Because she hadn’t been courted in years and, okay – a lesbian flirtation, or whatever this turned out to be – might be … what? Fun? Life-changing? Terrifying? How could she even think of going home before figuring out what this was really about? Not to mention whatever there might be to learn about making herself prettier or less invisible before she grew old.
“Well, as long as we don’t talk about this morning again.”
Randi straightened up on her stool.
“I won’t. I promise. As I said, Frannie, I like you. A lot.” She searched Frannie’s face.
“Would you consider a deal?”
“A deal?”
“Yes. An unusual sort of deal. One you may even have heard of, because it’s a kind of a special deal that I can offer every now and then. To women of a certain age.” She smiled warmly. “To people like you.”
Frannie felt bitter disappointment. Was this it? Some kind of “senior special”?
Oh, money, she realized, reaching for her handbag. Why on earth hadn’t that occurred to her? Advice didn’t come free. Randi probably had a line of cosmetics to sell: miracle creams; avocado masques.
“How much is it?”
“Oh, money.” Randi echoed her thought, leaning even nearer, smiling. “Money’s beside the point. We never take money.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
Had she misheard? It was unbearably noisy in here. The slots, the music, this hectic jangle of loss and desire.
Then all at once all the noise fell away and left Frannie sitting there, transfixed.
Because Randi had just laid her arm on the bar and with her index finger,