Stone Diaries, The - Carol Shields [76]
His statement of finality. Either that, or a shrug of surrender.
Mrs. Flett’s Old School Friend
Fraidy Hoyt and Daisy Goodwill Flett went to school together back in Indiana. They sat on the Goodwills’ front porch in Bloomington and shared bags of Jay’s Potato Chips. They went to college together too, and pledged the same sorority, Alpha Zeta, and ever since that time they’ve stayed in touch. That is, they’ve corresponded three or four times a year, and sent each other jokey presents on their birthdays and at Christmas. They haven’t actually seen each other for years, but, finally, in August of 1947, Fraidy got herself on a train and went up to Ottawa for a week’s visit.
While she was there she thought: here is Daisy Goodwill with a distinguished husband and a large well-managed house and three beautiful children. Daisy’s got all that any of us ever wanted.
Whereas I’ve missed out on everything, no husband, no kids, no home really, only a dinky little apartment, not even a garden. Oh, Daisy’s garden! That garden’s something else. She can get up in the morning and spend all day if she likes trimming and weeding and transplanting and bringing beauty into the world. While I’m sitting at work. Tied to a desk and to the clock. Missing out on this business of being a woman. Missing it all.
Or else Fraidy Hoyt thought: oh, poor Daisy. My God, she’s gone fat. And respectable. Although who could be respectable going around in one of those godawful dirndl skirts—should I say something? Drop a little hint? Her cuticles too. I don’t think she’s read a book in ten years. And, Jesus, just look at this guest room.
Hideous pink scallops everywhere. I’m suffocating. Four more days. And this crocheted bedspread, she’s so gee-dee proud of, no one has crocheted bedspreads any more, it’s enough to give you nightmares just touching it. I’d like to unravel the whole damn thing, and I could too, one little pull. These kids are driving me crazy, whining and sneaking around all day, then dressing up like little puppets for the return of the great man at the end of the day.
Putting on a little play every single hypocritical day of their lives.
And: what can I say to her? What’s left to say? I see you’re still breathing, Daisy. I see you’re still dusting that nose of yours with Woodbury Face Powder. I observe your husband is always going off to "meetings" in Toronto or Montreal, and I wonder if you have any notion of what happens to him in those places. I notice you continue to wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. Now isn’t that interesting. I believe your life is still going along, it’s still happening to you, isn’t it? Well, well.
Mrs. Flett’s Intimate Relations with her Husband Deeply, fervently, sincerely desiring to be a good wife and mother, Mrs. Flett reads every issue of Good Housekeeping.
Also McCall’s and The Canadian Home Companion. And every once in a while, between the cosmetic advertisements and the recipe columns, she comes across articles about ways a woman can please her husband in bed. Often, too, there are letters from women who are seeking special advice for particular sexual problems. One of them wrote recently, "My husband always wants to have our cuddly moments on Monday night after his bowling league. Unfortunately I do the wash on Mondays and am too exhausted by evening to be an enthusiastic partner." The advice given was short and to the point: "Wash on Tuesdays." Which made Mrs. Flett smile. She laughed out loud, in fact, and wished her friend Fraidy was here to hear her laugh. Another woman wrote:
"My husband has a very strong physical drive, and expects intimate relations every single night. Is this normal?"