Chapter 5 Truth Serum
Truth Serum
At least the food was good. Charlotte, who said she never ate sweets, had a piece of the cake and declared it divine. Margaret
had done a quick repair job, sweeping away the crumbs and cutting an even wedge that showed off the filling, like they did
in the magazines, as if that had been her intention all along. So there was some comfort in that.
But everything else about the evening seemed just a little . . . off.
Bitsy was even quieter than usual and looked so wan that Margaret wondered if she might finally be pregnant. She didn’t ask,
of course. Anything could happen early on, and she didn’t want to jinx it. Viv seemed subdued too. Or distracted? When Margaret
asked if everything was okay, Viv said everything was just peachy, smiling as she nibbled a turkey and mushroom roll-up, which
seemed odd. Viv wasn’t a nibbler; Viv was an eater, and sometimes a gobbler, a woman of voracious appetite and strong opinions.
But not tonight. Tonight she had very little to say. This was frustrating to Charlotte.
“You can’t just say you don’t like the book. You’ve got to explain why you don’t like it.”
Charlotte, wearing a cream-colored skirt of wool and silk and a matching jacket with navy-blue trim, an ensemble that Margaret was sure she’d seen in an ad for the House of Chanel, paused to take a drag from her cigarette.
She sucked so hard on the filter that her cheeks sucked in too, as if she were trying to slurp a thick milkshake through a paper straw.
“The whole purpose of a book club is to discuss the book. So let’s try this again, shall we? Why didn’t you like it?”
Charlotte’s strident tone, the way she sat there staring at Viv, eyes like arrows and body arched like a bow as she waited
for—no, demanded—a response, was making Margaret nervous. She, too, was disappointed that the discussion wasn’t going anywhere.
But did Charlotte have to be so pushy? Viv could be pushy too, if the situation called for it. Margaret braced herself for
a cutting retort from Viv and the subsequent fallout, which might mark the first and last meeting of the book club.
But instead of returning Charlotte’s barb, Viv simply sighed.
“I just couldn’t relate to it. I didn’t have six kids because my husband is stealthy and I’m a heavy sleeper, you know. I
wanted to be a wife and a mother.”
“Fair enough. I love my kids too.” Charlotte shrugged. “Well, most of the time—it was easier when they were little. But why
is marriage and motherhood expected to be our entire existence and North Star, the center of our satisfaction? Didn’t you
ever want more? An accomplishment that’s all your own, based on your brains and not just your biology?”
“Well, sure,” Viv said. “But I had that. I was a nurse during the war, deployed with a field hospital. We served in Tunisia,
Italy, France, and Germany.”
“Really?” Charlotte sat up straighter, looking at Viv with renewed interest. “Driving kids to Little League and cleaning the
oven must seem pretty dull by comparison. Don’t you miss it?”
Viv slouched into the sofa, puffing her own cigarette with a morose expression.
“I thought we were here to discuss the book, not our personal lives.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Examining thoughts and ideas that can impact your life is the whole point of reading, especially a book like this. It’s not Wuthering Heights. It’s a treatise on the conditions and suffocating boundaries of American womanhood,” she said, snatching her copy off the
coffee table and holding it aloft like a tent revival preacher brandishing a Bible. “Both of which have deteriorated considerably
since you risked your life to serve your country during the war. You don’t think that’s personal?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Viv said, slumping even more deeply into the sofa.
Charlotte puffed her annoyance and turned to Margaret.
“Well? What did you think?”
“Oh, I think it’s amazing. At moments I felt like Betty Friedan was reading my mind. The part about women’s magazines really
struck me. They really have changed over the years, haven’t they?” Margaret said in the earnest tone of someone who had just
woken up to something incredibly obvious and couldn’t understand why she didn’t see it before.
“I used to read my mother’s magazines when I was little, before the war. There were articles about politics and world affairs,
things you almost never see now. I wasn’t interested as a girl, but I loved the stories. The characters were brave, had exciting
jobs and lives and adventures. These days, nearly all the magazine stories are straight romance, and almost none of the heroines
have a career. If they do, they give it up so they can marry and be happy.”
“Exactly!” Charlotte said, tossing up a hand in an “at last somebody gets it” gesture. “The magazines sell women soap, appliances,
and girdles. But they’re also selling the idea that there is one path to ultimate female fulfillment, and it starts and ends at the altar. We all buy into it, but by the time you realize
marriage isn’t what they sold you, you’re stuck! Am I right?”
“Oh, I . . . I don’t know about that,” Margaret stammered. “I mean, every marriage has its ups and downs, don’t you think? After all, no man is perfect. No woman either.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Charlotte’s haughty tone, the tilt of her chin, the way she circled her lips into a bright red O as she blew smoke, all reminded
Margaret of what had so intrigued her when she first saw her in the drugstore. Charlotte was quick and confident, so self-assured.
But . . . was she really? Would a truly confident woman need a Miltown refill?
It didn’t sound like she was very happy in her marriage. Of course Margaret couldn’t say she was either, certainly not today.
But it wasn’t always like that. She meant what she said about ups and downs. Lately there seemed to be a lot more downs, but
Margaret wasn’t about to share that with the group any more than she’d tell them about the essay contest, admitting that her
weeks of hard work and hope had come to naught. She couldn’t let herself think about it right now, but the first thing she
planned to do after saying good night to her guests was to go up to her bedroom and have a good cry.
“What about you?” Charlotte asked, swinging her gaze to Bitsy, who was sitting in a side chair with her arms wrapped close.
She wore a white turtleneck and green tartan kilt that made her look more like a schoolgirl than a wife.
“You went to college, right? Biology major? After all the time and effort you invested in getting an education, is it fair
that society says you’re supposed to forget it ever happened and spend your life changing diapers and making meat loaf?”
“No. But . . . somebody has to have the babies, don’t they? I mean, if they can?”
Bitsy swallowed hard and blinked even harder. Margaret had suffered a miscarriage early in her marriage, and it suddenly occurred
to her that Bitsy’s wan appearance might not be due to pregnancy but because she wasn’t pregnant anymore. Margaret laid a hand on her shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Bitsy? Did something happen?”
“I really can’t talk about it. King wouldn’t like me to.”
“Oh, for shit’s sake! Isn’t anybody going to talk about anything?” Charlotte ground her cigarette butt into the ashtray and got to her feet. “I need a drink.”
“The punch!” Margaret exclaimed, popping up from the sofa. “I almost forgot!”
She scurried into the kitchen, then emerged a minute later carrying Viv’s punch bowl. The punch was neon red and had orange
slices and an ice ring of frozen cranberries floating on the surface.
“You are all about garnishes, aren’t you?” Charlotte angled a skeptical eyebrow as Margaret set the punch bowl down on the table. “What
is that?”
“I found the recipe in a magazine ad,” Margaret said, ladling the liquid into dainty crystal cups. “It’s cranberry juice,
frozen orange juice concentrate, 7 Up, and white rum. The recipe didn’t call for rum,” she admitted, “but I decided to put
in a little, only half a cup. I thought it might help ease the getting-to-know-you awkwardness. Try it.”
Charlotte took a sip and made a face.
“Oh, for the love of . . .” She plunked the cup onto the table. “Where’s the bar?”
“We don’t have one. I store the liquor in a cabinet over the stove.”
“Do you have vodka? A shaker?” Charlotte asked. “What about crème de menthe?”
“Maybe?” Margaret felt like she was failing a pop quiz. “Walt’s the bartender in the family. But I can look and—”
“Never mind. I’ll find what I need.”
Charlotte headed toward the kitchen. Viv’s eyes followed her.
“What are you making?”
“Truth serum.”
* * *
Charlotte reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray of four martini glasses that brimmed with chartreuse-colored cocktails.
She set down the tray, picked up a glass, and held it out to Viv, who shook her head.
“I’d rather not.”
“Oh, come on,” Charlotte said, making no attempt to hide her exasperation. “The color is a little strange, I’ll give you that.
But they’re good. At least give it a try. Apart from reservations, vodka stingers are the only thing I know how to make.”
Truth serum really might have been the better name for the concoction. Because when Charlotte thrust the glass under Viv’s nose, she
blurted out a confession that none of them expected.
“It’s not the color. It’s the smell.” She screwed her eyes shut and whipped her head to the side like a toddler refusing spinach.
“It’s just so strong and I . . . I’m pregnant.”
The other three women gasped. Viv started to cry.
“Oh, Viv.” Margaret perched on the sofa arm and patted her back. “Are you sure?”
Viv bobbed her head and said she was, blubbering. Bitsy handed her a paper napkin.
“How far along are you?”
“Not very,” Viv said, dabbing her eyes. “Maybe a month.”
“Well, then you don’t know for sure, do you?” Margaret said. “It could be a false alarm. The doctor won’t order a test until