Thirteen #2
She followed Frances back to the booth. Joan and Irene couldn’t keep the look of surprise from their faces as Frances slid into the booth.
“This is Marcy Kessler, Edie’s granddaughter,” she said, and to Marcy, “And this is Joan and Irene. I suppose you could say the four of us were our own little gang back in the day.”
“Oh, Frances!” Joan said, and then followed that with an unnaturally high chortle. “We were not a gang.” She smiled at Marcy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcy. What do they call a group of girlfriends now?”
“I don’t know … a posse?” Marcy suggested.
“That’s it! A posse,” Irene said. “That’s what we were, Fran. Very nice to meet you, Marcy. My goodness, don’t you look like your grandmother.”
“Really?” Marcy put a hand to her hair. “She’s a natural blonde, though.”
“Oh, I see the resemblance around the eyes,” Irene said.
Marcy seemed pleased with the comparison. “How did you all meet?”
“Well, I met Edie at a party,” Frances said. “She showed up wearing the most godawful thing you ever saw. Like she was leaving the party to go hiking.” She laughed. “I loaned her some clothes.”
“What did you loan her?”
“A halter top and some shorts.”
Marcy nodded. “Who did she come with?”
“Hmm. I don’t remember. Some guy,” Frances said with a shrug. “There were always guys sniffing around her. She was gorgeous, you know. She had silky blond hair, and long tanned legs.”
“She was funny, too,” Joan added. “She made us all laugh.”
“Yeah,” Marcy agreed, “she can be pretty funny.”
“But she was tough as nails,” Irene said. “She didn’t take shit from anyone. Pardon my French.” She suddenly grinned. “Remember the two guys that were following her?” she asked Frances and Joan.
“What happened?” Marcy asked.
“This was New York,” Irene said. “She was walking down the street, and you know what pigs men can be.”
Marcy nodded enthusiastically that she did.
“Well, they started catcalling her. And when she didn’t respond, they followed her. Now, this was in the seventies, and women weren’t as safe as we are now, especially in New York.”
“Who says we are safe now?” Frances asked.
“Anyway,” Irene said, “they would not let up. They tried to get her to stop and talk. You know, grabbing her arm and pulling her around. Very aggressive.”
“Oh my gosh,” Marcy said, her eyes wide.
“There were lots of people around, but no one was ‘noticing’ anything,” Irene added, making air quotes.
“So, your grandmother ducked into a steak restaurant. There was a table of four men in suits. She walked right up to them, said, ‘Excuse me, there are two men following me. May I sit here a moment until they go?’” Irene mimicked Edie’s breathless voice.
“Well, here’s this beautiful young woman needing help, so of course they said yes.
She sat down and when the two goons came in, she smiled at them.
One of the men got up and chased them out. ”
“Classic,” Marcy murmured.
“The two dolts were dispatched, and Edie ended up having a very fine steak dinner and a few drinks with the men at the table. It was a win-win.”
“It didn’t end there,” Joan said. “She dated one of those men for a couple of months. Long enough for him to give her pearl earrings.”
Marcy smiled proudly.
“That was the thing about your grandmother,” Joan continued.
“She was quick-witted and beautiful. All the boys loved her, and she knew how to use charm to her advantage. She got a job with it, found a place to live with it … pretty much used it to make her way through life at a time when it was tough going for women.”
“Do you have any pictures of her from then?” Marcy asked.
Joan, Irene, and Frances looked at each other.
They had destroyed any photographic evidence of the four of them a very long time ago.
In those days, there was no backup to a photo.
If the photo didn’t exist, the evidence didn’t exist. “Not with us,” Joan said.
“But maybe we could scrounge something up.”
“I wish she would tell me more,” Marcy said.
“She was the best,” Frances said.
“But why doesn’t she want to see you?” Marcy asked, looking around at the three of them. “Someone must remember what happened.”
“Good question,” Irene said. “You should ask your grandmother.”
“I did. She wouldn’t tell me.”
Frances exchanged a look with Joan. It was funny how, after all these years, one look was enough to communicate. “We had a falling-out, I guess,” Frances said. “Like I said, it was probably totally all my fault.”
“Oh, Fran, don’t do that to yourself,” Joan said, playing along. “It wasn’t your fault. Honestly, I can’t imagine what happened. Do you think it’s possible she remembers something the rest of us don’t?”
Marcy looked dubious. Her eyes were just like Edie’s—pale green and quite expressive. “She said she didn’t want you to stay because of my grandfather. Did you know him, too?”
“Oh, ah … did we?” Joan asked clumsily. “What was his name again?”
“Simon,” Marcy supplied.
Irene opened her mouth to say something, but Frances cut her off. “Nope. We never met him. Just heard about him.”