“Do you want to come in?” Francie said. She had to squeeze close to Elaine to get the door unlocked and she could smell the woman’s flowery perfume.
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Elaine said. Instead of looking at Francie, she looked in the direction of her own house, two doors down. It was a ranch too, white and red. “Mike thought I should come by.”
Francie pushed the door open and stepped with relief into her cool house. The floors were shining and the porcelain figures stood guard, one on each side of the mantel. In between, where she had once imagined photographs, there was nothing. She did not have any to put there.
“He wants me to invite you to a pool party next Saturday at our house. The Lefleurs are coming, and the Podaskis and the MacGuires and, well, just about the whole street.”
Francie looked right into Elaine’s beady eyes. She thought of Elaine’s husband with his head thrown back and his jaw clenched tight, and she smiled. “That would be lovely,” Francie said. “Thank you.”
FRANCIE PURPOSELY WORE a low-cut red blouse to the party, and a skirt that showed her wide hips. She kept her legs bare, something that she knew would keep the wives talking all night. She watched the others arrive from her back stairs. All those women in their sweater sets or blouses with Peter Pan collars, their full skirts and tiny belts to emphasize their tiny waists. She waited until they all had drinks in their hands and then she walked down the street, through the gate that led to the Macombers’ backyard and the pool. Francie saw the women take her in, the swell of her breasts and the dip of the V in the blouse. She smiled warmly at them all, pressed their soft pale hands into hers.
Mike came over and offered her a drink. There were stingers and there were grasshoppers. She didn’t know what either of these were, but saw Elaine drinking something green.
“A stinger,” she said, as if she knew what she was getting into. Francie followed Mike to the outdoor bar, where the silver pitchers of cocktails sat sweating. All of the husbands were there, and she could feel the wives watching her. The rule was to stay with the women and let a man fetch your cocktail. The rule was to talk to the wives.
“Francie’s husband was killed in Normandy,” Mike said.
Francie nodded at Paul Lefleur with his empty shirt sleeve pinned up to the shoulder. She looked at Stanley Podaski and Matt MacGuire and Bill Handy, all of them veterans.
Elaine came over and put her hand on Francie’s shoulder. “You should come and help us bring out the salad and things,” she said.
Later, after more stingers and big undercooked steaks and vanilla ice cream with crème de menthe on top, Stanley Podaski said, “I’m sorry about your husband, Francie. Fucking Krauts. Fucking war.”
Stan was thick-necked and red faced, a solid man who would be fat someday when he lost all this muscle. He was short, about Francie’s height, and she could see the red of his scalp through his blond hair. His wife, Dottie, was pregnant and sat smugly with her hands folded over her round belly.
Again Francie tried to remember her husband, but he was blurrier than ever.
“I should walk you home,” Stan said.
Francie laughed. “It’s only two houses away,” she said.
But she did leave soon after. The men beginning to tell their war stories and the women sitting on chairs by the pool, talking about their children. Unnoticed, Francie walked home. She would write a thank-you note to Elaine and put it in their mailbox tomorrow. She had read in a magazine how to write thank-you notes: only three lines, the article had said. The first line complimented the hostess. The second line complimented the event. The final line said thank you.
Sitting at her kitchen table with its red enamel top, slightly drunk, Francie wrote the note: Dear Elaine, You really know how to throw a party! Those steaks were delicious! Thank you so much for having me. She was pleased with her note, and read it again out loud. But a soft knock on the kitchen door interrupted her. Stan Podaski was standing there when she opened it.
“Just making sure you got home safe,” he said. He swayed slightly, drunk.
“Maybe you need some coffee?” Francie said. She had put the percolator on for herself anyway. “Come on.”
She held his arm to steady him and he walked in heavily.
“Go sit in the living room and I’ll bring you a cup,” she told him.
From her kitchen window she could see that the party was not yet over. She poured them each a cup of black coffee and brought them into the living room on a tray.
“Ever since I came back,” Stan said, “I drink too much. I can’t help myself. It makes me forget things, you know? Dottie doesn’t get it. Just don’t think about it, she says. But how do you stop thinking about it?” He shook his head. “She’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” he added.
Francie sipped her coffee. She wished she had cigarettes. She liked smoking around men. It felt sexy and important.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked, and Stan pulled a pack from his pocket.