Chapter Ten - Florence

In this chapter from Wednesday Club, Florence wants the club to think she has a perfect life.

Florence

October 8, 1963

From the basement, Florence listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times, four times. Finally, she heard her husband heave himself from his faded brown easy chair and amble towards the phone stand in the hallway. Florence could picture the dent left in Lloyd’s leather chair, a scoop that fit his backside like a perfectly worn baseball glove.

Florence heard more heavy footsteps on the wooden floor above her, then “Florence!” She called up to him. “What?”

After a few seconds, Lloyd shouted, “Florence!”

Florence yelled louder this time. “Down here, Lloyd.”

Lloyd opened the door to the cellar and called down, “What are you doing down there?”

“Getting the punch bowl and cups.”

“Telephone. It’s Coast to Coast Hardware.”

Florence trotted up the stairs as fast as she could manage. Which was pretty good for a 42-year-old, she thought. She bumped into Lloyd as she rushed for the phone.

“Hello? Yes, that’s right. Oh – that’s wonderful news. I’ll be right in to pick it up.”

Florence ran for her purse as she called out to Lloyd. “The wallpaper’s in. Just in the nick of time. I’m on my way to town to get it.”

“Wallpaper? I thought your meeting is tomorrow.”

“It is. I’ll have just enough time to get it hung tonight.” Florence stopped for a quick check of her appearance in the front hall mirror. Despite today's humidity, her carefully teased and heavily sprayed hair was still in place. She added a fresh coat of lipstick, then blotted it with a Kleenex pulled from her pocket.

Lloyd stared at her. “You can’t do the whole dining room in one night. That’s damn foolhardy!”

Florence didn’t have time to linger. “But I have to, Lloyd. Tomorrow’s Wednesday Club.” With that explanation, she was out the door.

Later, around midnight, Florence thought that maybe Lloyd had been right; perhaps this was a bit foolhardy. She’d only gotten two rolls up so far, and already she’d had to redo things four times. It had been a while since Florence had hung wallpaper, and she’d forgotten the delicate balance between getting the glue on, getting the roll positioned just right so the patterns lined up, and getting it even from top to bottom. Perhaps she should have chosen a more forgiving pattern, too. The large fleur-de-lis looked terribly wrong if it wasn’t matched up exactly.

It was probably a bit ambitious to think she could finish the whole dining room in time. But it seemed important to set a good example for the club. Especially now, with a young impressionable girl in the club who could learn from her. Where she was from, in Dallas County, women were well-versed in the art of hostessing. After all, creating a beautiful and inviting setting put your guests at ease and said a lot about how you were managing your household. Everything needed to be considered: the welcome by the hostess, the table setting, the serving dishes, the linens, and the bathroom. So much to consider and prepare for.

Florence would do her usual dress rehearsal in a few hours, pretending she was a guest and gathering impressions from the front door onwards. Were there any eyesores? Unsightly clutter? Dirt? Smears? Everything should be spotless and perfect. Including her own appearance, of course.

Florence had been to Wednesday Club at everyone’s house except Tilly’s, and, frankly, some of these women could use an example of how-to hostess well. Who better than Florence to show them? She was the only member with big city out-of-state experience, and Texas was well advanced over South Dakota when it came to sophistication and refinement.

Florence wished they were still living in Texas and closer to their son Todd, who was in basic training in Georgia. If only Lloyd hadn’t made it so they had no choice but to come back to where he’d grown up, back to where Robert could take them in, give Lloyd a way to make a living. She hoped his brother didn’t tire of Lloyd’s health problems. There were days when Lloyd couldn’t manage the long hours of heat and dust. He was trying. And it did seem like those dark days were behind him.

He had promised Florence.

With her mind given over to remembering, Florence lost herself in the repetition of measuring and cutting, the spreading of the glue, and the positioning of the paper. Two walls down, two to go. If only this rickety step stool weren’t so wobbly — she’d been after Lloyd to fix it for so long, even before they moved into this old farmhouse eight months ago. Why couldn’t he ever just do what she asked instead of her having to remind him three or four times? She’d better go ahead and fix it herself — it would be just her luck to topple over and glue herself to the wall.

Florence grabbed a flashlight and headed out the kitchen door to Lloyd’s shop. Maybe that was what all this fuss about women being less dependent on their husbands was all about. Maybe it was just about being tired of waiting for men to get things done. No reason why Florence couldn’t find the large Philips head and tighten up the ladder herself. Sometimes, when she laid awake in bed, she imagined herself like this: taking charge, managing the place on her own. Being able to do things the way she wanted; the way she knew they should be done. It felt good thinking about being alone, no Lloyd to worry about.

Florence kept the big overhead light in the shop off — better not to take a chance on Lloyd waking up and giving her what for when he saw the walls half done. She shone the flashlight toward the shelves above the workbench and the drawers below it. What a mess. Are all men this way — not an organized bone in their bodies? How can you put the WD40 in with the drill bits and the wrenches? Wouldn’t it be logical to put all the cans of oil together? Where are those dang screwdrivers?

Florence pulled open a drawer: paintbrushes, sanding paper, glue. Another drawer: rope, gas funnel, and leather gloves. What was in this large drawer? Under this rag?

Florence pulled up the greasy cloth and then stood, her breath catching in her chest. She bent back down and pulled out a couple of bottles. Then, more bottles. A whole big drawer filled with empty liquor bottles. Florence stood motionless; her heart washed over with a wave of dark liquid heaviness.

Then she clenched her teeth, replaced the bottles, covered them with the rag, closed the drawer, walked to the shop door, and quietly left. She’d just have to manage the wobbly stepladder.

Still, she wrestled with the deep sadness threatening to overtake her. He’d promised.