Eliza Starts a Rumor(8)
Most of the more titillating posts were written anonymously. And those got tons of comments—epic threads, they routinely called them. There hadn’t been an “epic thread” on the Hudson Valley Ladies’ Bulletin Board since Hilary Winters accused Trudy Summers of bribing the high school tennis coach with her famous apple pie. At least that was what Eliza thought it was about; her daughter insisted it was a code word for sex.
She wasn’t about to change the tone completely, posting about foreplay or fellatio, but she needed to come up with something that wouldn’t be discussed openly at back-to-school night. How could she create an epic thread?
The phone rang, startling her, as many previously innocuous noises had been doing lately. She answered before looking at the caller ID. If she had done so, she would have let it go to voicemail. It was Nancy Block, one of the four players in her monthly bridge game and the only one that she considered to be more than an acquaintance. Eliza hadn’t played in a while and had taken to texting in her excuses and not answering calls regarding them. Nancy’s voice sounded strange and Eliza immediately addressed it. “Hey, Nan, are you OK? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“No, actually, Eliza, I am not OK.”
Eliza took a deep breath. She had heard so much awful news lately: cancer, kids in rehab, parents with dementia. Getting older seemed to be bringing a whole new set of issues. She really cared for Nancy; she braced herself for the worst.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
A heavy sigh on the other end confirmed that bad news was coming. “I guess there’s no other way to say it. You are what’s wrong, Eliza. You have no respect for our bridge game, or for me for that matter!”
Eliza began to shake. She was totally caught off guard and that was one of her worst triggers. Thank God for the Valium already in her system or she may have found herself right down on the floor again. Her bridge game was her last bastion of real-life social interaction. For the first Tuesday of the month she would bake pecan sandies (Nancy’s favorite), oatmeal raisins (Mara’s favorite), and gluten-free chocolate chips (for Dana). She would shower, do her hair, put on something other than sweatpants, and sometimes even a coat of mascara and lipstick. Even with all of that, for the past three games she couldn’t make it out the door. She knew it was so wrong to cancel at the last minute—obviously they couldn’t play without her. She was ready to apologize and say something resembling the truth, when Nancy threw salt on the gash that she had inflicted. “We are done with you and your excuses. You are no longer a part of our game.”
As if her harsh words weren’t enough, her tone was caustic. Eliza could not remember being spoken to that way before. And where was the empathy? Where was “Is everything OK with you?”
Eliza barely managed an “I’m sorry, Nancy, I really am . . .” when Nancy interrupted her apology with a final blow, “Whatever, Eliza. Maybe you should take up solitaire!”
The line went dead, for which Eliza was mostly grateful. She understood Nancy’s disappointment. No one was more disappointed with Eliza than Eliza. She was filled with anger but wasn’t even sure at whom to direct it. She was angry at her “friends” for not seeing her disappear before their eyes, and she was angry at herself for not having the strength to overcome this thing. And on a much simpler level, she was angry about losing something else that she really enjoyed. She had already given up her weekly tennis game with the excuse of plantar fasciitis. The tennis ladies had at least cared enough to send bath salts and a foot-shaped ice pack. She felt completely isolated from the outside world, raising the stakes even higher on the value of the bulletin board in her life. She asked herself again, What can I post to create an epic thread?
She stared out the window for an answer and, just like that, one appeared.
It wasn’t the first time that Eliza took notice of what was going on in the house next door. Albeit for different reasons, she was sometimes as bored as housebound Jimmy Stewart in the movie Rear Window. And while she didn’t use binoculars, the new neighbors had yet to install window treatments. Between that and the angle of their houses, hers being slightly uphill from theirs, Eliza could see a whole lot from her desk window—specifically the comings and goings of a certain gentleman who was most definitely not Mr. Smith.
At that very moment, while she was staring out the window, Not-Mr.-Smith approached the front door and rang the bell. But this time Mrs. Smith didn’t let him in. Eliza could see her look out from her bedroom window and decide not to answer it. Not-Mr.-Smith went from patiently ringing to incessantly banging, while Mrs. Smith went from calmly ignoring him to pacing back and forth like a prisoner on death row. He finally gave up and left.
Eliza opened up the Hudson Valley Ladies’ Bulletin Board and began typing:
Anonymous: I just moved here from the city with hopes of starting over after an affair that my husband knows nothing about. The man I was having the affair with followed me here and keeps showing up at my door. Today I pretended I wasn’t home. He was banging so hard it scared me. I’ve told him I want to end things, but he won’t have it. I know it’s wrong to cheat. That’s why I want to break it off and start fresh. Please only comment with constructive advice.
She read it over. Pretty scandalous, she thought. She pressed Post and waited. It didn’t take long before the comments began rolling in.