Lillian set aside Thursday’s gray sky and drizzle and forced herself to smile as she set out one crystal dish with butterscotch hard candies and another with spearmint leaves. She rearranged the throw pillows on the sofa and swept her index finger along the mantel to check for nonexistent dust. She straightened the framed photos and aligned the coffee-table books. Fastidiousness was a compliment to her guests and a way to teach tidiness by example.
Deep breath.
She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the room and then herself. She preferred her print dress with the covered buttons. The wide border, replete with purple plums, green leaves, and golden accents, reminded Lillian of her mother’s china serving dish when it was filled with plum chicken during the High Holidays. She loved it when memories made her happy instead of sad. Her smile no longer fake, she drew open the curtains in defiance of the overcast sky.
Shirley walked into the living room without even saying hello, unwrapped a butterscotch with the familiar cellophane crinkle, and popped the candy into her mouth. Lillian heard it click against her teeth.
“Thanks for coming a little early,” Lillian said. She felt bad for being resentful earlier. Should she tell Shirley that she’d been thinking about changing what they taught the girls? Shirley had started these classes—they were based on her teaching. Changing the focus of them might offend her mentor.
“I didn’t want to be late.”
Lillian couldn’t imagine keeping her own unhappiness a secret from Shirley—now that she’d admitted it to herself. She had known Shirley for so long; should she reveal her desire for change? Would her longtime friend help her navigate these unheard-of problems or hinder her in making changes?
Lillian watched her remove a spearmint leaf from the bowl before floating into the wing chair she preferred.
She took in another deep breath.
The doorbell rang, preventing her from saying anything. Of all the times for the girls to come early. Lillian opened the front door, and the threat of rain brought a sultry cloud of moisture to the room. Ruth, Carrie, Irene, and Harriet entered in a cluster. The girls sat on the sofas in the order they’d become accustomed to, each wearing a dress in fall colors—olive, gold, rust, brown—in fabrics of gabardine, corduroy, and pima cotton.
Ruth’s waves bounced as if freshly set, which meant she hadn’t used hair spray. A small rebellion against conformity, no doubt. Lillian noted the medium coral shade of her lipstick. She scanned the others. Carrie wore short white gloves, Harriet a pillbox hat, and Irene had toned down her eye shadow. Lillian appreciated when the girls worked her fashion advice into their routines.
Yet no one looked like a Lillian copycat. Good.
In years past, any mimicry would have filled her with a sense of accomplishment. Now she reviled the idea of separating these young housewives from what made them unique.
Shirley sat facing the girls, but Lillian felt the weight of her stare.
“Girls,” Lillian said. She glanced at Shirley—maybe for approval, maybe for permission. “Lesson three is about interacting with your husband’s boss and colleagues. Some people think smart girls are a detriment to their husbands. I don’t. However, a man is judged by the choices he makes, and marrying well is among them. So—in social situations—don’t speak unless spoken to.” Why did Lillian say that? She didn’t even know if she believed that anymore.
“So, is it okay for us ever to be smart?” Ruth looked directly at her mother-in-law, and Lillian wondered if they’d had any weighty conversations between them. If Lillian hadn’t known better, she’d have suspected Ruth’s glance was a challenge.
Lillian cleared her throat. She needed to be careful she didn’t step into raw territory for her friend. “It’s not about being smart. It’s about being perceived as too smart. The fact is, men are in charge, so we have to work within their system. Use our intelligence to further their careers.” Lillian wished she outwardly agreed with Ruth, but she still kind of believed in the system. That’s the way it was, even if she was starting not to like it.
“You want me to pretend I’m not smart? That’s absurd.” Ruth seemed to have forgotten that her mother-in-law was in the room. “I’m not going to hide like there’s something wrong with being intelligent. Being as competent as a man.”
Shirley drew an audible breath, but Lillian ignored her. She could smooth this over without Shirley’s help.
“That’s not what we’re implying. I’m suggesting you use your memory, your ability to notice details and patterns, to fill your husband in on things that advance his career—and your way of life. It’s a social rule of thumb to make things easier for everyone.”
“Not everyone. Just the men.”
Oh, Ruth. Any man would condemn Ruth for being opinionated—an epithet never applied to their own gender.
Another reason to arm girls with as much information as possible. Her daughters would be these girls in a few years, and already her own Pammie had a similar way of making a point that put people’s backs up.
When it came right down to it, she admired Ruth’s moxie. And she worried on Ruth’s behalf. She certainly wasn’t making it easy on herself in Asher’s family. The next time Lillian looked in the mirror, she was sure she would see gray hairs sprouting atop her head and lines carved above her brows.
But Lillian had promised to prepare these girls before the High Holy Days, and she had no time for imaginary aging. “I’m here to help you girls, and you’re here to help your husbands. Remember—always think before you speak, and when you’re called on to converse, think about what is appropriate for the social situation.” She glanced over at Shirley, who was nodding in agreement while she kept her eyes pinned on Ruth. “For example, Ruth, imagine you’re at a cocktail party with your husband, who goes to refresh your drinks. You smile at two nearby colleagues of your husband, who then ask what you think about the latest news.” Lillian tried to hide her cringe. She’d been waiting for that question her whole life and had never been asked. “What do you say?”
“I might bring up the topic of NASA’s latest space probe disaster. I think,” Ruth said.
“I’d turn it around and ask what they thought about the news,” Harriet said.
“Never a bad idea.” Shirley made her point of view perfectly clear.
“Face it, girls, no one asks housewives for anything other than recipes,” Irene said.
“Asher married me because of my brain, not in spite of it.” Ruth cocked her head defiantly in Shirley’s direction. “He expects me to contribute to a conversation.”
Ruth’s hackles were up—Shirley’s too, by the look of her.
“Contribute, yes. Hijack it, no.” Shirley’s eyes were like gimlets now, and Lillian was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of that stare.
The other girls were commenting quietly in the background. Lillian mustn’t let the lesson get away from her, couldn’t let Shirley or these girls down. She spoke over their ongoing prattle. “Ladies, this is about social behavior that reflects on your husband. We live in a man’s world—and will for the foreseeable future.”