She then went back to the kitchen - where atleast she could stay invisible - and began washing the first, of what would be atleast several cooking vessels. New to this group, but apparently, most, if not, every such club, had a Jenny and a Barb, amongst their "aux" - which, among outsiders, was often misunderstood as "auxiliary." Per the vfw and the moose, the ladies of their "auxiliaries" were members, with atleast some voting privileges, Not so, in this particular org's chapters. But, atleast at her Father's chapter, Meg, sort of knew what to expect from the other women. Here, she was not only a stranger, but lowest in the "aux" rank. The other women stood around the table, socializing; a few over by the bar doing the same.
One, a bleach blond, in her early 20s - with a figure to about die for - looked familiar, but couldn't place from where; her faded jeans and t-shirt, were just ever so. The picnic, late last spring, at littlebison park?...one of the few times Father had actually allowed her to go anywhere...you know the "#all boys dogs, all girls beeches" hashtag. No, couldn't place the young woman there, nor could she, during her father's employer's family day, which had been held on capital island; the day had been a scorcher - and for the first time, probably for decades, swimming in the river had been permitted; but not for Meg, of course - the last bathing suit she had worn, had been the summer between sixth and seventh grade.
And no cool jeans either - she glanced down at the baggies upon her frame; the chapter's t-shirt, a size L, of course. Size M wasn't even snug, and could have stood a wash in hot water. What freaking next? A burka? Don't ponder that one...no birth-dearth in that community. Unlike some others, Meg was no islamaphobe - nor any other *phobe. And as far as the "wahmen question" among leading, or rank-and-file muslims, at the end of life's day, didn't really matter...was the ultimate tragic same, stepping into eternity without Jesus Christ.
She rinsed off the vessel, and while reaching for another, she caught another glimpse of bleach-blond. The rather heavily, but - of course - expertly eye-lined youngish woman was passing a cigarette to - if Meg wasn't mistaken - the Sec's wife. Okay, atleast midland on the order...socio-darwinism, energy pit, one wrong move, word spoken oh, the drama... Meg didn't yet want to make eye contact. Didn't know her, couldn't yet place her. Upon hearing one of the women call "Hey, Deb..." Meg halfways blanched. But almost enough to ask herself, if she had died, or something, and sort of woke up back in Newmarket Middle School...had been not exactly a fun place.
But this wasn't middle-school. The days of being bullied, for really no valid reason, and then mercilessly excoriated for ... well no better reason than defending oneself... but, oh spit, fighting like a girl? Duh! It had been as if half the school had been in on the taunting. Though Meg, from time to time, since then, had practiced on her father's punch bag, she had never gotten the hang of it.
What luck :/ The only other wife around her age was the sort of person, best avoided. Yeah, yeah, she'd heard various rumors...one of mom's boyfriends, and then Deb working at a place called lucky's. Meg had never been inside any of those places, nor wanted to be...washed up, years before "the wall"...ugh, no thanks.
From an adjoining room, she heard the chapter president's gavel pound the desk, and two or three voices - one that didn't want to shut up. Something about an upcoming run to DC; Meg had heard other / related snippets, but to ask - much less eavesdrop...just wasn't done. Finally, mouth - whoever he was - was done; probably, on account of one other voice, who - even through the closed door and paneled wall - sounded quite hangry.
The members filed out, and took their seats in the social hall. The women, more or less per Husband's rank, lined up at the serving table, and began filling their husband's plates - reusable ones, since paper products were ... a stack of 30 styros were almost a dollar, each - yikes. Daughters served their brothers. Meg, alongside another wife, remained behind the table to remove empty trays, and replace with full. By the time the men and boys - and some of the women - were enjoying their meal - the table was experiencing a population drop. Half the remaining vessels contained, more or less, a few serving spoonfuls.
Nearly last in line, Meg was finally able to get something to eat - her last meal had been an english muffin and some marmalade, and just a spoonful of scrambled eggs. Mrs Doyle Anders, had, that morning scrambled the last three eggs for her Husband; he had quite an appetite, but hey, he worked - hard.
There had remained enough of the old-senate salad - a combination of noodles, some ricotta, white sauce and topped with walnuts; if it didn't have walnuts, and more than a few of them, still was a decent side. But it wasn't "old-senate." The meatballs of course, were nearly gone, but just as well for someone else to enjoy; had there been more, Meg would have taken two. With her plate reasonably loaded - well, almost - she took her place at table, and finally was able to have a few bites. Water pitcher was about empty, she arose to refill it, and another nearby.
The stiff armband was again acting up; she slid her index and middle finger beneath the "WIFE" letters, while making her way toward the kitchen. "Hon, id'el take awhile ta get broke in," an older woman chuckled. Meg recognized the voice, the woman had earlier been going on about having to start wearing a pair of boots she had bought a year previous - her favs, were shot and in the trash. While, she didn't mean anything by the remark, two or three male voices either laughed or made quips.
Not funny.
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