The Last Frozen Dinner

Word on the street was the ladies of Gilman Avenue were losing it. It was supposedly like an illness that ruthlessly spread from woman to woman and, suddenly, they were drained of their wellness and reason. They uprooted their lives to get to the source, and in the process committed the most heinous, despicable acts. Caroline Healy got a job. Elizabeth Wright went out in public in jeans and a t-shirt. Fawn Leigh was in the throes of divorce.

I didn’t know if it was true, but it’s what I heard from the women of my street, from my close friend May, and my husband John. Whatever they had, I was sure I was immune to it. John said their little project wouldn’t be around much longer. Such frivolity and nonsense can only last so long, he asserted. May worried about it often, fearing they wished to expand to other streets, particularly our safe street of Windom Circle.

Our husbands, being such prominent figures as they were, worked long hours. She would come over often and our kids would play together while John and Steven were at work.

“They scare me, those women. How their husbands can tolerate such outrageous behavior in the home, I don’t know. Who knows what goes on in their households, anyways,” May said.

“Mm,” I responded, listening absent-mindledly as I peered out the window to check on the kids. They were playing on the banks of Henderson Lake, around which our small town of Meriden was centered.

She offered me a glass of wine but I declined politely. She didn’t mind. The evening passed as usual. We spoke of people -- the Women of Gilman Avenue, women in our neighborhood expecting, who was trying, who was due soon. May finished a glass of wine. We spoke of our kids and how they’re doing in school. She finished another glass. We talked about our husbands, housework, chores, and dinner. By then she had finished the bottle.

“I’m just going to use the bathroom and then I’ll get out of your hair,” she said as she looked outside.

May left in a calm swoop, her eyes hazy yet her demeanor poised and polished. “Can I pick you up tonight for the Children First Meeting?” She asked over her shoulder as she and her children left. I said yes, but the door was already closed.

The Children First meeting was one of the few occasions where I dipped into the frozen dinner fund. It was baking in the oven, the packaging buried deep in the trash can. As it cooked, I busied myself with some chores as I waited nervously for John. He seemed to be getting home later every night, but he knew about the meeting so I hoped he would be the usual thirty minutes behind.

The meetings were held at Henderson Lake Elementary School. Approaching the classroom, the chatter sounded louder than usual. Inside, the unnerving origin of the sound was unveiled -- it was the Women of Gilman Avenue. They were a band of misfits, with their hair cut short or their wild curls uncontained, blue jeans, wearing sunglasses inside, bold makeup or no makeup at all. I could feel May stiffen next to me as though she’d just been electrocuted. I was ashamed when my gaze wandered to their side of the room and caught the eye of Fawn Leigh. I felt my face flush as I quickly swiveled my head to the front of the room.

The meeting didn’t go as usual that night. That’s what the Women of Gilman Avenue did. They ruffled feathers. They twisted things, turned them upside down, and shook them relentlessly like my children did with the toys they’d grown out too old for. They disagreed with our girls taking home economics in elementary school. They thought the boys and girls should have equal time spent learning subjects, they said. More time in art for the boys and more time in math and science for the girls. And no home economics altogether, they said. Feathers were flying by the time the meeting had commenced.

Though May had already dismissed herself to the restroom three times during the hour-long meeting, she said she needed to go once more before we left. I poured myself a cup of the complimentary coffee in the back, accidentally putting myself uncomfortably close to the plotting, promiscuous Women of Gilman Avenue. I felt oddly conscious of every slight move I made, the muscles in my face, my posture.

“Donna, it’s been so long!” A voice cooed closeby. My stomach sank as I turned around to see my old friend Elizabeth surrounded by the Women of Gilman Avenue. “How are you? And the kids?” I felt exposed under a fluorescent light.

“They’re great, thanks,” I said shortly as I gulped the coffee. I nearly gagged on the scolding liquid.

“Good. You were pretty quiet at the meeting today; what do you think of girls and boys taking different subjects at such a young age?” All of the womens’ eyes were on me.

“Well, that’s a tricky decision. That’s what we did as kids, but --” I murmured.

"But who knows, maybe I’d be an astronaut or a paleontologist if I’d taken the same classes as the boys,” Fawn picked up where I left off. My cheeks burned. The women continued on about what they might be -- a CEO, pilot, a professor, a business owner, their husband’s boss.

“Donna, what do you think you’d be?” Fawn asked. She looked sincere, really invested in the hypothetical world created in a matter of a minute.

“Well, I suppose I was always interested in the ocean. Maybe marine biology.” They accepted this with a warmth that wanted to pull me into its embrace, but it was accompanied with a sheepish sigh. Meanwhile, I berated myself in my head. I needed to escape before I was seen.

Elizabeth broke the silence. “We’re having a ladies-only barbeque at my place on Saturday around noon. Please join.”

I saw May heading my way and needed a quick escape, so I figured mustering a “Sure” would be the quickest way out.

"We'll see you there," she said.

I was horrified that May might have heard as she closed in. “Mark is probably here by now, let’s go,” she said at my shoulder. I felt like a schoolgirl again, caught for sneaking a peak at a classmate’s paper and bracing the punishment.

“You’re welcome for saving you from that situation,” she finally said as we pushed through the metal doors at the school entryway. “Those women are desperate to get poor women like us on board with them.” I agreed and deterred the conversation from going further.

John noticed the dinner was a frozen meal. He didn’t look happy.

____________________________________________________

One night I made a frozen meal when I lost track of time watching a nature documentary on Manta rays. I put it on for the kids but found myself sinking into the couch next to them. John looked horrified at the meal and, worse, disappointed in me.

Another night I dreamt of Fawn. She told me to follow her and I did. We went to Lake Henderson. Suddenly we were in bathing suits, dipping into the water. But instead of the usual murkiness that lies under the surface of the lake the water was crisp, clear, and bright blue. There were schools of fish, ephemeral and glittering. There was coral of colors that only the mind’s eye could conjure, there were beautiful sea creatures scavenging the landscape and there were sprawling, mysterious caves. We started swimming towards one when I woke up gasping for air. I must have been holding my breath.

I went to the barbeque that day, telling myself I would only make a brief appearance. I told John I had a therapist appointment. He didn’t like to hear the details, so he didn’t ask further questions. He dropped me off at the office, a short walk from Elizabeth’s.

Her face lit up when she saw me. The women were immersed in conversation but greeted me kindly as I opened the gate. I came to the realization that this was the first social event of any kind I’d been to alone since I married John. I usually stayed close to his side and listened attentively to his conversations about politics and business and nodded when appropriate. But these women asked me questions. My responses were clunky and stuck in my throat. I hadn’t been asked questions like those and couldn’t seem to muster the right words. They wanted to know what my interests and dreams were, what I thought of the feminist movement that I hardly knew a thing about, what my sex life was like.

Some of the women drank beers, but they weren’t white knuckling them like I’d seen my friends with their wine glasses. We were gathered around the table. I planned to leave soon and was starting to feel frivolous and foolish. Fawn looked around at us all.

“Let me ask you all something,” she said. She held a demanding presence in the group, and everyone looked intently at her. “Are you happy?”

No. The word burned in my skull and begged to be set free through my lips. I didn’t know where it came from and I wanted to smother it, but it vibrated in my ears and on my tongue. I clenched my mouth to stop the slippery word from wriggling its way into the void.

“I’m happier than I have been in a long time,” said Elizabeth. The women collectively nodded.

“You feel lighter, right?” Fawn said. “And what’s even worse is that when we show this unhappiness, we have a problem.”

“Or we need to go to a therapist,” I blurted. The words finally clawed their way through the blockade and got their way. The others weren’t astounded like I thought they would be. They simply continued nodding.

“We’re not the issue, I can tell you that much. The problem is much bigger than that,” said Fawn. She raised her beer. “Fuck mopping.”

Elizabeth raised hers. “Fuck laundry.”

“Fuck cooking.”

“Fuck doing it all alone.”

“Fuck lame sex!” The foreign words came from inside me and floated into the air. I wanted to reach out and grab them before they were heard.

They burst out laughing and Fawn said, over all the whooping, giggling and chattering, “Fuck it all!”

“Fuck it all!” we yelled back. And finally, I meant those words.

____________________________________________________

I made a frozen meal that evening for dinner. And I made a frozen meal the next night because I went out for dinner with Elizabeth. I met up with Fawn the next day for a walk around the lake, so another frozen meal was pulled from the freezer. It was the last.

John’s face resembled the same face he made when yet unborn Margaret’s gender was revealed or the one he would make when he saw the pale pink stretch marks that branched across my hips after her birth. It was a face that usually buried me under a heap of hot dread and shame. Normally a stack of shame would have piled high, but instead I felt something foreign towards John. I felt disgust and disappointment.

____________________________________________________

Fawn and I spoke of John one cold afternoon. We were skating with our children on the frozen Lake Henderson in the height of winter. “Do you miss him?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Not really. But I wish I told him how I felt.”

“He left many years ago, honey. I don’t think he’s coming back, so it’s best to come to terms with that,” Fawn said.

She was right. I had many regrets about John. But, looking down into the icy blue surface, I thought about his frozen body wrapped in its depths and I felt free.