Bridge Club Blues

What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?

I dropped my school books on the counter and looked in the refrigerator for something to eat. Back in the spare bedroom, I heard the sound of the sewing machine.  I took an apple and wandered back to check on things.

Mom was hunched over the machine with her readers on, fiddling with the needle clamp. Next to her was a bureau that was cluttered with bolts of fabric, patterns, thread, and a ten-gallon aquarium. In the aquarium were my pet gerbils Charlie and Gert.

“What are you going to do with all of them?” she asked. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. It was a question I heard almost every day.

Charlie and Gert were the proud parents of ten babies. They had grown to almost full size and the aquarium seemed alive with a sea of gerbils. They raced over their stick and in and out of their shredded burlap nest. They were endearing little things.

I removed the metal screen cover from the top, reached in, and picked up Charlie. As he sat in my palm, I noticed Gert had somehow climbed up the water bottle and was peering over the top of the aquarium with interest.

“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe keep them.” She turned and glared at me.

“Or, I dunno,” I said. “Maybe sell them to kids at school. I’ll figure it out.”

A few nights later at dinner, Mom casually spoke. “I’ve got the bridge club coming next week,” she said.

My older brother Doug, Pop and I paused in mid chew and stared at each other.

Oh no.

It was a term we’d learn to fear.

Of all of the mysteries of Mom, the bridge club was the most baffling, the most beyond our collective guy understanding.

On the surface, hosting the monthly bridge club seemed like a friendly get together of eight ladies. An afternoon of playing cards, having snacks, a few cocktails, and swapping stories.

But we had learned, painfully, that this pleasant facade masked something much more. Hosting was endured, not enjoyed. It was a grueling affair that took a devastating toll not only on Mom, but all of us.

The event was hosted round-robin by the eight ladies in the club. The critical importance of planning was drilled into our heads.

At least a week before, Doug and I were pressed into service. The entire house was vacuumed, dusted, mopped. The pool was cleaned, the lawn mowed and edged, weeds pulled. Even though none of the ladies had ever ventured into the hot garage, it too was swept and tidied.

We had learned to give Mom extra wide latitude during prep week as she fretted, made lists, and shopped: food, drink, table decorations. Eight door prizes, the grand prize, the booby prize.

The day before, she got her hair done. The good towels were hung in the bathroom, and decorative soaps and candles carefully arranged. Pop, Doug and I were ordered to use the slop sink in the utility room to wash our hands and brush our teeth.

Then it was just a waiting game until the first boat-like cars of the 1970s began pulling into the driveway.

This particular bridge club event was marred by two unfortunate incidents.

First, one of us forgot and used the guest bathroom off the family room to wash our hands. Pop, Doug and I were watching TV when Mom found the rumpled, damp towels.

“Damn it!” she yelled from the bathroom. “Who used the good towels?” A pause, then; “And did you have to use the decorative soap?!” 

We headed for our rooms as she savagely yanked the towels off the rack and picked the sea shell soaps out of a soupy pond in the crystal soap dish. Ten minutes later, we heard her again.

“You guys!” she shouted. “Come here!”

The towels had been ironed and were once again flat with military-crisp edges. The counter had been cleaned, the soda dish drained, and new soaps added. She pointed to a piece of notebook paper with big block writing she had put on the towel rack.

If you use these towels, I’ll kill you.

“Got it?” she said.

The other thing happened about a week before the bridge club.

I left the screen top off the aquarium and that night there was a mass escape. All 12 gerbils had used the water bottle and were now loose in the house. 

Living in the boonies, we’d had our share of wildlife visits. A bat once flew around the living room as we tried to catch it with the pool net. Another time, a five-foot indigo snake whip-sawed its way across the family room floor as Mom screamed. 

But never before had a dozen rodents been on the loose. Over the next few nights, excited barking from our dog at 4:00 am had all four of us springing out of bed with flashlights, looking behind furniture and along the baseboards.

Happily, we caught eight of them; but by bridge club day, four remained fugitives.

By three pm, things were in full swing.

Fueled by whiskey sours and finger foods, the noise level in the living room rose remarkably; a hubbub of voices, bursts of laughter, screams, shouted bridge words. 

The living room was separated from the family room and guest bath by two pocket doors. Now and then, a door would open, and one of the ladies would cross the family room where I laid on the couch watching Dialing for Dollars. I heard the fan go on each time they closed the bathroom door.

I noticed something strange; they all emerged looking faintly uncomfortable. Their hands were wet and they flipped them back and forth before spotting the dish towels in the kitchen. They looked at me, dried their hands, then went back into the living room.

Finally, Mom came through the door with an incredulous look. It was eerie; she fixed her gaze on me, a questioning look, unbelieving, as she walked through the kitchen, the family room, and into the bathroom. There was a long pause, then she emerged, looking utterly defeated, holding her sign.

“Really?” she asked wearily. “You didn’t notice?”

With exquisite timing, someone screamed in the living room. Then more screaming and a sudden excited exodus as seven women tried to get through the pocket doors at once. They huddled in the kitchen, clutching each other.

“A rat!” someone shouted. 

“Two!” said someone else. “Two rats ran behind the stereo!” 

Mom tried her best to lower the panicky vibe with shushing and using nicknames and trying to explain about the gerbils. But it was no good, and one by one the ladies made their excuses and left with hugs, looks at each other, and sotto voce comments about why on earth didn’t we live in town like everyone else.

I thought it best to clear out and give her time to cool down. I also wanted to warn Pop. I waited at the bus stop for him and as we drove the 1/4 mile to our house, I gave him an elevator-speech account of the afternoon.

We entered to find a weird spectacle. Mom lay on the good living room couch with her feet up and her shoes still on. She had her arm over her eyes.

She didn’t smoke, but a blue pall of cigarette smoke filled the room. Everything was just where it was when the ladies fled; dishes of food, half-finished whisky sours, the prizes, overflowing ash trays, cards. There was a deathly silence.

“Why do we have to live out here in the middle of nowhere?” she said quietly. “Why can’t we live in town like normal people?” 

She moved her arm and looked at me and Pop. 

“This afternoon was a shittin’ thing,” she said. “It was SO shittin’.” She put her arm back over her eyes.

It was one of Pop’s favorite expressions but only used sparingly, to describe truly wretched things; a busted transmission, a tree struck by lightning. 

It was not unnoticed. He gingerly approached the couch as I headed for the safety of my room.

The Bridge Club Incident took its place in the annals of family lore. It was months before the pained look on Mom’s face at the words bridge club or seeing a gerbil was gradually replaced by a wintry smile; a grin; and finally, a laugh.

Thankfully, the gerbils were all eventually caught and I found homes for all of Charlie and Gert’s considerable brood. Pop smoothed over things with a trip to the Mai-Kai with some of the bridge club ladies and their husbands.

For whatever reason, the bridge club folded a few months later. Times were changing and some of the ladies started working. Others’ husbands got transferred by IBM, others simply drifted away. It ended one chapter in Mom’s life, one both hated and loved; and began another as I started high school.

I found the souvenir mug from all those years ago last week in the attic. I turned it over in my hands and thought about Mom, long gone now. Mom, miserably outnumbered, but hopelessly cherished. I thought about our life as a family and how fleeting now seemed that magic time.

And how the words bridge club no terrify me. 😎

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