The Old Wives’ Tails Club

            The last time Mrs. Getty could remember her palms so sweaty, bell-bottoms and disco afros were all the rage. She longed for those days now. Days when her nerves were frazzled for good reason. Days when sweaty palms and dry mouth were reserved for only the most significant of events: realizing that she was a week late, waiting on that second pink line that refused to reveal itself, having her lover take her to an abortion clinic two towns over, praying that her husband didn’t find out. Things like that. Real. Life. Problems. Now she seemed to be nervous over nothing. So, it was her first day at a new meeting. So, she hadn’t ventured out in public—besides her biweekly trip to Kmart—in almost a decade. So, she was ten minutes late…

            Shit! She scurried down the long hallway of the Senior Citizens Center. What a horrendous way to make a first impression! She turned the handle on a door that had a single sheet of paper taped to it, with the words, written in permanent black marker: THE OLD WIVES’ TAILS CLUB.

            “…I’m telling you, the kid wouldn’t stop fiddling with the gosh-darn thing. Drove him blind by nineteen.”

            “And his palms?”

            “Covered in hair. Saw so myself.”

            All of the women in the small circle individually clinched their lips together, shook their heads full of grayish-blue hair, and made a distinct sound—a soft reverberation of the letter M, expressed in descending tetrachord in the modern B Locrian (Mmm-Mmm-Mmm-Mmm)—as if to convey not only their disappointment but also a collective sense of I told you so! in one quasi-theatrical act.

The scene was broken when one of the women noticed the newcomer carefully slither through an opening in the doorway that was only a mere millimeter or so wider than her body. “And you must be Mrs. Getty.”

Mrs. Getty froze like a jackalope in headlights. “Sorry if I’m interrupting…”

“Oh stop it!” The woman waved Mrs. Getty into the room. “Grab a seat.” She pointed at the only empty chair in the circle. “I’m Mrs. Arthur. From the emails. And this is Mrs. White.” She nodded her head at the woman to her left and then continued around the circle. “Mrs. McClanahan. Mrs. Greene. And Mrs. Wyllie. And I’m Mrs. Arthur.”

“You already said that,” Mrs. McClanahan chimed in.

“Grab a seat. Grab a seat,” Mrs. Arthur echoed. “Now, where were we? Mrs. Greene, you were telling us about your great nephew…”

“My second cousin’s grandson,” Mrs. Greene corrected. “But enough of that already. Did I ever tell you about my neighbor Steve’s nephew, from when I used to live in Biloxi? Well, the kid ate half a pizza and only waited eighteen minutes before jumping in the pool, and you can imagine how this ends. A shame. A real shame…”

“You think that’s bad?” Mrs. White interrupted. “My boy Carl, his old boss’s granddaughter, she was foolin’ around, crossing her eyes, fell down some stairs, well, her eyes have been crossed ever since. Poor girl. Imagine trying to find a good man with a pair of crossed eyes?”

It wasn’t long before most everyone in the room was bickering, voices straining to be heard over others, clusters of words echoing off the walls, tenses bouncing between the floor and ceiling, fragmented sentences whipping around in circles, all blending together into a hurricane of vocabulary.  “…the cemetery was just too long. Who could expect to hold their breath the entire way…I told him not to shave so much. Everybody knows it only grows back thicker…he shouldn’t have swallowed so much dang gum. Stays in your stomach for seven years, you know…of course he’s a short man. He drank so much coffee growing up…shouldn’t have stepped on a crack…should’ve knocked on wood…shouldn’t have cracked his knuckles…”

Even over all the racket, Mrs. Arthur detected the door closing. After glancing around the circle and noticing that Mrs. Getty was no longer there, she quickly headed out to the hallway after her. “Mrs. Getty!” She said as she hobbled across the linoleum. “Mrs. Getty! What’s wrong? Why are you leaving us so soon?”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Arthur. It’s just that I misunderstood what kind of club this was.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

Nervous as she had ever been in her entire life, Mrs. Getty leaned over and whispered a few sentences into Mrs. Arthur’s ear.

Mrs. Arthur couldn’t help but break into laughter. “Mrs. Getty,” she laughed. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Follow me. I want to show you something.”

Mrs. Getty followed Mrs. Arthur back into the room, which fell silent as soon as they entered. “Ladies,” Mrs. Arthur addressed the members of the club, “Mrs. Getty here doesn’t feel very welcome. Let’s make her feel welcome.” With those words she slowly turned around and lifted the back of her skirt to reveal a small tail, much like a squirrel would have. One at a time, each woman stood up and did the same, Mrs. White presenting her raccoon tail, Mrs. McClanahan, a monkey tail, Mrs. Greene, a skunk, and Mrs. Wyllie, a horse.

“But why…” Mrs. Getty wanted to know as she showed off her armadillo tail.

“Why are we sitting around gossiping?” Mrs. Arthur said, finishing her question. “We’re old women. That’s just what old women do when they get together!”