Free The Bridge Ladies by Betsy Lerner Page A

found Bette after the show and apologized for having never cast her in any significant parts. She had no idea how good she was.
    â€œHow did it feel?”
    Bette falls silent.
    They were crumbs for a girl with a heart already broken.

    It’s early April, and Connecticut is still refusing to warm. It’s the first Monday of the month and Bridge is at Bette’s. She wears perfectly fitting slacks and a sweater that doesn’t match so much as goes with it. Matching is for amateurs. The way Bette puts clothes together is intrinsically correct; it’s the mark of a woman confident in her looks and taste, and this poise extends throughout her home. It’s as if all the energy she had once put into performance has been channeled into the presentation of self and home. Like all of the ladies, she took the road more traveled; her decision alone seems tinged with regret.
    As the ladies filter in, Jackie remarks on the repaired skylights, which instantly triggers irritation in Bette. A tree had crashed through their den during a recent storm, and Bette is not happy about the repairs. Apparently the trim on the old skylights was flush with the ceiling but not so with the replacements. Bette points this out to the girls, disgusted. The ladies can’t tell the difference, but Bette insists that it’s not right. Arthur stops in for a minute to say hello and overhears Bette complain about the moldings. He throws up his hands. There is nothing wrong with them! Arthur is about as good-natured as theycome, but everyone has a breaking point. You know that if he hears one more word about the moldings, no, if he so much as sees Bette glance skyward and register disdain, he might blow. But for now, he just leaves. No scene.
    Bette and Arthur have been together for nearly sixty years. I know the trim on the skylights is not about to topple a marriage of this duration. These marriages are built to last, like the appliances from their era, made of cast iron and steel. Put another way: divorce was not an option. At different times, the ladies have asserted that marriage “forces” couples to stay together, and that this is a good thing. “You’re forced to work out your problems, to stick to it,” Bette says. Rhoda agrees; people divorce too quickly. I don’t know that I agree or disagree, but like a high school debater assigned the affirmative position, I’d feel the need to defend divorce and choice in general. I’d argue that the deeper commitment is staying together when you’re free to go.
    This is my first lunch at Bette’s, and I feel a little faint or nauseated. Her dining room has that darkly quiet, unused look, the table only set for holidays and special occasions. Does anyone ever open a window around here? Everything that might be needed is anticipated and already on the table: a pitcher of water, a tidy dish for Sweet’n Low packets and another for a selection of teas, condiments, and serving pieces for every dish. Bette has delicate bone-white dessert plates with round depressions for the matching teacups to nestle in. They put me in mind of a dollhouse tea party. Leaf-shaped dishes, smaller than actual leaves, are set out for the used tea bags, later to be choked to death by their own strings. A kettle quietly chugs along on the stove. Of the ladies who still prepare lunch, Bette, Rhoda, and my mother, none has relaxed their standards. This is most evident in the parade of napkin rings I’ve come to witness gracing their tables: silver, porcelain, tortoiseshell, bamboo, and Bakelite. I marvel at thecare taken. Bette’s table could be on display at the Smithsonian: MID-CENTURY NORTH AMERICAN DINING ROOM, CIRCA 1958.
    The ladies tell me they are likely the last bridge club in the area that serves lunch, the last bastion of civilization. And it might be. Everyone is punctual, everyone is dressed, and no one checks her phone throughout the meal or, god forbid,