Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

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      Lara grabbed five huge goblets from the cupboards. The goblets were in the shapes of ogres. She filled each ogre goblet to the top. “Praise be to God that I did not kill Mrs. Ellensby.”

      Praise be to God that she didn’t kill Mrs. Ellensby?

      Lara distributed the wine to all of us, with a nod and a perfunctory smile in my direction. “She called me over, supposedly to study the Bible, then left the room ‘for a wee minute’ to spend five thousand four hundred and eighty-nine dollars online at Pottery Avenue. Then, in the midst of my reading Psalms to her, at her request, she informed me that she sees no reason to have a fund-raiser for a new roof for the church even though there’s an enormous hole over the preschoolers’ classroom.”

      Lara imitated the woman’s voice by pitching hers at the highest level, then pinching her throat and waggling it back and forth. “‘We don’t need another roof. We need to pray to God and ask Him what He feels we need. God will provide what needs to be provided. That’s His will, and I know that God will say that the church is fine. I know how God works! People have no money in this town!’” Lara’s voice rose several octaves, shrill like a fish wife’s. “‘We’re scraping by, Lara. Really. You young ministers. You need everything. You want everything. Im-medi-ately.’”

      Lara settled herself to my left and took a very long drink of wine. The ogre goblet was half empty when she finally put it down. “I told her that it was difficult for the children to concentrate on their Bible verses when there was water trickling down a wall, and she said, ‘I am going to pray for you, Mrs. Keene. Pray that you will grow with the Lord and not against Him. Suffering is what makes us better people. Suffering is what makes us sacrifice for others. Jesus suffered for us, and we must suffer for Him, and those young children need to learn at an early age that not everything in life is perfect. Now, let’s hurry up and pray. I need to get my manicure.’”

      “Damn.” Lara slumped into the circle beside us. “Damn and damnation.”

      The silence was complete as all of us women, preparing for Breast Power Psychic Night, contemplated damn and damnation.

      After several quiet minutes, Lydia spoke up, “Lara, this is my niece, Julia.”

      Lara and I shook hands. “A pleasure,” I said. “What did she buy?”

      “Sorry?” Lara looked confused.

      “The woman who talks to God. Who knows what He wants. Perhaps God told her what to buy at Pottery Avenue?”

      Lara smiled, then sagged. “Well. He told her to buy three different sets of dishes, a chair, tablecloths, a new set of pans…I listened to her arguing with the saleswoman about the bill. ‘No’ to the roof for the preschoolers, but ‘yes’ to a set of striped picnic basket plates for five hundred and thirty-five dollars.”

      Lara’s blond hair was ripped up tight into a bun. Bright blue eyes summed me up pretty quickly. I knew that she was taller than me, but almost as thin as the twitchy-eyed but beautiful psychic.

      She was wearing proper beige pants. Proper, boring flat shoes. A dull blue blouse that was buttoned straight up. A mediumsized gold cross hung around her neck.

      “Nice black eye,” she observed. “Who did that to you?”

      I was not surprised by her bluntness. “My ex-fiancé. Fine family. Fine old, respected Bostonian family,” I muttered. “Fine, proper, respected men dot the family, and they all take fine, old potshots at their wives. Apparently they don’t beat up on their girlfriends—no, scratch that. Those scandals are covered up. Who wants to argue with a fine, old respected family, especially when they imply that the woman, the hittee in question is clearly an addict and a slut and after the family money by filing frivolous lawsuits.”

      “Ah, I see. Don’t worry. They’ll slip right into hell when they die. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that wife beaters and child abusers go straight on down. Forgiveness does not extend to those who hurt the innocent with no remorse.” Lara took another long sip of her wine, then tiredly ripped the rubber band out of her hair, letting her blond locks fall about her shoulders.

      She undid the top few buttons of her sweater and the stiffly starched white blouse, twisting her neck around from right to left as if the shirt had been strangling her.

      The transformation was astounding. Lara had gone from looking like, well, like a proper, devout minister’s wife, to looking like a college student who sat around with friends and drank every night.

      Lara raised her glass to me, her mouth trembling. “You’re lucky you left. You would have had to be prim and proper your whole life, and you would have to smother exactly who you are as a woman. Forever. You would have to do what everyone expected you to do, be who everyone expected you to be.”

      She drank again, and I saw a pulse leap in her temple as she watched the flame dance on the candle.

      “And if you deviated from the course even a little bit, people would look at you with shock and disgust, and your mother-in-law would suggest to your husband that you needed counseling and more Bible readings. You, as a person, would be gone. Squashed down like a bug. All because of a mistake you made years ago, when you were young and in love and desperate to please your father but even more desperate to escape from him.”

      “Eat this.” Lydia handed her a brownie. “Here. Have two.”

      “Is there?” I heard hope in Lara’s voice as she took a bite.

      “Just a bit. As requested.”

      Lara ate the brownie, interspersed with long gulps of wine, her eyes closed tight. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, what is your name again?”

      I told her.

      “Julia. Julia. Julia.” She rolled the name around in her mouth, as if tasting it. “That is a lovely, lovely name. And you escaped. You escaped!”

      “Quiet, ladies, quiet!” Aunt Lydia commanded, taking a deep breath, the candlelight flickering against the soft curves of her face. After Lara’s “escape” comment we had all taken a detour away from awakening our breasts. The conversation had flown as we all discussed our own quick escapes. I did not mention Robert. “Reach into your inner souls, into your breasts. Do it now. Come on, now, dive into the rhythm of your body, harness your inner beat, and don’t be shy.”

      Perhaps it was the wine, but I didn’t feel a shy bone in my body as I whisked off my shirt, then my bra. I almost sighed with relief as my boobs were released from their bondage. Wearing a bra with boobs this size can make you feel like you’re wearing giant blobs of hot metal secured to your chest with duct tape.

      I took a deep breath and looked at my boobs as instructed. They were huge, but at least the nipples still looked straight ahead, like they should. Go, nipples!

      I studiously avoided looking at the other women’s breasts, giving them privacy as I heard bras unhook and shirts come off. The candles flickered again.

      “Now, look at one another,” Aunt Lydia insisted.

      Oh, sheesh. I didn’t want to look. I resisted, but could feel other eyes on me, so I lifted my head. What the heck. The first breasts my eyes landed on were Lydia’s. Big, like mine. Sagging a bit, but I have to say she looked great.

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