A Farewell to Yarns

“Jane, do you know who Bobby is?“
    “Come on, Phyl,“ the young man said. “Do we have to stand here in the middle of everything jawing about this?“ Jane was surprised to hear a distinctly Chicago accent in his voice.
    “That boy needs a fat lip,“ Shelley muttered.
    Phyllis was hanging onto Bobby, gazing up at him with adoration. Jane was paralyzed with embarrassment. She’d heard about older women taking handsome young lovers. It wasn’t something done in her circle, of course. Most of her circle of friends hung out in the school parking lots in their station wagons or in the grocery store. But among the jet set, it was fairly normal to have a tiff with your husband and take up with a pretty boy. Or so she was led to believe by such reliable authorities as People magazine and TV Guide, Jane’s windows on the world.
    But it was shocking that sweet, slightly boring Phyllis should have fallen into such pitiful ways. It was odd, too. She seemed genuinely grieved about her problems with Chet, whatever they might be. Even then, it wouldn’t be quite so skin-crawling awful if the boy weren’t so rude and contemptuous of her. Weren’t paid lovers supposed to earn their keep by pretending love? Or at least courtesy? Surely there were rules about that sort of thing.
    “Why don’t you see about our luggage, darling, while I talk to Jane and Shelley?“ Phyllis asked him, apparently unoffended by his attitude.
    He shrugged and slouched off.
    “Isn’t he the most darling boy?“ Phyllis marveled, watching him move out of sight. She shifted her plastic bags to her other arm. “Oh, Jane, tell me you think he’s wonderful. I couldn’t stand it if you don’t.“
    “Why, Phyllis, how could I say? We just met. But I’m sure you’re right,“ Jane said. She could almost feel her nose growing longer as she spoke.
    “Can’t you tell who he is?“ Phyllis asked. “I don’t suppose there’s that much resemblance, except in my eyes.“
    “Resemblance to whom?“ Shelley asked, seeing that Jane was floundering in confusion.
    “To me, of course. He’s my son! But surely you’d guessed!“
    “Your... son? You mean Chet’s son?“
    “No, Jane. My very own baby boy. Oh, I have managed to surprise you, haven’t I? What fun!”
    Jane shook her head. “Phyllis, you never had children, and that boy is older than my kids—“
    “That’s because I had him before you had yours, before I knew you. She giggled as if this were a terribly clever remark, then suddenly got very serious. “I just never told anybody. I gave him up for adoption, you see. Before I even knew you. And we’ve just been reunited for a few wonderful months. It was all Chet’s doing—dear, understanding Chet.
    She looked like she was going to go tearful again, and Jane was staring at her as if she’d grown another head. Shelley grabbed Jane’s arm and said firmly, “Jane and I will go get the car while you and your son get your luggage. See that hall? Follow that to the doors, and we’ll pick you up there, okay?”
    Jane was out in the cold air before she started to gather her wits. “Shelley! What a nightmare! I thought it was terrible enough that he was her lover. It’s even more frightening this way. You can dump a pretty boy, but not if he’s your son. How utterly ghastly. She actually thinks he’s great.“
    “He’s pond scum,“ Shelley said, striding across the parking area. “Her Chet should have stuck to fixing her teeth. What do you suppose she meant about it being Chet’s doing? Is he Chet’s kid?”
    Jane tried to cast her mind back seventeen years, not an easy thing with all the lively clutter of events that intervened. “I wouldn’t think that’s possible. Phyllis always made a big deal about how she and Chet had only known each other a month before they were married. All very romantic. I guess she might have been lying, but I don’t think she knew how to back then.“
    “A month would be a pretty quick gestation,“ Shelley said. She’d found the minivan and was fishing around in the depths of her purse for the keys. She located them, and the two of them piled in. Jane found a battered half pack of cigarettes in her purse. She was trying to cut down on her smoking in the hopes that she’d make it easier to actually quit altogether at some vaguely defined future date. But this called for a cigarette. If she’d been a drinker, it would have called for a fifth of vodka.
    Shelley’s minivan bolted into