A Quiche Before Dying

thinking without the boys around, Katie and I could just be girly-girly together. We’ve never been alone together. But I’ve hardly seen her. She sleeps late, goes to her job at the pool all afternoon and early evening, then goes out with her friends until the last second before her deadline. All of those activities require that she talk on the phone half the night. I see less of her now than during the school year.“
    “Count your blessings,“ Shelley said, but with a smile to show she really didn’t mean it.
    “I wanted to be closer to my daughter than I was to my mother,“ Jane went on. “But maybe it’s not possible. An innate hormonal disharmony or something.“
    “I thought you got along well with your mother,“ Shelley said.
    “Oh, I get along with her. Nobody doesn’t get along with my mother. I think it’s a federal law. But—“
    “It’s just because she’s coming to visit,“ Shelley said. “I get the same way when my mother’s coming. It’s that funny shift in roles. It’s your house, where you’re nominally in charge, but your mother is always your mother. Dads make great guests—I guess it’s because men of that generation are used to being treated like guests in their own homes. But mothers are always noticing the way you’re doing your job. Are your bathrooms clean? Are the kids well behaved? Are your dishes stacked where a good daughter should stack them? After all, we are a measure of how well they did their job. When does your mother get here?“
    “Late this afternoon.“
    “Do you want me to go to the airport with you? It’s such a long, boring drive.“
    “Thanks, Shelley, but we don’t go for her. She’s got a thing about getting herself around.“
    “Don’t you know how lucky you are? I wish my mom felt that way. When she visits, she sees it as a challenge to find places for me to take her to. It’s as if the stewardess whispers to her as she gets off the plane, ‘Your daughter is dying to turn her life inside out for you. Do her a favor and think of as many things as you can for her to do.’ “
    Jane looked at Shelley and grinned. “That’s what Katie and Denise think of us, too. We’re squashed between generations!“
    “Somebody once told me we always like our grandparents because they are our enemies’ enemies.“
    “How true!“
    “So what are you and your mother doing while she’s here?“ Shelley asked.
    “Didn’t I tell you? We’re taking a class. I sent her a clipping about Mike’s band performance from that local shopping paper. There was a thing on the opposite side about a free class at the community center in writing your own life history. It meets five nights in a row, then it’s done. Missy Harris is the teacher.“
    “Poor Missy. How’d they rope her into that?“ Missy was a local writer of romance novels.
    “Money, my dears,“ a voice said from the side of the house. Missy came around, lugging an armload of books and folders. “Don’t you know better than to talk about people outdoors?“ Missy was tall, angular, and rather homely. She walked with a long, manly stride and said of herself that she looked like John Cleese in drag. The description wasn’t far wrong.
    Jane took her feet off a patio chair and helped Missy put down her belongings. Missy collapsed in the vacated chair. “Coffee?“ Jane asked.
    “No, thanks. These are your assignments for class. Yours and your mother’s copies. I notice that you didn’t turn anything in, Jane.”
    Jane explained to Shelley, “We were supposed to write a first chapter to be copied to the rest of the class before the first meeting. We’re all supposed to read and critique each other’s.“
    “I think you can learn a lot about your own writing by studying the flaws and virtues in other people’s,“ Missy said. “So why don’t I have anything from you, Jane?“
    “Missy, I’m not really taking the class; just paying for it so I can go with my mother. What are these two books? Don’t tell me somebody already wrote a whole book?“
    “Exactly. It’s a self-published autobiography of Agnes Pryce.“
    “Agnes Pryce is in this class!“ Jane groaned. Seeing Shelley’s puzzled expression, she said, “Shelley, you know who she is—that terrible old woman who’s always writing letters to the editor and trying to start petitions—Mrs. General Pryce.“
    “Oh! Mrs. General. Of course. She’s the hateful one who’s forever pestering the city council and the