Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

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.

      Caroline’s were small and pretty. I wondered if, being a psychic, she could see into the future and see what her breasts would look like in fifty years.

      Lara had a fairly large chest. She certainly covered up well. I could hate her for having such perfect boobs, but she was swigging another long drink of wine, and I knew why she was drinking, so I decided not to hate her. I wouldn’t have been able to stand being a minister’s wife, either.

      Katie’s boobs were even bigger than mine.

      She must have been thinking the same thing. “I have wanted to get rid of these things since I was a kid,” she said quietly.

      “Me too. God might as well have attached mammoth watermelons to my chest.”

      Katie stifled a giggle.

      “Ladies, we are one, under the Sisterhood of Women. The Sisterhood of Breasts,” Lydia said, her voice low and hypnotic as she clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer. “No breasts are better than others, just different.” I would have to disagree with her on that, but I kept my mouthola shut. “Now, ladies, close your eyes. Hold your breasts. Feel the soul inside of them, the core of your womanhood.”

      The core of my womanhood was tattered and tired, I thought. Did I even have a core anymore?

      “There is courage in our breasts,” Aunt Lydia said, her voice rising. “There is fortitude. There is passion. But we must keep them free of all evil forces, men included. We must offer them freedom.”

      Freedom for my breasts? If they were any more free at the moment, they would pop off my chest and do a jig. I grabbed them anyhow. They felt like they always feel. Heavy. Very, very heavy. I wondered for the eightieth time how much they weighed. A hundred pounds each?

      “The evil of this world surrounds us, surrounds our nipples,” Aunt Lydia intoned. “We must sensitize our nipples to the dangers, to respond to their cries for help!”

      My nipples were probably crying out to be attached to less weight.

      “Do not hate your breasts, ladies! Do not diminish them! Your inner soul tells you to love them. Love them! Love them! Love them!”

      We were quiet. I closed my eyes, thought about the Mammoth Melons attached to my chest and tried to love them, love them, love them.

      “I have reached into my inner soul, into my boobs,” Lara cried, “and I think I need more wine.” She grabbed another bottle. “And a new life.”

      “But, Lara,” said the psychic, her eye twitching in quick succession, clearly not focusing on her perky breasts. “What about Jerry? He loves you and you—”

      “He loves who he thinks I am, who he wants me to be!” Lara cried. “And I’m not that person. I can’t be that person anymore. I just can’t.”

      I rubbed my fingers over my injured eye. Yep. Still swollen. Still painful, although dulled by the wine. “What kind of a person is that?”

      “What?”

      “You say you can’t be the type of person that Jerry wants. What kind of a person is that?”

      “It’s a nothing person,” she said bitterly. “A nothing person.”

      A Nothing Person. Yes. I knew a person like that. A Nothing Person. I grabbed the mirror, looked at the underside of my bulging breast. There did not seem to be any power there at all. Only a large curve that pointed more or less up. I closed my eyes. At least the underside of my breast didn’t curve downward like a ski slope yet.

      Still, I knew a nothing breast on top of a nothing person when I saw it. I lifted my head just enough to let a bit more wine slide down my throat. For a moment I wondered if I’d run far enough for Robert to leave me alone.

      No, I told myself. That was impossible. He hated to lose. He would come.

      “I don’t want to help run a church any more,” Lara said, her voice ragged. “I don’t.”

      The silence was deep, heavy. It covered the five of us like an invisible black wool blanket.

      “Well, then!” Aunt Lydia declared, putting both hands under her boobs and giving them a lift. “Grab those boobies! What do they tell you to do?”

      Even in the darkness I could see Lara roll her eyes, but she cupped both her breasts, studying the nipples as if they would suddenly sprout mouths and tell her exactly what she wanted to know. “They’re telling me to do what I want to do.”

      “Good!” Aunt Lydia stood up, at least a dozen braids swinging over her naked breasts, the candlelight flashing against her skin. Sixty-three years old. I got teary-eyed looking at her. She was fabulous. Must be all the target shooting and jam making and brownies with pot and the tea she drank that was laced with rum.

      “Your breasts, ladies, will talk to you. They’ll offer sage advice, help to corral in your courage, steer you on your womanly course. They are, after all, closest to your heart. So. Tell us, Lara, what do you want to do? What have your breasts communicated to you?”

      “That’s simple.” Lara dropped her breasts, her eyes flashing in anger, her mouth twisting. “They can’t stand being a minister’s wife any longer. They can’t stand the lid that is tightly nailed down onto the box. They want out. Completely out. They want to be free. Very free. Completely free.” She took another swig of wine, her blond hair falling about her shoulders.

      “Well, then! Your breasts are offering you truth! Wisdom! Share more, share!” Lydia’s eyes opened wide, awaiting the official announcement.