Wifey (4 page)

“Not
we,
Sandy. I’m going anyway.”

“Don’t you have any feelings? Don’t you know the whole country’s in mourning?”

“So we’ll mourn at Lew’s house. It’s not going to make any difference. It’s not going to bring him back.”

“No!” Sandy headed for the dining room, to cover the mirror above the sideboard.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Pressman,” Mazie said. She’d changed out of her uniform into a green wool suit and she carried a small suitcase. “I’m going to take a few days off to go down to Washington . . . to the funeral . . . you know . . .”

“That is absolutely out of the question, Mazie,” Norman said. “You can see what condition Mrs. Pressman is in.”

“Same as me,” Mazie said, “sad and sick.” She put down her suitcase and helped Sandy drape the sheet over the mirror. “I don’t know just when I’ll be back, Mrs. Pressman . . . maybe three or four days . . . after the weekend. I just don’t know.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Mazie,” Norm said, raising his voice, “but there’s no way you can have time off now. Who’s going to take care of the children?”

“Take care of them yourself, Mr. Pressman.”

“If you go, you can kiss this job good-bye!”

“Norman!” Sandy came alive. “What are you saying? Mazie loved the president! If she wants to go to his funeral . . .”

“It’s just an excuse, Sandy, can’t you see that? Every goddamned fucking excuse.”

“I won’t tolerate no language like that,” Mazie said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pressman, but I can’t work for no Communist!”

She picked up Jen, who was in her infant seat, and carried her down the hall to her room. Bucky followed, wailing, “Mazie . . . Mazie . . .” Sandy followed too. Mazie put the baby into her crib and kissed both children. “Good-bye, sugars, you be good for your mommy, hear?” Then she grabbed her suitcase and marched out the front door. “Goodbye, Mrs. Pressman. I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, Mazie,” Sandy cried, “I don’t know what we’re going to do without you.” She closed the door, trying to keep out the chill night air, and said to Norman, “I can’t believe you did that. I’ll never forgive you. Mazie was wonderful.” She brushed past him and went to the bedroom. Suddenly she felt very tired. She had to lie down. To contemplate. How did Jackie feel at this moment? A widow, with two young children. And Caroline used to parade around in her pumps, interrupting his meetings . . .

The phone rang. Norman picked it up. “Yes, Lew, how are you? . . . Well, certainly, we were just about to call you . . . No night to celebrate, that’s for sure . . . Yes, that’s right, Sandy feels especially close to Jackie, always has. I can hear Hannah crying . . . yes, same here, they’re very emotional . . . You too, another time. Uh huh . . . Bye . . .” He hung up. “That was Lew.”

“Hypocrite!”

“That’s the thanks I get for covering for your emotional immaturity?”

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Bucky called.

“Just a minute,” Norman called back. “Mommy’s coming.” He whispered, “Your children are starving. Will you quit this idiot act and take care of them?”

But Sandy wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t speak, and Norman, unable to cope with the situation, frantic at the idea of feeding the kids supper by himself, and convinced that Sandy was really going off the deep end, phoned Gordon, as if Gordon could look into Sandy’s head the way he could look into her cunt. Gordon advised two aspirin and a good night’s sleep.

And then, while millions of TV viewers, including Sandy and Norman, watched Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald, the call came from the highway patrol. Sandy’s father, Ivan Schaedel, had had a flat tire on the Pulaski Skyway. Mona had sat on the hood of the car, shooing away cars with her scarf, as Ivan attempted to change the tire. But he never finished. He was smashed by a Juniper Moving Van and killed instantly.

And then the shiveh began in earnest.

5

L
AST
D
ECEMBER
while Sandy was recuperating in Jamaica, Norman was making a name for himself as athlete of the century. He’d jump out of bed at six, jog around the grounds of La Carousella for half an hour, perform Royal Canadian Air Force exercises for twenty minutes, swim a dozen laps, play eighteen holes of golf, rush out to the new court for doubles, followed by singles, followed by mixed doubles, and before dinner, while the others were napping, he was back in the pool, holding his breath under water.

“Daddy can count to one hundred,” Jen told Sandy. “How high can you count under water?”

“If I hold my nose I think I can make it to five.”

“That’s not very good.”

“It’s good enough. I don’t expect to ever have to hold my breath under water.”

“But suppose you do?”

“I’ll drown, I guess.”

“But Daddy says . . .”

“Never mind what Daddy says this time. Go and get ready for lunch.”

“Can I eat in the kitchen with Lydia?”

“I guess so, if she doesn’t mind.”

“She likes me and I like her. She’s the best cook. Why don’t you ever make fried bananas?”

“I never thought about frying them but I used to feed you mashed bananas when you were a baby.”

“Mashed bananas, yuck! Will you fry them when we get home?”

“Maybe, now go and find Bucky and tell him to wash up for lunch.”

O
N THE TWENTY-SEVENTH
Myra threw a party for her friends, three couples from The Club who were also vacationing at Runaway Bay, two of them in rented houses, and the third staying at the hotel on the beach. All were thinking seriously about buying a piece of property of their own so that they could continue to vacation together. Besides, it was tax deductible, they reminded each other, daily.

Before the party, while Myra scurried around filling candy dishes, rearranging furniture, and checking the bar, Sandy asked, “Don’t you find it boring to be down here with the same people you see all the time at home?”

“Not at all,” Myra answered. “We love it.”

“But don’t you want to meet new people down here?”

Myra dumped a jar of Planters dry-roasted nuts into a silver bowl. “It would be awful.” She tilted her head back and dropped a handful of nuts into her mouth.

“I think it would be nice.”

“Awful to have to find games, I mean.” Myra chewed and swallowed the nuts, then brushed off her hands. “Take golf . . . they could say they’re class A players when they’re really B’s, and if I had to play with beginners, well, frankly, I’d rather not play at all. And then there’s tennis,” Myra said. “Playing with people who aren’t in your class is
horrendous.
There are people who’ll tell you they’re high intermediates when by your standards they might be low intermediates or, worse yet, high beginners.”

“What are you?”

“I’m low advanced, but I can handle any average advanced player and upward. Norman, for instance, is headed for high advanced, but he and I can still have a good game. How do you think the candy looks? Do you like it piled high or spread out in rows?”

“Piled high.”

“Me too. Remember how Mona used to spread out the after-dinner mints?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get that dress?”

“It’s not a dress, it’s a skirt and top.” Sandy fingered the material, an Indian cotton print in bright colors, with elephants marching around it. She enjoyed the comfortable wraparound style. “Do you like it?”

“It’s cute.”

Sandy felt that Myra was waiting to be admired. “I like yours too.”

“I couldn’t have worn this in the old days,” Myra said, “but now I can go braless if I feel like it.” Her dress was a long, clingy, black jersey with a high neck in front, plunging to the waist in back. Her frosted hair hung to her shoulders and framed her face, like a lion’s mane. And under the black jersey Sandy could see the outline of Myra’s perfect 34-B breasts, of her perfect, rose-colored nipples, each one the circumference of a quarter, where Sandy’s were only the size of dimes.

“I wish to hell Gordy could play tennis like Norman,” Myra said. “If he could, we’d win all the married couples tournaments at The Club. As it is I’m embarrassed having a shelf full of trophies when Gordy’s never won anything.”

“Does he mind?”

“He says he doesn’t.”

“Well, then, don’t worry.”

“I’ll bet Norman’s great in bed.”

“Myra!”

“Does that embarrass you?”

“Not exactly.”

“They say you can tell a lot about how a man performs in bed by watching him play tennis.” Myra was at the bar now, arranging brandy glasses on a tray.

“I’ve always heard you can tell by the way a man dances,” Sandy said, “and Norman can’t dance at all.”

“Are you saying he’s no good then?” She looked over at Sandy, raising her eyebrows.

Sandy looked away. “I’m not saying anything, one way or the other.”

“You’re not having trouble, are you?”

“No, who said anything about trouble?”

Myra sighed. “I remember when Daddy told you that Norman was
phlegmatic
and you left the room in tears. I was shocked myself. Who would have guessed Daddy even knew such a word . . .”

“That was years ago.”

“But Mona said he was a good catch,” Myra added, “and she turned out to be right, as usual.”

“Yes.”

“You used to tell me everything, San . . . you used to come to my room with questions, remember? I wish we could be that close now.”

“I don’t have any more questions.”

Myra busied herself with the cocktail napkins, counting out equal piles and distributing them around the room. “Tell me something,” she said in a low voice, looking around to make sure no one was in sight or hearing distance. “Do you suck?”

“Myra, please!”

“Oh, come on. You can tell me. Everybody’s doing it these days.”

“Including you?”

Myra shrugged. “Of course. So how about you and Norm?”

Sandy hesitated. “Certainly.”

“Do you swallow?”

“Do you?”

“I asked you first,” Myra said, “and anyway, it’s pure protein, it can’t hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Mother!” Kate called in her fishwife’s voice. “I think your friends are here. I heard a car drive up.”

Myra ran her hands over her hair and her tongue across her teeth. “I don’t have lipstick on my teeth, do I?” she asked Sandy, making a horse face.

“No, you’re fine.”

“Why don’t you run in and put some on. You could use the color . . .”

“I think I’m getting a herpes . . . I’m using Blistex . . .”

“
H
ELLO . . . HELLO . . . HELLO . . .”

Barbara and Gish. Lucille and Ben. Phyllis and Mickey. Myra’s friends. It was hard for Sandy to keep them straight. She’d watched them on the court each day but dressed in their Head color-coordinated outfits they all looked the same. They’d tried to get her to join them, tried to make friends. “I’d love to play,” she’d explained. “But I’ve been sick and I have to take it easy for a while.”

Now here they were, out of their daily uniforms, into their evening ones. The women wore clingy jersey dresses, like Myra’s, and the men were all in plaid slacks and Lacoste shirts. During the week, Sandy had given the women code names, to help her remember who was who. Brown, Luscious, and Funky instead of Barbara, Lucille, and Phyllis. Sandy thought she might like Funky, with a bandana tied around her head, loaded down with Indian jewelry, best, until they got into a discussion about Plainfield.

“Plainfield, my God!” Funky said. “I thought Plainfield was all black.”

“Not quite.”

“You mean not yet! If I were you, I’d get out while the going’s good and move up to the Hills. We built our final house in Watchung last year. We can see the lights from our living room, just like stars. It’s fantastic . . . you’d love it . . . is your Plainfield house your first house?”

“Yes, we bought it from Norman’s mother after his father died.”

“Oh. Because I was going to say if it was your final house then I could understand your reluctance to leave it, but with your first house . . .”

“It’s very nice,” Sandy said, feeling defensive about Enid’s house for the first time. “It’s in Sleepy Hollow.”

“But the schools . . .”

“The children go to private school.”

“In Watchung you could send them to public school. We have only two black families in the town and both of them are professional.”

“It’s really not a racial thing,” Brown said, joining them. Brown’s nails were filed to squares instead of points and polished in frosty brown, to match her frosty brown eye shadow, her frosty brown hair, her frosty brown suntan, her frosty brown dress. “It’s more of a socioeconomic thing, don’t you think?”

“Yes and no,” Funky said. “Yes, in the sense that the professional ones tend to think more like us and want what’s best for their children. No, in the sense that they’re still different no matter how hard you try to pretend they’re not. I mean, put one in this room, right now, and suddenly we’d all clam up.” She took a cheese puff from the tray offered by Elena, the black maid. “Thank you.”

Sandy was trying to sort out the men. Ben was the urologist with the vasectomy button on his collar. Had he performed his own vasectomy? No, how could he see over that belly? It might be nice if Norman had a vasectomy. Sandy hated her diaphragm. It was so messy. And the Pill made her sick. She’d have to approach the subject carefully, though, because Norm was very sensitive about his genitals.

Mickey had a lot of hair and some kind of engineering company. Then there was Gish. He practiced law in Newark, specialized in personal injury work and was, according to Myra, cleaning up. He and Brown were neighbors of Myra’s in Short Hills. Sandy didn’t like the way he looked her up and down every time she crossed the room. It made her uncomfortable.

So much for the men.

“Your husband,” Luscious said, settling next to Sandy on the sofa, “is such a tiger! That serve . . . what a smash! I told him, don’t let up on me just because I’m a girl, and he didn’t . . . aced me every time . . . you must be really proud of him . . .” Luscious, tiny, blonde, and perfect, looked like an aging Barbie Doll.

“Yes,” Sandy answered.

“And his backhand is nothing to sneeze at,” Brown said, sitting on Sandy’s other side. “Wicked, absolutely wicked!”

“He really enjoys his games,” Sandy told them.

“It’s not just a question of
enjoy,
” Funky added, leaning over the back of the sofa so that Sandy could feel her breath on her neck. “It’s talent. Pure, unadulterated talent.”

Pure, unadulterated bullshit,
Sandy thought, wishing she were brave enough to say it out loud.

“I should be so lucky!” Brown said, laughing down her vodka and orange juice.

“Normie . . . tiger . . .” Luscious called across the room to where the men had gathered. “Will you play with me tomorrow . . . singles . . . for just a little while?”

“Sure thing,” Norman called back. “Let’s say, from three-thirty to three forty-five.”

And later, after dessert, while they were sitting around sipping brandy, Ben said to Norman, “You should join The Club.”

“I’ve been telling him that all week,” Myra said.

“And I’ve been thinking about it,” Norman said.

That was certainly news to Sandy.

“It makes a lot of sense,” Norman said.

Gish, who was seated next to Sandy on the small sofa, turned to her and said, “What do you think?”

“What . . . oh, me?” Sandy asked, surprised to find herself in the conversation. “Well, I’m not an athlete so it’s hard for me to say if we should invest that much in The Club.”

“But Sandy,” Myra said, “it’s more than a club . . . it’s a way of life . . . it’s not just golf and tennis . . . you’d make wonderful friends . . . look at us . . .” She smiled and extended her arms.

“And your children will meet the right kinds of young people too,” Funky said.

“Playing those public courses is a waste of time,” Ben told Norman. “How long do you have to wait to tee off on weekends?”

“I get up at six so I usually don’t have to wait.”

“Wouldn’t you rather sleep till nine?” Funky asked.

“I’m not a late sleeper,” Norman said.

“So, you’d have time for a quickie,” Ben said.

“We just love our Sunday-morning quickies,” Luscious told them all.

Gish put his arm around Sandy’s shoulder and whispered, “I’d like to make it with you, quick or slow, your choice.”

“And Sandy,” Brown said, “once you take lessons you’ll love it like everybody else. We’re not all born athletes like your husband.”

“I’ll bet you don’t need any lessons in the sack,” Gish whispered.

“And on Thanksgiving and Mother’s Day and all the other holidays you’ll always have a nice place to go,” Funky said.

“And The Club does a terrific job on affairs,” Brown said.

Affairs?
Sandy thought.

Myra stood up. “I think I have a Club booklet somewhere.” She went into her bedroom and returned with it.
Green Hollow Country Club. Rules and Regulations.
“Read this, San, it’ll give you a better idea.”