The Housewife Blues (16 page)

There was, she realized also, a sense of laissez-faire
lurking in the streets, a lack of formality and discipline. People did not wait
for traffic lights to change before dashing between moving cars to cross
streets. There were no discernible walking corridors even on the sidewalks,
where people simply chose a path to follow without regard to others going in
the same direction. Except for the neatly laid out street block patterns, the
living tissue seemed to operate in a helter-skelter fashion, like cars bouncing
against one another in an amusement-park ride concession.

Those people who were not self-absorbed seemed feral, their
eyes on the alert for predators. She wondered if such thoughts were influenced
by Larry's warnings about being defensive.

There was no taking it all in at once. The city was too
alive, too fluid, too varied, to absorb completely, like powerful light
refracted through crystal. On weekdays when she shopped in the neighborhood
stores, she had been conscious of the crowds and activity but had not opened
herself up to observation. It was more manageable, safer, less confusing, to
hide behind mental blinkers and Larry's catalog of admonitions.

Feeling hungry, she went into a coffee shop and sat at the
counter, ordered cream cheese on a toasted bagel and a cup of coffee. The man
behind the counter filled the order swiftly and indifferently. He was a thin
man with a knobbed, bony face and a splotchy complexion that her father would
have characterized as a "drinker's" look.

Although there were other customers at the counter, there
was no conversation. All seemed lost in their own thoughts and the task of
eating.

She was nearly finished with her bagel when she noted that
the man behind the counter had narrowed his eyes and was concentrating on
something happening behind her.

"Out," the man behind the counter said, his face
flushing. "Get the hell outa here."

"All I want is a cup of coffee," a voice said.
She turned and faced an unshaven man in shabby clothes, obviously one of the
army of homeless that roamed Manhattan's streets.

"One lousy cup of coffee," the homeless man said.
"To take out. What's the big deal?"

"Do I have to come out there and throw you out?"
the man behind the counter said. Jenny noted that none of the other customers,
after a cursory look at the altercation, paid any attention.

"God bless you, pal," the homeless man said with
sarcasm, turning to leave.

"I'll pay," Jenny blurted suddenly, startled at
her sudden outburst. The man behind the counter shot her a look of disdain and
shook his head.

"Bless you, my dear," the homeless man said, showing
a gap-toothed smile. He was unshaven and looked about forty, and she could
detect a sour, urinous smell that seemed to cling to him.

She started fishing in her purse.

"Make it a large," the homeless man said.

She slipped a five-dollar bill from her wallet and put it
on the counter.

"One born every minute," the man behind the
counter said as he pulled a large Styrofoam cup from a shelf and filled it with
coffee from a silver urn.

"You couldn't by chance see your way clear for a
sandwich, lady, could you?" the homeless man said. Not a single customer
raised his head to watch them.

The man behind the counter shook his head with disgust.
"Don't be a dammed fool, lady," he muttered. "Comes in here
once, twice a week to stage this scam. Sometimes, like now, he hits a
sucker."

"He should know what it is to be without means,"
the homeless man said to Jenny.

"It's all right about the sandwich," Jenny said,
feeling oddly combative and resentful toward the man behind the counter.

"Can I see a menu?" barked the homeless man.

"Sure. Be my guest," the man behind the counter
said, handing the homeless man a menu.

"Look at him. Able-bodied. Youngish. He's working a
scam out on you, lady."

"Steak sandwich, okay?" the homeless man asked.

"Why not? Top of the line. Not his dough," the
man behind the counter said, pointedly smirking at Jenny. "If I was you,
lady, I'd cut my losses. Make him go for the egg salad."

"I hate egg salad," the homeless man said.

"Picky bum," said the man behind the counter.

"It's all right about the steak sandwich," Jenny
said, feeling her throat constrict. She felt less combative now. Customers came
and went. She noted that some of them exchanged glances with the man behind the
counter and shook their heads. Jenny wondered if they were passing judgment on
her. In Bedford this would be considered simple charity, an expected act of
compassion.

"You're a real lifesaver, ma'am," the homeless
man said, sidling onto the stool next to her at the counter. His odor at that
proximity was nauseating. "People don't understand what it means to have
nothing, not even a roof over your head."

"Get a job," the man behind the counter said as
he threw the thin slab of steak on the griddle. It quickly began to sizzle.

"No jobs out there," the homeless man said.

"Not in his line, right?" The man behind the
counter threw an angry glance at the homeless man. "I mean, how many jobs
are around for brain surgeons? Or are you a nuclear physicist?"

Jenny felt another stab of nausea. She had to get out of
there. She cleared her throat.

"My check, please," she managed to say.

"Hey, you don't have to go," the homeless man
said. "Stay here while I eat my sandwich."

"You ain't eating that sandwich in here, pal,"
the man behind the counter said without looking up. He turned the steak over
and split open a slab of soft bread, which he buttered, and laid out tomatoes
and lettuce.

"I'd like some sliced fresh onion," the homeless
man said, turning his big gap-toothed smile on Jenny.

"Would you, now?" the man behind the counter
said, stealing a glance at Jenny. "Give them a finger, they'll take your
arm."

"When you're down and out, they treat you like
scum," the homeless man said.

Jenny tried to ignore him, wanted to ignore him. The
problem was to keep from smelling him. She waited for the man behind the
counter to give her her check.

"In a minute, lady. First I gotta give Prince Albert here his sandwich."

"Then just take this," Jenny said, putting
another five on the counter.

"You'll have nearly two coming," the man called
from the griddle.

"It's all right."

"You leaving the change for me?" the homeless man
said.

No, she thought. She didn't want to do that. She felt
embarrassed. Worse—humiliated and slightly ashamed.

"She says for me to get the change," the homeless
man said.

"It's all right," she mumbled.

She had to get away. Unable to utter another word, she left
the coffee shop. For a moment she was disoriented, not knowing which way to go.
It took her a moment more to get her bearings, then she headed northward, away
from downtown, toward the town house. As she walked, she felt herself collapse
inward. Her observation portals narrowed.

She walked swiftly, but before she had gotten a block or
two away from the coffee shop, she was overwhelmed by the feeling that she was
being followed. At first she dismissed the idea, although she refused to look
back. Just to be sure, she speeded up her pace, then began a loping jog. She
cut across the street diagonally, hearing screeching brakes and an angry horn,
knowing for certain that she had caused the sounds. Still she didn't look
behind her. Her fear was two-pronged. She dreaded seeing someone, perhaps the
homeless man, following her. But what she dreaded most was that she would see
no one following her, a sure sign of galloping paranoia.

Sweat was running down her back as she reached her street.
There was her town house half a block away. With a burst of energy, as if she
were running speed laps, she made it to the steps of the town house. At that
moment she slowed down but did not make the sharp turn to run up the steps.
Instead she ran past the building, deliberately, a clearly defensive gesture.
Above all, she did not want whoever might be following her to know where she
lived.

Only when she reached the corner of Second Avenue did she
finally muster the courage to look behind her, although she continued to run.

"Christ," a woman's voice squealed as Jenny
slammed into her.

Turning again, Jenny saw a portly, middle-aged woman
carrying a bag of apples. Fortunately the woman did not go down, but the apples
hit the sidewalk and began to roll into the gutter.

"Oh, my God," Jenny cried, holding on to the
woman for support. "I am so sorry."

"Where's the fire, you crazy girl?" the woman
said. "You coulda killed me."

"I am so, so sorry," Jenny cried again, disengaging.
She bent and ran after the apples, noting that some of them were badly bruised.

"Please," Jenny said. "I must pay for them.
I absolutely must."

The middle-aged woman was only mildly placated, but she
shrugged her acceptance.

"This is very embarrassing," Jenny said. "I
live down the street. I was just..." As she spoke she opened her purse and
looked in her wallet. "Oh, my God. I haven't got any cash. Please. I'm
just down the street. I..."

"Figures," the woman said. "Never
mind."

"But I insist."

"I don't. Just let me pass. Forget about it."

"It's my fault, I—"

"Are you a nut or something?" the woman replied,
turning quickly and walking north on Second Avenue. Jenny stood there, rooted
to the sidewalk, embarrassed, feeling leaden and stupid. When the woman was a
block away, she turned, looked toward Jenny, and shrugged, more in pity than in
anger.

Only then did Jenny start walking toward her town house.
What she had done was childish and illogical. She was thoroughly ashamed of
herself, of her mindless fear. All she had done was help out a poor homeless
man. Where was the harm in that?

No, she told herself firmly. I must not let that incident
color my feelings about the city. What she had done, she decided finally, was
to allow the incident with the homeless man to exaggerate her vulnerability.
Larry was always telling her to act defensively. She had simply overreacted.
Hadn't she?

It seemed obvious when she finally observed the full length
of her street that no one was following her. She had capitulated to blind,
foolish, and illogical fear. Larry had apparently succeeded in making the city
itself an enemy. She vowed never to give in to that feeling again.

When she got into her apartment, she noted that three hours
had slipped by. Myrna had said to deliver the package around twelve. She got it
from under the bed, marched upstairs to Myrna's apartment, put it against the
door, rang the buzzer, then went downstairs to her apartment.

New York was confusing, she told
herself, finding humor in the events of the morning. It was a self-deprecating
kind of humor. She giggled. It made her feel better.

ON MONDAY morning, just after Larry had left on his jog to
work, Myrna Davis rang her buzzer. It was at about the same time as when she'd
visited last week. As then, she was dressed with immaculate taste and in the
height of fashion. Dressing for success, Jenny thought, but without envy.

"It is divine," Myrna said. "And I simply
must show it to you."

"Really, it's not necessary, Myrna," Jenny
demurred. After all, she had already seen the coat.

"I insist."

She took Jenny's hand, and they proceeded up the stairs to
Myrna's apartment, which was beautifully furnished with antiques.

"They're mostly English," Myrna explained, noting
Jenny's interest. She left the room, leaving Jenny to observe and fondle the
furniture. When she returned she was wearing the coat, posing like a model. It
looked beautiful on her, elegant. Apparently, in her euphoria, she hadn't
noticed the slightly singed area, which Jenny had inspected carefully when
she'd repacked it. Fortunately, the damage was barely visible unless you knew
exactly where to look.

"You're a knockout in it, Myrna," Jenny said as
Myrna pranced around the room.

"I didn't take it off all weekend, not even when we
... I must tell you, Jenny, it really does something for your libido. Maybe the
wearing of the animal skin conveys some of the property of the animal."

"I wouldn't know anything about the habits of
sables," Jenny said. Yet she liked Myrna's forthright attitude on the
subject.

"Would you like to try it on?"

"I'm much smaller than you. I'd look terrible."

"Terrible? How can anyone look terrible in
sable?"

After much persuasion she tried it on, and it did indeed
feel good on her body, despite its being too long.

"You've been great about this, Jenny," Myrna said
as they left the apartment. "I told you. No big deal. Was I right?"

"No big deal," Jenny repeated, hoping Myrna
wouldn't probe too deeply about her promise.

As she started down the stairs, Myrna paused for a moment
as if wrestling with an intruding thought. "Oh, and my friend really
appreciated your help in this as well. Really. Someday you may even get to meet
him—that is, someday in the future, not necessarily the near future. There I
go. I've said enough."

Myrna continued down the stairs, then paused again,
sniffing.

"What is it?" asked Jenny.

"Gas, I think. I've got one of these super
noses."

Jenny sniffed but couldn't detect any odor.

"Maybe my imagination," Myrna chirped, heading
down the stairs. "Anyway, you're home all day. If it gets worse, just call
the gas company."

Although it was mostly true, Jenny did not appreciate the
remark about her being home all day. She had begun to note that people treated
her differently when they found out that she spent her day being a homemaker.
Maybe it was because she and Larry lived in Manhattan and hadn't any children
as yet. People had a better understanding of what a homemaker did when there
were children around. And yet her mother had continued to be a homemaker long
after the children had left the family nest. And was proud of it.

"Nothing, but nothing, is more fulfilling for a woman,
Jenny," her mother had told her many times over. "It's a woman's role
in life. That's the way it used to be. Was the world worse for it? No, it wasn't.
It was better. More people should realize that. Why should a woman have to give
up her role as nurturer just to satisfy blind ambition or make a few more
bucks?"

It was, of course, a grandiose notion, but Jenny believed
that there was a great deal of truth in it, despite the armies of female
naysayers. No matter what, she told herself, she would continue being a
homemaker, and to satisfy not just Larry but herself as well.

Someday she would bear children and be the bedrock of her
family, fulfilling a woman's true destiny. She knew that to many women,
especially those who lived in big cities like New York, such a fate was
considered a form of imprisonment or worse. She had no illusions about how
people assessed her, an underachieving clod, a dumb ninny who wouldn't or
couldn't compete in the real world, wherever that was.

And like her mother, she had firm ideas on the raising of
children. There was simply no excuse for any woman who could afford it not to
stay home with her children, to rear and nurture them, to provide them with the
love and affection they sorely needed. Lots would disagree, she knew. Mothers
who weren't prepared to do this shouldn't have children. Was it better for a
child to be dumped into a day care center while the mother worked all day? She
doubted it.

All right, she supposed she was being intolerant toward
woman who had to work, who couldn't afford to stay home with their children,
who were the sole support of their family. Why were there so many single
mothers in the first place? How had this tragedy come about? Why did it take
two salaries in an intact family to make ends meet? These were just a few of
the pressing questions that ran through her mind.

It was humiliating to have to be defensive about her values
and her goals. Most of the time she was afraid to voice them, afraid that
people might think her, well, inferior. People like Connie Mazzo would, and who
knew what Myrna Davis and Terry Richardson were really thinking? The proof of
the pudding would be to see how their children turned out in the end.

At this thought Jenny felt a slight tug of uncertainty
about her future with Larry, but she let it pass. Every marriage was subject to
stresses and disagreements. How were couples to get to know each other if they
did not establish parameters and boundaries? Wasn't it better to bring these
differences into the open instead of letting them fester beneath the surface?

On Sunday, for example, she and Larry had had a serious
conversation about the new business he and Vince were going to start.

"Believe me, Larry, I'd be proud to be the woman
behind the man. A wife has to be a helpmate, and sometimes her point of view
can be really helpful." Thinking of Connie, she deliberately avoided
saying "woman's point of view." "But to give you the benefit of
my opinion, I've got to know what's happening before it happens."

He appeared to agree. In fact, he seemed willing to agree
to almost everything in his contrition, or so she imagined. By the end of the
weekend she was even willing to admit to herself that a little conflict and the
subsequent ritual emotional apology was an excellent sexual stimulant. He
promised never to speak of the incident of the coat again, and taking advantage
of his current pliability, she asked him also to promise her not to lecture her
again on how she should behave toward the neighbors. She wasn't completely sold
on his keeping either promise, but it did make for a pleasant weekend.

She wasn't in her own apartment ten minutes before she
began to smell the gas. Checking her kitchen, she noted that all the gas jets
were closed. Sniffing, her nose alert, she went into the hallway again. The
odor was faint but unmistakable and seemed to get stronger as she moved
upstairs. On the second floor, where Myrna Davis's and the Richardsons'
apartments were located, the odor seemed to grow even stronger. She knocked on
the Richardsons' door. As expected, there was no answer.

She started up the stairs toward the Stern apartment, and
it quickly became obvious, because of the strength of the odor as she rose,
that it was coming from the third floor. Clipping her nose with the thumb and
forefinger of her left hand, she pressed her right hand over her mouth and held
her breath. When she reached the Stern apartment, she banged on the door.

"Hello," she cried. "Anybody home?"

No answer came from within the apartment. She tried the
doorknob, surprised to find that the door opened, but no more than an inch. It
was fastened securely from the inside by a chain. Someone was obviously inside.
Again she banged with her fists against the door.

"Please answer," she cried, trying to break the
chain using her shoulder as a battering ram. The door wouldn't budge. Don't
panic, she told herself, forcing a mental clarity that allowed her quickly to
go over her options. There was no time to call the gas company. No time to call
the police. She had to get that door open. And fast.

A crowbar! Her brain flipped over possibilities. An idea
popped into her mind, and she ran down the two flights of stairs to her own apartment.
She flung open the window, sucked in fresh air, then scrambled to her bedroom
where Larry had his weights. She grabbed a bar that had been stripped of
weights. Despite its heft, she managed to get it up the two flights.

Shoving the bar into the space between the door and the
jamb, she put all her weight against it, and the chain lock separated from the
wall.

Sweating profusely, her chest aching, trying to stop
herself from inhaling the toxic fumes, she moved swiftly through the apartment.
She began to feel faint and light-headed but through an effort of will made it
to the kitchen.

Mr. Stern was seated on a chair, elevated with telephone
books. His head was in the oven. First things first, she told herself,
sustained by the charging adrenaline in her body. She shut off the open gas
jets, then ran around the apartment like a madwoman, flinging all the windows
open.

That done, she turned her attention to Mr. Stern. She
grabbed the back of the chair and lowered it to the ground. Mr. Stern was
breathing and showing signs of consciousness. His eyes opened and closed.

"You're alive," she whispered.

He opened his eyes again, then nodded. His lips moved, but
she could not make out what he was saying.

"Just rest. You'll be fine."

Rushing to the nearest window, she put her head out and
sucked in deep gulps of air until her light-headedness disappeared, although
her chest still ached. Sweat was running down her cheeks and her back, and her
clothes were soaked through with perspiration.

But as the adrenaline subsided, so did her clarity. She
wasn't sure what to do next. This indecisiveness went on for a few moments, her
eyes roving the kitchen until they lighted on the telephone. Running to it, she
grasped it and dialed 911. Standing there, waiting for the buzz at the other
end, she looked at the man. He had raised his head and was watching her.

"Please, no," he said hoarsely.

"You need help," she said. Someone answered the
phone.

"Not that. P-please," he stammered.

She hesitated a moment, watching him. The color was coming
back to his face. His eyes were open, and he seemed to be filling his lungs
with the good air that had replaced the gas. He sat leaning against the wall,
watching her, his expression glum. She heard voices at the other end of the
phone, then she hung up.

"Don't say it," she said.

"What?"

"That I should have let you die."

He stared at her silently for a moment. There were deep,
dark circles under his eyes. Then he lifted his hands, covered his face, and
began to sob.

Watching him, she wasn't certain of any course of action.
Her first instinct was to give him a pep talk about standing up to life. She
decided against that, not knowing the man's story. Suicide was something she
knew little or nothing about. She had never been exposed to that kind of total
desperation. Instead of acting or saying anything, she just stood there waiting
for his hysteria to run its course, which it finally did.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, removing his hands
from his face, wiping away the tears with the cuffs of his shirt. Shakily he
started to rise from the floor, using the wall for support. She ran to help
him, but he waved her away. "It's okay." When he had gotten up, he
shook his head a number of times. "Back from the dead," he mumbled.
Then he looked toward her and, incongruously, actually smiled. "Looks like
I bungled this like everything else."

"How do you feel?" Jenny asked.

"Nauseous and shaky," he said. Using the wall as
support, he moved out of the kitchen. She followed him until he arrived at the
bathroom and shut the door. Listening, she heard him retch.

"Can I get you something?" she called to him.

He didn't answer, and after a while he came out. His hair
was damp and his skin blotchy, but he seemed to have regained some of his
strength. Their eyes met, and he shrugged.

"You want to talk about it?" she asked. It seemed
a logical question.

"You really want to hear it?" He chuckled wryly,
then shrugged again.

"I make a good cup of coffee," Jenny said,
offering a smile.

Mr. Stern looked about him with uncertainty.

"Why not?"

She went out the open door of the apartment, pausing in the
doorway.

"You'll have to fix this," she said.
"Sorry." But when she turned he was not behind her. Before she could
call out, he was back, folding an envelope and putting it in his side pocket.

"My suicide note. I'm too embarrassed to read it
again."

In her apartment, he sat at the kitchen island while she
measured out the coffee and water and turned on the automatic coffee maker.

"Nice of you," he said. She could feel his eyes
studying her.

"I don't often get a chance to have a coffee klatch
with a neighbor," she said, hoping that the light touch might cheer him
up.

"I don't mean that part. I mean what you did."

"Oh, that."

Facing him, she noted that he turned his eyes away and
began to look at his hands as if they conveyed something of profound
importance.

"It seemed like the only alternative," he said.

"That was apparent," she said.

"Something just came over me. Everything seemed so
bleak and overwhelming. Sally's ... my wife's illness. My business going under.
The eviction notice. Oh, yes. I got this eviction notice yesterday. Pay up or
get out. I haven't got a job. I can't pay up. Then this business with
Teddy."