The Housewife Blues (19 page)

"So is Terry. From what I can see."

"Very. I can assure you. The most wonderful woman in
the world."

Jenny studied him for some sign of his condition, an
underlying sadness, perhaps, or some similar clue. She searched his eyes,
imagining she was detecting his hidden pain. At the same time she was
embarrassed by the knowledge that Terry had imparted about his deeply personal
crippling condition.

As she observed him, she realized that something drastic
had altered in her perception of him. Jenny could not imagine him being less
than sexually functional. He certainly was attractive, with light gray
searching eyes surrounded by dark lashes. His hair was blond, with natural
waves, his figure slender and graceful. He filled out his jeans well, crotch
included, and his open sport shirt revealed a patch of curly blond chest hairs.

Something else seemed altered in her perception. He
appeared very masculine and sexy, not merely generically, but personally, which
surprised her. Considering that she had just heard that he was impotent, she
felt it incongruous that she was actually thinking such thoughts. Rarely did
other men inspire such fantasies in her. Certainly not since she was married.
But the telltale signs were unmistakable. Was it the wine? she wondered. Or had
Terry's seductive words inspired such a reaction, along with an embarrassingly
clear sense of challenge?

She wondered if her suggestive conversation with Godfrey
was deliberately flirtatious. If she didn't know better, she might conclude
that there was also an underlying motive in Godfrey's attentiveness. Was it
possible? Had she turned him on? She looked toward Larry and Terry, both
oblivious of this other drama in the next room. Which reminded her how
resentful she was at Larry's using her to lure Terry into this trap. Hustling,
they called it in Manhattan. Larry had instructed her well on the nomenclature
of such aggressions, the meaning of which was becoming clearer by his own
example.

Of course, there was no law that said Terry had to listen.
She was responding according to her own agenda. Strictly business, Larry would
explain to her later, noting that business ran on such relationships, people
hustling people. Beware of such predators, he had urged. Watch out for users.
And here he was violating his own admonitions. Use anybody who can help. Waste
no time with people who can't. At that moment she had no trouble identifying a
perfect example of the true predator. She studied Larry for a moment, a
deliberately clinical observation.

Perhaps she might have felt differently if he had involved
her, made her part of it, shown some respect for her judgment. Instead he had
simply manipulated her sense of neighborliness, her idea of sharing, and her
concept of friendliness. The fact was that his influence over her was eroding
before her very eyes.

He would be appalled if he knew that she had lent money to
Mr. Stern. Even her own second thoughts about that action were at last put to
rest by this display of indifference to her participation in what was clearly
of interest to both of them. If he knew what she had done, his lecture would
run on for months, maybe years. As for what had happened between her and Teddy,
she immediately put that out of her mind. Lectures would hardly be enough to
extract his pound of flesh.

"Hey," Terry called to them from the dining room,
"you two are awfully quiet."

"Would you rather we yelled?" Jenny replied.

"It won't be much longer," Larry called.

"Take all the time you want," Godfrey bantered,
winking at Jenny.

"You're an extremely attractive person," he said,
his voice lower, for her ears alone.

"Am I?" Jenny mouthed in a kind of soundless
mime.

At that moment she sensed movement across the couch. He had
reached out and caught her hand, which somehow had found itself a ready target.
His touch was, no question about it, arousing, and she was totally flustered,
although she did not remove her hand from his grasp, casting a quick look
toward the dining room.

A harmless gesture, she decided. He was just holding her
hand, for crying out loud. She felt an odd belligerence, as if she were
answering Larry's accusation.

At that moment another thought crowded into her
consciousness. Suppose all this was Terry's doing, her manipulation, throwing
Jenny in Godfrey's path for the purpose of arousal? Clearly that was exactly
what was happening, the arousal part. She wasn't quite certain of the
manipulative part.

Then she realized that Godfrey was smiling, his eyes shiny
with ... was it gratitude?

"Would you like some more coffee?" Jenny asked
him, more as a subterfuge than a real offer.

"Yes, that would be nice," Godfrey said.

With her free hand, she reached for the coffeepot, then
poured more coffee in his cup, which he held with his free hand. Then she felt
the hand he was holding move closer to his body. There was no way to stop him.
The coffeepot she was holding was poised in midair.

Suddenly the back of her hand was in his crotch. She let it
lie there, wondering why she wasn't resisting. This was absurd, she thought,
but she could not find her indignation. Her inaction was inexplicable, out of
character, but she did not argue the point with herself. Curiosity was motivating
her now, more than anything else. Concentrating her mind into the nerves of her
hand, she convinced herself that the hard part on which her hand lay was
nothing other than a full-blown erection.

A kind of miracle, she decided, offering a moment's caress
while she watched his eyes, shining with such obvious joy that she wanted to
shout out the news to Terry. She noted, too, that he had flushed deep red, and
she observed that the hand that held the cup and saucer was trembling slightly,
making a clattering noise.

"Your husband is quite a salesman," Terry said.
Luckily her voice preceded her, and Jenny managed to disengage her hand.

"He told me he was in research," Jenny said with
a touch of malevolence, turning to face Larry, who had just entered the room.
His expression seemed much more relaxed. He was obviously satisfied that the
objective of the dinner had been achieved. She chuckled wryly at that. She had,
after all, achieved another, possibly far more important objective.

* *
*

When Jenny finally finished the dishes and cleaned up the
dining area, it was nearly one. She had deliberately taken her time, rubbing to
a high polish the pot in which Terry had brought the sauce. The Richardsons had forgotten to take it with them. She hoped that Larry would be fast asleep
when she arrived in the bedroom. She was in no mood for confrontation.

He was lying in bed on top of the covers, wearing only his
Jockey shorts and writing on a yellow legal pad when she came into the bedroom.
It both surprised and disappointed her. Fortunately he was so absorbed in his
work that he did not look up, and she was able to undress quickly, put on her
nightgown, and crawl under the comforter.

With her back turned to him, Jenny closed her eyes and
longed for sleep. She needed very badly to get over the evening, not the part
with Godfrey Richardson, which in her mind became a kind of pleasant highlight.
She thought of herself somehow as a catalytic agent and hoped that the Richardsons had made love before going to sleep, maybe even had made a baby.

She wasn't sure how to describe her feelings about Larry.
Was it disillusion? Had he always been this calculating and manipulative? The
fact was that she was mostly disappointed in his character. As if to emphasize
her thoughts, he spoke:

"The way I figure, the whole deal cost us three, three
twenty-five at the most."

She had closed her eyes and was feigning sleep.

"Five bottles of wine, four reds at fifty per and one
white at thirty per. With food, say another fifty. If she gives us the loan,
I'll put in a chit. Say three hundred. I could probably get away with five.
Vince wouldn't dare raise a stink. All in all, I'd give the night, say, an
eight.... What do you think?"

Although she heard every word, she didn't answer. He shook
her shoulder. Still she didn't answer.

"All those damned interruptions. I wish hereafter you
would just keep your mouth shut when I'm conducting business. It was so
obvious. And she was listening. Thing with these bankers, you got to get them
on your side so they can sell your deal to the committee. That's the key to
it."

He shook her shoulder roughly. If she was asleep, the
gesture could not fail to rouse her.

"You hear, Jenny? I mean, you've got to be a little
more sensitive to circumstances. Hell, this means as much to you as it does to
me. Sometimes I actually think you're deliberately trying to put a monkey
wrench into the deal. Hard enough putting it together without your being Madame
Buttinsky. Are you listening to me?"

She could feel his movement as he got under the covers and
moved closer to her, settling his body against her back. He had put his mouth
against her ear.

"Anybody home?" he cried, the loudness jolting.
She could smell his wine breath. His hand began to roam over her body.

"Please, Larry," she whispered. "Not now.
I'm bushed."

Not once since the beginning of their relationship had she
refused him. But at this moment she felt cold, without the slightest feeling of
arousal. He did not desist immediately, but she could tell that her refusal had
dampened his desire.

"I don't know what the hell has come over you,
Jenny."

She didn't answer, but it was a relief to her that he moved
away, although she sensed that he was still awake, brooding. She felt tense,
rigid, unable to sleep. Nor did she have any desire to make it up with him. Was
this the man she'd married? To love and honor?

As she lay there, knowing he was awake and brooding, angry
with her, probably insulted, she felt her attitude soften. Perhaps she was
being too harsh, too critical. Was she fulfilling her part of the bargain,
knowing where his ambition lay? Of course, it would benefit both of them and
their future children.

After all, he was the businessman in the family. He was the
one fulfilling his obligation. Was it guilt corroding her resolve to punish
him? Punish him for what? She had her secrets now as well. How could she blame
him for not sharing when she had performed an act of betrayal? Or was she being
too harsh on herself? Within her she sensed a battlefield emerging, with
warring factions of raw anger and honorable duty confronting each other.
Finally the battle sputtered, anger retreated, honorable duty advanced. She was
just about to turn toward him when he said:

"And that fucking fag with his fucking cat."

The battle was joined again, only this time the results
were very different.

SHE must have been in a dead sleep when Larry left for
work. Inexplicably her first thought was about Peter, the cat. Odd, she
thought, how the cat's fate had become a pervasive aspect of life in this building.
She had the urge to go downstairs and ask either Jerry or Bob if Peter had been
found. Putting on her robe, she left the bedroom, walked into the living room,
opened one of the casement windows, and looked outside, searching the branches
of the sycamore tree for any sign of Peter.

At that moment Jerry O'Hara emerged from his apartment and,
obviously with the same thought in mind, inspected the tree's branches. He
glanced at Jenny, who could tell from his expression that Peter was still among
the missing.

"Not yet?" Jenny asked.

"Afraid not."

"What do you think?"

"Bob and I are afraid to speculate," he said,
shaking his head in despair.

"He'll turn up. You'll see," Jenny said, suddenly
irritated by her own blind optimism.

"Makes you feel so helpless," Jerry said.
"We've been searching all night." He opened his arms palms up in a
gesture of resignation.

"I'm sorry about my husband," Jenny said.

"Let's just say he's not exactly a cat person."
Jerry grimaced.

She wanted to explain further but could not think of
anything worth saying that would mitigate the circumstances.

"Let's just hope for the best," Jerry said as Bob
came out the apartment door. He looked up and shook his head.

"We're ravaged," Bob said.

"We'll give it another day," Jerry said.

"Then what?" Bob cried. He glanced toward Jerry
in irritation. Jenny sensed that things between them were tense. Probably each
blaming the other for Peter's disappearance.

"It's an absolute nightmare," Jerry cried.

"The worst," Bob agreed, shooting Jerry an angry glance.
They turned away and headed toward Second Avenue, talking animatedly, probably
arguing.

She went into the kitchen to make herself some coffee. As
the coffee brewed, she poured a saucer of milk and, after overcoming some
consternation, placed it on the living room window ledge as a lure, leaving the
window open.

She was quite aware that this was a gesture of defiance
against Larry. But this time the eternal debate about it was not long and
concluded decidedly in her favor. She simply characterized the gesture as her
right. This was her home, and the word
obey
had long been eliminated
from the marriage ritual. Suddenly she felt giggly, wondering what Larry would
say if he were to walk through the door at that moment.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, the coffee was
ready. Normally the routine of the morning's comings and goings of the house
did not enter her consciousness unless she concentrated on listening or if, for
some reason, the routine had been violated, as in the case of Godfrey Richardson
and his so-called girlfriend.

Today, for some reason, as she sipped her coffee she found
herself on alert, listening, feeling on the edge of some vague expectancy. She
deliberately did not dwell on the events of the previous evening, knowing in
her heart that such a recounting would lead inevitably to a reassessment of her
life, her marriage, her state of mind, her values. For the time being, one
blatant defiance was enough.

Better to drift today, she decided, postpone. She had this
urge to call her mother, to confide her dilemma, but that reality, too,
inhibited her action. In the context of this new life in Manhattan, her mother
was as much of an alien as if she resided on another planet.

The elevator revved up. The Sterns were on the move. Not
Teddy, who would have left long before she had awakened. She never heard the
Sterns' voices, only the movement of the elevator and the sound of their
footfalls on the stone steps in front of the house. She hadn't talked to Mr.
Stern since the day he had attempted suicide, but she had seen him through the
window, rushing off to whatever appointed round her loan had made possible.

In his carriage and demeanor, she sensed more optimism and
determination, which once again buttressed her opinion that she had done the right
thing. Even Mrs. Stern looked less doomed. For a brief instant Jenny had even
seen her smile.

Then she heard Terry's distinctive high-heeled hip-hop on
the staircase as she descended. Jenny smiled to herself. Terry's walk, in
heels, was something less than graceful, and although they had never discussed
it, Jenny was certain that the obligatory essentials of dressing for success
were not among Terry's happiest chores.

The telephone's ring interrupted the rhythm of her
alertness, although she had begun to sense that something was different in the
morning pattern of the apartment house. She picked up the phone. It was Larry.

"I just got in the office," he said, his voice
thick with contrition. "I ... I ... feel rotten. It's the tension of this
new venture. I'm not myself."

She wanted to tell him that maybe he should leave well
enough alone, not try to set up this new business on such a morally
reprehensible foundation. No, she decided, this was not something to be
discussed on the telephone. Perhaps his conscience was giving him second
thoughts, and he was trying to find his way back to higher moral ground. Maybe.

"I understand," she said, hoping that he would
tell her that he had called off the new venture.

"You know I love you," he said, lowering his
voice. "All I ask is that you bear with me through this period. I'm hyper
and I can't stop myself. You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do," she said. Yet she could not bring
herself to tell him that she loved him. Up to that moment it would have been
her knee-jerk response. If he noted a change in the calibration of her
emotions, he said nothing.

"Everything will be fine," he said. "I
promise."

"I hope so," she whispered.

"Tell you what," Larry said. "I'll get home
early. Say no later than six. You rustle up my favorite dish, your A number one
Indiana meat loaf, and I'll open a bottle of one of those fancy
clarets." He paused, lowering his voice, putting on his teasing manner.
"We'll take it from there. Get my drift?"

"More or less," she said, offering no commitment.
At that moment the prospect hadn't much allure.

"Good," he said, oddly satisfied. "See you
later, alligator." She could detect the hollowness of his attempt at
cheerfulness.

After she hung up, she made some effort to enter the normal
routine of her day, the household chores, the dinner plans. The prospect of
such tasks, which since moving into the apartment had always anchored her day,
filled her with dismay. For what purpose? she wondered, feeling a sense of
disorientation and despair. Was this what was meant by the housewife blues?

She felt herself sliding into, as her mother would put it,
the black hole of self-pity. Never, never give in to that, she would caution,
one more homily that fitted nicely into the family's value system. She knew
that she must not give in to this momentary wave of disillusion, that certainly
Larry, her husband and the potential father of her children, must be given the
benefit of the doubt.

There was, after all, nothing wrong in being ambitious.
Wasn't that also high up on the list of priorities? A man with ambition was
someone to be valued. Didn't dreaming big dreams mean taking big risks? How
could one have small dreams in Manhattan, the Big Apple? Why was she so upset?
And what, after all, could she contribute even if she were consulted about his
business plans?

Despite these reflections, she could not find the energy to
begin her day. Instead she poured herself another cup of coffee and wondered if
she might shake off the blues by getting dressed and going to the movies. The
idea triggered a tug of guilt and left her confused and uncertain, and it was
with a sense of relief that she heard the inside buzzer ring.

Before she opened the door, she knew exactly who it was.
The vague expectation, which had been bothering her all morning, had finally
reached the edge of her consciousness.

"May I come in?" Godfrey said.

She looked at him for a long moment, not responding.

"Of course," she said nervously. "The
pot."

She turned and went into the kitchen, listening as his
footsteps padded behind her. The memory of Terry's anguished revelation and
last night's episode with Godfrey filtered back into her mind. She had known he
would return. It seemed more like a natural consequence rather than betrayal or
perversion.

Jenny reached for the pot on the stove, all clean and
gleaming and ready for retrieval. Turning, the pot cradled in two hands against
her belly, she confronted him. His eyes studied her, washing over her face and
body like scanning beams of light. He made no move to retrieve the pot.

"Last night—" he began.

"I was a little high," she interrupted.

"I know.... "He could not continue. He was
clearly embarrassed, and a red flush had settled around his neck.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" It seemed to
Jenny a logical question to break the tension. As if to facilitate the offer,
she put the pot on the kitchen island behind her. He looked at his watch.

"I ... I don't think so."

He took a step toward her, closer, but still more than
arm's length distance. Her urge was to respond by stepping backward, but her
movement was constrained by the fact that she was leaning against the kitchen
island.

"It's not what you think," he said, his voice
halting as if he had decided on what he was to say but couldn't bring himself
to speak the words. She knew exactly what he meant. I am an instrument of his
desire, she told herself, feeling foolish, the voice in her mind a kind of
student declamation. Yet she did not feel the same level of desire for him that
she had felt last night.

"May I kiss you?" he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I don't think..." she began. It had
crossed her mind that his being turned on might have had its effect, moving him
and Terry to make love. This was the moment in her cycle, Terry had explained.
From the gloomy look in Godfrey's eyes, she could tell that nothing had
happened between them last night. It saddened her, and she sensed something
growing deep inside of her, an attitude of militancy against life's injustice
and unfairness.

"Just hold you, then," Godfrey said, coming still
closer until his face was barely in focus. She could smell his after-shave,
different from Larry's.

"Please," she said. It was neither an entreaty to
desist nor a sign of consent. Nevertheless, she did not make any attempt to
resist after he put his arms around her and settled his body against hers. His
breath was warm against her ears as he spoke.

"I don't understand it, and I'm not going to question
it, either," he whispered, holding her, his pelvis grinding into hers.
"It's something about you. Natural involuntary selection. If only you
knew. I'm sorry, but..."

She let herself be kissed; then, as he moved his head away,
he was about to say something, and she put a finger on his lips.

"No need," she whispered, fearful that if she
revealed Terry's confession, it would have an adverse effect on ... She did not
allow herself to extend the thought. Men, she decided, were far more fragile
than women. Things like this, she supposed, could be talked away.

"Believe me," he said, "just this once. I'll
... I'll never bother you again." She did not ask: Why her? Things like
this were nature's mysteries. She had fallen in his path at exactly the right
moment of his greatest need, an accident of nature.

She wondered if he and Terry had talked it over, debated
this action, deciding finally to pursue it on the basis of desperation. Where
was the harm? Call it an act of charity. Certainly not betrayal or revenge.

Such thoughts roared through her mind as Godfrey held her,
rubbing himself against her. His arousal was unmistakable.

"Please," he pleaded. "Just this once."

She reached down with one hand, surprised to discover that
his pants were open and his penis erect. She touched it, caressed it. She felt
no arousal herself, nor did he press himself on her, apparently content to be manipulated
by her hand, a process that harked back to her early teenage days.

"Faster," he whispered, his breath coming in
short gasps.

Applying more movement, she wondered with clinical interest
how he was going to preserve the ejaculate.

"Yes," he said. "Oh, God, thank you."

His breath came in convulsive gusts, and his body
tightened. Then suddenly he grasped her wrist and moved her hand away, turning
his back, groping in his pocket, removing an object that appeared to be a small
cup. It was obvious that he was finishing the process by himself. His body
lurched in a long, twitching response. She noted that he had bent his head,
watching what was happening below. When he turned again to face her, he held
one hand behind his back. She tried to assemble her features in an expression
of neutrality.

"Someday I'll explain," he said with obvious
gratitude.

"No need," Jenny said.

"I've got to go," he said, bending toward her. He
kissed her forehead. "You don't know how wonderful you are."

"Never mind," she said.

He turned and rushed out the door, leaving her to debate
the question of her culpability. In a technical sense, she had not been
unfaithful. For that she was thankful, although it did take a giant leap of
faith to reach that conclusion.

She had, after all, deliberately masturbated a man other
than her husband. Means, she had been taught, could never justify ends. On the
other hand, she might have been the instrument for bringing happiness to a
neighbor. There was some solace in such a possibility, although she wasn't
completely convinced of her innocence. Nor of her guilt. She hadn't, after all,
well ... fucked a stranger. That, never, she told herself. A hot blush rose in
her face.