The Housewife Blues (4 page)

She certainly had caught a good one, the family agreed. She
also assured them that she would be a frequent visitor to Bedford, certainly on
holidays. They knew that, of course. Her heart would always be in Bedford. That was her upbringing. Family was everything, regardless of distance.

Not that they weren't truly worried. The big city,
especially New York, to a small-town Hoosier was seen as a corrupting
influence. She assured them that they had given her a good foundation and that
she was beyond corruption, and with Larry protecting her, what was there to
worry about?

Larry's family was practically nonexistent. He was an only
child who had been raised mostly in boarding schools. His father was an
accountant in Seattle who had married twice after leaving his mother and had
acquired two additional families, which kept him perpetually strapped for
money. He and Larry hardly communicated. His mother had died years ago.
Obviously, Jenny reasoned, Larry was a man who hungered for the joys of home
and hearth, of real family, and a wife to love and care for him and provide him
with children. She vowed to be that wife.

On the day she left Bedford, Jenny and her mother had a
real heart-to-heart, complete with tears and lots of hugs.

"Just be good to your man and everything will be
fine," her mother told her.

"You know I will, Mom."

"And never, never stray from your real values."

"Never, Mom."

"Sometimes things will get tough. There will be ups
and downs, but in the end it will be the wife who holds things together."

They hugged each other for a long time and dried their
tears. Then Jenny's mother gave her the petit-point poem entitled "The
Wife," by author unknown. It was suitably framed and had been replicated
from her grandmother's, one of those sentimental possessions that are handed
down from mothers to daughters. Her mother, she knew, had hung it on the inside
of her closet door, where it still remained through the years, a kind of very
private and very cherished idea. Jenny knew that her brother's wife had also
received one when they were married.

She took the petit-point poem from her mother and read it
aloud.

THE WIFE
The heart of a home is a loving wife
Who protects it always from trouble and strife
Her sacred role is to love and to care
Always to nurture and forever to share
As helpmate or more, she can never lose
Unless she surrenders to the housewife blues.

Again mother and daughter hugged and cried. Jenny had never
been happier.

Jenny set to work putting the apartment together with
tremendous enthusiasm. Larry had given her a budget, and she was determined to
stay within it and impress him with her own resourcefulness and good taste. He
had also given her samples of the colors he favored and she did not make any
purchases without his complete approval. She welcomed his hands-on attitude and
his firm views.

They haunted the little antique stores tucked away in various
Manhattan neighborhoods and bought numerous items that seemed to fit
perfectly in their apartment. She favored American Colonial and he favored
Victorian English, but they managed to compromise and get the apartment
furnished with a minimum of new pieces. They did, however, purchase a new
four-poster queen-size bed.

"And it had better be sturdy," Larry had told the
clerk with a wink.

She particularly enjoyed putting together the kitchen. She
always had a flair for cooking, and Larry let her buy whatever equipment was
needed, including expensive copper pots, which she hung from hooks on the brick
wall. She also bought a complete set of knives, which she kept in a wooden
block with handy slots on the kitchen island. On a shelf over the sink she had
put a wonderful antique spice rack. In the kitchen closet she put a wine rack
that held thirty-six bottles. Larry considered himself an expert on wines.

She had known from the beginning that Larry loved the idea
of coming home to a well-cooked meal, and she had done her best to oblige.
Once, however, while working late into the afternoon in the apartment, she'd
neglected to prepare a meal and was obliged to call a carryout pizza place for
their dinner.

It was, of course, against Larry's ideas about how to conduct
oneself safely in the city, but she was certain he would allow her to make this
one little exception. Besides, she liked pizza, which went very well with a
salad and a glass of wine.

Unfortunately, he got home almost at the exact time that
the delivery man pressed the outside buzzer.

"Who can that be?" he had asked.

"The pizza man," she replied, pressing the buzzer
that would allow the man to enter.

"Are you out of your mind?" he rebuked.

"You know I like pizza and I haven't had time..."

"Jenny, how many times must I warn you? The carryouts
in this city are a license to steal or worse. The statistics on this are
appalling and I will not allow you to endanger yourself."

"Now, that's being paranoid. Lots of people order
carryouts in New York."

A moment later the door buzzer sounded and Larry rushed to
the door. She watched him opening it carefully, keeping the chain on the hook.
After inspecting the delivery man, a black teenager, he asked the price and
quickly exchanged the box of pizza for the money, then swiftly rechained the
lock and slid the dead bolt into its slot.

"He was just a kid," Jenny said.

"Right. A black kid. The highest single group of crime
perpetrators in the country."

"Really, Larry..."

"I'm not kidding, Jenny. No more of this. Not ever again.
I want a promise."

"You're taking this much too seriously, Larry."

"A promise," he repeated.

"If it means that much." She sighed.

"It does."

"Well then, I promise."

It was, after all, just to keep the peace. If it was
important to Larry, then it was important to her. She let it pass, put it out
of her mind, and did not let it interfere with her putting the apartment
together.

He fitted out one corner of their bedroom with a weight
bench set up between two standing antique mirrors that gave him a two-sided
view of himself when he lifted weights. He usually did it wearing only a
jockstrap, and he enjoyed having her watch him do his sets. For Jenny it was
sheer joy watching his muscles ripple, and invariably she reacted sexually.

From the beginning Larry had harped on her not to be too
pushy in trying to get to know the neighbors. New Yorkers, he insisted, were
uncomfortable with neighborliness, and he didn't want her to have to face what
might be interpreted as rejection. She appreciated his concern, but exercising
a mild assertiveness, she reminded him that she had worked for several years as
an assistant in a doctor's office and was not totally naive about people and
their motives. She pointed out, too, that people who lived under the same roof
were obligated to get to know one another, if only as a kind of insurance for
emergencies.

"I've got to learn how to deal with city people,"
she told him.

"Forewarned is forearmed," he told her.
"Most New Yorkers have a siege mentality."

"People are people."

"New Yorkers are conditioned by a hostile environment.
They react to everything defensively. Even their offense is defensive. Most
people in this town are takers, not givers. Besides, what do you need them for?
My advice is keep to yourself, mind your own business. It's safer."

"I'm perfectly capable of making that judgment on my
own."

"Of course you are, darling," he said, retreating
somewhat. "But, remember, I grew up in Manhattan and it's gotten worse
over the years. I can smell the hustlers, the phonies, the users. Lean on me in
that respect. I know. Believe me, I know. All I'm saying is watch out. Next
thing you know you'll be involved in somebody else's complications. Trust
me."

With that in mind, she nevertheless felt obliged to make a
modest effort to strike up some social intercourse with the neighbors. After
all, in her comings and goings, how was one to avoid them? A smile and a kind
word were certainly in order under those circumstances. So far, the easiest
people to get to know were the Richardsons, largely because Terry was naturally
approachable. Godfrey was less so, but had been gracious and charming at
dinner.

Larry, although he had consented to her inviting the
Richard-sons, had been a reluctant participant.

"You know how I feel about getting too intimate with
the neighbors."

"Just dinner, Larry. You never know when you'll need a
little neighborly help one day."

"As long as it's just dinner," he told her.

The dinner had seemed to go well. She had made her
grandmother's favorite meat loaf recipe. She also did her homemade biscuits and
baked what she considered her inspired apple pan dowdy. A real "down
home" meal with succotash and whipped-up mashed potatoes. Only the fancy
French red wine served in big stem glasses gave a touch of Manhattan
sophistication.

The Richardsons were pleasant and affable and seemed to
like the meal, except that Godfrey hadn't touched the succotash. But the
conversation seemed to steer clear of any real intimacy. Mostly the talk
centered around contemporary art. Godfrey owned an art gallery, and Larry
probed him most of the evening about which artists were on their way up for
investment purposes.

"Now did that hurt?" she asked after the Richardsons had gone and she had finished the dishes.

"Depends on your definition of pain," Larry said.

"I don't understand," Jenny replied, confused.

"Meat loaf?"

"What's wrong with meat loaf?"

"Oh, it's fine for cafeterias and home meals, but for
guests? Really, Jenny. Meat loaf?"

"It's my grandmother's recipe," she said, her
stomach churning.

"Succotash?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"I hate to put it this way." Larry sighed.
"You worked so damned hard. But it's ... well ... second rate. Not in
taste or even intention. Just ... lower order ... not upscale."

"I did serve that fancy French wine," Jenny said.
She felt rebuked.

"It's not important," Larry said. "You did
tell them it would be no big deal."

"Yes, I told them."

"Call it gentle advice, Jenny. Not worth a hassle
between us. Put it in the category of a learning experience."

"I am confused, Larry."

"Just trust me. I've got a handle on perception.
Follow my lead. It's my fault, really. I should have put my two cents in.
Anyway, forget it. Fact is, the meat loaf was yummy and the apple pan dowdy
scrumptious."

He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

"You're wonderful, Jenny. Wonderfully Midwest. Don't ever lose that."

She wanted to explore the question further, but she decided
that she would leave it for another time. She knew she had a lot to learn.

"Notice how Godfrey was hustling his artwork? Proof
positive. Everybody here is hustling something."

"I wasn't paying much attention to that side of
it," Jenny said.

"Well, I hope you learned something about the banking
business from Terry."

"Actually we talked mostly about babies. Hers. They've
been going to a fertility clinic."

"So much for opportunity," Larry said with a
sigh. She glanced at him suddenly, wondering if he was serious. He must have
felt her scrutiny. "She is a banker," he said. "We gave them
dinner. There's a quid pro quo here somewhere."

"They're neighbors," Jenny said, confused by his
remark. "Just neighbors."

"Nobody is just anything, Jenny. Not in the Big
Apple," Larry said, reaching for her hand and leading her gently into the
bedroom.

Two hours and ten minutes by the clock passed before she
heard the elevator move in the shaft once again. It annoyed her that she was
timing the liaison as if she were a private detective.

Yet as soon as she heard the elevator, she dashed closer to
the window, hiding in the shadows at a spot that offered a good vantage to
watch the street. Sure enough, the woman appeared on the steps, and Jenny
studied her carefully, as if her physical aspect might reveal some confirming
truth. She seemed to have combed her hair with some care and put on new makeup
and did not look as furtive or as anxious as before. In fact, she seemed almost
relieved, as if she had been through some ordeal and was glad that it was over.

Not ten minutes later she heard Godfrey's regular tread
coming down the stairs. No need for him to sneak now. It crossed her mind that
his earlier caution had been for Jenny's benefit, since it was probably
apparent to him as well as the other tenants that she was the only one who
remained in the building on most weekdays.

She heard the front door open, then Godfrey came into view.
He was only visible in profile, his thin face seemed paler than before, his
body hunched into his overcoat. She made a conscious effort to read his
attitude, hoping that she might sense some element of saving grace, like guilt
or remorse for what he had done. Without realizing it, her concentration made
her less cautious. She had stepped closer, moving toward the center of the bay
window.

Then, suddenly, her attention shifted to the sycamore tree
in front of the house. There was that tabby tomcat climbing the tree again. It
belonged to the men who lived in the downstairs apartment and was always
getting out somehow. Frequently she would see it climbing the tree, posting
itself on the branch opposite her window and looking into her apartment, which
it was doing now. Larry, who was allergic to cats, hated the sight of it.

"Just don't give the bastard milk," he had warned
her. "Then you'll never get rid of him."

Godfrey's attention, too, might have been deflected by the
cat, and he had turned. Perhaps he had sensed her observation of him as well.
She felt a blush of embarrassment rise to her face. Their eyes met and stayed
locked together for a brief moment. He did not smile in greeting but turned
quickly like a man caught in the beam of a floodlight, then headed swiftly
toward Third Avenue.