The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (65 page)

As far as Betty Meyers was concerned the French could keep their Riviera. They could take their whole lousy country and turn it over to the Communists tomorrow, for that matter, and she'd say “good riddance.” All she wanted was to be back in Bayonne, New Jersey, where she belonged. Oh, she knew the Sixth Fleet was supposed to be a good deal, and everything. Some of the other Navy wives made her sick the way they carried on about it—“You mean you don't
like
it here? Don't you think it's
beautiful
?”—but you could always be sure the ones who talked that way were the ones that didn't have any kids. They could lie around rubbing sun lotion all over themselves in those sexy little bikini bathing suits, sucking up to the officers' wives and having a high old time. They could even learn French and at least be able to
talk
to people, maybe keep from getting cheated every time they went into a store, but what could she do?

“Hey Ma, buy me an ice cream,” Bobby said. He sure got over his grief in a hurry. “Buy me an ice cream, Ma.”

“Come on,” she told him. “Come on. We can't stop now.”

They went around the Hotel de Ville and cut across the intersection where you always took your life in your hands, what with the way these people tore around with their damn motorcycles and their funny little cars. When they climbed the hill through the slummy part of town and came out on the highway, loud with trucks and buses, that was the last leg of the journey. She always had to steer the carriage with one hand here, and hang on to Bobby with the other, because once he had run ahead, gone off the sidewalk when trucks were coming and practically given her heart failure.

“Hey Ma, you're hurtin' my arm.”

“I'll hurt it a lot worse if you don't start acting your age. Get your hands off that carriage.”

“Hey Ma?”

“What is it now?”

“I have to go, Ma.” And then the twins started to yell.

At last she turned off into the quiet garden of the apartment house. It was a big white slab of a house, set back from the road in a grove of royal palms. It was supposed to have been a luxury hotel before the war, but Betty didn't care if it had been the castle of the king of France—she hated the place. For one thing her apartment was too small—even now, with Eddie at sea—and for another thing she'd never met such snooty people in her life as the people who lived in that house. Even the concierge (and who the hell did she think
she was
?) acted like it was costing her money every time she said hello. It didn't seem to be anything personal, because Marylou Smith, the other Navy wife who lived there, got the same treatment. They just had some grudge against Americans, and they sure didn't care who knew it.

There was the usual trouble with Bobby in the elevator—he always wanted to stick his fingers through the cage when it was moving—and by the time Betty got the carriage wheeled into the apartment, she was just about ready to sit down and cry. It wasn't until she'd slammed the door that she noticed somebody had shoved a piece of paper underneath it. The handwriting looked so foreign that at first she thought it was written in French; then she made out the words.

Well, that did it. The hot tears ran down her nose as she bent over the stove to fix the twins' bottles, and she had to turn away so Bobby wouldn't see the puckering of her face. These damn, damn, damn people—this damn, damn, damn country. She had never been so lonely in her life.

“Hey Ma, whaddya
cryin'
about?”

“I'm not. None of your business. Go
away
now, willya please, Bobby?”

The doorbell rang and she wiped her face quickly, hurrying to answer it.

“Hi, Betty,” Marylou Smith said in her sleepy Southern way. She came in all dressed up, as usual, dragging Brenda, her six-year-old.

“Boy, am I glad to see
you
,” Betty said, and the funny part was it was true. She didn't even like Marylou much, but their husbands were shipmates and Marylou was about the closest thing to a friend she'd had since she came overseas. “Honestly, I'm gonna go nuts if I have to stay in this country one more
minute. Look
at this! Look what that damn little lowlife concierge had the nerve to stick under my door!”

Marylou read the note slowly, aloud, and dropped it on a table. “Oh, that. This the first one of them y'all got? We get 'em all the time. I just don't pay no ‘tention any more.”

That was something, anyway. At least she wasn't the only one.

Marylou strolled to a mirror and touched up her hair. “Where y'all been all day, Betty? Been looking all over for ya.”

“Oh, down to the beach.”

“Yeah? You shoulda
tole
me you was goin' down. I'da come along. Don't much like goin' down there by myself.” Marylou didn't much like doing anything by herself, as a matter of fact—that was one of the annoying things about her. She was like a helpless kid; had to have somebody with her all the time. “Listen, Betty, let's us have supper together tonight, okay? I got this big old roast pork, and we can cook it in your place. Okay?”

“Okay,” Betty said. Another time she might have thought up an excuse, but tonight it seemed like a good idea. At least she'd have somebody to talk to.

“I'll go get all the stuff then,” Marylou said, and started for the door, trailing perfume. Betty couldn't understand why she always dressed up like that—nylons, heels, a tight skirt—just for sitting around the house. Maybe Southern girls were different, but it seemed funny. “Now you stay here and play, Brenda,” Marylou said, shaking her finger, “and don't you get inta no trouble while I'm gone, hear?” But Brenda was already in trouble. She had picked up one of Bobby's toys, a broken sailboat, and when Bobby grabbed for it she gave him a shove that sat him on the floor. She was a mean one, that Brenda. “You watch your manners, hear?” Marylou said. She swung at her, missing, awkwardly stooping in the tight skirt.

Brenda skittered away out of reach, still holding the sailboat, and started acting up. “I'm gonna tell Daddy on you,” she told her mother, fresh as you please.

“
What
you gonna tell him?” Marylou demanded, hands on her hips. It was funny to watch them together—they were like two little kids. “You're so smart,
what
you gonna tell him?”

“‘Bout your boyfriend,” Brenda said, and this time Marylou didn't miss. In two quick high-heeled steps she bore down on the little girl and hit her so hard the sailboat fell on the floor. “Don't you tell no lies, you little liar!” she yelled over Brenda's howling. “I'll teach you to go telling lies!”

Well,
really,
Betty thought, and it was hard to keep from staring. This would be one to tell Eddie when he came home—he always did say Marylou looked like a little tramp. Not that Betty had anything
against
the girl—and she was no prude or anything—but still, when a person's own kid said something like that, it really made you think.

“Don't know what gets
inta
that little head of hers, makes her talk that way to her own mother,” Marylou said. “Now you hush your cryin', Brenda, and see if you can't act nice. Hear?”

The way it worked out, Betty did all the cooking. Marylou just sat around the kitchen smoking cigarettes, not even offering to help set the table, but Betty didn't really mind; at least by doing everything herself she could be sure it was done right. The dinner itself was a rat race, what with the kids throwing bread and gravy at each other, and yelling all the time, and afterwards there were a million dishes to wash. Marylou did the drying, which was some help, even though Betty had to keep stopping to show her where the various plates went. But finally they were through and the kids were all put to bed—they put Brenda in the twins' bed and let the twins sleep in their carriage—and they could relax over a cup of coffee in the living room, looking out at the evening sea through the tall trunks of the royal palms.

“You got a right pretty view from here,” Marylou said, squirming contentedly on the couch. “I like it a whole lot better'n the one we got.”

“Yeah, it's nice,” Betty said, “but I dunno. I'm so used to it now I don't hardly notice it any more. Might just as well be
wall
paper or something.” When Eddie was home his carrier was anchored within sight of the windows; it had been sort of nice to lie here and see its big silhouette out there on the water—reassuring, as if it were there to watch over her. Now a different part of the fleet was in, and the bay was crowded with smaller, funny-looking ships—minesweepers, she thought. “Six more weeks,” she said. “Right?”

“Is that all it is, six weeks? I thought it was seven. No, lemme see”— Marylou counted her red fingernails —“yeah, you're right, six weeks.”

“God, I can hardly wait, can you?” But even as she said it Betty knew it was only partly true. Lonely or not she was no fool, and she remembered the last leave well enough—Eddie complaining (“Can't'cha keep this place
clean
?”) and worrying about the kids messing up his damn precious dress blues. And the evenings: play cards and quarrel, quarrel and play cards. “Listen, Marylou, this time when they're home, whaddya say we go out more, the four of us, instead of sitting around playing canasta every night. Eddie and I only went out twice the whole time he was here last time. And I mean you
need
to get out once in a while—get dressed up and go to one of those nightclubs in town, maybe just take a walk along the promenade or something—at least get out of the apartment and feel like a human being.”

Marylou gave a little glancing smile that made her look just like Brenda. “Don't you like just goin' out with a girlfriend? Because I was just gonna say, why don't you and me go out tonight?”

“Ah, I dunno. Just the two of us, alone?”

Marylou shrugged, her eyes wide and bland. “Why not?” she said. “Lotta good places to go. There's this one real cute little place called the Hollywood Bar, you probably seen it, and inside it's just like the States, everybody's so friendly and all. Lot of the sailors take their wives there, and I mean it ain't like
some
of those places you see around. You don't see no whores in there, what they call business girls, or anything like that—”

“Ah, I dunno,” Betty said. “Look, I don't want to sound like a prude or anything, Marylou, but I mean I got three kids and I got a lot of responsibilities. I'd feel kind of funny going out like that.”

Marylou shrugged again and brushed a cigarette ash from her shapely thigh, looking a little hurt. “Okay,” she said, “but it don't seem to me like there's any harm just sittin' around havin' a drink, maybe
talkin
' to a boy or somethin'. I know
my
husband wouldn't mind.”

“Well no, mine prob'ly wouldn't either. It's just that I'd feel funny about it, is all.”

“Why?”

“Well, just because—oh, I guess it's all right if all you do is
talk
. I mean—” She felt foolish, afraid she was blushing. “I mean, I hope that didn't sound like I thought
you
—” But anything she said now would only make it worse. She laughed. “Ah, don't mind me, I guess I sound like an old prude or something. I'm sorry. Sure, you're right.”

This time Marylou's shrug was elaborate. “Don't make no difference to
me
, honey. You wanna go out? Okay. You don't? That's okay too.” And all at once Betty knew she would go. It was as if she'd had it in the back of her mind all along—all evening, all day. “Okay, let's,” she said. “But listen, we won't stay out long, because I don't like leaving the kids alone, okay? And we'll have to wait till we're sure they're asleep before we go.”

“Sure,” Marylou said. “I ain't in no hurry.” She settled back and smiled. “You ain't gonna wear that, are you, honey?”

Betty laughed, looking down at her wrinkled shorts. “God no, wouldn't I look a sight? I oughta take a bath too, if we're going out. Listen, help me decide what to wear, Marylou, okay? C'mon over here to the closet.”

Lazily Marylou got to her feet and watched as Betty went through her dresses, jangling the wire hangers. “I like that one there,” she said. “That's real cute.”

“This?” Betty said. “Don't you think it's a little too—I don't know—too formal or something?” But already she had decided to wear it. It was her best dress, an expensive black satin that Eddie liked, and she hadn't worn it since the last leave, the night he took her to see a Cary Grant picture that was playing in town. (They'd planned it for days, and they'd already paid and sat down in the theater before they discovered the sound track was in French—they couldn't understand a word of the whole picture, and she was so disappointed she almost cried.) “Okay,” she said, taking it out. “I'll wear this one, then.”

She bathed quickly and put on fresh underwear and nylons (she hadn't worn nylons since the last leave either, and they felt funny on her legs). Then she brushed up her suede pumps, put on the dress and fixed her face and hair, and when she was ready she stood posing in the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Real cute,” Marylou told her, but Betty knew it wasn't true—especially when Marylou came to stand beside her. Betty would be the first to admit she wasn't much for looks. She was only thirty but she looked a lot older, especially in the body—she never had gotten her figure back after the twins. Her teeth were funny too, and now her forehead was peeling from a new sunburn, and the powder had only made it worse. She tucked in a few stray hairs and turned away, resigned. “Okay. Now let's check the kids and then we'll leave.”