Wifey (14 page)

S
ANDY HAD TROUBLE FALLING
asleep after their conversation, couldn’t help picturing Myra, at twenty-three, with Frank Monzellini, who wore an undershirt, Marlon Brando style, showing off his hairy armpits. Frank was a plumber. Sandy remembered him carrying in Myra’s groceries, playing with the twins on the floor, and one day, to her surprise, when she’d dropped by unexpectedly, finding him there without his shirt, under or regular, and Myra in her robe, flushing. “The toilet’s stopped up,” Myra had said. “Frank is fixing it for me.” Myra and Frank had exchanged looks, then Frank left. Sandy hadn’t guessed, hadn’t even suspected what was going on. How naive she’d been then.

Thinking about Myra and Frank brought back Sandy’s unfinished sexual feelings. The movie. Vincent’s office. Gordon, writing her that stupid note. That fool, she thought, touching herself softly, finishing what Vincent had started.
Fool, fool, fool.
Yet she was a fool too. A fool for going with Vincent, for playing with Gordon, for her why not attitude.

16

T
HE NEXT DAY,
when she got home, Sandy phoned Gordon. “Myra found your greeting card.”

“My what?”

“You know,
It’s bigger than both of us!
”

“No!”

“Yes. And she thinks you’re having an affair.”

“I forgot all about that card. Did she mention any names?”

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“Gordon, this is very serious. Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know. I was looking for get-well cards for the girls and I came across that one and it appealed to me. It reminded me of us.”

“You better think up a good explanation.”

“I’ll say it was for Mrs. O’Neil.”

“Who’s she?”

“Our bookkeeper. Myra’s crazy about her. She’s about sixty . . .”

“You expect Myra to believe that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, maybe she won’t ask.” Sandy paused. “Gordy, that card
was
to me, wasn’t it?”

“Well, of course it was.”

“I just wanted to make sure.”

“Doesn’t anybody trust anybody anymore?”

“It keeps getting harder.”

T
HAT NIGHT, IN BED,
Norman looked up from the July issue of the
AMA Journal
and said, “I didn’t know you were going out with Lisbeth when you were in New York.”

“Her mother’s very ill,” Sandy said. “They think it’s a brain tumor.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes.”

“I picked up the new dog today. The employees voted on a name for him. It’s Lester.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“I would have preferred something with a little more class, but it’s important for the employees to feel involved.”

Sandy closed her book and said, “Norm . . .”

“What?”

“Have you ever seen a porno film?”

“What has that got to do with Lester?”

“Nothing, I’m changing the subject. Have you?”

“Not since my college days. Why?”

“I thought it might be fun to see one together sometime.”

“That sounds like Lisbeth. You know, San, she’s nothing but trouble. I’ve warned you again and again . . . begged you to make new friends at The Club.”

“This has nothing to do with making friends at The Club.”

“I’ll bet her fag of a husband needs porno flicks to turn him on, but I don’t.” He switched off the bedside lamp, pulled down her blanket, and climbed in next to her. “I’m always ready,” he said, dropping his boxer shorts to the floor. “I’m ready right now.”

“Yes, I know.”

Three minutes from start to finish. Sandy thought about Frank Monzellini. Frank and Myra. No time for a main course tonight. Tonight she got just a snack.

After, when Norman had finished washing and gargling and was tucked safely into his own bed, Sandy asked, “Norm, are you happy?”

“You ask too many questions lately.”

“I need to know. Are you?”

“Yes, I’m happy.”

“All the time?”

“Who’s happy all the time?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“I’m happy enough. And so would you be if you had half a brain. Now go to sleep.”

H
ALF A BRAIN.
If she had half a brain she’d appreciate him. That’s what he meant. But how could she when he treated her like a trained animal? Like Banushka. No, he treated Banushka better. With more care, more respect. Well, she had news for him. She had more than half a brain. It just hadn’t been working lately. Hadn’t been tuned up for a long time. She’d just been letting it sit there. Going bad. Rotting away. Atrophy. Atrophy of the brain. There now, that was a grown-up word, an intellectual word.
Someone not too intellectual,
Lisbeth had told Vincent. Imagine her saying that!

I’m going to read the classics this summer.
But summer was getting away. Next weekend was visiting day at camp. That meant it was half over. Half over and half a brain. Half over and what had she accomplished? Painful golf and tennis lessons. And what did she have to look forward to? More of the same. And come September? The new house. The final house. Shit. Fuck.

S
HE THOUGHT ABOUT CALLING
Shep, about telling him that she was ready, at last. She went to the phone, lifted the receiver off the hook but couldn’t go through with it.

Why not, Sandy? Why couldn’t you dial?

I’m scared.

Of what?

Suppose he says
no?

He won’t.

He might. Besides, the man on the motorcycle hasn’t shown up all week.

So . . . maybe he’s on vacation . . .

Maybe . . . or maybe he doesn’t find me very exciting anymore . . . and if he doesn’t . . . will Shep?

What does one have to do with the other?

Look, I had my chance at the dance and I blew it.

A
ND NOW SHE WAS DUE
at The Club. Due at eight to struggle through nine holes, with Steve dragging his ass behind her, yawning all the way.

“Know what you need, Mrs. Pressman?” Steve said, as she tried to chip over the water and onto the seventh green, missing by inches. “You need a good ball retriever, that’s what.”

“I’ll tell my husband,” Sandy answered.

She lost six balls—not that it mattered since Norman gave her his discards—and finished with a score of 72 for nine, not counting her tee shot on eight, when, after five tries, she finally picked up her ball and carried it up the hill, where she took her three wood and really blasted it, surprising herself. “Great shot!” Steve called.

She was finished and scraping her shoes on the mat at nine-forty-five. She showered and changed, the only member in the locker room. It was nice that way, quiet and peaceful. She tried six new combination numbers on her lock, without luck. Oh well. She’d go grocery shopping now, then home to sit on the porch and read. Yes, she’d stop by the library and get something she could sink her teeth into. Something that would make her think.

She got into her car, but instead of going directly to the A&P, as planned, drove straight to the Parkway, headed South, and thirty minutes later turned off at the Mattawan Exit, where she followed signs to Ye Olde New England Village, Shep’s shopping center.

Sandy was impressed by its size, by the interesting layout and the attractive shops. She browsed through them, hoping to bump into Shep. She bought a bracelet to bring to Jen at camp, some rubber band glider planes for Bucky, canasta cards for Mona, a set of lemonade glasses in a chrome carrier for the new house, a dozen terry cloth dish towels, a knit shirt with a pocket for Norman, and everywhere, she watched for Shep, turning around quickly, expecting to find him there, smiling at her. And then they would stroll off together, for lunch in a quaint country inn, followed by a walk in the woods, and there, on a rug of pine needles with the sunlight filtering through the trees, they would make love and it would be beautiful, meaningful, perfect.

“Do you, by any chance, know Mr. Resnick, the owner of this shopping center?” Sandy asked the clerk in the bookstore, where she had just bought the number-one best-seller of the summer. Fourteen weeks on the
New York Times
list.

“Certainly,” the clerk said. She was an older woman with a sweet face and Sandy could see how lovely she must have been.

“Is he here today?”

“I really couldn’t say. He stops by maybe once or twice a week to see how we’re doing. Very nice man, very friendly and interested.”

“Yes, he’s an old friend of mine. I thought I might say hello.”

“No telling where to find him. He’s got other shopping centers and an office in New York.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Enjoy the book.”

“Yes, I’m sure I will.”

Sandy stopped for lunch at one of the two restaurants within Ye Olde New England Village. The waitresses wore long cotton skirts. “Ready to order?”

“Yes,” Sandy said. “I’ll have half a brain with cottage cheese on the side.”

“I’m sorry, did you say . . .”

Sandy looked up and slowly repeated her order. “Half a cantaloupe, cottage cheese on the side.”

The waitress laughed. “For a minute I thought you said half a
brain.
Boy, my ears must really be clogged.” She tapped the side of her head with one hand.

H
AD SHE REALLY
said half a
brain,
she wondered, on the drive home? Was her subconscious beginning to take over? Could that happen? No, of course not. She had complete control. She knew exactly what she was doing and saying. Didn’t she?

She wasn’t home five minutes when the phone rang.

“Mrs. Pressman?”

“Yes.”

“This is the plumber over at the new house.”

“Yes?”

“We’ve got a little problem here.”

“What is it?”

“You ordered American Standard fixtures in Desert Sand.”

“That’s right.”

“And we just got word from the company that Desert Sand has been discontinued. They’re putting out two new colors though, one’s called Beechnut and the other’s Suntan. I’ve got the samples here. If you’d come up we could put the order in right away.”

“It’s almost four.”

“I can wait.”

“Well, it’ll take me half an hour . . . I might run into traffic.”

“The sooner the better but like I said, I’ll wait.”

“Okay.”

Sandy went outside, got into the car, and drove toward the new house. . . .

H
E WAS WAITING
for her, as promised, standing next to his truck, guzzling Budweiser from the can.
Hello, Mrs. Pressman.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I’m Frank Monzellini, the plumbing contractor.

Frank Monzellini?

That’s right. I work with Joe Fiori, the general contractor. I’ve met your husband but I don’t think I’ve met you.

Are you the Frank Monzellini who used to live in Tudor Village Apartments?

Yeah, how’d you know that?

This is so funny,
Sandy said.
You used to live next door to my sister, Myra Lefferts. Of course, it was a long time ago. The twins are going on fifteen.

Sure, I remember now. Myra Lefferts, how about that?

Frank was about forty-five, graying, with a beer belly, but still attractive, although the undershirt had been replaced by a blue work shirt.

So you were Myra’s little sister . . .

Yes I’m Sandy.

All grown up now, huh?

She smiled and fiddled with the belt on her skirt.

Small world, isn’t it?

Yes,
Sandy said,
and about those samples . . .

Oh, sure, right here, in my truck.
He reached in, took out the samples, and handed them to Sandy.
We were pretty good friends, me and Myra.

She mentioned that just the other day.

She did?

Yes. Do you think I could look at these tiles in the bathroom, the light might be different.

Yeah, sure.
He followed her inside and up the stairs. They went to the master bath first.
Now, this here’s the Beechnut and this here’s the Suntan,
he told her, spreading them out on the floor, his thigh brushing against hers.

I always liked the hair under your arms and all over your chest,
Sandy said.

Well, I still got it.
He took off his shirt.
You see.

Very nice,
Sandy said, running her hands across his chest.
Here, let me do that,
she told him, unbuckling his belt. She unzipped his work pants, reached inside, and pulled out his cock. It was soft, but as she held it, it grew hard.
Oh, you’re big!

Yeah, ten inches, stiff.

I guess I knew you would be. Myra said you were sexy although I’ve read that size doesn’t mean a thing. It’s what you do with it that counts.

Yeah, well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with it,
he said.
I’m going to bury it in you. I’m going to move it in and out real slow until you scream.

My mother had a friend who liked his women to scream.

Never mind your mother.

Don’t hurt me, Frank. Please. You’re so big I’m afraid.

Don’t be scared. I never hurt a woman.

Is this how you did it to Myra?
Sandy asked, her legs around his back, in a semi-sitting position, the unfinished floor rough and uncomfortable beneath her.

Yeah . . . yeah . . .

Does it feel better with me?

Yeah . . . yeah . . . real good . . .

Fuck me, Frank . . . harder . . .

Yeah . . . yeah . . . scream now . . . scream . . .

H
E WAS WAITING
for her on the front steps. “Mrs. Pressman?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Carl Halloran, the plumber.”

“Thank you for waiting.”

“I have the samples upstairs, in the bathroom. I figured you’d want to see them up there, the light might be different.”

“Yes, of course.”

He followed her up the stairs, down the hall, and to the master bath. Sandy looked at the samples, thought for a minute, and said, “I think the Suntan is more what I had in mind.”