Wifey (7 page)

“She has her hand on his fly.”

“I know, but they’re just good friends, believe me. Sometimes good friends act that way.”

“I never knew that.”

“Yes. When it’s New Year’s Eve anything goes.”

“Oh.”

L
ISBETH HAD SUCH DREAMS!
Getting married and having babies was enough for the rest of the crowd but not for Lisbeth. She dreamed of being president of Lord and Taylor’s. After all, she read the
New York Times
and longed for a zebra-covered sofa and a Manhattan apartment when the rest of them were concerned with Saturday night dates and being felt up.

And later this same Lisbeth marched on Washington and no longer dreamed of zebra-covered sofas because her consciousness had been raised to such a degree that she insisted that her mother get rid of her cherished Persian lamb coat and hat. Mrs. Rabinowitz, who had a friend, who had a cousin, who knew a man who manufactured Borgana coats and the summer before they went off to college had schlepped both girls into New York, to the wholesale house, where each bought a Borgana coat for freshman year. Lisbeth had whispered to Sandy, “It feels so good against my skin I’d like to turn it inside out and wear it naked.” And later, after she’d met Vincent, called Sandy to say, “You know that coat . . . the Borgana one . . . well, Vincent and I make love on it . . . in his office . . . on the floor . . . you ought to try using yours for that, San . . . it’s terrific!”

“Sandy! It’s been so long . . .” Lisbeth sang, hugging her, outside the Plaza. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, why?”

“I don’t know. You looked tired.”

“I’ve had a busy morning.”

“Well, let’s get a table. I’ve got so much to tell you.”

Lisbeth was in French pants and a shirt unbuttoned halfway to her navel. Sandy felt very suburban in her linen suit.

“We’re leaving for Maine on the first, taking the whole month off. Vincent is thinking about doing a book.”

Vincent was always thinking about doing a book.

“I’m just going to relax, unwind, be free.”

“Sounds wonderful. How’s Miranda . . . is she going with you?”

“Of course. She has friends there. You should see her, San . . . I should have brought pictures . . . she’s got tiny breasts and just had her first period. I taught her to use Tampax right off. Remember how we had to put up with those disgusting pads?”

Sandy nodded.

“Let’s order. Then I want to hear all about you.”

Sandy scanned the menu. “Did you ever have the chicken salad here?”

“Yes, You have to toss it yourself.”

“You mean it’s dry?”

“Yes, chunks of chicken.”

“Good . . . that’s what I like.”

“And there’s shredded lettuce on the side and mayonnaise or Russian dressing, I forget which.”

The waiter came to take their order.

“Is the chicken salad all white meat?” Sandy asked him.

“If you request it,” he answered.

“Yes, please, with mayonnaise on the side and shredded lettuce.”

“We’re not serving it shredded anymore. It’s leaf style now.”

“Oh . . . well, that’s all right.”

“So . . . what’s happening in suburbia these days?” Lisbeth asked.

“Oh, the usual. Plus we joined The Country Club this year.”

“You didn’t!”

“Norman’s playing a lot of golf and tennis. It made sense.”

“But what about you?”

“Oh, I’m taking lessons. Norm’s head of the Grievance Committee.”

“Terrific!”

Sandy laughed. “He loves it.”

“I’ll bet.”

“His first complaint had to do with a woman who ran from the golf locker room to the parking lot in her bathing suit.”

Lisbeth shook her head. “How’s the new house coming?”

“We hope it’ll be finished by Labor Day.”

“Did you sell the Plainfield house yet?”

“No, we’ve had a few offers but Norm says they’re not enough.”

“Are you going to sell it to blacks?”

“Norm says, no, even though three out of four lookers are black.”

“That’s illegal, you know.”

“I know, I know, I’ve tried to tell that to Norm, but Enid would never forgive him. You know how she feels about them.”

The waiter brought their lunch. “Mayonnaise on the side,” he said, plunking Sandy’s plate down in front of her.

They ate quietly for a moment. Then Sandy asked, “How’s your mother?”

“Not too well. She’s been undergoing all sorts of tests. Lost the feeling in her left arm.”

“I’m so sorry. Is she in the hospital?”

“She was. She’s out now. How’s yours?”

“She’s okay.”

“And how are things with you and Norman?” Lisbeth asked, looking up from her shrimp salad.

“What do you mean?”

“In general . . . I just finished a course called Marriage in a Changing Society and I’m interested.”

“We’re the same as always.” Sandy tossed some more of the chicken in mayonnaise. “Did I mention that Jen hates camp, that she wants to come home? And that I have this fungus or something that I can’t get rid of. It’s driving me crazy.”

“No, you didn’t mention that.”

“And that sometimes I . . .”

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I don’t know that either.” Sandy choked up and took a long swallow of iced tea.

Lisbeth reached across the table and patted Sandy’s hand. She spoke softly. “Tell me,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”

Sandy shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. I tire easily.”

Lisbeth put down her fork and leaned close. “I’m going to tell you something, San, because I think it might help. A few months ago Vincent and I were having our problems . . . boredom with the relationship, snapping at each other . . . the usual . . . but now we’ve got it back together . . . better than ever . . . and it’s all due to a fantastic new arrangement . . . Thursday nights off . . .”

“I don’t get it.”

“Thursday nights off from each other, from the marriage.”

Sandy still wasn’t sure what Lisbeth was trying to tell her.

“Every Thursday night I go out with another man and he goes out with another woman and then we come home and tell each other everything.”

“Sleep with, you mean?”

“Yes, of course. Isn’t it incredible that something so easy should bring us back together?”

“Who do you go with?”

“Right now it’s this art director. He’s young, his wife and kids are out at the beach for the summer, so we go to his place and just fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“And Vincent?”

“He’s got some graduate student doing her thesis on eighteenth-century poets.”

“And do
they
know about your arrangement, the graduate student and the art director?”

“Of course. Everything
must
be out in the open . . . that’s the only rule . . . no secrets . . . you see, San, it’s secrets that cause problems . . . this class I took last semester in Contemporary Relationships was fabulous . . . showed us how secrets cause strains. This openness has been such a boon to our marriage . . .”

“Well, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. I’m only telling you because I think it could do a lot for you and Norman.”

“Norman is very conservative.”

“I know, you’d have to approach the subject carefully, but I’m still convinced it could work for you.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Oh, I almost forgot . . . I’ve got something for you.” She opened her purse and pulled out a paperback book. “You haven’t read it yet, have you?”

“No,” Sandy said as Lisbeth handed it to her. The title was
Diary of a Mad Housewife.

“I think you’ll really enjoy it. It’s funny and true. It has a lot to say.”

Did Lisbeth think she was a mad housewife too? Was that why she’d given her the book? “Thanks, I’ll start it on the train going home.”

But on the train going home, she saw Shep. God, she hadn’t seen him in what . . . almost eight years. Since she was pregnant with Jen and they’d bumped into each other at the Towers Steak House on Route 22. She’d been sitting at the bar, with Norman and another couple, and he’d walked in with a group of friends. She’d introduced him to Norman and then he’d introduced her to his wife, Rhoda. “One of my old friends,” he’d called Sandy. She’d tried hard to stay calm, cool, but she’d farted when she first saw him, silently, thank God, and after he’d been shown to his table she’d squeezed her whiskey sour glass so hard it had broken in her hand, cutting her palm. The bartender had had to give her a wet towel to sop up the blood.

Shep.

“He’ll never amount to anything,” Mona had warned. “
Handsome
doesn’t put food on the table. You can’t eat love.” Some people might disagree with you on that one, Mother.

He’d fooled Mona all right. Fooled all of them. He’d made it big, in shopping centers.
Handsome
puts food on the table after all. And were they eating love, he and Rhoda? Probably.

T
HEY’D MET AT
M
YRA’S
wedding. He was the date of one of Myra’s bridesmaids, Margie Kott. Mona had advised Myra to choose her plainest friends as bridesmaids so that she’d really stand out. And she did. She looked as if she’d stepped right out of
Bride’s
magazine. Sandy was maid of honor, in pink organza. Everything was pink and white at Myra’s wedding, including the cageful of doves that were released as the happy couple said
I do.
Before they completed their circle around the room, one of them let out his stuff on Shep’s head. Sandy saw it happen and couldn’t help laughing.

“Jesus!” he’d said as she handed him a pink napkin with
Myra and Gordon
printed across it. “Thanks, kid. Did I get it all?”

He bent over and Sandy inspected his hair. It was thick and dark. “Yes.”

“Does it stink?”

She sniffed his head. “No, you’re okay.”

He smiled at her. “You know something, kid? So are you.”

Oh, that smile. Slightly crooked. Dazzling. Making Sandy’s tummy turn over. “I’m not a kid. I’m a senior in high school. I’m seventeen. I have a driver’s license.”

“No, really?”

“Yes, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Myra’s twenty.”

“Myra?”

“My sister, the bride.”

“Oh, that’s your sister? Great-looking girl, Myra.”

“Everybody says so.”

“But I prefer you.” Again, the smile.

“Who are you, anyway?” Sandy asked. “I mean, what’s your name?”

“Shep. Shep Resnick, think you can remember that?”

“I’ll try. I’m Sandy Schaedel.”

After dinner he came over to her table and said, “Let’s dance, Sandy Schaedel.”

He held her close and they danced to “Blue Velvet.” “You shouldn’t wear a padded bra, kid.”

“You can tell?” Sandy looked up at him, feeling her face turn red.

“I can always tell. And you sure as hell don’t need that girdle,” he told her, patting her ass.

“Shep, please!” she giggled nervously. “Everybody wears . . .”

“Never mind everybody. Next time we dance I want to feel you next to me, not padding and rubber.” He pulled her closer and hummed into her ear.

He called the following Wednesday. Was she free on Saturday night? Was she!

He picked her up at eight and they rode around town in his 1950 Nash. “I’ve got no money, kid, sorry, but I blew it all renting that monkey suit for your sister’s wedding.”

“That’s okay.”

“I guess most of your dates take you to the movies.”

“Yes, that’s what we usually do.”

“And then for a hamburger.”

“Most times.”

“And then what?”

“Oh, well, that all depends.”

“On what?”

“You know, how much I like him.”

“And if you like him what?”

“Well, then maybe we’ll go back to my house and sit in the rec room and listen to records and . . . you know.”

“I’m a lot older than you, Sandy. I’m not sure what kids do nowadays.”

“Make out.”

“What exactly does ‘make out’ mean?”

“Shep, are you teasing me?”

He reached for her hand. “Would I tease a nice kid like you?”

So they’d gone back to her house after she was sure her parents were asleep and he made coffee because she didn’t know how and she served them each a slice of Mona’s homemade chocolate layer cake and sat with him at the kitchen table drinking a glass of milk and he told her she looked like a commercial for the dairy industry. She was almost sure that was a compliment. And then they’d gone downstairs to the rec room and she’d played her favorite making-out records, starting with “Blue Velvet,” followed by “The Morningside of the Mountain” and “She Was Five and He Was Ten.”

They danced. “Much better,” he said, patting her ass, “much, much better.” And then he kissed her. She’d kissed a lot of boys but never anyone like Shep. Never anyone with
experience.
His mouth was hot. He licked the corners of her lips then pushed his tongue into her mouth, running it over her teeth, then above them. He moved his lips across her cheek, to her ear, and he breathed into it licking the outside, then the inside, nibbling on her lobe. Sandy knew suddenly that she was in great danger and she pushed him away.

“What’s wrong?” Shep asked.

“It feels too good when you kiss me like that.”

He laughed and hugged her.

“I’m scared of you,” she said.

“You don’t have to be. I won’t hurt you, I promise. And I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do either, not ever, understand?”

She took a big breath and nodded. “Okay.”

He had a job in New York that summer, in the garment industry, and she was at the Jersey shore, working as a mother’s helper. He drove down to see her one weekend. He had money this time. He took her to the movies and then for a hamburger and then for a ride in the Nash, parking it along the beach, showing her how the front seat folded down to make a bed. And he kissed her again and again, his body stretched out next to hers, his hands reaching under her sweater. Sandy tensed. She had to be ready to spring up if the situation demanded it. How could she allow herself to relax and enjoy it when her entire future was in jeopardy?