by Judy Blume
After an hour it was clear that the meat broker was not going to show and they lined up to go through customs. “Bastards!” Myra hissed. “It’s so unfair. They make it hard on us when we’re the ones bringing in the money . . .”
“Relax, lady,” the customs official said, “you got tree days to claim it before it’s confiscated . . .”
“And I’m supposed to trust you to keep it frozen for three days?”
“Sure lady . . . you come back wit de meat broker . . . you take de meat home wit you . . .”
“You expect me to give up a full day of vacation to come back here, unnecessarily?”
“Yes, lady. Dat’s de rule.”
“Oh, you people!” Myra shook her frosted head at him. “No wonder it’s like . . . you think . . .” She pointed at him. “Someday you’ll see.”
“Yes, lady.”
Myra walked off in a huff, gold bracelets bangling, chains swinging around her neck, and were those really perspiration stains under the arms of her beige silk shirt? Sandy had never seen Myra sweat.
The car was there, waiting for them, but even in the Buick Rancho wagon it was tight. Jen fished a piece of wool out of her goody bag and worked a cat’s cradle on her fingers, while Bucky polished off the rest of the cookies, melted by now. Connie and Kate sacked out. Sandy had trouble keeping her eyes open too. It took an hour and a half to get to Runaway Bay. At least none of the kids got carsick anymore.
Myra and Gordon had bought the house eighteen months ago, after falling in love with the area. It came complete with furnishings, four servants, a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and a name. Sandy had seen endless pictures of it but even they didn’t prepare her for the real La Carousella. Round, as its name implied, with a swimming pool in the middle, the roof opened to the sky above it, four bedroom suites around the pool, and a large, glass-walled living room overlooking the golf course, a separate building to house the servants, and a brand new Har-tru tennis court with adjacent thatched-roof bar.
“Hollywooooood . . .” Myra sang, dancing around the pool.
“Mother, please!” her daughters cried.
“Can’t I even enjoy my own house?” Myra asked. “So what do you think, San?”
“I can’t . . . that is . . . I’m speechless!”
“Can we go swimming, Aunt Myra?” Bucky asked.
“Yes, go and change. Everybody go and change. Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
Sandy, exhausted from the trip, said, “I think I’ll take a little rest first.” She didn’t wake up until the next morning.
3
BY NEXT HALLOWEEN she was sure she’d be fully recovered. Maybe she’d even encourage the kids to throw a costume party, a good way to help them make new friends once they moved, Sandy thought, sweeping up the broken plate. She finished the kitchen and was sitting in the den, watching the Monday-night movie and wondering how Bucky and Jen were doing at camp when Norman returned with Banushka. “Three sticks and two wees,” he said. “Would you mark his chart, San? I’ve got to make an important phone call.”
Sandy waited until the first commercial, then went back to the kitchen and marked Banushka’s chart. Banushka’s chart had been Norman’s idea. He’d recorded every pee and crap the dog had taken since they’d brought him home from the kennel, four years ago. When the children were born Norman had insisted that Sandy keep charts for them too. Careful records of their temperatures and bowel movements, with the appropriate descriptions, exactly as his mother, Enid, had kept for him when he was a boy. Sandy threw away the children’s charts three years ago, when Bucky was eight and had checked off seven bowel movements in one day. She’d given him a huge dose of Kaopectate before finding out that it was Bucky’s idea of a joke. Norman had never forgiven her. He and Enid still discussed bowel movements and their bathroom cupboards were filled with disposable Fleet enema bottles, just in case.
They got ready for bed without speaking, Sandy brushing her teeth with Crest, making blue spit in her sink, Norman using Colgate, as he had all his life. He got into his bed, wearing striped permanent-press boxer shorts, Sandy got into hers, dressed in peach nylon baby dolls, her hair pinned up with barrettes because lately she’d been perspiring in her sleep, strands of hair sticking to the sides of her face, causing an acnelike rash. An adolescent at thirty-two. Norman turned his back to her, she turned hers to him.
Sandy shivered and rolled herself into a ball, pulling the covers up around her head. Norman kept the house like a goddamned refrigerator, the air-conditioning always turned up too high. But he was never cold. He had body heat. That’s what he called it, not that it did Sandy any good. He didn’t like sleeping close so they had twin beds, attached to one headboard, a royal pain to make in the mornings, but why should she complain? Florenzia made the beds four mornings a week.
One bed for Norman, with cool, crisp sheets, preferably changed twice a week, not that he didn’t want fresh ones daily, but even he knew that was an unreasonable, never mind impractical, request. And one bed for Sandy, where once a week, on Saturday nights, if she didn’t have her period, they did it. A Jewish nymphomaniac. They fucked in her bed, then Norman went to the bathroom to wash his hands and penis, making Sandy feel dirty and ashamed. He’d climb into his own bed then, into his clean, cool sheets, and he’d fall asleep in seconds, never any tossing, turning, sighing. Never any need to hold hands, cuddle, or laugh quietly with her. Three to five minutes from start to finish. She knew. She’d watched the digital bedside clock often enough. Three to five minutes. Then he’d say, “Very nice, did you get your dessert?”
“Yes, thank you, dessert was fine.”
“Well, then, good night.”
“’Night, Norm.”
She’d learned to come in minutes, seconds if she had to, and she almost always made it twice. No problem there. She almost always got her main course and her dessert. But usually it was a TV dinner and an Oreo when she craved scampi and mousse au chocolat.
And there was no agonizing itchy pussy for Norman either, to keep him up half the night. It was driving her wild. Scratching, scratching, all night long, reminiscent of her junior high condition but concentrated only in her vaginal area. Digging her nails into the soft delicate flesh of her lower lips, tearing them open and in the morning, when she sat down to pee, the unbearable sting of her urine hitting the open wound. She’d tried creams and lotions and powders and cornstarch and antihistamines and cotton underpants, but so far nothing worked.
“We’ve ruled out the possibility of a fungus,” Gordon told her, “and there’s no sign of infection. We’re still considering an allergic reaction, to Norm’s semen, but at the same time we also have to consider the possibility that it’s strictly functional . . .”
“Functional?”
“Yes, psychosomatic, relating to your sex life. So how is your sex life, Sandy?”
MY SEX LIFE? Oh, you mean my sex life. Yes. Well. Let’s see. Ummm, if you want to judge it strictly on the basis of orgasms it’s fine. Terrific. That is, I masturbate like crazy, Gordon. You wouldn’t believe how I masturbate. God, I’m always at it. Driving here, for instance, this morning . . . driving, get that, in traffic, no less . . . no, not the Cadillac, Norm took that to work. The Buick . . . driving the Buick, I hear this song on the radio . . . from my youth, Gordy . . . like when I was seventeen or something . . . Blue velvet, bluer than velvet was the night . . . it reminds me of Shep . . . and I get this feeling in my cunt . . . this really hot feeling . . . and just a little rubbing with one hand . . . just a little tickle, tickle on the outside of my clothes . . . just one-two-three and that’s enough . . . I’m coming and I don’t even want to come yet because it feels so good . . . I want it to last. And guess what, Gordy? I never itch after I come that way. I itch only after Norman. So, you see, it must have something to do with him. Maybe I am allergic to his semen . . . maybe I’m al
lergic to his cock . . . maybe I’m allergic to him! Wouldn’t that be something?
Oh, you’d rather hear about my sex life with Norman? Yes. Of course. I understand, Gordy. Bearing on the case. Certainly. Well. Every Saturday night, rain or shine, unless I have my period. Variety? You mean like in the books? Well, no . . . Norm isn’t one for variety. Changes make him uncomfortable. And I’m not one for making suggestions, Gordy. You think I should? I don’t know . . . I’d have to think about that . . . maybe . . .
Oral sex? Oh, Gordy . . . now you’re getting so personal. Must we? I mean, really. Well, of course I see that it’s part of my sex life. Yes, certainly we’ve tried . . . but the one time Norm put his face between my legs . . . well, poor Norm . . . he gagged and coughed and spent half an hour in the bathroom gargling with Listerine afterward and I felt terribly guilty. He was like a cat with a hair ball. All that suffering just to please me. And then there’s the problem of smell . . . odor, you know . . . Norman hates the smell of fuck. He always complains the morning after, opens all the windows in the bedroom and sprays Lysol. That’s why I douche with vinegar . . . cunt vinaigrette . . . to make it more appetizing . . . you know, like browned chicken.
“SO HOW IS IT, Sandy?”
“What?”
“Your sex life.”
“What does that have to do with my problem?”
“It could have a lot to do with it.”
“I don’t think I can discuss it with you, Gordon.”
“Would you like me to send you to someone else?”
“No, I don’t think I could discuss the subject at all.”
4
SHE USED TO LOOK like Jackie Kennedy. Everybody said so. In 1960 she won the Jackie Kennedy look-alike contest sponsored by the Plainfield Courier-News. Norman’s mother had sent in her photo. She hadn’t even known she was a contestant until they’d called her to say she’d won and they were running her picture on the front page, two columns wide. A celebrity. A star.
Of course she’d voted for Jack. It was her first presidential election and there was no way she was going to support Norman’s candidate, even though Norm was treasurer of the Plainfield Young Republicans’ Club at the time. But Norman didn’t know, didn’t guess what she was up to. He thought his politics were her politics; his candidate, her candidate. Oh, the thrill of pulling the lever for Kennedy, defying Norman, even secretly!
“You should be out there ringing doorbells with me,” he’d told her, during the campaign.
“If you tell them I’m pregnant, they’ll understand.”
“All right, as long as you do your share like a wife should.” So Norman brought home lists of registered voters and every night during election week Sandy sat at the phone making calls. The Young Republicans’ Blitz.
She’d done her share to support her husband. She’d earned the right to celebrate secretly over Jack’s election. For the first time Sandy had been touched by politics, by a current event. There had been no depression or world war to affect her life and Mona and Ivan were determined to spare their children the insecurities, the anxieties they had known. She had once asked her mother, after spending two weeks in the country with Aunt Lottie, “How is the war in Korea?” And Mona had answered, “The same, and don’t worry your pretty little head about it. It has nothing to do with you.”
Until now. Sandy and Jackie. They’d been pregnant together. John-John was born first, in November, and Bucky followed, in December. Sandy didn’t watch the delivery in the overhead mirror although Dr. Snyder wanted her to. It was bad enough that he’d placed the baby on her belly fresh out of the oven, all bloody and ugly. She was high on Demerol. “Take him away,” she’d cried, “he’s a mess.”
Dr. Snyder had laughed. “You don’t mean that, Sandy. This is the happiest moment of your life.”
She’d dozed off. Later, a nurse had carried Bucky to her, clean and wrapped in a soft blanket, all cuddly and warm. And the nurse had undressed him so that Sandy could examine his tiny fingers and toes, his navel, his miniature penis, and acknowledge the fact that she and Norm had produced a perfect baby.
They’d named him Bertram, after her grandfather, but agreed to call him Bucky until he was old enough to handle such a serious name.
“Bucky?” Enid had snickered. “What kind of name is that for a Jewish boy?”
“It’s as good as Brett,” Sandy had answered, tossing out the name of Enid’s other grandson.
“From Miss Piss I expect a name like Brett,” Enid had said. “From you I expected something better.”
Miss Piss was married to Norman’s brother, Fred, a California Casualty agent in Sherman Oaks. Other people called her Arlene. They saw each other only on rare occasions and Sandy always marveled over Arlene’s never-ending change of hair color.
Six months later, when Norman’s father, Sam, dropped dead while firing a cashier for pocketing cash, Enid had cried to Sandy, “If only you were having the baby now, he could have a proper name. Who knows how long I’ll have to wait for Miss Piss to give me another grandchild. Or for that matter, you.”
Jen had come along two and a half years later, just months after Jackie had lost her infant, Patrick, to hyaline membrane disease. Sandy had named her Jennifer Patrice. Jennifer because she loved the name; Patrice for Jackie’s baby.
“Don’t you think we should name her Sarah, after my father?” Norm had asked.
“Sarah can be her Hebrew name,” Sandy said, and Norman hadn’t argued. After all, she’d done all the work. And they’d both found out, through Bucky, that Norman’s idea of father meant paying the bills, period.
Enid and Mona had arrived together, for afternoon visiting hours, each bearing a gift for the latest grandchild. A musical giraffe from Mona, a pink and white orlon bunting from Enid. Sandy had a small private room, filled with cards and flowers, the most elaborate a bouquet from Norman. To make up for the fact that he hadn’t been around to drive her to the hospital? Sandy wasn’t sure. By the time he’d been located on the sixteenth hole she’d already delivered the baby.
She wore the pink satin bed jacket Myra had sent when she’d had Bucky, and she’d pinned her hair up in a French twist, sprayed herself with Chanel, and put on makeup, denying the fact that under the blanket she sat on a rubber doughnut to ease the pain of her stitches and that she was slightly fuzzy from the Darvon Dr. Snyder had prescribed to numb her tender, swollen breasts.
At night the nurse provided ice packs to hold under her arms. “It’s always you little girls who fill up that way . . . such a shame to let it all go to waste.”
“I don’t believe in nursing,” Sandy told her. “I was nursed for eight months and I’ve always been sick.”
“You should have told that to your doctor. There are shots, you know.”
“I did tell him.”
And Dr. Snyder sympathized with Sandy’s discomfort. “I thought you’d change your mind this time,” he’d said.
“I’ll never change my mind about breast-feeding.”
“Well, next time we’ll give you a shot right after delivery so you won’t have to suffer this way.”
Next time? Who said anything about next time? She’d been expected to produce two children, preferably one of each sex. She’d fulfilled her obligation.
The first time Norman had been so impressed with the sudden growth of her breasts he’d brought his Nikon to the hospital, snapping pictures of Sandy in her bed jacket, unbuttoned enough to show some cleavage. This time he was less enthusiastic, realizing that the change was only temporary and would leave her as small-breasted as before, unlike her sister, Myra, who had inherited Aunt Lottie’s mammoth breasts, and who had, two years ago, undergone a breast reduction operation because “you can’t imagine what it’s like to carry around a pair of tits like these!”
“Too bad she can’t giv
e some to you,” Norman had said at the time, adding, “ha ha . . .”
“Yes, too bad,” Sandy had answered. “Ha ha ha . . .”
“SO, WHEN IS MY LITTLE SARAH going home?” Enid asked, reading the cards lined up on Sandy’s dresser.
“Her name is Jennifer,” Sandy said, “Jennifer Patrice. Didn’t Norman tell you?”
“He said Sarah.”
“Well, yes, in Hebrew it’s Sarah, but we’re going to call her Jen.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true,” Sandy said. “I’ve already signed the birth certificate. Jennifer Patrice.”
“Mona, tell me I’m dreaming,” Enid said, with one hand to her head, the other to her chest.
“The baby is hers to name,” Mona said. “You had your chance with Norman and Fred.”
“Oh, God, oh, God.” Enid swayed, then sat down. “I feel weak, like I might faint.”
Mona poured a cup of water for Enid. “Try to relax,” she said, “don’t get yourself all worked up for nothing . . .”
“Nothing? You think my son didn’t want to name his own baby after his father, may he rest in peace. No, it’s her . . .” Enid said, with a nod toward the bed. “She thinks she’s too good for a simple, beautiful, biblical name like Sarah.” She sipped some water.
“It’s not that . . .” Sandy began.
“Miss High and Mighty!”
So she’d been christened too.
“Miss High and Mighty is too good to care about her poor old mother-in-law and did I or didn’t I once send her picture to the Courier-News, making her a celebrity?”
