by Judy Blume
SHE MOVED INTO the seat behind Shep on the train, willing him to turn around. But he didn’t. He had longer hair now, brushing his shirt collar. She thought about touching the back of his neck. Remembered how he’d shivered when she’d kissed him there. Funny, she’d never kissed the back of Norman’s neck. Ten minutes later they pulled into Newark. Sandy had to change trains. She walked out past him. He was reading his paper and never looked up. She was clutching the book Lisbeth had given to her.
SANDY AND NORMAN went out to dinner that night. Not to The Club, The Club was closed on Mondays. To the new Chinese restaurant in Scotch Plains. Everyone was raving about it. And the owner, Lee Ann Fong, had recently joined The Club herself. Sandy told Norm about Lisbeth and Vincent and their arrangement. Their Thursday nights off.
“I could never tolerate anything like that,” Norman said. “Marriage is a contract.”
“But Lisbeth says it’s helping their marriage.”
“Lisbeth is full of shit . . . always has been.” Norman stirred his Scotch with his index finger as he spoke.
“Did you know McCarthy did that?”
“Did what?”
“Stirred his drinks with his finger.”
“You think I’m like Joe McCarthy? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, Norm, one thing has nothing to do with the other. It’s just a peculiar habit.”
“You shovel corn niblets with your fingers.”
“It’s hard to get corn niblets onto the fork.”
“It’s uncouth to shovel with a finger. That habit of yours has bothered me for years.”
She pushed her salad around on her plate. “I told Lisbeth you wouldn’t go for the idea.”
“Go for? You’re not suggesting . . . Jesus . . .”
“No, of course not!”
“I wish you’d stay away from her. She’s nothing but trouble. I wish you’d concentrate on making new friends, at The Club.”
“I got a dress for Fourth of July.”
“Good, I thought you were going to have your hair cut, too.”
“I was, but I didn’t have time.”
“Make an appointment before the holiday weekend.”
“I will, I will. It’s just that I’m so busy. I’ve got so many lessons . . .”
“Make an afternoon appointment. I cut out a picture for you.”
“A picture of what?”
“The way you should have your hair cut. Remind me to give it to you when we get home.”
But when they got home Norman was ready for a little something. And when she came, when she got her dessert, she called out.
“What’d you say?” Norman asked.
“Nothing.”
“I thought you said schlep.”
“No, why would I say that?”
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.”
“No, I didn’t say anything.”
But she must have. She must have called Shep. She’d been thinking about him as she came.
9
WHAT NORMAN LIKED BEST about The Club was that it wasn’t one hundred percent Jewish. Besides Lee Ann Fong, there were nine Japanese members, all from Manhattan, three Italian families, all in the disposal business, two ordinary Christians, and a black assistant pro named Roger. Norman felt it was good for the children to meet all kinds of people. Not that they’d actually met any of the Japanese members because they kept pretty much to themselves but they had, at least, seen them eating dinner in the Grill Room along with everybody else.
Sandy took golf lessons from Roger. Three mornings a week, at nine-thirty, she reported to the driving range dressed for battle. Three mornings a week Roger steadied her head with one hand as she swung at the ball. Roger smelled of Sen-Sen and old English Leather after-shave. He was determined to get her off the practice range and onto the front nine by mid-July.
“Eye on the ball, Mrs. Pressman,” Roger said. “Watch your club strike the ball . . . left arm straight . . . no, no, look at that elbow . . . is that a straight arm? Get comfortable . . . move those feet around . . . look at that club waggling . . . we can’t have that . . . now, take it back again, nice and slow . . . no need to hurry . . . nice and easy . . . don’t try to kill the ball, Mrs. Pressman . . . are you comfortable . . . you don’t look comfortable . . .”
I’m not, dammit! Sandy wanted to scream. How can I be comfortable with you holding my head? But she said, “I’m comfortable . . .” and she swung at the ball. And missed.
“You’ve got to watch the ball, Mrs. Pressman . . . I can’t put it any plainer than that . . . if you don’t watch the ball, you’re never going to hit it.”
“I’m trying,” Sandy said, “but I’m not especially coordinated.”
Roger sighed.
Sometimes Roger would stand behind her and put his arms around her and actually hold the club with her and some of those times Sandy felt what it would be like to really hit the ball well. And some of those times Sandy could imagine what it would feel like to have Roger put his hands on her breasts, as he stood behind her with his cock hard, pressing against her ass.
After each lesson Sandy was expected to stay at the practice range, hitting two buckets of balls. Then she was permitted a break.
Two afternoons a week she was scheduled for tennis lessons with Evan. Evan was not as determined as Roger. Evan favored his more promising students. He stood across the net from Sandy, tossing balls to her and delivering instructions in a bored monotone.
“Racquet back . . . step to the side . . . bend your knees . . . watch the ball . . . control, Mrs. Pressman . . . we’re after control . . . where’s that follow-through . . . don’t try to kill it . . . easy, swing easy!”
And after Evan had used up his bucket of balls, it was Sandy’s job to retrieve them. Then they’d begin again, with Sandy panting and Evan cool and smug.
“Can I ask you a serious question, Mrs. Pressman?” Evan said after Sandy’s fourth lesson.
“Yes.”
“Do you like this game?”
“Not really.”
“Then why?”
“Because my husband wants me to learn for our retirement.”
Evan shook his head and smashed a few balls across the net.
“Very nice,” Sandy said, walking off the court.
She began to pray for rain.
THE PHONE RANG as Sandy was dressing for her Wednesday golf lesson. She was trying to match a pair of peds but all she could find was one with pink trim and one with yellow.
“Hello . . .”
“This is Hubanski.”
“Oh, yes, sergeant.”
“Can you be down to headquarters in half an hour?”
“Well, I’ve got a nine-thirty appointment.”
“This is very important. Can you cancel, because we’ve traced the laundry markings on the sheet and we’ve picked up the guy it belongs to.”
“Who is he?”
“Can’t go into that now, but we’re holding him. What we want to do is put him in a lineup and see if you can identify him.”
“A lineup?”
“Yeah.”
“Like on TV?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
Sandy called The Club and canceled her lesson, assuring them that it was an emergency and that she would return tomorrow morning, as usual.
She drove downtown, to police headquarters.
Would she be able to identify the man on the motorcycle? Did she even want to?
“Now, look, Mrs. Pressman,” Hubanski said, directing her to a small auditorium, “all you got to do is look them over. They can’t see you, so don’t worry.”
“Are they all criminals?”
<
br /> “We can’t discuss that now. The important thing’s for you to identify the guy. You got that, Mrs. P?”
“Yes.” So now she was Mrs. P. How cozy.
“Here we go,” Hubanski called, “Okay, Jess, send them out.”
Sandy slouched down in her seat in the darkened room.
Number One wore a business suit. He had graying hair and was far too pudgy to be her man. Number Two wore jeans and a T-shirt. She mustn’t be fooled by dress, though. He had a lot of red hair. Attractive. Young. The right build. But red hair? No, then he’d have red pubic hair too, wouldn’t he? And freckles? Her man had dark pubic hair and no freckles, at least none as far as she knew.
She leaned over to Hubanski and whispered, “You know, I didn’t see his face.”
“Try to identify him by body.”
“If I could just see them naked.”
“Mrs. Pressman!”
Number Three was young, pimply, and skinny. Too skinny. Number Four wore slacks and a sport shirt. Nice build. Could be . . . could be . . . clean-cut face . . . brown hair . . . she had no trouble imagining him naked . . . nice . . . very nice. Number Five was big, with a craggy face, about fifty, looked like a caddy at The Club. God, he was a caddy at The Club.
“I know that man,” Sandy whispered to Hubanski. “Number Five. He caddies at The Club.”
“Is he the one?”
“No, he’s too old.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, positive.”
“Well, do you see anyone else?”
“I can’t be sure, but Number Four might be the one.”
“Number Four is my assistant, Mrs. Pressman. And I can assure you that on the day of the incident in question my assistant was right here, working with me.”
“I’m sorry. How was I to know? The only other possibility is Number Two but his coloring is wrong. I don’t think the man we’re after has red hair.” She wanted to say, if only I could see them in the act I’m sure I’d recognize him . . . my man has a certain style . . .
But then Hubanski would say, let’s not get carried away, Mrs. P. There’s no way I can give you a lineup of guys jacking off.
I don’t see why, she would argue.
Hubanski stood up. “Well, this is very disappointing, Mrs. P. Very depressing, you know? I was hoping the guy with the sheet.”
“Which one owned the sheet, anyway?”
“I can’t go into that now. Let’s just say you didn’t mention him at all.”
“Are they all left-handed?”
“No . . . but I’m not convinced the man we’re looking for is either. He could have used his left hand to throw us off the track . . .”
“Do they all ride motorcycles?”
“I can’t divulge that information either.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sergeant, but you certainly don’t want me to lie.”
“Certainly not, except that now we’re back to nowhere.”
WHEN SHE GOT HOME the phone was ringing. Florenzia never answered the telephone and made no calls herself. She’d made it clear from her first day on the job that she would have nothing to do with that machine.
Sandy threw down her purse and car keys and ran to the kitchen wall phone. “Hello,” she answered, breathlessly.
“Mrs. Pressman?”
“Yes.”
“May I fuck you today?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, may I fuck you today?”
Sandy hung up. Jesus!
It rang again.
She picked it up. “Yes?”
“Or would you rather have me suck you?”
She slammed down the receiver. If it rang again, she wouldn’t answer. Maybe Florenzia had the right idea after all.
“You got mail,” Florenzia said. She was wiping out the cabinet under the kitchen sink. “I put on your bed.”
“What? Oh, thanks.”
“The phone be ringing all morning. I no answer.”
“Yes, okay.” Sandy went upstairs to look over the mail.
Dear Mommy
Grandma is writing me letters addressed to Sarah. Will you tell her to quit calling me that. Everybody in my bunk is calling me Sarah now, all because of Grandma. I still hate camp and want to come home. My counsellor got fired for doing it in the woods. That’s what the seniors told us. They are big kids who know everything. We have a new counsellor now. Her name is Fish. Isn’t that a dumb name? She’s dumb too. She bounces a quarter on my bed every day to make sure the covers are tight enough. I miss Banushka. Send me some of her fur. Also, I hate Bucky. He was mean on brother-sister day, just because I cried.
Love,
Jennifer P.
This letter was dictated by Jennifer P. to Deborah Z. of Bunk 16.
And a postcard from Bucky.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Jen is a jerk. She cried at brother-sister day. I’m not going to any more of them. I had twenty-six splinters on the bottom of my foot. The nurse counted them when she took them out. That’s the most any kid at camp has ever had at one time. She put them in an envelope so you can see them on visiting day. I have thirty-one mosquito bites. You might get to see them too. Camp is great. I’m fine. See you soon.
Your son,
Bucky Pressman
The phone again. If it was him she’d tell him to fuck off. To get it up with someone else. She was too busy for crazies.
“Yes?” she said, picking it up on the fourth ring, sounding annoyed.
“Sandy?”
“Yes.”
“This is Vincent.”
“Who?”
“Vincent, Vincent Moseley.”
“Oh, Vincent . . . hi . . . sorry . . . I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“How are you, Sandy?”
“Oh, just fine, how about you?” Why would he be calling her unless he had bad news. “And the family, how’s the family?”
“They’re fine, as well.”
“Oh, good, for a minute there I was worried.”
“No, everything’s okay. Lisbeth told me she had a nice visit with you the other day.”
“Yes, we don’t see each other often enough.”
“Look, Sandy, I was wondering if you could meet me for dinner next Thursday?”
“The four of us, you mean?”
“No, Lisbeth’s busy on Thursday nights. Just the two of us . . . informally . . . a chance to talk . . .”
“Thursday, you said?”
“Right.”
“That’s Thursday, the seventh?”
“Let me check. Yes, Thursday, the seventh. Let’s say Gino and Augusta’s at six-thirty . . . that’s on West Sixty-fourth, near the park. Is that okay, Sandy?”
“I’m writing that down. Sixty-fourth, near the park?”
“Right, you’ll be there, then?”
“Well, I guess so.”
“Good . . . see you then . . . really looking forward . . .”
“Yes. Bye, Vincent.”
Vincent X. Moseley? On Thursday night? What was this all about? Unless . . . oh, it couldn’t be that! Not Vincent. Then why? Strange. Vincent calling out of the blue that way. She’d just have to wait and see.
10
THEY’D PUT THE HOUSE on the market in March, right after Myra and Gordon had returned from their midwinter vacation in Jamaica. The four of them had met in New York for dinner at Le Périgord Park. “We were robbed,” Myra said, over paté. “We didn’t want to tell you on the phone, we knew you’d worry.”
“Robbed, my God!” Sandy said.
“Robbed,” Myra repeated. “They held a machete to my throat. I was this close to death.” And she held her thumb and index finger
together so that Sandy and Norman could see exactly how close to death she had been. “I’m telling you, this close,” she said again.
“A machete, Jesus!” Norman said.
“Those fucking schvartzas . . . look at these marks.” Myra pulled her Lanvin scarf away from her neck. “That’s where he had his hand . . . one hand on my throat . . . the other holding the machete over me . . . they broke in through the shutters, right into our bedroom . . . in the middle of the night . . .”
“What did you do?” Sandy asked.
“What could we do?” Gordon answered. “I gave them everything. My money, Myra’s jewelry, everything. They would have killed her if I hadn’t.”
“You did the right thing,” Sandy said. “You had no choice.”
“The girls slept through it all,” Gordon said.
“And Mona is never to know,” Myra told them. Sandy and Norman nodded in agreement.
“We put La Carousella up for sale the next day . . . we told the agent to sell it fast . . . just to get rid of it . . . never mind if we have to take a loss . . . I never want to see the place again . . .” Myra went back to her paté. “Besides we were getting tired of Jamaica.” She swallowed, sipped some wine, and continued. “We want to learn to ski next winter . . . maybe get a place in Aspen or Vail . . . more invigorating than the heat of the islands . . . better atmosphere for the twins . . . and have you seen the latest ski clothes? They’re fantastic!”
Later, when Sandy and Myra went to the Ladies Room Myra said, “Gordy is ashamed of himself, can you tell?”
“No, why?”
“Because he begged and pleaded with them. He even cried.”
“But that’s only natural. They were threatening your life.”
“And his. They said they’d kill us both, first me, then him.”
“Oh, Myra, I’m so sorry,” Sandy said, hugging her sister. “It must have been awful.”
“And after they were gone he vomited . . . got diarrhea . . . had a nosebleed . . .”
