by Judy Blume
“Not to worry,” he said, licking her exposed right breast. “I’ve had a vasectomy. Didn’t Lisbeth tell you?”
“No.”
“It’s all right, my little sparrow, my coyote, my wolverine, my lion cub.” He had her dress pushed up around her neck now, and her panties around her ankles. He was working on her shoes, trying to unbuckle the straps, instead of just slipping them off.
“Does Lisbeth know you’re with me tonight?”
“It was her idea.”
“Really?”
“Well, in a way. She asked me if I could think of anyone who might be right for you . . . said you were ready to explore . . . someone who isn’t terribly intellectual, she said . . . someone sexy but not overpowering, someone Sandy can trust . . . So I thought of myself. Of course I’m quite intellectual but not a snob about it like some of my colleagues. And I’m sexy, don’t you think so, but not overpowering.” He kissed her ankles as he removed her panties. “My little alligator, my sand shark, my turtle . . . and you can trust me . . . so why look further . . .” He had given up on her shoes and was kissing her knees.
“Oh, no . . .” Sandy said, suddenly. “I just remembered . . . I left my jacket in the movie . . . what’ll I do?”
“Fuck me and then we’ll go back and try to find it,” Vincent answered, kneeling over her, his erection long and slim, like the rest of him. He had blond pubic hair and was circumcised. She’d often wondered about that. Vincent grabbed hold of his cock, letting the tip brush against her cunt, teasing, then pulling it away.
Sandy arched her back and raised her hips off the floor, like the girl in the movie had.
“My little kangaroo is hungry . . . hungry to fuck . . .” He slid into her and she tightened her cunt around him, but as she did she felt him disappear.
“Oh, dammit. Dammit to hell!” he cried.
“What’s wrong?” Sandy asked. “Did I do something?”
“No, I lost it.”
“But why?”
“Because I lose it every goddamned fucking Thursday night.” He rolled off her and lay on his back.
“I’m sorry, Vincent.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s psychological, guilt or anxiety or something.”
“Is it this way with Lisbeth too?”
“Hell no, with Lisbeth it’s great.”
“Then why bother with Thursday nights?”
“Because she wants to.”
“Does she know about you?”
“No, I make up stories for her. Actually, she’s better at screwing around than I am. And that’s what really hurts!”
“We could keep trying,” Sandy suggested, feeling sorry for him now and needing to prove to herself that she could keep him aroused.
“No, I’ve tried and tried.”
“Maybe you need someone with a lot of experience.”
“I’ve tried professionals too.”
“What will you do now?”
“Go home and make it with Lisbeth. It’s always very good on Thursday nights.”
Sandy leaned on one elbow. “Vincent, did it ever occur to you that maybe Lisbeth’s inventing stories too? That maybe neither one of you is really doing anything?”
“She reeks of sex when she gets back. You can smell her a mile away. I love it.”
“Oh.” Sandy stood up and began to get dressed.
“Look, if you’re still hot I could suck you,” Vincent said. “I wouldn’t mind. I’m quite good at it.”
“No thanks. I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Myra will be wondering what happened to me. And Vincent, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Lisbeth.”
“I’ve no intention of mentioning it to her.”
“But I thought you don’t believe in secrets . . .”
“She doesn’t believe in secrets.”
“Oh, I see.”
They went downstairs and walked out to the street. Vincent hailed a cab and told the driver to take Sandy to the St. Moritz. “Thanks for dinner,” Sandy called.
“We’ll have to do it again some day,” Vincent answered.
Fat chance, she thought.
When she got back to the hotel she realized they’d never gone back to the theater to look for her jacket.
MYRA WAS IN BED, reading Cosmopolitan. “I was getting worried,” she said.
“We went to a movie. How are the girls?”
“They fell asleep around nine and Gordy and I went out for a cup of coffee. Norm called an hour ago. He’d forgotten you were having dinner with Lisbeth.”
Forgotten, no. She hadn’t mentioned it to him in the first place. “Well, it’s too late to call him now. Did he say what he wanted?”
“No.”
“I’ll call him in the morning,” Sandy said, yawning. “I’m very tired. I think I’ll get ready for bed.” When she had finished in the bathroom she climbed into the other bed, still rubbing in her hand lotion. “Okay if I turn out the light?” she asked.
“Sure,” Myra said, closing her magazine. “I’m tired too.”
“Night. I’m glad the surgery went well.”
“Yes, me too.”
Sandy was dozing off when Myra whimpered, “Oh, San . . .”
“What . . . what is it?”
Myra’s voice caught and she began to cry. “Oh, Sandy, I don’t know what to do . . .”
Sandy sat up and switched on the light. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Gordy.”
“What about him?”
“I think he’s having an affair.” She cried hard, her shoulders shaking, her face buried in her hands. Sandy could remember having seen Myra cry just once before. Myra must have been about fifteen and Mona had taken her to the beauty parlor for a haircut. Myra came home wailing that she had been ruined for life and that she would never forgive Mona or that fruitcake, Mr. Robert. Sandy got out of her bed and sat down next to Myra, handing her the box of Kleenex from the night table. “I can’t believe it,” she said, “not Gordy!”
“I know. I can’t believe it either, but look what I found.” Myra blew her nose, then reached under the covers and pulled out a plain white envelope. She handed it to Sandy. “Read this.”
Sandy’s fingers shook as she opened it and took out a greeting card. The front of it showed two tiny animal creatures and a huge foot. Inside it read:
It’s bigger than both of us! And then, in Gordon’s almost illegible doctor’s script:
I miss you.
It was wonderful.
Let’s do it again some day soon.
Just bring your memento and name the
time and place.
G . . . . .
Jesus! He must have written it to her, unless he gave out mementos regularly. But, luckily, he’d never addressed it. “It could be some sort of joke,” Sandy said, trying to sound convincing.
“Come on, San.”
“Okay, I admit it’s incriminating, but still, Myra, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s having an affair. It could have been a one-night stand.”
“He wants to see her again. He says so.”
“Yes, but he never mailed it. He obviously thought it all over and decided it was a mistake.”
“I don’t know what to do. If I ask him about it he might bring up. . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, San, I’m so ashamed. Years ago, when the twins were babies and Gordy was at the hospital night after night . . .”
“Go on.”
“I had an affair.”
“Myra!”
“I know, I know. It makes me sick just to think about it.”
“Who was he?”
“Frank Monzellini . . . our neighbor
in the apartments . . .”
“I remember him. He and his wife used to have terrible fights and we used to listen.”
“Yes. We only did it three times, not that he didn’t want to keep it up but I couldn’t. I was so scared and I didn’t really like him, but he was very sexy.”
“Does Gordon know?”
“I don’t think so, but maybe I’m wrong and this is his way of punishing me. After all, he left the card in a very conspicuous place as if he wanted me to find it.”
“Where?”
“With the household bills.”
“It could have been a mistake.”
“I guess.”
“You didn’t say anything to him tonight, did you?”
“No. Suppose I do confront him and he says he wants a divorce. What do I do then?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want a divorce,” Sandy said, reassuringly. “He loves you, anyone can see that. If I were you I’d just forget the whole thing.”
“That’s easy for you to say, but suppose you found out Norman was playing around.”
“Well, I’d be shocked.”
“And?”
Sandy nibbled on her finger. “I’m not sure.”
“There. You see?”
“Do you love Gordy?”
“Of course I love him. I’ve never considered not loving him. I never even think about it. I love him just like I love the twins and the house and The Club and my friends and you and Mona.”
SANDY 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
THE 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.”
THAT 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.”
HALF 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.
SHE 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.
AND 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 on
to 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.
