by Judy Blume
“It’s nice up there too.” He held out a brown grocery bag. “I brought your golf shoes.”
“Oh, thanks, that was very thoughtful.” She took the bag and set it on the floor, under the foyer table, thinking about Norman, and how he’d carried his damp underwear out to the car, after their dates.
“And I took your clubs to the storage room and cleaned them off.”
“Thanks again.”
“And I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you said this morning when Mrs. Sommers was complaining about getting me.”
“I told the truth, that’s all.”
“Well, thanks. It was real nice of you.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Sure is hot. Storm didn’t help much.”
“No.”
“Could I by any chance trouble you for a drink, Mrs. Pressman.”
“Sure. Lemonade?”
“Sounds great.” He followed her into the kitchen and placed his helmet on the table.
“Have you seen The Graduate?”
“Yes, I have.”
“I’ve seen it three times. I really dig that Mrs. Robinson.”
Sandy carried the pitcher of lemonade and two glasses to the table.
“She’s older but very . . . very, uh . . .” He made circles with his hand.
“I’ve always liked Anne Bancroft.”
She filled both glasses. He gulped his down without stopping for a breath.
“I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Pressman, you’re the nicest woman at The Club.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“Some of the others are okay but mostly, when you get right down to it, they’re a bunch of bitches, you know?”
“Yes, I know.” Okay, Mrs. Robinson, get him out of here now.
“Mind if I have another glass of lemonade?”
“No, please, help yourself.” She fingered his helmet. It was bright yellow with a tomato stencilled on one side and his name on the other.
“I designed it myself. You like it?”
“Yes, very much. I have a friend who wears a stars and stripes helmet.”
“Oh, yeah, they were very big last year. The moon landing and all that, real American . . .”
“Do a lot of people still wear them?”
“Oh, yeah, a real lot. So what kind of bike does your friend ride?”
“I’m not sure. I really don’t know one from the other.”
“There’s a couple of real good buys around now. I’m thinking of selling mine and getting a Yamaha instead.”
“Oh.” Come on, Sandy, say goodbye before it’s too late. “Well, thanks for coming by, Steve . . . and for bringing my shoes . . .” She offered her hand.
He looked at it for a minute, then stood up, realizing he was expected to shake it. His fingers closed around hers. His hand was warm. “Bye, Mrs. Pressman.” He looked into her eyes.
She lowered hers, walked him to the front door, closed it after him, and sighed.
18
I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND how you could have made such a mistake,” Norman said. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me?” They were driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike, on their way to visiting weekend at camp.
“I’ve already told you, it was lightning and I was scared. I just wanted to get back to the clubhouse and I jumped into the closest cart. I never stopped to think it was Millicent’s, not mine.” Sandy was working on the needlepoint pillow she’d started, but somehow never finished, last summer. She cut off a snip of wool and threaded the needle again.
“Just because I’m chairman of the Grievance Committee doesn’t mean I can get you off . . . it has to go before the whole committee. I wish to hell you had stopped to think this time.”
“I don’t expect you to get me off. I’ve told you how I feel about the whole thing and I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble.” She turned her canvas upside down and started another row.
Norman stretched his arms out against the wheel, took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Okay, I’ve given it a lot of thought and I’ve decided maybe it’s better all around if you don’t play any more golf or tennis.”
“I’m glad you finally see it my way.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed.”
“I know and I’m sorry about that too, but it’s making me miserable and if you care about me at all . . .”
“If I care? Who paid for all those lessons?”
“Paying isn’t caring, Norm.”
“You know your trouble? Your trouble is you don’t know how good you have it.”
“Here we go.”
“Never had to work a day in your life . . . everything handed to you on a silver platter . . . you’ve got no real trouble so you’ve got to go looking for it . . . inventing it . . .”
“That’s not the way it is at all. I might even like to go to work.” She accidentally stuck her thumb with the needle, watched the blood ooze out, then sucked on it.
“Oh, sure, doing what?”
“I don’t know yet.” She examined her thumb, wrapped a Kleenex around it, then went back to stitching the canvas.
“Your first duty is to make a home for me and the kids. After that, you want a little part-time job, it’s fine with me.”
“Norman, sometimes I get the feeling that you don’t know me at all.”
“And sometimes I get the same feeling about you.”
“But I want to know you . . . I want to know your needs . . .”
“My needs are very simple. I come home from work tired. All I ask is time for a drink before dinner, a chance to read the paper in peace and quiet, some good food, and a pleasant, relaxing evening.”
“Those are your needs?” She looked over at him. “Your emotional needs?”
“I told you they were very simple.”
“Norman, listen to me . . . please . . . I’m scared . . . I really am . . . I don’t like what’s happening . . . I don’t like myself . . .”
“It hasn’t been easy to like you this summer.”
“Okay. I admit it. Let’s see a marriage counsellor as soon as we get back.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the one with the problem. You want to see a marriage counsellor, fine. I’ll foot the bill, but don’t expect me to waste my time that way.”
“It only works if both partners go.”
“It’s not our marriage that’s wrong, Sandy. It’s you.”
“How can you say that . . . if I’m unhappy . . .”
“Aha . . . there . . . you’re unhappy . . . you just said it . . . but I’m not . . . I don’t want to change anything . . . you’re unhappy because you haven’t got a life without the kids. I tried to help you develop new interests, healthy interests, but you blew it.”
“Dammit, Norm, I tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
“I think part of the trouble is that I don’t feel your love,” she said.
“What do you mean, you don’t feel it?”
“It’s hard to explain. I just can’t feel any love.”
“What am I supposed to do, run around kissing you twenty-four hours a day?”
“No. But there’s a lot inside me,” Sandy said. “A lot you don’t know about.”
“Have you been reading that book again?”
“What book?”
“The one Lisbeth gave you.”
“This has nothing to do with Lisbeth or books. It’s me and it’s you. It’s us!”
“I’m a busy man, Sandy. I work my ass off for you and the kids . . . to give you everything. I don’t need this aggravation. I don’t have the time for it. Do you understand that? So when we get back you get yourself to
gether. You get yourself together before the kids come home from camp.” He turned off at the exit to Pittsfield. “Give me a peach, would you.”
She handed him one from the bag. “It’s not enough to work your ass off.”
“Not enough?”
“Norm, be careful, you almost sideswiped that car.”
“You want to drive?”
“No, just be careful, that’s all.”
“I’d like you to trade places with me for just one week . . . to let you see what my life is like . . . Christ, you have no idea . . . dealing with ductlas day in and day out . . .”
“You mean blacks.”
“I mean ductlas!”
“Norm . . .”
“You’ve got it so fucking good, what more do you want from me?”
“Love. Understanding. Tenderness.”
He pushed the button to lower his window and spat out the peach pit.
Sandy began to cry, quietly at first, then harder, louder, until she couldn’t control the sobbing. Her tears fell on her needlepoint canvas. There was an ache in her throat, her head, her guts.
“Stop it,” Norman told her. “That’s enough. You wanted conversation, you got it. You wanted communication, you got it. But you can’t take it, can you? No, because you’re still a little girl. You have to have everything your way. Emotionally immature.”
“I am not a little girl!”
“Ha ha ha . . . look at the baby cry . . . ha ha . . .”
“Shut up, you bastard!”
“Don’t shout, little girl. I’m sitting right next to you. I can hear you just fine.”
“Norman, stop the car. I think I’m going to vomit.”
He pulled over quickly, the brakes screeching. “Get out . . . don’t do it in here . . .”
Sandy opened the car door and threw herself to the ground, feeling faint and nauseated.
Norman remained in the driver’s seat, his head turned away from her. She could see him through the open car door. Control. Control. She had to get control of herself, of the situation. Perspiration on her forehead but the nausea was passing. She was not going to be sick this time. Being sick didn’t solve anything. Yes, it was passing. She felt stronger now. In a few minutes she climbed back into the car.
“Did you?” Norman asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
“I can smell it.”
“Really?”
“I’ll pull in at the next gas station so you can wash. You know that smell is enough to make me sick.” He pulled in at a Gulf station and Sandy got out to use the Ladies Room. She splashed her face with cold water, combed her hair, applied fresh lipstick, and pulled her T-shirt down inside her denim skirt. There, that was better. She fished around in her purse for a breath mint and dropped it into her mouth, then sprayed a little cologne on her neck, wrists, behind her knees.
All right. All right. It was true that Norman worked hard and provided well for her and the children. So, was she wrong to want more out of life? She wasn’t sure anymore. A good wife wouldn’t complain. If he beat her, she could complain. If he drank, she could complain. If he ran around, she could complain. But Sandy had no real reason to complain. Not an acceptable reason anyway. Nobody loves a kvetch, Mona had said. Remember that, Sandy . . . especially not a man who’s worked hard all day.
I’m sorry, Mother.
I’m sorry, Norman.
I’m sorry, everybody.
WHAT HAPPY, SMILING FACES they put on for the children. What a wonderful family they appeared to be for the counsellors, the camp directors, the other parents. What wonderful families they all were for each other, ignoring the rules that had been so carefully spelled out in the visiting day brochure. Please do not bring any food into camp. All food will be confiscated. Please do not bring bunk gifts. We suggest a book or a game instead. Please do not tip our staff. Our counsellors are professionals who are paid a professional salary.
But that didn’t stop Sandy and the other mommies from arriving with carloads of fresh fruit, cookies, pretzels, sugarless bubble gum, and bunk gifts. And it didn’t stop Norman and the other daddies from tipping the counsellors, to make sure that their children received special attention.
Norman’s Nikon captured visiting day at Camp Wah-Wee-Nah-Kee. Jen, diving into the lake. Imagine that! Little Jen who used to be afraid to put her face in the water. Jen, playing third base in a lower camp softball game, at dramatics, in a rowboat. Jen, running off with her bunkmates, laughing.
At rest hour Sandy trimmed Jen’s toenails and handed out bunk gifts. “Oh, Mom,” Jen said, her face full of disappointment, “I told you to buy something different. You’re the third mother to give out jacks.”
“I’m sorry, honey, I thought jacks were different.”
That afternoon Bucky and the other brothers from across the lake were brought over to visit. And Norman caught him showing off his mosquito bites, with a mouthful of watermelon and teasing Jen’s bunkmates with a fake snake.
When it was time to say good-bye the children walked them down to the field where they had parked. All the Cadillacs and Continentals and Mercedes were neatly lined up. Sandy had never seen so many low-numbered license plates in one lot. She put on her sunglasses so the children wouldn’t see her tears. They’re on their way to becoming independent, she thought. Soon they won’t need me at all. Maybe that was why Mona had never let her girls go away to camp.
“I’M READY FOR A LITTLE SOMETHING,” Norman said that night when they got into their beds at the motel.
“Oh, Norm . . . I’m so tired . . . and tomorrow will be just as hectic at Bucky’s camp.”
“It’ll make you feel better. It always does.”
“And I didn’t bring my diaphragm. I didn’t think we’d need it.”
“But it’s Saturday night.”
“I know.”
“And I’m in the mood.”
“You certainly don’t want to take a chance, do you?”
“No.”
“Then . . .”
“I’ll pull out in time . . .”
“Coitus interruptus, at our age?”
“Just this once.” He pulled down her covers and lay beside her, taking her hand and cupping it around his balls. “Ready, San?”
She’d never refused him. Not once in almost twelve years. When he’s in the mood, you’re in the mood. Oh, Mother, go away. Please, please, go away!
“You’re sure this is safe?” she asked, as he entered her.
“Yes.”
“Because I really don’t want to get pregnant.”
“You won’t, although another baby might be just what you need. Another baby would keep you busy, San.”
“No, that’s not a good enough reason to have a baby.”
He came on her belly and feeling him against her like that, feeling his wetness, excited her. “Rub it into me,” she said.
“Here’s some Kleenex.”
“No . . . I want you to rub it into me . . . all over . . .”
“Come on, San . . . don’t talk like that . . . you better go wash up or you’ll be all sticky in the morning.”
He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. She heard the water running, then Norman, gargling. Some things never change, she thought. She masturbated, remembering the way Shep had once rubbed his cum all over her.
Norman returned to his bed, pulled the covers around his head, and said, “I know you’ve been tense lately, San, but I think you’ll be a lot happier once we move into the new house. It’s going to change your whole outlook.”
“It’s not the house, Norm. It’s us.”
“You’re going to have to stop talking like that. Everything’s fine between us. It’s just like always except you haven’t had enough to do this summer. It’
s just a little depression at having the kids away. As soon as they’re back you’ll be fine.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It is! We have a good life together and don’t you go messing it up.”
19
ON MONDAY MORNING Hubanski called. “How’re you doing, Mrs. Pressman?”
“Just fine. Anything new with our case?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Pressman, we aren’t making much headway . . .”
“Well, he hasn’t been around here lately.”
“Lately, did you say lately?”
“What I meant was, I haven’t seen him since . . . since the first time.”
“Oh, it sounded as if . . .”
“No . . . I meant that he hasn’t come back here at all.”
“I see.” She heard him smack his tongue against his teeth. “We’ll just have to keep trying, then.”
“Yes.”
Sandy wondered about the man on the motorcycle, even worried about him. The last time he’d paid her a visit he’d waved to her when he’d finished his act, and she’d waved back. Maybe that was what had scared him off, her aggressiveness.
Aggressiveness. Yes. Okay. It was time. On Tuesday morning she called Shep’s New York office.
“He’s at the Berkeley Heights site today. He can be reached at area code 201-KL-5-5579.”
“Thank you.” Sandy hung up, then dialed the New Jersey number.
“Yeah, hello.” It was a man, but not Shep.
“I’d like to speak to Shep Resnick, please.”
“Yeah, hang on.” She heard him call, “Hey, Shep, for you . . .”
And then his voice. “This is Shep Resnick.”
Control. Control. Keep your voice steady. He can’t see you . . . has no way of knowing you’re shaking. Or you could just hang up. Hang up now and forget about it. No . . . no! “Shep . . . it’s Sandy . . .” There. Not bad. But he didn’t respond right away so she added, “Sandy Pressman . . . Sandy Schaedel . . .”
“Sandy! What a surprise.”
“You said to call.”
“And I meant it, but I didn’t expect it.”
