Wifey

by Judy Blume

Her turn. “I’d like to see you, Shep.” An uncomfortable pause. Why didn’t he say something? Answer me, dammit. “Shep, are you there?”

  “I’m thinking,” he said. “How about lunch. Let’s say Linda’s Fireside at twelve-thirty, that’s by the old bridge going up to Berkeley Heights. You know where that is?”

  “I’ve passed it, I think. I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Good. I’m glad you called, Sandy. See you soon.”

  Oh, God, she’d done it. She’d actually done it. Committed herself. Would have to face the consequences this time. But wait, she could still change her mind. Just lunch. It didn’t have to be more than that.

  She showered and shampooed and nicked both her legs shaving. Worse than an adolescent. She inspected herself in the full-length mirror, naked, and was shocked to find hairs on the back of her thighs. She’d never thought of shaving there before. She trimmed and polished her toenails, buffed her fingernails, douched with vinegar, and inserted her diaphragm, just in case. Oh, hell, who was she kidding? Of course they were going to make love. But she didn’t have to. She would only do it if she really wanted to. She was through giving in to Norman because he was in the mood, through saying why not to Gordon or Vincent or whoever. From now on it was to be her choice. And her choice was Shep. Had always been Shep.

  What to wear? She looked over everything in her closet and settled for a simple shirt and skirt. Casual, as if she were going to the A&P. But underneath she wore her best beige lace-trimmed bikini panties. Just like the old days. And no bra. Should she put rouge on her nipples? She’d read that some women did that. But suppose it rubbed off against him? No, better to just leave well enough alone.

  She drove up ahead of time, in case she got lost. He was already there, waiting for her in his white Porsche. “Hi Shep . . .” How girlish she sounded. Remember, Sondra Elaine, you’re not seventeen anymore. You’re supposed to be a woman now.

  “Hi, Sandy, I phoned for a table,” he said, getting out of his car and taking her arm.

  “I’ve never been here but I’ve heard it’s good.”

  “Linda makes a great veal piccata.”

  “I usually eat peanut butter for lunch.”

  “I’m not surprised.” He laughed.

  They went into the restaurant and were shown to their table. “So . . .” he said, after they were seated.

  “So . . . did your little girl arrive from Vietnam yet?”

  “No, the latest word is the end of September. There’s a lot of red tape involved.”

  She pretended to read the menu. The waitress approached their table. “Have you folks decided?”

  “Sandy?”

  “I think I’ll have the chef’s salad.” She looked over at Shep. “I’m not very hungry,” she explained.

  “Make it two,” he said, “and a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé.”

  The waitress left and Sandy said, “I thought you were going to have the veal.”

  “Changed my mind. I’m not that hungry either.”

  They looked directly at each other for the first time. Sandy cleared her throat twice, felt her face grow hot, her stomach climbing into her chest cavity. Maybe Dr. Ackerman had been right, after all. “Shep . . .”

  “Yes, Sandy . . .”

  “I’m scared.”

  “About what?”

  “You know . . . this . . . everything . . .”

  He took her hand and held it between both of his. “It’ll be all right.”

  She nodded.

  After lunch they went out to his car. Sandy, feeling fuzzy from the wine, got in beside him and flipped her sunglasses up on her head. “Too bad you gave up your Nash.” She touched the soft leather upholstery. “This one’s not bad but the seat doesn’t go back, does it?”

  “I don’t have much use for a car seat that turns into a bed these days. In fact, I haven’t since the summer of . . .”

  “Fifty-five, wasn’t it?”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “I haven’t forgotten one minute of it.” She faced him. “Kiss me.”

  He put his arms around her. “I will . . . I will . . . but first I want to just hold you close.”

  She placed her cheek against his, her hand on the back of his neck. Her fingers played with his soft, curling hair. She touched his face tenderly, then kissed him on his lips. A soft, gentle kiss, without the urgency, the passion of that night at The Club.

  He kissed her back, harder now, stronger, his tongue in her mouth. She sucked on it, trying to keep a part of him inside her. “Can we go someplace?” she whispered.

  “Not today. I want you to think it over first. I want you to be very sure of what you’re doing.”

  “I’m sure. I’m sure right now and I want you so much.”

  “I want you too and if you feel the same way tomorrow, we’ll go someplace, I promise.”

  DRIVING HOME, she considered the possibilities. He was too busy this afternoon. He had meetings that he couldn’t possibly cancel at the last minute. He had another woman lined up for today.

  He had to discuss it with Rhoda.

  He wasn’t attracted to her anymore.

  He’d become impotent since July Fourth.

  Endless possibilities.

  Or, the truth. He really wanted her to think it over, to be sure she knew what she was getting into.

  Yes, she liked the truth best.

  SHE FOUND MYRA waiting for her in the den when she got home. “Hi . . . Florenzia said you’d be back soon.”

  “Is everything all right?” Sandy asked. Myra wasn’t in the habit of dropping in this way.

  “Yes, sure, everyone at The Club is asking for you.”

  Sandy sank into the sofa, her legs tucked under her. “I’ve given up on golf and tennis . . . with Norman’s permission.”

  “But San, that’s so silly. Millicent’s a bitch. Everyone knows that. Her complaint won’t be taken seriously.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “Steph wanted you to play with her one day this week and a lot of the other girls were rearranging their schedules to include you in some games . . .”

  “That’s nice of them, but I’m not going back.”

  “That’s crazy, San. I’d hoped . . .”

  Sandy shook her head. “It’s just not my thing.”

  Myra sighed. “I suppose you haven’t heard the news.”

  “What news?”

  “Barbara and Gish . . . they’re splitting up . . . and I’m just sick about it . . . I was with her last night . . . it’s awful . . . her kids will be back in a few weeks . . . they don’t know yet.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, who knows? She says Gish wanted out . . . ever since his brother died he’s been different . . . afraid he’s missing out . . . freedom . . . that whole number . . .”

  “I knew he was a flirt, but . . .”

  “Everyone knew that, including Barb, but she accepted it and look where it got her. He’s keeping The Club membership . . . she can’t afford to join another one. I don’t know what she’s going to do, how she’s going to manage.” Myra reached into her purse for a Kleenex and blew her nose.

  “He’ll have to support her and the kids, won’t he?”

  “Oh, sure, up to a point.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Who can be surprised anymore? It’s happening all around us.” They were quiet for a moment. “I have to admit, I’ve considered divorce myself . . . especially since I found out about Gordy’s affair. I can’t go to bed with him. I keep imagining him with her, whoever she is. I’ve decided not to go to the AMA convention, even though I adore San Francisco. I’m going to tennis camp instead. I need to get away by myself
to think things over . . .”

  “I know Gordy loves you, My. Don’t turn his one mistake into a reason for divorce.”

  Tears came to Myra’s eyes. “I really don’t want a divorce. What would my life be like without Gordy? What am I without him? With him I’m a somebody, I’m a doctor’s wife. Oh, I get lonely, but I fill my days with activities, keep as busy as possible.” She blew her nose again, harder this time. “If I divorced him, I’d have to give up the house and move to an apartment in Fort Lee, with all the other divorcees, eat at Howard Johnson’s instead of Périgord Park, get a job in a department store. My friends would invite me to dinner parties, trying to fix me up with some recently divorced man. It’s all too terrible to even think about. Poor Barb, that’s the kind of life she has to look forward to now. I think I’d kill myself first, I honestly do. The only way to a decent divorce is through another man, but where am I going to find another man who can give me all that Gordy can?”

  “I’ve thought about divorce too,” Sandy said, quietly, the first time she’d ever said it out loud.

  “Sandy!”

  “I can’t help it. I’m not happy with Norman.” There, she’d admitted it. It was on the record now. It was official.

  “Sandy, I’m shocked, truly shocked.”

  “Don’t be. Norman and I are very different. I’m emotional and he’s . . .”

  “Phlegmatic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Daddy was right.”

  “Yes. He was right about a lot of things.”

  “Do you ever wonder what kind of marriage he and Mona had?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about them lately. I’m beginning to see things the way they really were.”

  “Daddy wanted a dog, did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “He took me to a kennel once . . . it was our special secret . . . he picked out a puppy for me . . . for us . . . but we never got him . . .”

  “He let her bring us up . . . he didn’t have to withdraw . . .”

  “He didn’t like making waves.”

  “She would have appreciated him more if he had.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, no point in dwelling on the past, is there?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Could I have a glass of juice?” Myra asked.

  “Oh, sure.” They went into the kitchen and Sandy poured two tall glasses of grapefruit juice.

  “Thanks,” Myra said, taking a long swallow. “I’ve signed up for a course in art appreciation this fall . . . art is going to be very big next year . . . everyone is getting into it . . . why don’t you come with me . . . it’s going to be fun . . . Wednesdays in New York . . . lunch . . . a tour of the galleries . . . I may even start collecting . . . and you’ll need some things for the new house . . . they say art is a wise investment . . .”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Keep busy, Sandy . . . when you’re busy you don’t have time to brood . . .”

  “Life should be more than keeping busy.”

  “Maybe it should be, but for most of us, it’s not.” Myra stood up. “You know, San, you don’t have a bad life with Norman . . .”

  Sandy’s eyes filled up and she chewed on her lower lip.

  “I’ve got to run,” Myra said, hugging Sandy. “I feel closer to you than I ever have. I hope we can keep it this way. Take care. Talk to you tomorrow . . .”

  20

  SHEP CALLED AT NINE the next morning. “So what’s the verdict, kid?”

  “Guilty,” she told him. “So where should I meet you?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, twelve-thirty at the Monterey Motor Inn on Route 1, South. Park your car in the bowling alley lot next door and I’ll park mine across the street in the shopping center.”

  “You certainly think of everything.”

  “I have to . . . and Sandy . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t change your mind.”

  A few minutes later Norman called. “Four Corners made an offer.”

  “Who?”

  “Four Corners . . . the Realtors . . . they’re offering thirty-seven thousand, five . . .”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’d like to get them up to forty.”

  “Did you explain about Enid?”

  “I can’t, how would that look?”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “We have to do what’s right for us at this point. I’ll call you back when it’s firm.”

  “I’m leaving before noon. I’ve got an appointment.”

  “What time will you be back?”

  “I don’t know, late this afternoon, I guess.”

  “Maybe we can reach an agreement before you leave.”

  The phone rang almost as soon as she hung up. What now? Shep, canceling?

  “Mrs. Pressman.”

  “Yes?”

  “May I fuck you today?”

  “Oh, not you again!” She hung up and waited, knowing that he would call right back. He always did, at least once a week. Her friendly caller. She should have mentioned him to Hubanski. Maybe next time she would. Maybe there was some connection between him and the man on the motorcycle. “Go to hell!” she shouted into the phone when it rang again, before he had a chance to say anything. She slammed the receiver down. At least she’d be rid of him when they moved to Watchung.

  She went into the bathroom, repeating yesterday’s rituals, except for polishing her toenails. They still looked fine. She looked for her diaphragm but couldn’t find it. It wasn’t in its blue plastic case or any of the bathroom drawers. Damn! Then she remembered and laughed with relief. She’d forgotten to remove it yesterday afternoon. She washed it out and inserted it again.

  Norman called back at ten-thirty. “Thirty-eight thousand seven hundred and fifty is as high as they’ll go.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I told them I’d have to think it over.”

  “Enid won’t like it.”

  “Enid won’t know.”

  “I’ll bet she finds out.”

  “Look, I think we should take it, San. It’s the only decent offer we’ve had.”

  “Okay, whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  “I’ll call him and get right back to you.”

  She sat on her bed and waited. When the phone rang she picked it up immediately. “Yes, hello?”

  “It’s a deal,” Norman said. “We sign the papers tonight at six-thirty, our house. And after, we’ll go out to celebrate.”

  “With Four Corners?”

  “No. Just us.”

  There was a knock at Sandy’s bedroom door. “Mrs. Pressman . . . that’s me, Florenzia . . .”

  “Yes, Florenzia?” Sandy opened her door.

  “So many telephones today . . . everything is all right?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “I no like when so many telephones.”

  “I know and there shouldn’t be any more for a while.”

  “Good, because my ears be ringing. It be making me very nervoos. I no can clean with so many telephones.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry. It should be quiet now.” Florenzia was right. Sandy spent too much of her life on the phone, dealing with trivia.

  SHE DROVE TO THE MOTEL and parked in the bowling alley lot, as instructed. Shep was waiting for her, sitting on the steps, a wicker basket at his feet.

  “I brought a picnic lunch,” he said.

  “You really do think of everything.”

  “I try.”

  They walked over to the m
otel. “We’re in Room twenty-eight,” Shep told her. “Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd.”

  They smiled at each other, Shep took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and they stepped inside. “Hmm . . . let’s see . . .” he said, setting the wicker basket on the bureau top. He moved a table and two chairs out of the way, making room on the floor for their picnic. He spread out the checkered tablecloth and unpacked the basket. Cold chicken, potato salad, and a chilled bottle of champagne.

  “Beautiful!” Sandy said.

  “You’re not bad yourself, kid.” He pulled a small tape recorder out of the basket. “For you.” He handed it to her. “Turn it on.”

  She turned the switch. Nat Cole was singing “Blue Velvet.” “Shep, you remember everything . . .”

  He reached for the champagne. Taylor’s Brut. Uncle Bennett and Cousin Tish. Sandy and Norman’s wedding night. A champagne bath. Oh, shit . . . don’t think . . . don’t . . . you’ll spoil it . . .

  It popped when he uncorked it and dribbled down the front of him, wetting his shirt and pants. They both laughed. He poured them each a glassful and raised his in a toast. “To us!”

  She clinked glasses with him. “To us!”

  He offered her a chicken leg.

  “I’m not sure I can swallow,” she said. “I’m too . . .”

  “I know. That’s why we’re having lunch, first, to relax you.”

  “I’d feel better if you kissed me,” she said.

  “All right, but just one.”

  “Just one. I promise.”

  He leaned across the picnic cloth and kissed her lightly. “No more now. First you have to eat.”

  She nodded, kicked off her sandals, and attacked her lunch.

  When they’d finished, Shep wrapped everything up in the cloth and stuffed it back in the basket. “Now,” he said. “Now I’m going to love you.” He pushed her gently to the floor and kissed her. The tape recorder was playing Here I go again . . . I hear the trumpets blow again . . . all aglow again . . . taking a chance on love . . .

  She held him to her, inhaling him, tasting him, her hands in his hair, her mouth open to his. He unbuttoned her shirt, slowly, watching her, then kissed her breasts, sucked on her nipples, slipped off his own shirt so that he could rub his chest against her nakedness. “Please, Shep . . . please . . .” she begged.