Wifey

by Judy Blume

  Sandy! What are you saying? You’d give up your children?

  I don’t know.

  You should be punished for even thinking that!

  I’m sorry! I don’t know what got into me. You’re right. I should be punished.

  Of course she wanted the children. They needed her, didn’t they?

  Are you sure? At camp they . . .

  Yes, but that was only for eight weeks. They knew they were coming home afterward.

  They might do just as well without you.

  No! I am not giving up my children. I know what he’d do to them. Make them just like him. No! The children are mine. And that’s final. Shep and I will marry and I’ll get custody. He can’t prove I’m an unfit mother. I’m not! Well, I’m not, am I?

  Would a fit mother be running off with another man for the weekend, leaving a trail of lies behind her?

  One thing has nothing to do with the other. Look at Myra. She was fucking Frank Monzellini when the twins were babies.

  So maybe that’s what messed them up.

  No, it’s just a phase they’re going through. It’s adolescence. Ask Myra. She says they’re coming out of it now. They’ve already lost twenty pounds at their fat camp in Southampton. So, you see, she is a fit mother and so am I!

  SANDY PULLED INTO the airport. Long-term parking, short-term parking, where was weekend parking? Why did they have to make it so confusing? Finally, she parked successfully, grabbed her bag, and locked the car. She’d better write down the section and number or she’d be looking for the car all day when she got back. If she got back. Suppose they flew somewhere and the plane crashed? Would Norman and Rhoda put two and two together? So what if they did? She and Shep would be dead anyway. But the children. What would Norman tell them? That Mommy ran away with another man? No, he’d never admit to that. That wouldn’t do his image any good. Besides, it wasn’t going to happen. Flying was safer than driving. Everyone said so. The statistics proved it. And if the plane was going to crash, it had to be on the way back so they could at least have their weekend together. Making love until she couldn’t take any more. That’s what he promised. Her knees felt weak just thinking about it.

  Upstairs, in the terminal, she had pains in her stomach. Just nerves, she told herself. Relax, relax, don’t give in to them and they’ll go away.

  She searched for Shep at the Eastern counter. He had said Eastern, hadn’t he? So where was he? Suppose she saw someone she knew? Hi, there . . . going away for the weekend? Me too . . . my old girlfriend . . . Maine . . . plane to Boston . . . how about you?

  Where are you, Shep?

  He must be on his way. He should be here any minute, unless . . . unless . . . No! That was too terrible to think about. Shep, lying on the street, blood pouring out of his head. Shot . . . like Kennedy? No, an automobile accident. The slick highway. Last night’s rain. Ambulance attendants bending over him, shaking their heads.

  “Hello, kid.”

  She turned around. “Shep!”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  “I’m just so glad to see you. I thought . . .”

  “Sorry I’m late, traffic.”

  “It’s okay now.”

  “Here’s what I thought we should do. Take the shuttle up to Boston, rent a car and drive out to the Cape. I’ve found us a little cabin on the ocean.”

  “Sounds wonderful. And you won’t believe this but I told Norman I was flying up to Boston, then taking the bus to Maine to visit my old friend, Lisbeth.”

  “Now you can show him your ticket and prove it.”

  “Yes. It’s all working out for us, isn’t it?”

  “Did you think it wouldn’t?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Have faith, Sandy.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Let’s go. There’s a nine-forty-five shuttle.”

  As they lined up to get on board Sandy noticed Mickey. Oh, shit! Was Funky here too?

  She whispered to Shep. “I know that man and I think he’s seen me.”

  “Just play it cool.”

  “Hey, Sandy, I thought it was you,” Mickey said, approaching her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on my way to Maine to visit my friend for the weekend. How about you?”

  “Business in Boston. Just for the day.”

  “Oh.”

  “I heard about that episode at The Club. Phyllis tells me you’ve stopped playing because of it.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Because, hell, some guy once lodged a complaint against me. I just paid my fine and forgot about it. That’s what you should do.”

  “It’s not just the complaint . . .”

  “Say, why don’t we sit together on the plane?”

  “Do you smoke?” She knew he did.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, but I’m in no smoking.”

  “Oh, well, have a nice weekend. If you feel like hanging around in Boston for a couple of hours, I’d be happy to take you to lunch.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Mickey, but once we land I’ve got to run. My bus to Maine . . .”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

  “Oh, and if you happen to see Norman over the weekend tell him we were on the same plane.”

  “I’ll do that . . .”

  “Whew,” Sandy said, when he’d finally left.

  “You handled that very well. I’m impressed.”

  “I don’t like lying.”

  “I know.”

  They boarded the plane and Sandy held Shep’s hand tightly as they took off.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a white-knuckle flyer,” Shep said.

  “Sort of.”

  “I should have guessed.”

  The flight attendant was tall, blonde, green-eyed, and overattentive, especially to Shep. At first Sandy found it funny, but by the fourth time she paraded up the aisle, pausing at their row, Sandy began to feel uncomfortable, and then slightly nauseous at the way Shep eyed her back, at the way their hands touched as she handed him his raincoat when they landed.

  “Good-looking girl,” Sandy said as they deplaned.

  “Who?” Shep asked.

  “The flight attendant.”

  “Really, I hadn’t noticed. I only have eyes for you,” he said, patting her ass.

  THE CABIN SMELLED of mildew but it didn’t matter. They threw down their things, changed into bathing suits, and raced down to the ocean’s edge. The water was freezing. They only wet up to their ankles, then sunbathed, took a bath in the old-fashioned tub in the cabin, and made love. Endless hours of lovemaking, as promised, with Shep climbing on top of her each time he neared his climax, pumping her full, making her come one last time when she was sure there was nothing left in her. They slept in each other’s arms, Shep more soundly than Sandy. She awakened every few minutes, kissed his face, his neck, his arms, and dozed off again.

  She didn’t remember to call Norman until Saturday morning at seven. “Where were you last night?” she asked. “I tried and tried . . .” She was ready with all sorts of excuses if he said he’d been home all evening, waiting for her call. Out of order. Operator’s error. Tiny village. Crossed lines.

  Norman yawned into the phone. “I was at The Club playing in the Twi-niter, then Lucille and Ben convinced me to stay for the dinner-dance.” He yawned again. “I didn’t get home till after one.”

  “No wonder I couldn’t get you.”

  “You didn’t want me to sit home all alone, did you?”

  “Of course not. I’m glad you had a good time. I just wanted you to know I’m here and everything’s okay.”

  Shep rolled over and began to kiss her breasts.

  “Mickey told
me he saw you on the plane.”

  “Yes, wasn’t that a coincidence?”

  “He was surprised.”

  “So was I.”

  “Well, have a good weekend.”

  “You too, Norm.”

  “See you on Monday. You’ll be back before dinner, won’t you?”

  Shep’s hand was between her legs.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I hope so!”

  She hung up and Shep kissed her. “I’ve never kissed anyone without brushing my teeth first,” she told him.

  “Then it’s time you did,” he said, sweeping the inside of her mouth with his tongue. And then Shep was on top of her but suddenly he cried out and jumped off the bed. “Jesus . . .” He paced up and down.

  “What is it?” Had she done something? Hurt him in some way?

  “My leg, it’s my leg.”

  Polio? A blood clot?

  “A cramp . . . God, it hurts . . .”

  “Can I do something?”

  “No . . .”

  She waited quietly.

  “It’s letting up now.” He came back to bed and lay down. He was covered with perspiration. She got up, went to the bathroom, and returned with a wet washcloth. She mopped off his face, pulled the covers up, held him in her arms, and watched him sleep.

  When he awoke again it was nine-thirty and he reached for the phone to call Rhoda at the beach.

  “Hi, honey . . . how are things . . . good . . . and the kids . . . good . . . send them my love . . . miss you too . . . take care . . . see you Monday . . . yes . . . kisses to all of you too . . .”

  Sandy turned her back to him, hurt by the concern, the love, in his voice.

  “Sorry, kid,” he said, after he’d hung up.

  “It’s just that . . .”

  “I know. Let’s try to forget about it, okay?”

  They went to breakfast at Josie’s House, a beautiful old Cape Cod, turned into a restaurant, where the tables were set with white lace paper doilies and baskets of fresh flowers. The waitresses were suntanned girls, their shiny hair tied back, their long, sleek legs exposed beneath miniskirts. Sandy wondered how Shep could want her, love her, when there were so many more beautiful girls in the world, every one of them ready to jump into bed with him. She could feel it. The way the redhead looked at him as she poured his coffee. The way the one with the brown eyes smiled at his smile. Sandy couldn’t help feeling jealous, jealous of their beauty, their youth, their freedom. Yes, most of all, their freedom.

  “Let’s have the works,” Shep said, “cereal, bacon, eggs, muffins. I’m famished. We forgot to have dinner last night.”

  “I know. We were too busy.”

  He smiled and took her hand, kissing her fingers.

  “I love you, Shep. I want to live with you forever.”

  “I know.”

  “I want to wake up next to you every day.”

  “And I want to wake up with you in my arms, looking at your funny, sleepy face.”

  So what are we going to do about it? she felt like asking. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

  22

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING as Sandy unlocked the front door on Monday afternoon. “Yes, hello?”

  “Sandy? It’s Vincent.”

  “Vincent, what a surprise.”

  “We’ve been trying to get you since yesterday.”

  “I was away for the weekend. I just got back.”

  “Lisbeth’s mother died. The funeral’s tomorrow at ten. At Apter’s.”

  “Oh, Vincent, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s a blessing, actually. She’d been going steadily downhill and at the end she didn’t even recognize Lisbeth.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” Sandy said, her voice cracking. “Send Lisbeth my love and my sympathy.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “And Vincent . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You didn’t by any chance reach Norman, did you?”

  “No, there was no answer at all. Why?”

  “No reason. See you tomorrow.”

  “Right.”

  Trying to get us on the phone all day yesterday, Sandy thought. Suppose Norman had answered. Then what? Then she would have had to face the consequences. Luck was with her and Shep. Somebody up there liked them. Wasn’t that what Mona used to say? Yes, when she fell off her bicycle and came home with only scraped knees, Mona said, Well, it could have been worse. Somebody up there likes you, Sandy. And Sandy used to wonder what the somebody looked like. Was it God, himself? Was it one of his angels? Was it Moses, or Esther? What a mess it would have been if Norman had been home to take the call. Not that Sandy wasn’t prepared to leave him. She was. But first she wanted to put everything in order. She had to discuss it with Shep. The sooner the better. Before something like this came up again. Before Norman could gather evidence to use against her in a custody battle. Wednesday. She would tell him on Wednesday afternoon when they met at the Country Squire Inn in Basking Ridge. She couldn’t go on sleeping with Norman, playing wifey, when all she could think of was Shep and the way she loved him.

  “HER MOTHER DIED while you were visiting?” Norman asked that night.

  “Yes.”

  “And they flew back but you stayed?”

  “Yes, I stayed to get things in order up there.”

  “You stayed all alone in some godforsaken cabin in the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever stop to think of what might have happened to you with no phone, no running water. Jesus!”

  “Nothing happened. I’m home and I’m fine. The funeral’s tomorrow morning.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to go.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Because I’m really bogged down at the plant. August vacations and . . .”

  “I said I don’t expect you to go.”

  LISBETH CONDUCTED THE SERVICE for her mother. She read poetry, then told the small gathering of friends and relatives how her mother had always encouraged her, how she’d brought her up to believe that she could become anything she wanted. That it was her life, her only life, and the decisions were hers to make. “I’ll always be grateful to the wonderful woman who was my mother. And I’ll remember the happy times we had together. I know she’d want you to remember those times too.”

  Miranda, every bit as poised and lovely as Lisbeth had said, spoke next. “My grandma took care of me when I was a baby. She loved me even when I was bad. She let me sit on the kitchen counter while she baked. She gave me dough to play with and laughed when it got stuck in my hair. And as I got older, I still loved to go to stay with her. She was old-fashioned in lots of ways, but not in loving. She really knew how to love. And I’m going to miss her a lot.” Miranda put a pink rose on the closed coffin. “Good-bye, Grandma. I miss you already.”

  Sandy’s tears were confused. They were not only for Lisbeth and Miranda and Mrs. Rabinowitz, but for herself. For her life, her only life, and the decisions she had never made.

  After, Sandy kissed Lisbeth’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “It was a beautiful service.”

  Lisbeth nodded. “Come to the house after the cemetery. I want to talk to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Mrs. Rabinowitz’s neighbors had set up a feast. Such a delectable spread of goodies that Sandy could have sworn she was at a catered affair, maybe even at The Club. Cheeses, breads, vegetables, salads, white fish, herring, homebaked cookies and cakes. She could never understand why people felt so hungry after funerals but she knew it was true. She remembered it from her own father’s funeral and from Samuel D. Pressman’s. She remembered it from when she was small and wasn’t permitt
ed to go to family funerals. They always came home from the cemetery starving and Sandy wondered what they did there to get themselves that hungry. Now she knew. A celebration of life, through death.

  Sandy and Lisbeth went upstairs, after lunch, to Lisbeth’s old bedroom, which was exactly as she had left it sixteen years ago to go off to Barnard. They sat on the bed together the way they had when they were teens; Lisbeth propped up against the pillows, Sandy, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Vincent said you were away for the weekend.”

  “I was.”

  “Without Norman, I gather?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tell me all about it.”

  “I went to Cape Cod, with a man, but Norman thinks I was with you, in Maine. That I was there when the call came through about your mother. I’ve turned into an incredible liar. I hate myself for it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you any time. So who is he?”

  Sandy hesitated.

  “Come on, San . . . this is me, Zelda, remember?”

  “Zelda?”

  “I’ve been thinking about changing it back. Did you know my mother named me for F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife?”

  “No.”

  “I just found out myself. Supposedly I was named for my great-grandmother, but when my mother realized she was dying she told me the truth. So who is he and do you love him or is it just a fling?”

  “I love him. It’s not a fling.”

  “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Just a week, but it seems like months . . . years . . .”

  Lisbeth shook her head. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “You know something, Vincent and I have given up our Thursday nights off. We’ve decided it’s just too risky. And to tell you the truth, it was getting boring. I love Vincent. I don’t need anyone else and he feels the same way. It’s as if we’ve discovered each other all over again. Ever since my mother got sick, he’s been just wonderful. I’ve fallen in love with him, Sandy, like a schoolgirl.”

  “I’m glad for you.” Thank you, Vincent . . . thank you for not telling her about us . . .