by Judy Blume
“I’ve often wondered why you’ve stayed with Norman this long.”
“It takes guts to get out.”
“Sandy, did you hear what I said at the funeral? You can’t wait around for your next life. This is your life. It’s very short, very precious. Don’t waste it.”
Sandy cried. Lisbeth put her arms around her and said, “It’ll be all right.”
On her way home Sandy stopped to pick up some cold cuts for supper. She and Norman ate early, then he took Banushka for a walk while she cleaned up the kitchen. The doorbell rang before she had finished. She wiped her hands on her pants and went to the front door. It was a man she had never seen before.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Pressman?”
Sandy nodded.
“I’m Mr. Martinez. Is Mr. Pressman in?”
“He’ll be back any minute. He’s walking the dog.”
“I’ll wait in my car, then.”
“Is it about the house?”
“The house? No, it’s a private matter.”
“I see.” She double-locked the door, and watched from the front window. What kind of private matter? Someone from the Anti-Defamation League? Someone who found out they’d sold to a Realtor instead of a black? Now they’d really be in for it. She’d warned Norman. He should have listened. Could he be sent to jail for not selling directly to a black family? How many years? Five . . . ten? Could she divorce him if he was in prison? She saw Norman approaching with Banushka. Mr. Martinez got out of his car. Norman seemed angry. Martinez held up a portfolio and shook it at him. Both men walked up to the house. Sandy ran to the front door and unlocked it. “Hi,” she said to Norman.
“Sandy, this is Mr. Martinez. Martinez, my wife, Sandy.”
“Yes, we’ve already met,” Sandy said.
Martinez followed Norman into the house. “I’ll be right with you,” Norman told him. He ushered Sandy into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Myra came to me weeks ago, suspecting Gordon of having an affair. She asked me to help her. I hired Martinez. He’s a private detective.”
“Oh, no.”
“When you told me Gordon was going to San Francisco and Myra was going to tennis camp, I put Martinez onto it.”
“Oh, no.”
“He’s got the goods on him now. Photos and everything.”
“But, Norm . . .”
“Let’s go have a look.”
“Caught him red-handed,” Martinez said. “In the act. Wait till you see these.” He tapped his portfolio.
“Go ahead,” Norman told him.
“In front of the little woman?”
“It’s her sister we’re trying to help.”
“If you say so.” He untied the portfolio and spread out the evidence on the dining room table. Six 8x10 black and white glossies of Gordon and Myra. Two of them showing the happy couple fucking in the missionary position, two showing them sucking, one, making it from the rear.
“Jesus Christ!” Norman said, holding up a picture.
“I tried to tell you,” Sandy said.
“Pretty good, huh?” Martinez asked. “Really professional.”
“This is my sister-in-law, you idiot!” Norman said, holding the picture under Martinez’s nose.
“What?”
“His wife! This is his wife!”
“This woman is his wife?” Martinez asked.
“Yes. I showed you pictures of her, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I thought . . .”
“Never mind what you thought. You’re off the job. Fired! Give me the negatives and get the hell out of here.”
“But my expenses . . .”
“I’ll pay your goddamned expenses but not one penny more. Now, give me the negatives.”
Martinez reached into his portfolio and dropped the negatives on the table. Then he hightailed it out of the house.
“Stupid goddamned fool!” Norman muttered.
“I can’t believe you hired a detective.”
“Your sister came to me crying. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. You could have discussed it with me.”
“With you? If she had wanted you to know, she would have gone to you in the first place.”
“She did. She told me all about it.”
“She told you?”
“Yes, I advised her to think it over carefully. Not to do anything foolish . . .”
“Wait till I tell Hubanski about this guy.”
“Hubanski! What’s he got to do with it?”
“I called him, asking him to recommend someone. I’m not in the habit of hiring private detectives, you know.”
“And Hubanski recommended Martinez?”
“Yes, they used to work together. Did you know your sister was going to San Francisco?”
“Yes, she called me right before I left on Friday morning. I didn’t think it was that important. I didn’t know you were having Gordon tailed.”
Norman picked up one of the pictures. “Myra looks great, doesn’t she? And who would have thought Gordon had it in him? You just never know . . .”
I know, Sandy thought.
Norman made a fire and burned the pictures and negatives.
Later, he wanted a little something. Sandy knew he would. He was excited by the pictures of Gordon and Myra. So was she. But she couldn’t do it with Norman. Couldn’t be unfaithful to Shep. So she said, “I’m very tired . . . the funeral . . . and now, this . . .”
“Come on, Sandy.”
“No, not tonight, Norm.”
“What is this shit? You’ve been away all weekend and now it’s no, not tonight, Norm.” His imitation of her came out sounding like Enid.
“I just don’t want to.”
“It’s your marital duty.”
“Oh, shut up. What do you know about marital duty?”
“There’s only so much I can take, Sandy. You’re pushing me to my limits.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Bitch!”
SHE MET SHEP the next afternoon. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “So much has happened in only two days.”
“And I’ve missed you.”
They made love, then talked. Sandy told him about Mrs. Rabinowitz, how Lisbeth and Vincent had been trying to reach her all weekend, how Norman would have found out something was wrong if he had been home to answer. She told him about Myra and Gordon and the detective, and then about refusing Norman last night, and his anger.
“I couldn’t make it with Rhoda either. Told her I thought I was coming down with a bug.”
“Shep, we’ve got to do something. I can’t go on like this.” So tell me that you’re leaving Rhoda tomorrow . . . that you’re going to marry me . . .
“I know, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. I just didn’t think it would come up this soon. I thought we’d have six months, maybe a year, before this happened.”
“I love you, Shep. I’m ready to leave Norman now.”
“I know you are.”
Then say it . . . say it . . . “We’ll be happy together.”
He held her in his arms, brushing the hair away from her face.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” she told him, kissing his neck, then his face. Please tell me you feel the same.
“I wish it were possible, kid.”
She looked up at him. “It is. It has to be.”
“I can’t leave Rhoda and the kids. Not now.”
She shook her head and felt her throat tighten. “But you love me.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I love her too.”
Sandy panicked and wriggled away from him.
“Try to understand,” he said.
“Understand?”
“Rho and I have shared a lot. Come a long way together.”
“Now you tell me!”
“Sandy, this has been the best week of my life. I mean it.”
“Stop it. Just stop it, will you.”
“I don’t want to let you go.” He reached for her but she wouldn’t let him touch her. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t get beyond the tears, beyond the hurt and humiliation. She had been so sure.
“We could arrange something,” Shep said. “Get a little place . . . see each other twice a week . . .”
“I hate arrangements!” she cried. “I can’t live that way.”
“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” he said, “and I don’t want to push you, but a lot of people do live that way, Sandy, and it works.”
“Don’t tell me what works. I’m not a lot of people.”
Shep sighed. “I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you to think it over carefully.”
“And I did. I did.”
“No, you never thought about the ending.”
“I didn’t know there had to be one.” She knew how ugly she looked when she cried. How her face contorted. But she couldn’t stop. “I thought we were going to get married and live together happily ever after. What a little girl I am. What a silly, stupid little girl . . . with little girl dreams!”
“Sandy, Sandy.” He stood behind her and put his arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she told him, trying to control herself. “It’s my fault. I should have known. What did I expect in just a week?” Just a week . . . but it seems like months . . . years . . . my whole life . . .
“If you don’t love Norman, leave him. I’ll help all I can—money, a job, a place to live.”
“No! I’m not going to live a lie.”
“At least let me be your friend. I can help make the transition period easier for you.”
Her friend. Yes, she wanted him as her friend, but she wanted him as her lover, as her husband too. “I had it all figured out. Don’t you see, I had everything figured out.”
“Leave him. You’ll be better off. Find yourself, kid.”
“I don’t know where to look.”
SHE’D NEVER FELT such despair, such hopelessness. Nothing mattered now. Life was over because life had become Shep. Crying didn’t help anymore. The empty feeling inside her remained. The love of her life and her passport to freedom, all gone, down the drain together. What now, Sandy? What now? She thought about getting sick. A high fever. A raging virulent infection. Oxygen tanks. Intensive care. The critical list. Shep would rush to her bedside, blaming himself. No! That wouldn’t solve anything. No more illnesses. No more fantasies. Divorce Norman anyway? And then what?
Myra would say: Sandy, are you crazy? You want to live on Kentucky Fried Chicken and pizza? Work in Bloomingdale’s and get varicose veins? Come home exhausted to nasty children who blame you for messing up their lives? Think! The only way to a decent divorce is through another man. So get busy and find one if you’re so unhappy. Never mind Shep. It’s not practical for you to go on loving him.
Mona would catch her breath: Sandy! A divorce? I can’t believe it. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do it to the children. Don’t do it to yourself. You have a good life with Norman. So what if you don’t love him the way a schoolgirl loves her boyfriend? Love changes as you grow older. Accept him for what he is. You’re lucky. A lot of women would give their . . .
Yes, Mother, I know, their eyeteeth for a man like Norman.
Exactly.
She would tell the children: Daddy and I are getting a divorce. We’re not going to have much money from now on.
Then we’ll live with Daddy. He’s got plenty.
But you belong with me. Don’t you want to live with me?
Not in some crummy apartment, Bucky would answer. We want to live in the new house.
Why doesn’t Daddy get an apartment? Jen would ask. And we’ll live in the new house with you.
Because I can’t afford it. And besides, I wouldn’t be happy there without Daddy.
Then why are you getting a divorce? they’d say together.
BITCH, Norman would cry. Goddamned bitch!
AND SO, WHAT WAS LEFT? What were her choices now?
I keep the gun locked in this cabinet and the key to the cabinet is in the bookcase, behind Bartlett’s Quotations.
Sandy went downstairs, to the den, unlocked the cabinet and looked at the gun. A way out. The end. She touched it. How cold it was. She lifted it and pressed it against the side of her head, feeling dizzy. She pictured her brains splattered all over Norman’s desk, all over the Mark Cross desk set she’d given him on their tenth anniversary. Better do it someplace else. The bathroom? Yes, it would be easier to clean up the mess in there. Mr. Clean, Windex, Ajax—that should do the job. Would she hear the explosion as she pulled the trigger? Had Jack heard it? She remembered the blood and gore on Jackie’s pink suit and looked down at her robe, her Mother’s Day robe. The children might take that personally. Maybe she should change first. No, the undertaker would get rid of the robe. Or did he send his customers’ clothes out to be cleaned and pressed so that he could return them to the bereaved family? She didn’t know. She’d have to ask Norman about that. But if she pulled the trigger now she wouldn’t be able to ask him. She would die without knowing whether or not he got business from the local morticians. Oh, so what! Besides, you don’t always die, she reminded herself. If you miss, you could wind up a vegetable. She’d read about a man who’d missed. He’d blown off half his face but they’d managed to save him so that he could lie in a nursing home, a blob, a nothing, the rest of his life. Would their insurance cover the cost of a nursing home or would Norman leave her to rot in some public institution? No. How would that look to the family, their friends? No, she’d have a private room somewhere, plenty of fresh flowers, and every Sunday after tennis Norman would drag the kids to see her. That ugly thing isn’t Mommy, Jen would cry, pointing. Yes, it is, you dummy! Bucky would tell her. It’s Mommy with her brains blown out.
You know, Luscious would announce at the Labor Day Dance, she had only half a brain to start with. She told me herself the last time we had dinner together.
Sandy laughed out loud at that one. Oh, what the hell . . . she didn’t know how to load it anyway and with her luck she’d probably blow off a foot. As she put the gun back she noticed an envelope inside the cabinet. Funny, she hadn’t seen it before. The warranty? The instruction manual? She opened it. How strange. A canceled check, dated November 19, 1969, made out to Brenda Partington Yvelenski for five thousand dollars. What was this all about? Who was Brenda Partington Yvelenski? November 19, 1969—the week Sandy had been so sick. The week Dr. Ackerman had stood at the foot of her bed, listing possibilities. Thoracic cancer . . . leprosy . . . leukemia . . . lupus . . .
Who was this Brenda Partington Yvelenski to whom Norman was writing a substantial check while she lay upstairs, desperately ill? Unless . . . unless she was a faith healer and Norman had been so frightened at the idea of her impending death he had actually contacted a mystic, called Brenda Partington Yvelenski, who agreed to pray for her swift return to health for the meager sum of five thousand dollars. But Norman didn’t believe in the spiritual. He didn’t even believe in Bar Mitzvahs. Still, as a last resort? No, that’s crazy! Then what else? Then why hide the check?
Blackmail. No, for what? A homosexual, Norman? Come on, not Norman! Okay, so the wife is always the last to know but . . .
A hooker. A specialist in black leather boots, chains, whips because he’s too ashamed to tell her what really turns him on. A year’s supply at once, three times a week. No. Not likely.
A landlord. He’s ren
ted a small apartment from Brenda Partington Yvelenski. A place to rendezvous with . . . Who? Luscious . . . Brown . . . Funky . . . all three at once? Myra, to get even with her for fucking Gordon? The twins . . . for kicks? Her mother? No. Absolutely not! He didn’t have the time for anything like that. Okay, so they can always make time, but Norm wouldn’t give up his golf or tennis or holding his breath under water just to get laid, would he?
A shrink? Yes, could be. He’s finally realized he’s got problems and has decided to deal with them. Dr. Brenda Partington Yvelenski, Shrink. Except that Norman didn’t believe in shrinks. Besides, he would have made out the check to Dr. Yvelenski, in that case . . . tax deductions and so forth.
She put the check back in the envelope, the envelope back in the cabinet, relocked it and put the key in its place, behind Bartlett’s Quotations, then went to Norman’s desk. She took out the check register and thumbed through it. November . . . November . . . yes, here it was. Number 402, Nov. 19, Brenda Partington Yvelenski: Investment.
She’s a broker? Then why hide the check? What sort of investment? Black Angus cattle, like Gordon and his friends? An adult gift shop on the highway, sex aids and porno books? Worse yet, the cleaning stores are a front? Norman’s mixed up with the mob . . . bookies, pimps . . . Jesus, you think you know someone and then . . .
She’d ask him tonight. She’d say, Norman, who is Brenda Partington Yvelenski?
And he’d say, Why do you ask?
And she’d say, Because you gave her five thousand dollars.
And he’d say, How do you know that?
And she’d say, Because this afternoon, as I was about to kill myself, I found the canceled check in the gun cabinet.
And he’d say, You have one hell of a nerve reading my canceled checks!
SHE GAVE NORMAN a little something that night. He patted her shoulder and said, “Glad you’re feeling better, San.”
“Do you ever say what you mean?” she asked.
“Does anybody?” he answered.
23
WHEN IT DIDN’T MATTER anymore it began to rain. It rained for two days, a heavy, steady downpour, sure to flood the second hole and close the golf course, which, a few weeks earlier, would have delighted Sandy. On the first day she stayed in bed and slept, glad that Florenzia was taking the week off to drive to South Carolina with her family. She dreamt that the man on the motorcycle was really a woman called Brenda Partington Yvelenski and that Norman had hired her to drive Sandy insane.
