Corporation Wife

by Catherine Gaskin

  Her mind slipped ahead of her into the years when Tom would no longer be a junior member of anyone’s team ‒ when Tom would head his own team, and eventually reach the position of Director. Between then and now she had to be a dozen kinds of women all at once, and offend no one in the process. She had to help Tom, without seeming to do so. And in the end, if they were lucky, they would end up living in one of the best houses in Amtec Park ‒ or its equivalent somewhere else in the country ‒ and they would be the sort of people invited to parties to meet Phil Conrad’s sort of person. If the time in between it seemed a little bit bleak in prospect, she knew it only required enough guts and enthusiasm to turn it into something much better. After all, she reasoned, Tom was committed to this kind of life, and she with him ‒ and she would be a fool to find anything wrong with it. It was only a small voice that told her anything could be wrong, and that was easily ignored.

  The sound of a car starting up somewhere on the lower road at Amtec Park brought an awareness of time passing ‒ and the utilising of time was part of the plan that would take herself and Tom where they wanted to go. She moved quickly, and reached for her shopping-pad from the drawer close by her hand. Then her glance fell on the yellow pages of the typescript lying face-downwards with only its edges showing beyond the table mats that were piled on top. Slowly she drew it out, thinking how forlorn and unesteemed it looked stuffed in there out of sight. As she straightened the pages and slipped them back into the clip, she began to count back the days since she had worked on it, and felt a little sick to realise that they amounted to over three weeks. Her eyes slipped down the pages, and here and there she saw the beginnings of an idea that could have been good, if worked over and properly developed. She knew quite well what she had on paper was only a draft of a novel, and even that still incomplete. There would have to be three or four times this amount of work before it could be near a state worth submitting to a publisher. She wondered if it could be worth it for just the few gleams of talent she saw in these pages, and then she thought of her father, and Oliver, who would have said it was. Oliver had preached to her that talent could tolerate no interference, that he himself would never be more than a second-rate poet because he gave part of his mind to politics. Angrily and guiltily now she tried to reject the idea, to argue that life had to be led on an ordinary level, that talent couldn’t demand the sacrifice of other people to it … in this case Tom and her child.

  Her hands clasped her body, protectively hugging her burden. In these last few weeks she had been carrying the child more easily, and there had been fewer hours spent lying on the bed lost in a daze of sickness and fatigue. She began to believe at last that her child could be borne splendidly to the joyful climax she wanted. So she had been happy and content in these weeks, placidly waiting her time, enjoying the society of the other pregnant wives in a way she had always thought she would despise. She had not begrudged the hours spent over the coffee cups, not at all; she had seemed to be building a peaceful climate of approval and acceptance for herself and her child. The urge now was to seek the shelter of other women’s company and esteem, rather than the frightening state of loneliness that working on the novel would bring. And so the novel had been laid aside, not even looked at, for almost a month. Reason told her that neglect might cause it to slip away entirely. But she clasped her arms about her body more tightly, and thought only of her baby and Tom.

  She still had not told anyone, apart from Tom, that she was trying to complete a book. It was a defensive measure, meant to guard her from ridicule if she were never able to finish it, or finished, to find a publisher for it. To announce that she was writing a novel would be to hurl a challenge at the non-creativity of other women, to project herself into the dangerous world of the individual who was trying to express something in a single voice, apart from the group, the world where failure would not be honest failure, but the just reward of pride and over-confidence. She shivered a little as she thought of what such a failure could do to Tom’s position. To be laughed at would be worse for him than anything else. Only spectacular success would compensate for the seeming insult she would offer to the various clubs and committees she belonged to when she had to give the reason why she couldn’t devote much time to them. And spectacular success, she reminded herself, very seldom came to first novels ‒ or even fifth novels. She could see a way out only when the baby was born, and she would have the excuse of staying home with it. She looked at the untidy pages in her hand, and wondered if the novel would wait for that ‒ or would it have slipped beyond her when she sought it again.

  She heard the splash of running water in the bathroom, and stuffed the manuscript back into the drawer. Tom had not asked about the book for some time now ‒ she wanted to believe that he had done it because he didn’t want to make her unhappy by admitting that it made no progress. But at the back of her mind was the vague fear that he, too, cared a little less about it ‒ that her own indifference had killed some of his interest. She didn’t want to think that there was anything in their lives they had once considered important and to which they were now indifferent. She turned and put a bright smile on her face as he entered the kitchen.

  He was barefoot, looking sleepy in his rumpled pyjamas and his uncombed hair standing up straight. When he kissed her lightly, his mouth smelled of toothpaste.

  ‘What’s this idea of getting up at the crack of dawn? … It’s Saturday.’ He moved slowly to the faucet and filled the coffee-maker, his movements heavy as if he had not yet properly come awake.

  She slipped back on to the stool, preparing to enjoy these next minutes with him. She loved the closeness between them at these times, the sense that they were truly alone, with the world beyond the green summer garden closed out.

  Explanation was not really needed ‒ he made a joke of this habit of hers. ‘I just like to be up early ‒ before everything starts moving. I like this time ‒ the promise of a warm, fine day before it actually happens.’

  ‘You sit here brooding over your world?’ he said teasingly.

  ‘Is it such a bad one?’ she answered, too sharply. She wanted no criticism from Tom now of the place they were in, or anything about them. She could not have him question what she had already settled in her own mind. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  He opened his eyes wider, surprised. ‘Why ‒ nothing. Nothing at all. What did I say was wrong with it?’

  She didn’t answer him, but slid off the stool and got some clean cups and saucers. It was disturbing to find her sense of peace and enjoyment gone just with those few words; she was annoyed with him for taking it away, but she couldn’t let her annoyance grow, because that was worse.

  ‘How are things at the Laboratories?’ she said as she set out the milk and sugar. It was a stupid question, but it was better than the silence.

  He accepted the remark for what it was, a peace offering. ‘O.K … Armstrong and Taylor are going down to Canaveral next week to watch the tests of some new fuel.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Dr. Dexter ever go down? …’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s a little beyond my level, Sal. I don’t know why the brass make these decisions. Perhaps Dexter can’t be spared. It isn’t always the most important guy who gets sent out. Peters will probably go down because he has some buddies there … and leave the technical talking to Armstrong and Taylor.’

  ‘How long before you go?’

  He grinned. ‘When I’m not so wet behind the ears.’ Then he grew serious. ‘But Taylor handed me a nice project to get on with while he’s away. I meant to tell you about it last night before the Johnsons came. It’s one of the side issues of a job we’re working on, and he thinks there’s enough stuff to develop into a paper. Not conclusive, but a lead for anyone who’s working in that direction. We won’t be pursuing it any further, but it could be a nice little prestige bit … the first thing I get my name on.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Oh, Tom! … your name.’

  ‘Well, Taylor’s name has
to go on it too, since he’s Head of Department. But this side issue was a bit of my own thinking, and he says I should get credit.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, that’s wonderful. That’s really wonderful.’

  ‘Hey … calm down! It’s nothing very important, and won’t even cast a ripple in scientific circles. But Amtec is anxious to publish as much as possible from the Laboratories, and Taylor wants me to work on getting the paper into shape, and see if it makes up into something worth putting out under his name. When I’ve got all the data sorted out, of course, it may not look as good as it does now …’

  ‘But it’s a start, Tom. It shows what Taylor thinks of you.’

  ‘Don’t get too misty-eyed about it, Sal. He thinks only as much of me as the amount of work he can squeeze out of me. Don’t forget he gets credit for results he can get out of his department. So we don’t talk about this until it’s a certainty … till it’s actually in print.’

  ‘I won’t … I promise. Oh, but, Tom … it is wonderful. I’m proud of you!’ The disturbing questions were gone now, vanished. There wasn’t any reason to doubt that Tom could last the years that separated him from Taylor’s position, or from being the sort of person who was invited to meet Phil Conrad.

  She put her arms about his neck. ‘I’m proud of you,’ she said again.

  He moved in closer to her, feeling her swollen belly and her full breasts through the long nylon robe. It seemed that he held a richness within his arms. ‘And I love you,’ he answered her.

  He untied the ribbon at the neck of the robe, and brushed it and the nightgown back off her shoulders. Her breasts were much fuller now, and the nipples had turned a brownish colour; he bent down and bit them gently between his teeth. She put her head back a little and laughed with pleasure, as if she already felt her child there.

  ‘Come back to bed, Sal.’

  They left the kettle steaming on the stove. The only other sound then was the padding of their bare feet on the floor.

  II

  The phone rang early that Saturday morning in the Talbot house. Selma heard it as she poked the sizzling bacon, and prepared to drain the fat off. Ted rose from the table, pausing to move Chrissie’s milk nearer to her hand, but before he was half-way across the room, the ringing stopped.

  Jeannie called from the next room. ‘It’s all right, Dad. I’ve got it.’

  Selma laid aside the bacon for Jeannie, and cracked an egg into the fat. As soon as it was done, she laid it on a hot plate and set it before Ted. She also put the fresh coffee on the table, and wiped Chrissie’s mouth which was smeared with soggy cereal. Jeannie came into the kitchen before she was finished. In spite of the fact that they had both been at the Dexters’ until after one o’clock that morning, Jeannie’s face was not even slightly shadowed with fatigue. She wore her usual clean shirt-maker dress, stockings and freshly polished shoes. Selma had often wondered if some of Jeannie’s success behind Carter’s cosmetics counter wasn’t due to the fact that she gave the impression of having dressed with as much care to go there as to a business appointment in New York. She made people think that Burnham Falls wasn’t really a small town. This morning she looked as if someone had just handed her a present.

  ‘That was Jerry,’ she announced.

  Both Selma and Ted looked at her quickly, questioning. She didn’t immediately satisfy their curiosity. ‘Sit down, Mom,’ she said. ‘I’ll fix my own egg.’ Then as she cracked her egg, she looked back at her mother. ‘Will I fix one for you?’ She motioned towards her mother’s plate. ‘You’ve only got toast there.’

  Selma shrugged slightly as she poured her coffee. ‘I don’t feel hungry.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Jeannie said. ‘One egg and a little bacon won’t hurt you. You never eat a proper breakfast …’

  She took Selma’s silence for acquiescence, and cracked the second egg. Behind her back, Selma permitted herself a smile; she found Jeannie’s maternal attitude amusing, but never said so. Jeannie scooped out the eggs, and carried both plates over to the table.

  As she sat down she said, ‘You got a job on this morning, Dad?’

  He nodded, wiping up the egg yolk with a piece of toast. ‘Yeh ‒ a little job to finish up at Downside.’ He looked at his younger daughter. ‘Want to come, Chrissie? Want to come to Downside with Dad?’

  Chrissie put down her spoon, and wiped her own mouth before her mother could reach out. ‘Yes ‒ will Brother Matthew be there?’

  ‘I expect so. Only you’re not to ask for candy this time. Wait till he gives them to you.’

  Jeannie said, ‘You can drop me in town on your way through, Dad. I’d like to unpack some stock before we get too busy. Last Saturday we were so busy I didn’t have time to turn around. People were waiting to be served, and I had about fifty different shades of lipstick out at once …’

  Selma couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Are you seeing Jerry this evening?’ she asked.

  Jeannie put a piece of toast in her mouth. ‘No ‒ this evening he has to go with his people over to visit at Elmbury. But he’s asked me to drive to New York with him to-morrow. There’s a show he wants to see at the Coliseum. We’ll be having dinner in town.’

  ‘Didn’t think you were so friendly with Jerry these days.’ Selma said. ‘Not from what you said to Mrs. Dexter last night.’

  Jeannie smiled, and it was the slightly smug smile of someone who has bided her time well. ‘Oh … well, I didn’t think he’d come around so quickly. I was pretty cool with him last time he called, and then he came into the drug store one day last week, and I kept right on being busy. You know how he hates to come into the store … he thinks I shouldn’t be there …’

  ‘An’ he’s right,’ Ted said. ‘You shouldn’t be there … smart girl like you with a full training course at business school should be doing something better than serving behind a counter. Any fool can do that … but then I’ve given up trying to make you see sense. You’re just like all the kids these days …’

  ‘Oh, Dad, don’t start that again. I’ve explained to you before that it isn’t just like standing behind anyone’s counter. The way Wally’s paying me now, it’s as if I owned a little piece of that business. After all, I built up that side of it, and Wally knows it. Do you think I could make this kind of money typing in the pool at Amtec?’

  ‘Money isn’t everything,’ Ted said with unusual severity. ‘I want my girl doing something better than standing behind a counter ‒ and I paid for you to learn something better.’

  Jeannie laid down her fork. ‘Dad, don’t you see? Some day it’s possible I might own my own business. And what’s a typing job compared to that!’

  Ted shook his head in bewilderment at such overriding ambition. ‘Some day I want to see you happily married. And if it’s Jerry you’ve set your heart on, then let me tell you this isn’t the way to get him.’

  ‘If he really loves me,’ Jeannie said, looking down at her plate, ‘he’ll have me as I am … not some silly bitch giving herself airs because she has a nice genteel job working for Amtec instead of behind a counter. Since when has honest hard work been such a new thing in this family?’

  Selma was suddenly conscious that Ted looked old as he argued hopelessly with Jeannie, and that both faces were crossed with unaccustomed tension. She was conscious too of Ted’s hands, horny and calloused, with the dirt from his gardening jobs grained deeply into the cracks, and under the nails.

  Seven

  Mal knew when he woke in the motel that it was late. Almost before he had opened his eyes he was aware of the sounds of the traffic on the highway, the intensified, busy sounds of a Saturday morning in the summer, the family cars converging on the super-market down the highway, and the cars of the men who were leaving their families behind and going fishing, the second-hand cars of the teenagers who would drive all day just for the pleasure of it, and for the sense of escape. Mal heard the sounds, and opened his eyes wide; the sun was beating on the closed blinds. Through the long years of travelli
ng from place to place he had developed the habit of recalling at the instant he woke, exactly where he was, and why. This morning, as usual, he knew ‒ Burnham Falls on a Saturday morning, and last night he had spent with Harriet and Steve at the Carpenter house.