Her secret was that she entered a short story in a writing contest, sponsored by some sort of a club with an impressive name. She majored in journalism, and during the three years between post graduate school and marriage to Clyde, worked in publishing, wrote several short stories and articles, and a great future was predicted for her. After her marriage, writing was no longer an option. She was caught up in building his career, preparing for his great successes, or mopping up after an occasional failure.
Too many years passed since one of her articles appeared in print, and before she embarked on writing a book-length novel she had to know whether her writing still had a shelf life or was it turning stale and obsolete. In a very short time the preference for a given literary style or even for certain topics can be as outdated and consequently as rapidly rejected as the admired height of heels or length of skirts of yesterday.
Lately she was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness and futility and as a remedy once again turned to her old passion and was serious about the booklength novel. She discussed the possibility of the book with Clyde, and showed him the outline. Although he praised the planned novel most generously, she did not take his opinion seriously. He was remarkable in his accomplishments in other areas, but his judgments in literature were about as advanced as that of a late Paleolithic hunter. She would have been better off asking a bartender in a fashionable nightclub, but of course, she could not tell him this. She thanked him politely, but wanted an expert opinion, and as a result the short story was sent off in great secrecy.
She had enough experience to know that this was not a fortunate way to test her skill; however, once she considered the opportunity, the plan took on a life of its own, and rolled ahead quite independently of her usually rational judgment and she spent all her spare time on the secret project.
The plot for the short story was germinating in the back of her mind for some time. The central idea was inspired by the life story of Davorka, a woman she met at the hospital where she was doing volunteer work at one time. Davorka told Lena about her miraculous escape from war-torn Yugoslavia, but mostly she talked about a lost child, severely traumatized by the loss of its parents. In a sudden rush of love and pity she adopted her. The child was the center of her life, she said, but as is often the case, her love was not returned and eventually this broke her heart and her health. Lena readily identified with the drama, with the groping for love, the rejection, but above all she was familiar with the hopeless yearning for a child, and found it easy to weave a story around these emotion. As she listened to the heartbreaking story she fully knew that she wanted to write it.
What she finally wrote was not a war story. She did not know enough about that particular horror, which Emerson called “an epidemic of insanity”, and Byron described with gruesome accuracy “…a brain-splattering, windpipeslitting art…the feast of vultures and a waste of life”. Also, she was not familiar with the country of Davorka, and therefore prudently stayed away not just from the war, but also from Yugoslavia. Instead, she based her story on the old fairy tale, Rapunzel, collected and written down by the brothers Grimm. Lena was truly inspired, and writing never was this exciting. She eventually became one with the fictive mother, painfully experienced the anguish of worry and of rejected love. Inevitably she became quite emotional while the story was developing. At the end she knew that it was her own personal confession of pain, yearning and disappointment.
Before any second thoughts would have killed her decision, she mailed the story to the club with the obligatory check. She was elated and walked around with a barely suppressed excitement and radiant expectation.
It was a wonderful little piece of writing, at least she thought it was. Hopefully it would find some approval and so reassure her and give her enough courage to start the book. As a rule, she was not an insecure person; lack of confidence would have been a fatal error in her position, but this was different. She could not separate her writing from her personal world; as a result she was far too subjective to see clearly. She was also quite convinced that without the reassurance of an expert, she could not write the planned novel. Why sacrifice trees for making paper if nobody would read the book? Why waste precious time, if she lacked the talent? She was rational enough to know that this short story was not distinguished enough to count as literature, and fervently asked the ghosts of eminent writers to forgive her bold attempt at writing, but it was a test, an important one, and the result would point her one way or another.
With a sense of growing guilt, she watched daily the arrival of the mail. Never before has she done anything behind Clyde’s back, but she could not face his disapproval. He would frown, and probably lecture. It cost fifty dollars to enter the contest, and his response to her venture would have been that it is much like being involved with a vanity press, where you pay hard cash for publishing your work, for which you actually should be paid. In reality it is an admission that you are not good enough, that nobody in the publishing world would touch your book, and that you can only reach a fake success if you pay for it in hard cash. Consequently, anybody who can scrape together the money for a useless project can become a “published” author, he would say. The ingenious promoter, who hatched the idea was getting rich on the hopes and the gullibility of others, and was probably laughing as he counted the incoming money. Only man’s credulity is greater than his vanity, he would add.
In theory she would have agreed with him, but went ahead anyhow. She had to know whether her story was passable or not, even if she had to do it without his knowledge, even if she had to pay for it. If she did not win, so be it. She would bury the shameful secret. On the other hand, a positive response… The weeks never seemed as long as between the time she mailed the manuscript and the time when the list of winners was announced per post a few days before Christmas.
It was a cold and gloomy day when the announcement of the results arrived. Low, heavy clouds were moving in from the North and some unhappy crows descended on the garden and shrieked their repetitious and shattering opinion of the world. She heard the mailman shoving the daily bundle into the mail box and rushed downstairs to check it. Flipping through the official correspondence addressed to her husband she at once recognized among them the letterhead of the club; her hands trembled with excitement as she opened the envelope. Her stomach lurched as it did during examinations at the university. A professor entering the classroom with a stack of papers was sure to trigger unpleasant nervous reactions, and the tension was lessening only gradually as she advanced with the work. At the end of the hour, when she handed over the finished test, she felt light, relieved and never worried about what grade she would receive. She did the best she could, it was done, and wasted no more thoughts on it as she marched happily to the Rusty Nail to meet her friends and celebrate with cold beer and munchies the passing of yet another hurdle. Now the old scene was played out again, only in reverse. She enjoyed writing and worked enthusiastically on the story, but the closer she reached the end of the work, the more nervous she was. After she mailed it, she was sick with excitement and worked herself into a state of nervous agitation as she tried to guess what “grade” the judges would assign to her work.
She did not win first place, nor second, or third. In fact, her name did not appear among the one hundred, who received honorable mentioning. She read the list twice, and then turned the pages to see whether it was truly the current year’s list. There was no mistake. She was suddenly very cold and a great emptiness was about to swallow her. There was not enough air in the hallway and her knees could barely support her. She did not even merit an honorable mentioning! She guessed that the contestants were very likely beginners, or hopeless rejects, because who else would enter such a contest? Certainly not professionals, or successful authors; they would have no need for it. Her work didn’t even score among beginners with less experience than she had! She was hurt and felt humiliated and was also angry for having sent off the manuscript in the first place.
&nbs
p; Late daylight turned the sky sullen and it let the day suffer itself into a dull, hopeless grayness; ill-humored clouds touched the thickening fog on the far hills and rainy mist swirled in slow motion among the bare trees in the garden. Dampness crept into the house and into her bones; and shadows filled the corners. She stood in the semidarkness of the hallway with the disappointing envelope in her hand, and could not stop shaking, perhaps from the cold, or from the emotional shock.
It took some time and effort to move on toward the kitchen for a comforting cup. While the coffee was brewing, she carefully disposed the list and pushed the disappointment from her thoughts. She gave a great deal of herself, and received nothing in exchange and felt wronged. After the numbing shock of the first moments, she was in a rage, but that too passed. She tried to find an explanation for the failure, but none was given by the club. Anger rose again .For fifty dollars, someone could have scrawled a message on a rejection slip, such as, ‘needs to improve style‘, or ‘unfortunate choice of topic’, or ‘trivial philosophy’, ‘we are not looking for fantasy’. Anything would have been better than this silent and total rejection.
The rejection shattered her and the secret weighed even heavier on her conscience. The gray shadow of disappointment kept edging back into her mind; it frustrated her effort to shake herself free of it. Long experience taught her that after a while, perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, it will not hurt quite as much, but at the moment, the pain of failure was almost physical. How could she hope for success with her book if even a short story did not make it among the top one hundred-and-three? The air has gone out of the balloon that carried her enthusiasm. She was obviously condemned to live her life in the shadow of her successful husband. Without a child.
She then consoled herself with the thought that had she won, it would have been necessary to explain to Clyde why she did it without his knowledge. That would have been a most unpleasant confrontation and at least she was spared of that, but this consideration reminded her again, that no matter how she sanitized her act, in actuality she betrayed him. The secret and the accompanying guilt made her uncomfortable in the company of Clyde, but she could not afford to wallow in her misery. She was as relieved as he was when he turned away to inspect the drinks.
She took a deep breath and welcomed her guests with a brilliant smile. Her job was to be a charming hostess and she had to perform well. When Clyde looked her with approving smile she was able to push the disastrous contest out of her mind, at least for temporarily and could concentrate on the lame joke her table partner related. At the same time she was able to watch without seeming to do so, who needed the saltshaker or his glass refilled and meanwhile it did not escape her attention that women gazed with ill-concealed yearning at her fabulous pendant. Undeniably there were some considerable perks in the arrangement of this unholy matrimony.
The Christmas dinner was a success when measured on the scale of social expectations.
Two days later just as Clyde and she were finishing a late breakfast Adrienne called.
“It has been ages since we met. Are you still a brunette? Are you still married?” Adrienne bubbled.
“Adrienne, it has been exactly five days since we had lunch at your house!”
“Is that so? Seems much longer. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I must have your help and advice. You know what Christmas and New Year parties are good for? You get your house ready for the feast, break all your nails doing it, but when the guests arrive, suddenly you see all the deficiencies. You notice that there is a dire need to reupholster some pieces, the entrance could use a good rug, and the arrangement on the fireplace mantle is as inspired as your husband’s tool chest. My house is a hopeless disaster. A real dump. Would you mind helping me in the miraculous renovation of the powder room?”
“It would not be you, if you wouldn’t exaggerate shamelessly. When did you last do any work that broke a single nail on your pampered hands? And if your husband owns a tool chest, you probably wouldn’t know where he keeps it, or for what purpose. You don’t even know where your kitchen is located. If your house is a dump, then so is the palace at Versailles.”
“Now look, who is exaggerating! I do know where my kitchen is, and for your information, I am often there and can make a mushroom and spinach quiche to die for.”
“Is then the powder room your priority four days before the party?” Lena said and could not help laughing.
“You better believe it. No other room is as important as the toilet, which in our wonderful and euphemistic refinement we call the powder room. The state of my latrine, or whatever you want to call it, is hopeless. I am also pressed for time, but the place must be resuscitated.”
“Why this unreasonable anguish?”
“Well, don’t you see? It is the place where the female guests spend time alone and they have an excellent opportunity to scrutinize it and to leisurely form their devastating opinion of the hostess. Considering the malice of my dear friends, it is indeed my priority to make it lovely. My powder room should be irresistibly charming for the occasion when we usher in the New Year.” As was her habit, she talked without pausing and apparently without the need to take a breath.
Lena laughed again at her friend’s exaggerations. Adrienne’s house was not the dilapidated hovel she just described; it was a spacious mansion of style and of history and expensively furnished by a fashionable interior decorator. Exquisite and expensive taste defined the elegance of the rooms. “You know, this is indeed a sad age in which we live. Think of it: the worth of our immortal soul is judged by the color scheme and decorative knick-knacks in the privy!”
Adrienne was a few years older than Lena, although she never admitted just how much older. Lena of course guessed it. She was a freshman at the university when Adrienne was working on her PhD; it did not take an astro-physicist to deduct her age. Both worked part time at the University Press and their friendship started there, rooted in the love of words and books. With each passing year, the friendship deepened. They had similar backgrounds and interests, both were childless and their marriages were marginally dysfunctional. It helped that after they married they were practically neighbors. This was not just an unusual coincidence, because well-heeled people tended to settle in that particular segment of the city; nevertheless, they considered it a special miracle and a sign of good will on the part of whatever deities were responsible for settling people into their homes. The only difference was that Adrienne had a brilliant career, while Lena merely was dreaming of one.
At one time Clyde asked her why she needed this closeness to a person, who was not even related to her. Lena hesitated with the answer. She accepted this friendship as a precious gift, and was not inclined to analyze it to death. It was bad enough when during English literature classes her favorite poems were dissected until the magic was gone and only the skeletons remained. She was not about to apply the same surgical procedure to this treasured thing, this friendship. Also, it was not something she could actually explain to Clyde without hurting his feelings. No matter how gently she would phrase it, he would feel that it undermines his own position.
“A friend accepts and loves you without compromises,” she finally said. As expected, Clyde considered her statement a personal affront.
“If I hear you correctly, you indicate that there is an uncomfortable difference between a friendship and all other ties, including marriage, with the scale dipping in favor of friendship,” he clarified with the undertone of hurt feelings.
“Of course not,” she answered soothingly, but actually this was the essence of it, and as always he was correct in his assessment.
In emotional matters he was not sensitive, yet he could be easily hurt. Romantic feelings were unknown to him, but he was always able to assess correctly any given situation or the motives of people. He also had a driving passion to control everything in life, including his wife, and did this with a feeling akin to jealousy. He could tolerate with difficulty the influence of st
rangers on Lena; even Adrienne’s harmless friendship was disturbing him. Basically this was the reason he opposed her wish to continue her promising career.
“So when you get together do you discuss your woes? “he prodded.
“Clyde, friends do not usually dump problems into each other’s lap. When you guys get together, do you ever talk about your personal problems? I don’t think so. Neither do we. We are aware whenever the other is hurting, and are ready to help, but this is not the point of friendship. A friend is not a substitute for a therapist.”
“I shall never understand, but if it is something you need, I guess you are entitled to it, even if somehow it smacks of emotional immaturity. It is as if you needed somebody to stand by you because you do not trust yourself to deal with life on your own.”
She did not argue with him, because she accepted that men think differently. The friendship enriched her, but for him it spelled instability and fear of life. It was not that at all.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 3
