The Housewife Blues

by Warren Adler

  "It doesn't seem to be very complicated," Jenny said, wondering why Myrna was making such a fuss but determining that to pry further would cross the line between respecting privacy and nosiness. Aside from the favor being asked of her, it was really none of her business. Not that she could totally dismiss normal human curiosity. Myrna had said that this was a gift of some sort from a secret lover. Obviously, Jenny reasoned, that lover was the person with whom she spent her weekends. It didn't take a genius to figure that the man was very married and ultracautious.

  Which brought her to another point about this situation. Did Myrna think that Jenny was too much of a hick to understand such matters? She remembered her own brief affair with a married, albeit separated, man, but the same conditions of extreme discretion, even secrecy, had existed. There she was overreacting again. The fact was that there was an air of exciting complicity about Myrna's proposal. A dollop of rebellion as well, since she was certain that Larry, if he were to find out, would object to the arrangement.

  "I'll be eternally grateful, Jenny," Myrna pressed, perhaps reading in Jenny a sudden note of caution.

  "No need for that, Myrna," Jenny said. "It's just a small favor between neighbors."

  The statement seemed to relieve Myrna, and when she looked at Jenny her eyes were not roving anymore. "Above all, Jenny, I knew you were the kind of person I could truly trust. People sense things. I knew it instantly." Again she lowered her voice. "The truth is, Jenny, you're the only person in this building I believe I can trust. Maybe anywhere, including at the office." Speaking that last phrase, her voice had drifted away, as if she hadn't meant to say it.

  "Just good midwestern stock," Jenny said, half joking but nevertheless proud of Myrna's attesting to her trust. She knew she was, above all, trustworthy. Such a trait was inbred, the very heart of her family's value system. At last something truly neighborly was occurring. Inspecting Myrna's face, Jenny decided that beneath all the so-called sophistication was a sincere, vulnerable person reaching out for trust and friendship.

  "Believe me, Jenny, there is nothing untoward about it. Nothing out of line. Nothing you'll regret later. Not drugs or stolen goods or anything like that." Myrna seemed to be rambling onward, unable to stop, as if she were on the verge of making a clean breast of it, a confession. "If you have any questions. Any at all..."

  "Why should I have any questions?" Jenny said. "It seems like a totally straightforward request. I accept the package and bring it up to you Saturday at around noon. Not exactly like a spy mystery." Jenny laughed suddenly. "Or is it?"

  "I hadn't thought about it in that way," Myrna mused. "Maybe you have something there. All this mysterious subterfuge must have you baffled."

  Again Jenny sensed that Myrna wished to explain things further, perhaps bare her soul.

  "I'll do my job, neighbor," Jenny said, offering a version of a military salute and, she hoped, a happy smile.

  "Of course you will," Myrna said. Again her glance started to roam and she pressed her upper teeth against her lower lip, as if she were contemplating a subject not yet addressed. "I hope you don't think I'm going too far." It appeared to be a prologue to something more that she wanted to say, and Jenny held her silence, waiting. Whatever it was, it seemed to be a subject requiring great, perhaps agonizing, reflection on Myrna's part. "I'm not sure I should ask you this. I mean you've been great so far...."

  "I've always found it better to say what's on your mind," Jenny said, repeating something her parents might have said, which experience had taught her was not always realistic.

  "Well then, here goes," Myrna said, shaking her head, as if what she was about to say were against her better judgment. "Do you think we can keep it, you know, in the sisterhood?"

  Jenny must have frowned or otherwise revealed some gesture of uncertainty. If that was so, it was an involuntary act. It did, however, require some mulling over. She was being asked to break a kind of bond between her and Larry.

  At first blush such a proposal suggested betrayal, and her first reaction was indignation. Then it occurred to her that such an attitude was motivated by Myrna's asking, not the truth of the situation.

  Actually she had kept a number of things hidden from Larry, deliberately. Take the case of Teddy. Where was it written that every incident, every detail, every private thought, had to be communicated to one's spouse? Suddenly she was indignant at her own indignation. Certainly he, too, kept things hidden, which was appropriate to all human beings. Absolute honesty could be a form of nakedness and, therefore, discomfort.

  "This is between us. You and me," Jenny said. "Only us."

  "I'd better quit while I'm ahead," Myrna said. Again she started for the door, and again she turned to face Jenny. "Someday I'll explain all this."

  "Really, it's not necessary."

  Myrna's eyes glistened with tears as she concentrated her gaze on Jenny. "Tennessee Williams had it right. At one time or another we all have to depend on the kindness of strangers." Then she turned and went out the door, closing it softly behind her.

  7

  VINCENT MAZZO wore a wrinkled beige jacket, matching pants, and a black silk shirt, all amply cut in what Jenny supposed was the cutting edge of style in men's clothes. She had seen such outfits on television, and they'd always looked to her as if they needed a good pressing before they were carted over to the Salvation Army clothing drive. On his feet, Vincent wore black lizard loafers and no socks.

  With his dark curly hair and what looked like a few days' growth of beard, he was hardly the kind of man she envisioned to run an advertising agency. At first she had wondered why he hadn't shaved, suspecting that he had some temporary skin condition. It was only halfway through their first drink that she discovered after some scrutiny that the beard was obviously trimmed on a regular basis. This was apparently the look the man wanted. To Jenny he simply appeared rumpled and dirty.

  His deep-set eyes had a feral look, and his hawk nose, low forehead, and thick lips completed the picture of a very intense man. He did not smile often, and when he did the corners of his lips barely lifted.

  His wife, Connie, a tall brunette, was wearing tight black jeans that looked as if they had been painted on her sleek body and a colorful and obviously expensive silk blouse. Around her neck she wore a gold chain that threaded through a teardrop ruby pendant. Although her long hair covered her ears, Jenny was sure she wore matching ruby earrings and that sometime during the evening they would be treated to a glimpse of them by some errant and deliberate movement of her fingers through her hair.

  On her feet she wore black tooled leather cowboy boots, the bottoms of her jeans tucked into the stems of the boots. Her large brown eyes peered over knobby cheekbones. On meeting her, Jenny was instantly intimidated. The woman gave off an air of awesome self-confidence that hung over her thicker than the scent of her expensive perfume.

  Jenny wore a long Laura Ashley dress that was supposed to be a surprise, and she deliberately hadn't previewed it for Larry on the grounds that this dinner was to illustrate how capable she could be on her own. It was something of a shock to discover that her dress was totally out of sync with her guests' outfits. Larry's quick glance of disapproval confirmed to her that somehow she had committed an unpardonable gaffe.

  Larry had very appropriately worn his blue double-breasted blazer with the brass buttons over a button-down white shirt and blue striped tie. His pants were pearl gray knife-creased flannels. Larry had an instinct for always presenting himself in exactly the correct way, the conservative counterpoint to his more trendy partner.

  The two couples, Jenny noted, seemed a pairing of opposites, at least on the surface. She cautioned herself to reserve judgment as she passed around a plate of hors d'oeuvres while Larry took their drink orders. Vincent asked for a Campari and soda, and Connie opted for vodka and water with a squeezed lime. Larry poured two white wines, one for him and one for Jenny.

  She had set the table with a centerpiece of flowers and her
best dishes and silverware, researching the pattern in which it should be set with three specimens of stemware, one for water, one for the wine, which was white and had been carefully chosen by Larry, and one fluted glass for champagne. A fork and spoon for dessert were set at right angles to the other silverware just above the plates.

  "Not bad," Larry had commented when he had seen the finished setting. She was proud of his approval, since it was she who had decided what food to serve.

  "Just stay out of my kitchen," she had warned when he came home from the office. "I've been working at it all day." Which, indeed, she had been, using Julia Child's recipes for the fettuccine Alfredo and the chicken Kiev. She did allow that he was to signal her when it was appropriate for her to begin dinner.

  "What an absolutely charming pad," Connie had commented when she'd inspected the apartment. Vincent nodded his head in agreement. Almost immediately Larry spirited him off to his den, while Jenny and Connie chatted in the living room. Jenny assumed Larry had done this deliberately, although she wished that he had waited until she had finished her first glass of wine. Jenny felt her pulse pounding in her neck. The woman seemed so sophisticated and superior.

  "I understand you're from Indiana," Connie said, raking her fingers through her hair. There they were, Jenny noted, the matching ruby earrings.

  "Ever been?"

  "Never. But one of my law partners is from Illinois. Talks with a twang like you. I love those out-of-town accents. Vinnie and I are sort of dyed-in-the-wool New Yorkers. I doubt we'll ever leave Manhattan even when the kids are ready for school. No need. Everything you ever want is right here in this city."

  Connie had crossed the room and had been looking out of the window into the street. Suddenly she turned to face Jenny. "Bet it's been somewhat of a culture shock. You'll get used to it." Jenny felt the woman's eyes inspecting her as if she were a piece of meat in the butcher shop.

  "I'm trying," Jenny said, sipping her wine.

  "Of course it's got grime and crime. You've just got to know how to walk through the mine fields."

  "Larry is teaching me."

  "Too many fucking people and not enough resources. Handout city, I call it. But it's still the center of the universe with all the shit." She paused and continued her inspection.

  "What do you do?"

  "Me?"

  Jenny had, of course, been prepared for the inevitable question, but not the way in which Connie delivered it, as if she were throwing down a gauntlet. Jenny was not happy with her initial response. Of course me, she thought. Who else?

  "Where do you work?" Connie pressed.

  "Right here," Jenny said, trying to put a spin of humor on her answer. "For the moment, I'm just a little old housewife." She resented having to add the phrase for the moment as if it implied something temporary.

  "Doesn't it bore the shit out of you?" Connie asked.

  "Not at all," Jenny replied.

  "Wait'll you have kids. We've got two. You'll kill to get out of the house."

  "Well, we're not there yet," Jenny said.

  "You're young yet. Why rush it?"

  Jenny shrugged, knowing that Connie's interrogation would continue.

  "What did you do in Indiana?" Connie asked.

  "I was..." She hesitated. She wanted to say "a nurse" but could not bring herself to lie outright. "I worked in a doctor's office." Might as well put this behind us, she thought.

  "Did you?"

  Jenny could sense the woman's retreat, like a lawyer saying "No more questions, Your Honor." There, you have the full picture, Jenny told the woman silently, feeling the full weight of her intimidation.

  "Anyway," Connie said, as if it were an expression of dismissal, "this is one helluva move for all of us."

  "Yes, I suppose it is," Jenny said, almost relieved that they had reached the heart of the matter between them.

  "Tough racket, advertising. Dog eat dog. Frankly, I've encouraged Vincent to make this break. No percentage in being a flunky to another man's ego. Seize the day, I always say. Hell, Vince developed the accounts, and from what he tells me, your Larry is one helluva shrewd executive. Really organized. Someone to look after the details. Vince stinks with details. He's more the creative type. Perfect team, don't you think?"

  "Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside," Jenny said, hoping to fake her knowledge of the situation.

  "Vincent agonized over it for months," Connie went on. "Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat." She lowered her voice. "A little withdrawn in other departments as well, if you get my drift. Finally I couldn't take it anymore. Fuck ethics, I told him. You're in advertising, for chrissake. There's no ethics in advertising. It's all kissy-ass at the top. And the product is simply bullshitting the public, making them buy things they don't need." She paused suddenly. Obviously this new business venture was the paramount question among the four of them. It was also apparent that Connie knew a lot more about what was happening than Jenny, which put Jenny at a distinct disadvantage. "Takes a lot of balls to do what our guys are doing, don't you think?"

  The question took Jenny by surprise. "It does take courage."

  "It'll leave Payne and Magruder with their pants down. I'd love to see their faces. They'll wake up one morning and see half their business gone south. And the good personnel will go with Vince and Larry. That's the way new agencies get started. Steal the business. Maybe 'steal' is too harsh a word. Let's say 'transfer.' All that noncompete legal shit won't stand up in court anyhow. And how do you like the new offices? Of course they haven't signed the lease yet. Why pay the extra month with D day August first? Clever the way they've kept it under wraps. Don't you think?"

  Larry had mentioned office space. And that other? Noncompete? What did that mean? Her lack of information and knowledge made her tongue-tied. It crossed her mind that perhaps the woman was aware of her ignorance and might be flaunting her knowledge. In response, all she could do was to sip her drink, nod, and try to keep her expression from revealing the extent of her ignorance.

  "Do you like the proposed logo?" Connie asked.

  "Logo?"

  "I'm not too keen on the way they looped the z's. Also the colors don't seem right. What do you think?"

  "Maybe so..."

  "I hate beige," Connie muttered. "Plain white stationery is always appropriate."

  Jenny felt that she had been deliberately set adrift on some unknown sea. But she had recovered enough to feel the first faint bubbles of anger rise in her chest. Somehow all this information provided by Connie, once the initial shock had been absorbed, seemed to touch her innate sense of unfairness.

  She felt genuinely abused, deliberately left out. Not just kept in the dark, but left out, isolated. All right, she told herself. Business is his turf. House is mine. But this woman knew everything that was happening with the new business, and she, Jenny, knew nothing. Less than nothing. To make matters worse, she did not approve of the idea that they were going to start a business by stealing accounts from their employer. It was against her principles, her values.

  Anger seemed to speed her recovery and lessen Connie's aura of intimidation. To deflect the conversation, Jenny took Connie's near-empty glass and her own and interrupted the men's conversation in the den.

  "If you're going to play bartender," she told Larry with a forced smile, "then you've got to watch the ladies' glasses."

  "Sorry, Jenny," Larry said. He got up and went to the shelf that served as the bar, and Vince followed her into the living room.

  "Larry's talked to Barbara Hawkins," Vince said. "She's ready to jump ship."

  "Is that wise?" Connie asked. "She could be a fourteen-karat bitch."

  "She knows where the bodies are buried," Vince countered.

  "Especially her own," Connie said. "Most of the bodies have been buried in her." She looked toward Jenny and winked.

  "I'm inclined to go along, Connie," Vince said. He looked toward Jenny, who had never even heard of Barbara Hawkins. Then he turned away and shrugged as if h
e were still uncertain about the decision. Jenny wasn't sure whether her expression gave away her ignorance. Controlling her anger, she refused to show them her lack of knowledge. Fortunately Larry arrived with their drinks.

  "I think we can trust Barbara," Larry said, handing the women their drinks. "But I do have a queasy feeling about Sam Shuster." Another name Jenny had never heard. "He's an asshole," Larry continued. "He'd be the first one to run with an account."

  "If we gave him the chance," Vince said.

  "But he's a talented asshole," Connie interrupted, her eyes shifting to Jenny as if she were looking for alliance. Jenny nodded stupidly, then turned to Larry, who seemed to look right through her.

  "I wouldn't approach him until the very last minute," Larry said.

  "He may be an asshole, but he's nobody's fool. He confronted me yesterday, said he heard rumors."

  "Screw rumors," Connie said, again casting an eye toward Jenny. Was she expected to comment? She wasn't sure. But she sensed that there was only one course of action for her at that moment. Besides, there was no point in waiting for Larry's signal, which might never come, and totally ruining her dinner.

  "I'd better see to dinner," she said.

  In the kitchen she forced her concentration to the task at hand, but she did feel, if not ignored, then certainly, as she had heard Larry say on occasion, out of the loop.

  She spooned the fettuccine Alfredo onto plates, then checked to be sure that the chicken Kiev, the sauce, asparagus, and potatoes au gratin would be ready with assembly-line precision. She had timed everything carefully so that one dish would follow another and she would be able to play the dual role of hostess-cook. Now she wasn't so sure that she was needed as hostess. She uncorked the wine, which had cooled in the refrigerator, poured herself a long draft into a tumbler and drank it down in one gulp, then went into the dining room and placed the plates of fettuccine Alfredo on the table.

  "Soup's on," she called to the others, who were still locked in conversation. When no one stirred she called again in what she thought was her most ingratiating tone. "Dinner is ready." Again they didn't respond. "It'll get cold," she said, raising her voice to match the level of her frustration.