by Warren Adler
Something else seemed altered in her perception. He appeared very masculine and sexy, not merely generically, but personally, which surprised her. Considering that she had just heard that he was impotent, she felt it incongruous that she was actually thinking such thoughts. Rarely did other men inspire such fantasies in her. Certainly not since she was married. But the telltale signs were unmistakable. Was it the wine? she wondered. Or had Terry's seductive words inspired such a reaction, along with an embarrassingly clear sense of challenge?
She wondered if her suggestive conversation with Godfrey was deliberately flirtatious. If she didn't know better, she might conclude that there was also an underlying motive in Godfrey's attentiveness. Was it possible? Had she turned him on? She looked toward Larry and Terry, both oblivious of this other drama in the next room. Which reminded her how resentful she was at Larry's using her to lure Terry into this trap. Hustling, they called it in Manhattan. Larry had instructed her well on the nomenclature of such aggressions, the meaning of which was becoming clearer by his own example.
Of course, there was no law that said Terry had to listen. She was responding according to her own agenda. Strictly business, Larry would explain to her later, noting that business ran on such relationships, people hustling people. Beware of such predators, he had urged. Watch out for users. And here he was violating his own admonitions. Use anybody who can help. Waste no time with people who can't. At that moment she had no trouble identifying a perfect example of the true predator. She studied Larry for a moment, a deliberately clinical observation.
Perhaps she might have felt differently if he had involved her, made her part of it, shown some respect for her judgment. Instead he had simply manipulated her sense of neighborliness, her idea of sharing, and her concept of friendliness. The fact was that his influence over her was eroding before her very eyes.
He would be appalled if he knew that she had lent money to Mr. Stern. Even her own second thoughts about that action were at last put to rest by this display of indifference to her participation in what was clearly of interest to both of them. If he knew what she had done, his lecture would run on for months, maybe years. As for what had happened between her and Teddy, she immediately put that out of her mind. Lectures would hardly be enough to extract his pound of flesh.
"Hey," Terry called to them from the dining room, "you two are awfully quiet."
"Would you rather we yelled?" Jenny replied.
"It won't be much longer," Larry called.
"Take all the time you want," Godfrey bantered, winking at Jenny.
"You're an extremely attractive person," he said, his voice lower, for her ears alone.
"Am I?" Jenny mouthed in a kind of soundless mime.
At that moment she sensed movement across the couch. He had reached out and caught her hand, which somehow had found itself a ready target. His touch was, no question about it, arousing, and she was totally flustered, although she did not remove her hand from his grasp, casting a quick look toward the dining room.
A harmless gesture, she decided. He was just holding her hand, for crying out loud. She felt an odd belligerence, as if she were answering Larry's accusation.
At that moment another thought crowded into her consciousness. Suppose all this was Terry's doing, her manipulation, throwing Jenny in Godfrey's path for the purpose of arousal? Clearly that was exactly what was happening, the arousal part. She wasn't quite certain of the manipulative part.
Then she realized that Godfrey was smiling, his eyes shiny with ... was it gratitude?
"Would you like some more coffee?" Jenny asked him, more as a subterfuge than a real offer.
"Yes, that would be nice," Godfrey said.
With her free hand, she reached for the coffeepot, then poured more coffee in his cup, which he held with his free hand. Then she felt the hand he was holding move closer to his body. There was no way to stop him. The coffeepot she was holding was poised in midair.
Suddenly the back of her hand was in his crotch. She let it lie there, wondering why she wasn't resisting. This was absurd, she thought, but she could not find her indignation. Her inaction was inexplicable, out of character, but she did not argue the point with herself. Curiosity was motivating her now, more than anything else. Concentrating her mind into the nerves of her hand, she convinced herself that the hard part on which her hand lay was nothing other than a full-blown erection.
A kind of miracle, she decided, offering a moment's caress while she watched his eyes, shining with such obvious joy that she wanted to shout out the news to Terry. She noted, too, that he had flushed deep red, and she observed that the hand that held the cup and saucer was trembling slightly, making a clattering noise.
"Your husband is quite a salesman," Terry said. Luckily her voice preceded her, and Jenny managed to disengage her hand.
"He told me he was in research," Jenny said with a touch of malevolence, turning to face Larry, who had just entered the room. His expression seemed much more relaxed. He was obviously satisfied that the objective of the dinner had been achieved. She chuckled wryly at that. She had, after all, achieved another, possibly far more important objective.
* * *
When Jenny finally finished the dishes and cleaned up the dining area, it was nearly one. She had deliberately taken her time, rubbing to a high polish the pot in which Terry had brought the sauce. The Richardsons had forgotten to take it with them. She hoped that Larry would be fast asleep when she arrived in the bedroom. She was in no mood for confrontation.
He was lying in bed on top of the covers, wearing only his Jockey shorts and writing on a yellow legal pad when she came into the bedroom. It both surprised and disappointed her. Fortunately he was so absorbed in his work that he did not look up, and she was able to undress quickly, put on her nightgown, and crawl under the comforter.
With her back turned to him, Jenny closed her eyes and longed for sleep. She needed very badly to get over the evening, not the part with Godfrey Richardson, which in her mind became a kind of pleasant highlight. She thought of herself somehow as a catalytic agent and hoped that the Richardsons had made love before going to sleep, maybe even had made a baby.
She wasn't sure how to describe her feelings about Larry. Was it disillusion? Had he always been this calculating and manipulative? The fact was that she was mostly disappointed in his character. As if to emphasize her thoughts, he spoke:
"The way I figure, the whole deal cost us three, three twenty-five at the most."
She had closed her eyes and was feigning sleep.
"Five bottles of wine, four reds at fifty per and one white at thirty per. With food, say another fifty. If she gives us the loan, I'll put in a chit. Say three hundred. I could probably get away with five. Vince wouldn't dare raise a stink. All in all, I'd give the night, say, an eight.... What do you think?"
Although she heard every word, she didn't answer. He shook her shoulder. Still she didn't answer.
"All those damned interruptions. I wish hereafter you would just keep your mouth shut when I'm conducting business. It was so obvious. And she was listening. Thing with these bankers, you got to get them on your side so they can sell your deal to the committee. That's the key to it."
He shook her shoulder roughly. If she was asleep, the gesture could not fail to rouse her.
"You hear, Jenny? I mean, you've got to be a little more sensitive to circumstances. Hell, this means as much to you as it does to me. Sometimes I actually think you're deliberately trying to put a monkey wrench into the deal. Hard enough putting it together without your being Madame Buttinsky. Are you listening to me?"
She could feel his movement as he got under the covers and moved closer to her, settling his body against her back. He had put his mouth against her ear.
"Anybody home?" he cried, the loudness jolting. She could smell his wine breath. His hand began to roam over her body.
"Please, Larry," she whispered. "Not now. I'm bushed."
Not on
ce since the beginning of their relationship had she refused him. But at this moment she felt cold, without the slightest feeling of arousal. He did not desist immediately, but she could tell that her refusal had dampened his desire.
"I don't know what the hell has come over you, Jenny."
She didn't answer, but it was a relief to her that he moved away, although she sensed that he was still awake, brooding. She felt tense, rigid, unable to sleep. Nor did she have any desire to make it up with him. Was this the man she'd married? To love and honor?
As she lay there, knowing he was awake and brooding, angry with her, probably insulted, she felt her attitude soften. Perhaps she was being too harsh, too critical. Was she fulfilling her part of the bargain, knowing where his ambition lay? Of course, it would benefit both of them and their future children.
After all, he was the businessman in the family. He was the one fulfilling his obligation. Was it guilt corroding her resolve to punish him? Punish him for what? She had her secrets now as well. How could she blame him for not sharing when she had performed an act of betrayal? Or was she being too harsh on herself? Within her she sensed a battlefield emerging, with warring factions of raw anger and honorable duty confronting each other. Finally the battle sputtered, anger retreated, honorable duty advanced. She was just about to turn toward him when he said:
"And that fucking fag with his fucking cat."
The battle was joined again, only this time the results were very different.
10
SHE must have been in a dead sleep when Larry left for work. Inexplicably her first thought was about Peter, the cat. Odd, she thought, how the cat's fate had become a pervasive aspect of life in this building. She had the urge to go downstairs and ask either Jerry or Bob if Peter had been found. Putting on her robe, she left the bedroom, walked into the living room, opened one of the casement windows, and looked outside, searching the branches of the sycamore tree for any sign of Peter.
At that moment Jerry O'Hara emerged from his apartment and, obviously with the same thought in mind, inspected the tree's branches. He glanced at Jenny, who could tell from his expression that Peter was still among the missing.
"Not yet?" Jenny asked.
"Afraid not."
"What do you think?"
"Bob and I are afraid to speculate," he said, shaking his head in despair.
"He'll turn up. You'll see," Jenny said, suddenly irritated by her own blind optimism.
"Makes you feel so helpless," Jerry said. "We've been searching all night." He opened his arms palms up in a gesture of resignation.
"I'm sorry about my husband," Jenny said.
"Let's just say he's not exactly a cat person." Jerry grimaced.
She wanted to explain further but could not think of anything worth saying that would mitigate the circumstances.
"Let's just hope for the best," Jerry said as Bob came out the apartment door. He looked up and shook his head.
"We're ravaged," Bob said.
"We'll give it another day," Jerry said.
"Then what?" Bob cried. He glanced toward Jerry in irritation. Jenny sensed that things between them were tense. Probably each blaming the other for Peter's disappearance.
"It's an absolute nightmare," Jerry cried.
"The worst," Bob agreed, shooting Jerry an angry glance. They turned away and headed toward Second Avenue, talking animatedly, probably arguing.
She went into the kitchen to make herself some coffee. As the coffee brewed, she poured a saucer of milk and, after overcoming some consternation, placed it on the living room window ledge as a lure, leaving the window open.
She was quite aware that this was a gesture of defiance against Larry. But this time the eternal debate about it was not long and concluded decidedly in her favor. She simply characterized the gesture as her right. This was her home, and the word obey had long been eliminated from the marriage ritual. Suddenly she felt giggly, wondering what Larry would say if he were to walk through the door at that moment.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, the coffee was ready. Normally the routine of the morning's comings and goings of the house did not enter her consciousness unless she concentrated on listening or if, for some reason, the routine had been violated, as in the case of Godfrey Richardson and his so-called girlfriend.
Today, for some reason, as she sipped her coffee she found herself on alert, listening, feeling on the edge of some vague expectancy. She deliberately did not dwell on the events of the previous evening, knowing in her heart that such a recounting would lead inevitably to a reassessment of her life, her marriage, her state of mind, her values. For the time being, one blatant defiance was enough.
Better to drift today, she decided, postpone. She had this urge to call her mother, to confide her dilemma, but that reality, too, inhibited her action. In the context of this new life in Manhattan, her mother was as much of an alien as if she resided on another planet.
The elevator revved up. The Sterns were on the move. Not Teddy, who would have left long before she had awakened. She never heard the Sterns' voices, only the movement of the elevator and the sound of their footfalls on the stone steps in front of the house. She hadn't talked to Mr. Stern since the day he had attempted suicide, but she had seen him through the window, rushing off to whatever appointed round her loan had made possible.
In his carriage and demeanor, she sensed more optimism and determination, which once again buttressed her opinion that she had done the right thing. Even Mrs. Stern looked less doomed. For a brief instant Jenny had even seen her smile.
Then she heard Terry's distinctive high-heeled hip-hop on the staircase as she descended. Jenny smiled to herself. Terry's walk, in heels, was something less than graceful, and although they had never discussed it, Jenny was certain that the obligatory essentials of dressing for success were not among Terry's happiest chores.
The telephone's ring interrupted the rhythm of her alertness, although she had begun to sense that something was different in the morning pattern of the apartment house. She picked up the phone. It was Larry.
"I just got in the office," he said, his voice thick with contrition. "I ... I ... feel rotten. It's the tension of this new venture. I'm not myself."
She wanted to tell him that maybe he should leave well enough alone, not try to set up this new business on such a morally reprehensible foundation. No, she decided, this was not something to be discussed on the telephone. Perhaps his conscience was giving him second thoughts, and he was trying to find his way back to higher moral ground. Maybe.
"I understand," she said, hoping that he would tell her that he had called off the new venture.
"You know I love you," he said, lowering his voice. "All I ask is that you bear with me through this period. I'm hyper and I can't stop myself. You know what I mean."
"Yes, I do," she said. Yet she could not bring herself to tell him that she loved him. Up to that moment it would have been her knee-jerk response. If he noted a change in the calibration of her emotions, he said nothing.
"Everything will be fine," he said. "I promise."
"I hope so," she whispered.
"Tell you what," Larry said. "I'll get home early. Say no later than six. You rustle up my favorite dish, your A number one Indiana meat loaf, and I'll open a bottle of one of those fancy clarets." He paused, lowering his voice, putting on his teasing manner. "We'll take it from there. Get my drift?"
"More or less," she said, offering no commitment. At that moment the prospect hadn't much allure.
"Good," he said, oddly satisfied. "See you later, alligator." She could detect the hollowness of his attempt at cheerfulness.
After she hung up, she made some effort to enter the normal routine of her day, the household chores, the dinner plans. The prospect of such tasks, which since moving into the apartment had always anchored her day, filled her with dismay. For what purpose? she wondered, feeling a sense of disorientation and despair. Was this what was meant by th
e housewife blues?
She felt herself sliding into, as her mother would put it, the black hole of self-pity. Never, never give in to that, she would caution, one more homily that fitted nicely into the family's value system. She knew that she must not give in to this momentary wave of disillusion, that certainly Larry, her husband and the potential father of her children, must be given the benefit of the doubt.
There was, after all, nothing wrong in being ambitious. Wasn't that also high up on the list of priorities? A man with ambition was someone to be valued. Didn't dreaming big dreams mean taking big risks? How could one have small dreams in Manhattan, the Big Apple? Why was she so upset? And what, after all, could she contribute even if she were consulted about his business plans?
Despite these reflections, she could not find the energy to begin her day. Instead she poured herself another cup of coffee and wondered if she might shake off the blues by getting dressed and going to the movies. The idea triggered a tug of guilt and left her confused and uncertain, and it was with a sense of relief that she heard the inside buzzer ring.
Before she opened the door, she knew exactly who it was. The vague expectation, which had been bothering her all morning, had finally reached the edge of her consciousness.
"May I come in?" Godfrey said.
She looked at him for a long moment, not responding.
"Of course," she said nervously. "The pot."
She turned and went into the kitchen, listening as his footsteps padded behind her. The memory of Terry's anguished revelation and last night's episode with Godfrey filtered back into her mind. She had known he would return. It seemed more like a natural consequence rather than betrayal or perversion.
Jenny reached for the pot on the stove, all clean and gleaming and ready for retrieval. Turning, the pot cradled in two hands against her belly, she confronted him. His eyes studied her, washing over her face and body like scanning beams of light. He made no move to retrieve the pot.
"Last night—" he began.
