The Housewife Blues

by Warren Adler

  "A problem?"

  That could only mean one thing, Jenny thought.

  "The loan," Terry said.

  "Should we be discussing that?" Jenny asked. Even on this issue, defiance of Larry's caveats quickly lost some of its previous luster. "I mean, its being a business thing and all that. That's Larry's department."

  "Doesn't work that way, Jenny," Terry said haltingly. "I must tell you. I did have it in the bag. But in this climate, well, the tiniest things matter."

  "I don't understand."

  "They demand absolute candor."

  "You'll have to make yourself clearer, Terry."

  Terry's features arranged themselves as if she were figuratively biting the bullet, telescoping the difficulty of what she was about to say.

  "Your joint financial statement, Jenny. Unfortunately it reflected, well, an inaccuracy. They bucked it back to me. We're under a magnifying glass these days. The examiners. Fact is, the loan is declined. I feel awful about it, but that's the way it is."

  "But why?"

  "A double whammy, I'm afraid. In the first place, the inaccuracy."

  "What inaccuracy?"

  "The statement validated said there was about twenty thousand dollars in your account. It happens to be an account in our bank, easily checkable. There's only a thousand or so in it. I know it seems trivial. You see, it reflects an attitude. I might have fixed it say two, three years ago. Now we're under strict guidelines. The banking business today is in crisis. Actually, if it weren't for the other, I might have saved it."

  "What other?"

  Terry hesitated, grimaced as if she had swallowed something bitter, then plunged on.

  "The signature," Terry said. "Your signature, Jenny."

  "Mine?"

  Jenny's heart sank. Her simple question, she realized, was revelation enough.

  "Not yours, Jenny. That's the point. It only made matters worse. It was an obvious forgery. Can't do these things in today's banking environment, I'm afraid. A signature is a bond."

  "But, Terry," Jenny said, wondering if the situation could be retrieved somehow. "He didn't mean any harm."

  "Probably not, I'll grant you. But that on top of the other only made things worse. It was out of my hands. I have supervisors. Everybody's frightened."

  "But you see, Terry, he didn't deliberately lie. I withdrew that money," Jenny said, knowing it was futile. "And it's all right that he signed my name. He is my husband."

  "Husband or not, it's still illegal. Oh, I know it's violated every day. But he didn't even come close to copying your signature. It was so transparently obvious."

  Jenny sighed. "I don't know what to say."

  "The point is ... you should have signed it yourself. I might have intervened then."

  "But he's my husband. He's entitled to sign my name."

  "Not really. Not if you haven't given him power of attorney."

  "What's that?"

  "Jenny," Terry said gently. "Where have you been?"

  "Been?"

  "It's like ... like you're somewhere else, like things have passed you by."

  Jenny could tell from Terry's look and tone of voice that she was being viewed as an object of pity, as if she were a poor dumb ninny. She felt the anger charge up in her, some of it self-directed, since she knew perfectly well that she should have signed the document, was entitled to sign the document. It was, after all, her account, her money.

  On the other hand, she reasoned, wasn't marriage a special case? Not that she was defending Larry in her mind. But surely married couples, being joined legally as one, could act as one. Couldn't they? Although she did not respond immediately, Jenny was conscious of Terry studying her.

  "Don't look at me as if I were a retard," Jenny snapped.

  "In case you hadn't noticed," Terry said with the kind of visible patience reserved for recalcitrant children, "the day of the 'little woman' is over."

  "I'm not the little woman, Terry," Jenny said firmly. "I'm a married woman, and I made the free choice to be a homemaker." Something seemed to give way inside of her. "Why do you women who work outside the home think you're so superior? You make us, who choose to be full-time housewives or mothers, seem like morons. You have strangers keep your house, strangers take care of your kids, and you think you're better than us because you're making wages outside the home. Chances are that those wages are being paid to you by men who order you around. And if you really analyzed it, you'd realize that Larry would be creating more jobs for women like you." She wanted to continue but suddenly was confronted with all kinds of complicated contradictions.

  "Jenny," Terry said gently, "I didn't mean it the way you think."

  "Yes, you did. And I'm not so sure your values are better than mine."

  "Neither am I." Terry sighed.

  "Believe me," Jenny said, anger continuing to simmer, "I know all about the hunter-gatherers and the nurturers." In her heart, Jenny suspected, she was, right or wrong, defending her home and family. Maybe—she gulped over this—she was defending a lousy little shit of a husband, but Larry was her lousy little shit. The thought softened her courage, and her anger began to cool.

  "He'll go through the roof," Jenny said, the reality of Larry's reaction sinking in. Soon she'd have to deal with still another level of confrontation.

  "I'm sorry," Terry said, getting up. "One of the down sides to being a banker is having to dash people's hopes and dreams."

  "Larry depended on it coming through. He'll be crushed. All because of me."

  "You?" Terry said.

  She wondered if somehow she might turn this around, motivate Terry to go the extra mile.

  "I didn't tell him about the money I withdrew. He just assumed it was there when he made up the statement. It's not his fault. Can't your bosses find it in their hearts..." She felt herself quickly approaching the outer edges of panic.

  "It doesn't work that way, I'm afraid," Terry said. "Everybody knows that bankers don't have hearts." The attempt at humor fell flat, and Terry seemed to agree. "Jenny, it's out of my hands."

  Jenny tamped down an urge to be vindictive, to tell Terry what she had done with Godfrey. But that, too, seemed a confusion of values. Perhaps Godfrey had confided to Terry what had transpired between himself and Jenny. Apparently it had cured his impotence. Perhaps she could appeal to Terry on that score. After all, she deserved some credit for changing her and Godfrey's life for the better.

  "Anyway," Jenny said, breaking a brief silence, "I'm happy things are better with you and Godfrey."

  It was an abrupt change in context. Terry seemed surprised.

  "So am I," she said, providing what appeared to be the minimum reply. Jenny sensed her distancing herself and was afflicted with second thoughts about invoking the Godfrey thing. It seemed somehow wrong, underhanded, and, probably, counterproductive.

  "I'm happy for you both," Jenny said. Terry did not reply. She stood up.

  "I'll be going," she said. Her awkwardness was apparent as she made her way to the door. Jenny watched her. Then she turned.

  "The fact is," Terry said, her mannerisms more professional than when she had first come into the apartment, all business now, "the loan was marginal, Jenny. I was pushing it."

  Yes, Jenny thought, not without a touch of inner sarcasm, you were just being neighborly.

  "I wish I had never become involved," Terry said. "I know we would have been great friends. But now..." She left the words hanging in the air.

  "When will you tell him?" Jenny asked.

  "I was hoping you might."

  "Really, Terry. I couldn't."

  Terry shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. "I didn't think so."

  "He—he was expecting his answer today," Jenny stammered.

  "I never give bad news on Friday." Terry sighed. "I don't like to get it on Friday myself."

  "So I'm the one who has to live with it," Jenny said, wondering how she could possibly get through the weekend carrying this knowledge. />
  "I thought maybe you'd need the time," Terry replied. She closed the door behind her.

  Time for what? Jenny wondered. Time to soften the blow? Time to be miserable? What?

  12

  TODAY is the day you worried about yesterday and all is well."

  Myrna could picture the little plaque on the kitchen wall of her parents' apartment before they had divorced, an innocuous little homily that nevertheless could be summoned up in a pinch when a shot of optimism was called for. Well, she needed it now, because today was the day she'd worried about yesterday and all was not well.

  Jack had just told her that they would not be seeing each other again until after the election was over, and she was buying only one-half the equation, the part about not seeing her. Only in her mind it meant forever.

  It was significant, she decided, that he broke the news after their first episode of lovemaking of the weekend. As always, after these episodes, he was first to go to the bathroom.

  A moving image of him flashed through Myrna's mind, picturing him completing the last stage of his postcoital "toilette," dabbing droplets of manly Polo scent on those hairy places where they would linger like a morning forest mist.

  In a moment he would appear in his blue terry-cloth robe, a near match to his remarkable cerulean blue eyes. Over the left breast of the robe was the little Polo player, his reassuring phallic mallet in midstroke, obviously poised to make the goal that would carry the chukker to triumph. There she was again, she thought, plumbing psychological depths, searching for barbs to prod her present discontent with him.

  Anger boiled inside of her, growing more intense in his absence. A kiss-off, she was certain. It was terrible holding it in, bloating her. He hadn't even waited for Sunday. It was still only Friday night. She knew it was the way he did things, getting them out fast, political damage control. They would have two days to work it out. Only she didn't want to work it out. She felt used, exploited. Worse, she had been a toady to a man, been mesmerized by his powerful position, and she resented it, remembering her father.

  He came out of the bathroom as expected, skin glowing, hair glistening in moisty black, thin lips poised in a satisfying smile. Then he moved smoothly into the kitchen, she following, and opened the refrigerator, pulling out the Dutch vodka that they drank.

  "I'm pouring," he said with a wink. "You?"

  She shrugged. He made an assumption of consent, reached for the glasses, and went through the pouring process with his usual smooth and measured expertise. She watched him, irritated by his precision.

  "More in mine," she said. He stopped the process for a moment and looked at her, eyebrows raised. He shook his head and added more.

  "Only until after the election. Four months. I'm being practical. It's a game, I know. Someone is bound to find out."

  "It's a kiss-off."

  "No, it isn't."

  "I can tell."

  "You're being very unreasonable." He sighed. "Why take the risk? It changes nothing."

  "It will."

  "No, it won't," he protested.

  Clinking the glass he had handed her with his own, he took a long, hard gulp. She turned away from him, mostly to hide her unreasonableness. Politically speaking, he was right, which didn't help her growing paranoia. With weekends to look forward to, their relationship was anchored. They had carved out a place for themselves. Without that, she feared an ending.

  "Would you like me to throw in the towel, then?" he asked.

  Perhaps she should test the waters on that one? The question crossed her mind fleetingly, then retreated and disappeared. His expertise was manipulation.

  "You know better," she muttered. "Although..." She paused and watched his face. "Well, that's another agenda." She felt a rising malevolence. Both she and her father were experts at substituting issues, disguising meanings.

  "What other agenda?" he asked, falling into the substitution trap.

  "The political agenda. One more hypocrite presiding over the decline of a constituency."

  "Jesus, Myrna."

  "Just look around you, Jack. Look what it's come to."

  "Somebody has got to try and turn it around," Jack said, his standard response. "And stop baiting me."

  "It's hopeless and you know it. Too many people rolling in like a black tide. Actually yellow tide, brown tide, Hispanic tide, rainbow tide. What magic wand have you got to solve the problems?" She was wound up in her substitution, attacking.

  "I'll give it up, if you ask me to. Really ask me, sincerely. But before you make your request, think of what you'll be asking."

  "I know. I know. The most exclusive club in the world. A great title. Ego satisfaction. Most of all, power."

  "All that," Jack said, smiling. He put his hand behind his ear, as if it were being cocked. "Do I hear any requests to step down?"

  She lowered her eyes, the substitution ploy dwindling in intensity. Finally she shook her head and shrugged, surrendered.

  "Well then, leave it alone. It's best."

  "Not best." She sighed. "Expedient."

  "Necessary," he told her. "We'd be spending our time looking over our shoulders for investigative reporters, private dicks hired by the opposition, hordes of photographers. There would be listening bugs everywhere. Media wants your ass, they'll get you. Who would know better than you?"

  "I surrender the point. You're right, dammit."

  "Why take the chance?" he replied. "Listen, think of my deprivation as well. It will hurt like hell, Myrna."

  "You'll have the campaign to keep you busy," she said.

  "And you'll have your job."

  "It won't be enough, Jack."

  "For me neither."

  "I'm frightened."

  "Of what?"

  She hesitated. It had been six months of joy beyond her wildest dreams.

  "Losing you."

  "Dammit." His voice rose. "Don't be such a worrywart. No point in us being self-destructive. So far we've been lucky, damned lucky. Hell, this is grist for the supermarket tabloids. If there's anything that can tear us apart, it's that kind of publicity."

  She pouted. He was being sensible, and she was being a silly romantic, knowing it. Leave it alone, she begged herself.

  "Would it, really? Might give me some cachet." She sensed her innate bitchiness rising, manufacturing those little wisecracking sarcasms that were the scourge of writers, photographers, and artists at the magazine. She felt herself approaching meanness and couldn't find the will to stop.

  "At least I got a sable out of it," she said.

  He paused, studying her, as if he were looking for the source of her malevolence. Take you down a long road, buster, she told him silently, another knee-jerk reaction to her frustration. Years ago a psychiatrist had told her that with men she was always deliberately putting herself into no-win situations, setting herself up for castrating dramas. No, she protested to herself.

  "Emotional pain makes me a harridan, Jack," she said, trying to eliminate the nastiness of her intonation. She waited for the meanness to subside. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

  "No matter what, it's still a great-looking coat." He chuckled. "And I love to do you in it."

  "Shall I put it on?" She giggled, the burst of meanness going.

  "We'll save that one for last."

  "Last?"

  "Of the weekend," he corrected.

  He came closer, and she could feel his body embracing her from behind, head to toe. "Bear with it. I love you."

  "For now," she said.

  "For always."

  But his nearness did not make her fear go away. When she was hurting, her imagination became hyper and she could fantasize tragedy, separation, and grief complete with vivid details. Projecting their parting, she felt herself assailed by self-pity and despair. Finally the man of her dreams arrives, the one love of her life, her match, and now he was disengaging, letting her down easy.

  From behind, he kissed her hair, her ear, his breath warm, tanta
lizing. With his fingers he played with the nipple of her right breast.

  "How can we give this up?" she whispered.

  "Only for four months. My eyeballs will start to float."

  "Back to my vibrator. My electric bill will soar."

  Pleasure was taking possession of her, taking the edge off her anger. The hurt was softening, then it was gone completely, and she giggled happily. He opened her robe and began to caress her belly, then lower, opening her with his fingers.

  "It's just not fair," she said, feeling the pleasure accelerate. The fear of losing him, she realized, heightened her response. His as well. She could tell.

  "My satyr," she cried, losing control suddenly, a little opening orgasm breaking over her like a soft wave, making her shudder. "Oh, God." The glass slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor.

  It was a detail to be ignored. Odd sounds bounced in the air, like birds arguing. Her focus was elsewhere, in some soft beyond, far from time and place, her mind and body one, concentrating only on the deepening of pleasure. She felt him behind her inserting his penis. Expectation gave way to still another dimension of ecstasy. Her upper torso was sprawled across the kitchen table, and she was contorting her body to bring him deeper, as if she were bent on swallowing him up, sucking him into her from this point of entry, devouring him. Something really big began inside of her, coming at her with all the weight and heft of an oncoming giant train engine, heading for some waiting impact. She beckoned it. "Coming," she shouted, the echo reverberating as her body gave way, accepted it, surrendered.

  Then she was making her way back, but something was awry, different. She felt the weight of him on her back. At first she told herself it was the natural reaction of his spent energy, a post-ejaculation relaxation. "As good as it gets," she whispered, waiting for her own deceleration to restore control to her mind. She did not move from the table, inert, emptied, relaxing, her heartbeat slowing, waiting for his voice. After a while she wiggled her behind, a playful sign for him to react, speak, remove his weight.

  When he didn't, she wiggled harder.

  "Jack," she called.