The Housewife Blues

by Warren Adler

  "Speaking of packing, you'll find your packed suitcases in the hall closet. All you have to do is leave." She looked at her wrist-watch. "I estimate you can do it in less than ten minutes."

  "Ten?" he shouted. "I can do it in five."

  She turned away to look out the window. Dusk now settled over the streets. Angry sounds floated through the apartment as Larry noisily hustled his suitcases out of the hall closet.

  "We'll see who gets the last laugh!" he shouted.

  She heard the door slam and looked at her watch. He was right. He had made it in five minutes. She breathed a sigh of relief. Yet it did trouble her, not that he had gone, but because she felt no remorse.

  After a while she looked out the window. There was no sign of him. Apparently he had quickly gotten a cab and gone to God knew where. She didn't care. It didn't matter. Not anymore. She walked through the apartment. Yes, she thought, this is my home. Except for the weights in the bedroom, his presence in it was swiftly disappearing.

  It was already dark when she arrived at the pet store and picked up her purchase, a cute little tabby kitten with approximately the same markings as Peter's. She walked the few blocks back to the apartment building, descending the little flight of stairs to the doorway of Bob and Jerry's apartment. Before she could press the buzzer, the door opened. Jerry and Bob stood before her, startled.

  "We were just going out," Jerry said.

  "Look what I've got for you," she said, holding out the little tabby.

  "Oh, my God!" Jerry squealed with pleasure, taking the kitten and stroking its head. Then he held it up with two hands and looked at it. "A he."

  "He's beautiful," Bob said. "But why?..."

  "Why not?" she said awkwardly. "He needs a home."

  "And we've got a vacancy," Jerry said, cuddling the kitten.

  The three of them exchanged glances. She nodded, sensing the silent understanding among them. They knew, she decided. There was no point in belaboring the unspeakable.

  "Speaking for both of us," Jerry said, shooting a look at Bob, who nodded. "Well, we're overwhelmed and very, very grateful. We might never have had the courage to find a replacement for Peter. But a gift. That's something special."

  "I hope he has a little less of a wanderlust," Jenny said.

  "We're not going to have him fixed, no matter what," Bob said.

  "Absolutely not," Jerry agreed.

  "He can visit me anytime," Jenny said, clearing her throat of a sudden hoarseness. "I'm single again and can use some company now and again."

  Jerry and Bob exchanged shocked glances. Then they both smiled broadly.

  "Not to be missed," Jerry said.

  Bob nodded agreement.

  "Anyway, have a great evening," Jenny said. She started up the steps, stopped, then looked down at them.

  "My door is always open to friends and neighbors," she said with a smile, then turned and let herself in the front door.

  In her apartment again, she felt calm and happy, but, mostly, free. Feeling a pang of hunger, she sensed an urge to perform some act in honor of her independence. She opened the Yellow Pages, looked for a nearby pizza carryout, and punched in the number.

  "Plenty of onions and anchovies," she told the man who took her order. For the first time since she'd arrived in New York, she felt completely in control of her own destiny. Tomorrow, she decided, she would confront her future. Not today. Today was for savoring the present. She deserved a hot bubble bath, and after all, the bathtub itself was merely an innocent device and deserved to be used for what it was intended.

  But before she could draw the water, the apartment door buzzed. It was Terry.

  "Is he here?" she asked.

  "Gone."

  "For good?" Frown lines deepened Terry's forehead.

  "I hope so."

  "I was afraid of that." Terry sighed. "He said lots of unkind things about you. And me."

  They came into the living room. Terry wore her usual casual home clothes, jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers.

  "I'm so sorry," Terry began. "I—"

  "Don't be. I'm not," Jenny interrupted. "It's not your fault. In fact, I'll survive." She felt exhilarated by the thought and must have shown it in her expression. As if to underline her resolve, she got up and brought out a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. She uncorked the bottle, poured, and gave Terry a glass. Their eyes met.

  "You're a tough little hombre." Terry winked. "I'll give you that."

  "For a housewife."

  "Lucky you."

  "You're not serious."

  "I'm not sure. I used to be. But now..." Terry lifted her glass. "You're looking at a woman with a bambino in the oven."

  "For sure?" Jenny asked.

  "I tested today. Turned out old Godfrey was loaded with little spermatozoa."

  Jenny laughed, hoping that she had helped in their extraction.

  "He's a regular jumping jack now," Terry said.

  "That's two things to celebrate," Jenny said gleefully. They clinked glasses and drank deeply. Terry put down her glass and stood up.

  "Godfrey and I are off to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate. Want to come?"

  "I'll take a rain check. I ordered a pizza."

  Terry started toward the door, then stopped and turned. "I want you to know, Jenny. Godfrey and I are just one flight up. You'll never be lonely with us around."

  "I know," Jenny said. "Nice to have good neighbors."

  They embraced at the apartment door, and Terry bounded up the stairs.

  Jenny poured herself another glass of champagne, undressed, and began to run the water in the tub. A warm glow had begun to suffuse her. She finished the champagne in her glass and poured herself another. She giggled. "I feel delicious," she said aloud.

  Suddenly the outside buzzer rang. She put on a robe, and sipping her champagne, she answered the intercom.

  "Who is it?" she asked gaily.

  "Pizza," the voice answered.

  She giggled. "I nearly forgot."

  She rang him in and, still sipping the champagne, opened the apartment door.

  "Welcome," she said to the young man bringing the pizza. "I'm famished." She had difficulty pronouncing the word and giggled, upending the glass of champagne.

  "Eight fifty," the young man said.

  Leaving the door open, she went into the apartment. "Gotta find my pocketbook," she said, leaving the man to wait in the doorway.

  The pocketbook was in none of the obvious places. She inspected the various surfaces in the living room and dining room. She was not conscious of hurrying, expecting the man to remain patiently at his post by the doorjamb. She moved into the bedroom. No pocketbook. Then she came back into the living room.

  It was only then that she realized he had moved into the apartment. Up till then she was conscious of him only as a young man, a pizza delivery person without identity. But inside the apartment he seemed to become more of an individual. Despite her tipsiness, she managed to note that he was Hispanic looking, a bit taller than she, with broad shoulders, a dark complexion, tight curly hair, tight jeans and cowboy belt, and a black leather jacket, the zipper pulled nearly to his chin.

  "You havin' a party, lady?" the young man asked. His speech was accented, and his smile, when his lips parted, showed gaping spaces where teeth had once been.

  "You might say that," she said, laughing as she took the pizza from him with one hand, balancing it on her palm.

  It was then that she realized she was still carrying the champagne glass. She felt no sense of danger, and her cursory view of the man was nonthreatening. The man's smile, despite the gaps, seemed warm and friendly.

  She walked past him, back into the kitchen with the pizza, saw her shoulder-strap leather pocketbook on the floor below the windowsill, where it must have fallen. She picked it up, laid it on the kitchen island, and inspected the contents of her wallet.

  "Damn," she called to him. All she had was two singles. She had spent what cash she'd
had on the kitten. Must learn to carry more cash, she told herself. "The best I can do is a check," she said, taking the checkbook out of her wallet and fishing in her pocketbook for a pen.

  "Never there when you want it," she said, crossing the hallway past him. She moved to the living room secretary, where she stored her collection of mismatched ballpoints. Bending slightly over the open desk flap, she began to write the check, then, hesitating, looked up. He had moved a few feet into the living room. It was then that she noticed his sneakers, pure white with high-tops, not the slightest smudge to mar the white.

  "What was it again?" she asked.

  "Eight fifty."

  "Made out to?"

  "Pizzaland."

  "If I add the tip to the check, will they give you your tip in cash?"

  He didn't answer, and as she glanced toward him, she noted that he had moved still closer, but his attention was concentrated elsewhere.

  "Nice paira jugs, lady," the man said.

  "What?" Surely she was hallucinating. He couldn't have said that. Then she noted that her robe had fallen open. She cinched it closed with her hands, feeling the full shock of quickening sobriety. She shot him a quick glance. Actually, he would barely qualify for adulthood. Close up, he looked young, still in his teens. His youth did not, however, dispel the sudden sense of imminent danger.

  Stay cool, she told herself, noting that the apartment door had been closed. He was so close now, she could smell his breath, garlicky. Maybe onions and anchovies. A trill of panic tightened her insides, and she thought suddenly of Larry. Where are you when I need you? Then, remembering, thinking: No, I don't need you now. Or ever. I can take care of myself.

  "You and me, Maria," the delivery man said. "Chico can make you happy." She deliberately kept her eyes averted. Mustn't look. No eye contact. As if ignoring him visually might make him disappear.

  "Here's your money," she whispered hoarsely, using the moment to hold out the check, which he took and put in his jacket pocket. Then she stepped away from him sideways, slowly, not wishing to alarm him with any quick move. But her mind was plotting an escape route. The apartment door seemed the logical—indeed, the only exit. She considered the bathroom, which she could lock from the inside. But he could smash down the door. She could scream, but that could panic him, turn him nasty. Besides, the three closest apartments to her were presently empty.

  Again she thought of Larry, his warnings, his caveats. He would gloat over this. Perhaps he had set it up. She wouldn't put it past him. He had, she supposed, spoken the truth. She was just a Hoosier hick without street smarts. A damned fool. She hadn't acted defensively, like a true New Yorker.

  The young man picked up the champagne bottle, which she had put on the secretary, and gulped down the remains. Then he wiped his moist lips with the back of his hand and smiled. Time to make a run for it, she decided, gathering her resolve, focusing her energy. Now! But before she could move, he had sprung pantherlike toward her, blocking any escape. Still smiling, he pulled open the bow that held the belt of her robe. Both sides of the robe came loose, revealing her nakedness from neck to toes.

  "You mustn't do this," she said, forcing herself to remain calm.

  He held open the robe, inspecting her nakedness. Then he pressed his body against her between the folds. She felt the cold leather against her breasts. They hurt from the pressure. His metal belt buckle against her belly felt like ice against her bare skin.

  "You're hurting me," she cried.

  He put his hand on her windpipe but did not apply any pressure. It was too late to scream now. Not that anyone would have heard.

  "You feel what Chico got for you," he said, his arousal unmistakable as he dug the bulge of his crotch into her. "I gotta lotta ways to make you happy, Maria."

  "I don't want what Chico got for me," she muttered sternly. "Before you get yourself into real trouble, I suggest you leave."

  "We start a new party. You got more wine?"

  "You're buying yourself real trouble."

  His response was to grab one breast and move his thumb roughly over her nipple.

  "I told you. You're hurting me."

  "Don't look like that way to me."

  "Trust me," she said, her throat taut with fear. She remembered how cavalierly Larry had used that phrase. Should she have trusted him more? It was too late for such contemplation. "This will ruin your life," she told the young man.

  "Why? You got AIDS, Maria?" He laughed and tightened his grip around her, moving her backward toward the couch.

  "You know the penalty for rape?" She resisted a major struggle, although she continued to squirm. Use your head, girl, she told herself. She felt a wave of nausea begin deep inside of her.

  "Leave now and I'll forget about it," she pleaded. "Why throw away your life on a rape charge?"

  "You talkin' rape. This ain't no rape, Maria. This is jelly roll. Real love."

  He took her wrist and moved it to his crotch. "Feel that. You want I should let you suck it?"

  "This is so wrong...."

  She had raised her voice for the first time. The sound of it seemed to embolden him, and he put pressure on her windpipe.

  "You think Chico wants to hurt you?"

  "Well, you're doing a good job," she whispered, unable to raise her voice louder.

  "We do this like I tell you." He pressed his hand harder around her windpipe. "You open my belt. You pull my zipper. You get it out. Simple. You got two good hands and I hold you here." He continued to press her windpipe. "¿Comprende?" She nodded in consent and did as she was told.

  Suddenly the wave of nausea crashed. She gagged, and a bubble of champagne rose in her throat. He let go for a moment, and she expelled the champagne, turning her head away, letting it fall on the carpet. Then she had a coughing fit.

  "Jesus, Maria," the young man said as he darted back a step to avoid being soiled by her throw-up. He looked ludicrous, his pants down around his knees.

  At that moment her instincts reacted to the separation. She darted across the living room toward the apartment door, grasped the knob, and turned it. Again. The door would not budge. Panicked, she pulled at it. He had slipped the dead bolt. Behind her, she heard his movement, sneakers padding over the floor in pursuit.

  Avoiding him by a hairbreadth, she felt the wind of his missed grasp and headed for the kitchen, moving like a magnet to the knives in their wooden sheaths on the kitchen island, pulling one out at random, then turning, lifting her arm. She felt the heft of the knife, a big one, with a heavy blade. Her ominous gesture stopped him in his tracks.

  Lifting his arms, palms forward in a cautionary way, his eyes alert and predatory, he shook his head and smiled broadly.

  "All right," he said. "It's okay."

  Sensing his treachery, she moved backward, then circled the island with its wooden cutting board and sink, until it stood between them. She noted that her pocketbook was still open on its surface.

  "It's okay, Maria," he said. "I no hurt you. I make a little fun is all." His fancy buckle dangled at the end of his unfastened belt. The top button of his pants was open, and his fly was unzippered, showing a sliver of white underwear.

  "Out," she cried, her throat constricted, barely able to force the word. She had it in her mind to scream, but Larry's ridicule came back at her. No way, she told herself, brandishing the knife.

  "You think I was gonna hurt you, Maria?" he said, mustering every effort at ingratiation, his lips still curled in a twitching smile.

  She assessed the distance between them, alert to any sudden lunge. Then she noted that he was within reaching distance of the wooden knife stand. Without letting her eyes signal, she started to circle the island again to where she had started. Waving the knife, she moved, watching his eyes. Still smiling, palms out, he backed off. She stopped near the knife stand, taking some comfort in his stupidity.

  "Just get out and I'll keep my mouth shut," she said, finding the full timbre of her voice.

 
"I didn't do nothin'," he said, his eyes obviously searching her for any weakness. She could tell he hadn't given up and was calling on his street-smart con to get at her.

  "Now be a good boy and get out of my home," she said.

  She noted that the hand that held the knife was shaking. His eyes seemed to observe this. By then, too, his scanning glance had taken note of the knife stand. She also realized that the island was not much of a barrier if he chose to leapfrog it. The assessment only made the trembling spread to every moving part of her. Her knees felt weak, and her pulse raced.

  "Please," she began, only to discover that her throat had constricted again and her voice had weakened.

  "I'm goin', Maria. I promise," he said, turning his body as if he were about to be true to his word. Instinctively she knew better. She lifted the knife, sensing that he would spring. He reacted on schedule. She saw his fingers splayed on the cutting board, to be used as leverage to lift his body forward.

  But before he could move, she waved the knife, slashed hard. She felt the blade's flicker of resistance, then the actual sound of slicing. He looked down at his arm. The knife thrust had sliced through his leather jacket, and blood was pouring out of the opening. It took a minisecond for it to register on both of them, simultaneously. Their eyes looked up, met, turned away, hers in disbelief, his in pain.

  Above her, the knife remained poised for another blow, a thin red line along its blade. The boy's face was ashen.

  He looked up, his eyes boring into her. She saw more than horror there now, a fulminating disorientation. He shook his head, eyes narrowing as they searched the room, clutching his arm. She noted that the blood had begun to spill over the leather, like droplets of red paint.

  "I warned you," she began hoarsely.

  "It hurts bad," the young man said, clutching his arm. He looked at her helplessly, the swagger gone. She watched his arm, bleeding profusely.

  "I can fix that," she said. She still held the knife poised for another blow if he came at her.

  "No cops, okay?" He grimaced in pain, defeated.

  "No cops," she whispered, knowing it was a hollow promise. At the very first opportunity she would certainly call the police.

  His face was the color of mud, and he was losing a great deal of blood. "Help me, lady," he said.