by Nancy Thayer
She had her own family, of course, but they seemed to find it only natural that she would be so involved in helping others. Ron Bennett, her husband, was a tall, handsome, confident man with great charm; he worked as a contractor and over the years had built many private homes and small buildings in Londonton. He was respected, admired, and he was rich. But both he and Judy seemed not to have been affected by his wealth, for they continued to devote much personal time and energy to their community. And Judy remained as innocent-looking as a bride. She kept her slim face free of makeup, and her brown hair was always pulled straight back from her head and braided into one thick braid which fell down her back or over her shoulder. So she looked as wholesome and winsome as a farm girl, and she was forty-five.
“For heaven’s sake,” Patricia had told Peter once, “you know nothing about women and their wiles. Judy Bennett knows exactly what she’s doing. She just happens to have the kind of face that shows well without makeup—she’s got high color. She’d look like a clown with makeup and knows it. Don’t think she’s never experimented with rouge and eye shadow! And her hair is really too pretentious; it’s as obvious as a costume—can’t you see that?”
Patricia’s outburst had surprised Peter. He knew that Patricia liked Judy, and he could not understand why she would criticize her appearance in such detail. He did not think that Judy Bennett was dangerously attractive—Liza Howard was dangerously attractive! He simply found Judy refreshing, lovely, and capable. In point of fact, he found her perfect, and he supposed that was what irritated Patricia so.
But who could find fault with Judy Bennett? She was able to tune herself with exquisite perception to just the right emotional current needed in a gathering. She was inexhaustible. She filled her own house with the fragrances of cut flowers and homemade bread; she performed endless duties for the community and church with a carriage of body and expression of face that indicated she was doing exactly what she pleased. She was intelligent and clever and had a good sense of humor.
She even had managed to get her twenty-three-year-old son to attend church, and that was nearly a miracle these days. Peter looked down at the Bennett family seated before him in a middle pew; how good-looking they all were. John Bennett had gone to a nearby prep school and on to a first-class college in the South. Recently he had returned to work in his father’s business, and he would do well, because, like his father, he was handsome, and, like his mother, he was unassuming; so he seemed wonderfully charming in the most natural way. Perhaps he was not all that bright, but that didn’t matter so much. He was so fine-looking and easygoing and likable that people would not let him fail. He was the sort of person that other people conspire to keep happy; Peter could envision clients buying property from John simply to please him.
In the past year, John had accomplished what many people in town considered a real coup: he had become engaged to the daughter of the president of the local college. Sarah Stafford had just graduated from Mount Holyoke, and at twenty-two she was a slim and pleasant-looking woman, not given to frivolity. Her family could trace its lineage back to the American Revolution, her uncles and grandparents were all judges or scholars, and her own personality was so sensible that no one could believe that she had only been enchanted by John Bennett’s marvelous looks. So the community thought—the community thought—well, the community did think, and observe, and judge, and when the engagement had been announced, the social atmosphere of Londonton had been tremulous with the wonder of such a perfect match. The wedding between John Bennett and Sarah Stafford would provide the community with a nearly allegorical marriage between commerce and learning. Gossips of all ages and both sexes seemed at a loss as to whom to envy most—Sarah for acquiring this most handsome of men, or John for winning the most prestigious of women.
They were to be married on Christmas Day, in the Congregational church. They could have been married, such was Sarah’s position, in the college chapel, but it was too small to hold the number of guests who would be invited to the occasion. So both the college chaplain and Peter would officiate at the wedding, which would be the most elaborate and magnificent ceremony ever performed within the church’s plain white walls. When Ron Bennett discussed his son’s marriage, he took on the look of a man about to sit down at a seven-course meal. Judy Bennett was less ostentatious in her pride, but Peter could see how her eyes shone in spite of herself. Now the Bennetts would have it all! This would be a transformation as much as a marriage, and the Bennetts would become part of the royalty of Londonton.
Now Peter noticed Liza Howard looking right at John Bennett with an expression very much like that of a fat cat stalking a mouse. No. It was a much more smug expression than that, it was more the expression of a fat cat who sees a bowl of rich cream within easy reach. Did Liza know something about John; was she having an affair with him? Peter could understand certainly why the two would be attracted to each other, but it would surely be a shame if John jeopardized his future with Sarah Stafford for a foolish fling with Liza Howard. Peter wondered if Judy had any idea about it at all—whether something was going on. Liza looked so very pleased.
After the service, during the coffee hour, Peter would take Judy aside for a few moments, he decided. He would ask her how things were with Johnny, and he would ask her if she could do anything to help Suzanna Blair. He was pleased with this decision, pleased to think how the members of his congregation interacted with one another. Now he smiled, and rose to give his sermon.
Judy Bennett
Judy Bennett felt Peter Taylor’s eyes resting on her, and she involuntarily straightened her back and stared with a more thoughtful expression at Reynolds Houston, who was reading the Scripture lesson. She liked Peter Taylor, and thought that he admired her, but when she felt him studying her at length, as he was doing now, she went cold with terror, fearing that because he was a spiritual man, he might be able to see into her soul. And she did not want him seeing into her soul—she did not want anyone seeing into her soul. So she began energetically to envision the apparent facts of her life, as if summoning them up in her mind she could build a force field of pleasing, safe ideas that would protect her from Peter Taylor’s scrutiny.
She was Judith Bennett, married to Ronald Bennett, mother of John and Cynthia Bennett. Her husband was an intelligent and well-educated man who was much admired by the town. Ron was an independent contractor; he also spent a great deal of time in community endeavors. He served on boards, he headed fund-raising campaigns, he worked tirelessly for certain charity groups. At the present time he was involved in a huge and important task: he was building the Londonton Recreation Center. He had never been in charge of such a large construction before, but when the town raised the money for the youth center the managing committee had decided unanimously that Ron should be the contractor. They had even gone to the trouble of forming a private charitable organization so that they could appoint Ron without the hassle of putting the job out to bid, something they would have had to do if they had been a public organization. Ron was living up to their expectations. He worked day and night. He was obsessed with the center, devoted to it; he wanted it to be perfect. They were paying him well for the job, but financial payments could never equal the time, energy, and concern he had invested in the rec center. Judy did not mind his commitment to the project; she knew this would only enhance his position in the community.
Judy was also proud of her children. Cynthia, her eighteen-year-old daughter, was a freshman at Smith, and making straight A’s as she always had. She was not as physically attractive as her older brother, but she was smarter, she had her father’s determination and ability to work, and she would make a name for herself someday. And Johnny—well, she was so proud of him and so grateful to him that if she could take years off her life to give to Johnny, she would gladly do it. It seemed to Judy that she had never looked at her son once in all his life without amazement on her part: he was that beautiful. He was six feet two inches tall, with long legs, a
long torso, broad shoulders, slim hips. He had perfect white teeth and enormous green eyes, thick blond hair that held glints of gold in the summer. Where had he come from, this beautiful man—out of her body? It was amazing. She was so proud of him. Ever since he was a toddler, girls had swarmed around him, and Judy had wondered how in the world he’d ever choose among them, there were so many, such an endless supply. She could imagine how eagerly all those girls offered themselves up to him once he was virile; she had been afraid that he’d make a mistake and get some little fool pregnant. But he had come through his youth into such a triumph Judy was still reeling with the pleasure of it: he had gotten himself engaged to Sarah Stafford, the daughter of the president of one of New England’s most prestigious colleges. If anyone judges me, Judy Bennett thought, let them judge me by my son. She carried him before her like a shield.
It did not occur to her to think at any moment in her life that people were only seeing her rather than judging her, for she was always judging other people, and she knew precisely how much her charitable actions were a cover for the lack of charity in her heart. Judy judged everyone, herself included, severely and without clemency. It was a habit that had come to her too early and forcefully in her life ever to be changed. Its twin was a devotion to appearances that was obsessive—and she knew it was obsessive and did not care. There were worse obsessions one could have; she knew that, too.
This Sunday morning Judy had awakened at six-thirty without the aid of an alarm clock. It was a deal she had with her body; she would say to herself before going to bed at night: “It is now ten-thirty. Wake up at six-thirty.” It always worked. She was pleased with her body’s complicity, and her silent waking enabled her to rise from the bed without the noise of an alarm clock waking everyone else in the house. She had wrapped her fleecy robe around her body and gone into the bathroom to brush her long brown hair; she tied it back with a yellow ribbon, knowing that it was a cheerful thing for her son and husband to see a yellow ribbon at breakfast time. Very quietly she had padded down the stairs of the enormous old farmhouse, and through the long hall into the kitchen.
Which room was the most beautiful in her house? She believed it would be hard for anyone to say. The front rooms were elegant and a bit formal, but the kitchen was in its own way the most luxurious. It was a large bright room with a fireplace at one end and many windows along the long left wall. Judy had decorated the kitchen in a colonial country style; instead of cabinets she had armoires and pine cupboards, and at the cooking end of the kitchen stood a long pine table. She worked at this table, mixing up cakes or kneading bread, and was still a part of whatever was going on at the other end of the room, where a multicolored braided rug lay before the fireplace and rocking chairs covered with patchwork cushions sat on either side. This morning Bruce, the black Lab, was stretched in the very middle of the rug; Rags and Flapper, the cats, each occupied a rocking chair. The scene was as symmetrical and cozy as if Judy had arranged it herself.
“Out you go,” she said to them all, opening the kitchen door to the side yard. “Go on now. You’ll get your breakfast in a while.” She did not especially care for the animals except as they decorated her life—she was well aware that people considered animal lovers to be kindhearted and warm-spirited; in short, morally superior to other human beings. Quite often, as Judy washed the floor of muddy tracks or vacuumed up the ubiquitous balls of hair, she thought that the animals’ charm did not quite make up for their bother. But she was committed to appearing to be an animal lover, and she did not want to change.
This morning the braided rug was still fairly clean, so Judy kicked off her slippers and laid her robe over an armchair and stood in the middle of the rug to do her exercises. At forty-five, her body was not voluptuous—it had never been that—but it was slim and firm and tight. It was neat. Like everything else in her life, this body of hers was kept up to her standards by discipline and energy. Even though the rest of her family were continually engaged in jogging or lifting weights or working out, and the house was often filled with the rhythmic thumps and thuds necessary to the maintenance of physical excellence, it would have discomposed her to have her husband and children know that she, too, exercised, because she needed to have them believe she was effortlessly perfect. So she waited until her husband and son had gone off to the office for the day, then locked herself in her bedroom on the second floor where no passerby could glance in, and went through her exercise routine to the accompaniment of radio music. But on Saturday and Sunday, when her family was at home all day, she found it necessary to run through her routine in quiet secrecy in the kitchen. If anyone woke and came downstairs, she could hear immediately and be in her robe and at the kitchen sink before they caught her. But this had never happened; her family liked to sleep late.
Now she bent frontward, touching her toes with her fingers, then stretched upward. For twenty minutes, she exercised her body to a routine she had established years ago. Her goal was not beauty. She did not want to have a body that drew attention; quite the opposite. She was determined to have a body so clean and trim that no one would think to notice it at all.
When she had finished her exercises, she sat for a moment, catching her breath, then slipped back into her robe and slippers. She would shower later, when the others were up. Now she opened the damper of the fireplace and laid kindling across the arms of the brass andirons and lit a fire. She went outside to gather up logs from the woodpile, and stood for a few moments to consider the day. It was cool and overcast, winter was coming: and on Christmas Day her son would marry the daughter of a college president.
After the fire was going, Judy went into the working part of the kitchen. She had several things to accomplish this morning before going to church, because they would be having guests today. Ron had recently finished building a home for a new young doctor in town, and it was his custom to invite the more prosperous of his clients to dinner. Judy never minded fixing these dinners or spending the time telling newcomers about the town. She was always glad to give them the names of the best plumbers, electricians, clothing stores, and supermarkets. She was more than pleased to linger over a homemade chocolate cake in the dining room, telling her guests about families in town who had children the same age or similar sports or hobbies. By doing this, she received exactly what she wanted: people’s admiration and gratitude. In fact, almost nothing pleased her more than the sight of a new young couple staring with envy at the sight of her copper pots, silver bowls, crystal chandeliers, casually packed bookcases, well-trodden antique rugs. They yearned immediately to live here, to be her: to have a life as graciously arranged as her own.
Today the couple coming to dinner were relatively young and as yet childless, so the entertaining would be easy. They would sit on the porch, if it did not rain, drinking cocktails, then have an early country dinner. There would be beef stew in wine, and Judy’s homemade whole-wheat bread, and applesauce Judy had made from apples fallen from trees in the old orchard, and a pie made from raspberries Judy had picked and frozen this summer and set out to thaw last night. Now she put a white paper filter in the glass coffeepot and set the water to boil. As she turned to the antique glass canister that held the flour, she remembered that Reynolds Houston had called yesterday afternoon and asked if he could stop by tonight. He said he would come around eight; the newcomers would have gone by then, and Reynolds would surely have had dinner. There would be enough berry pie left from the afternoon to offer him. She looked in the refrigerator: yes, she had remembered to buy enough whipping cream.
She measured flour into a red crockery bowl and began to mix in the butter she had let soften in the cupboard overnight. The room began to fill with an agreeable brightening warmth from the fireplace. She was aware of how the scene she made would look to anyone coming in: a slender woman with a yellow ribbon in her long brown hair, rolling out piecrust dough on an antique pine table while at one end of the room the fire crackled and nearby on the stove coffee brewed. How warm
and attractive her room was, her family was, and perhaps this was why Reynolds Houston wanted to visit.
She did not know him well. He lived alone and kept to himself and was polite at cocktail and dinner parties, but he was not the sort of man Judy felt comfortable with. There was something chilling about such an immaculate man, Judy thought, and as she lay the dough in the pie pan and carefully crimped the edges into patterned scallops, she felt that old familiar monster, anxiety, stir and wake inside her, in the pit of her stomach, where it always lay in wait. She could not breathe. Why had Reynolds Houston asked to come tonight?
It could not be because of a simple desire for the company of his fellow man. He had almost nothing in common with Ron, except for the few committees they served on. Perhaps something was wrong. But what could possibly be wrong? Reynolds Houston had no connection with her life that she could think of. Still, the anxiety was now fully aroused within her, and greedy and powerful in its arousal. It bloomed inside her, like a malevolent cloud, filling the cavity of her stomach and chest relentlessly, pushing her breath away. There was no room left inside her for air. Something was wrong. She knew it, and could not get her breath. She gripped the edge of the pine table with both hands and shoved her chin down into her chest to stifle a scream. She gasped, trying to pull air into her lungs, but the anxiety had mushroomed within her and was billowing upward now, blocking her throat. She could not let her son and husband see her like this.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to herself. “Judy, it’s okay. Just give yourself a minute. You’ll be okay.”
It was only a matter of steps from the kitchen to the half-bath off the hall. She kept the Valium in the linen closet in here, with sanitary napkins and tampons and other things the men in her family would find, if not embarrassing, at least not of interest. She kept the Valium in an old Midol bottle next to a small brown prescription bottle which also contained Valium: if anyone cared to check, it seemed the Valium bottle was seldom opened. She took two blue pills out of the Midol bottle and swallowed them immediately—long ago she had taught herself to swallow pills without water. Oh, Valium, dear, sweet, blessed Valium, how she loved it. She knew the drug was a crutch, but the important thing to keep in mind was just that: that she knew she was using it in just that way. She was in control of it. She believed quite firmly that in this case self-knowledge provided sufficient exoneration. She did not believe she was addicted to Valium—she would only be truly addicted if she were not aware of her addiction. As long as she was aware of the frequency of usage, she had the usage under control.
