Bodies and Souls

by Nancy Thayer

  Besides, she had been using the drug for years under the supervision of a highly qualified and respected psychiatrist. She saw him only once every few months now, but she had been going to him regularly for seven years. He knew almost everything about her there was to know, and he agreed with her that until both her children were grown and gone away, a moderate, controlled use of Valium was sensible and even necessary. He did not know what he did not need to know—that Judy also had a prescription for it from a local doctor for her bad back. And another source—an old school friend.

  Even at eighteen, Judy had been sophisticated enough to realize the possibilities inherent in forming an alliance with such a shy, homely, lonely girl as Katrina Brouwer, who lived down the hall in Judy’s dorm at college. Judy had made it a point to be kind to Katrina, and if her friendship was premeditated, calculated, it was still the best Katrina was to get. Katrina went through life with an attitude that put people off—she was too modest and shy. When she graduated from college, she went back to the poor New England city she had come from, lived with her mother, and worked as a receptionist in a doctor’s office. So it was easy for her to call in prescriptions to the local pharmacy for a nonexistent patient, pick up the prescriptions herself, and mail them to Judy. Judy always reimbursed Katrina for the cost of the postage as well as the medicine, and she also remembered to send her gifts and cards on the appropriate holidays. In addition, Katrina had the pleasure of receiving the intimate confidences of another living human being.

  “Oh, Katrina, you are so kind,” Judy would say during one of her phone calls. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Londonton is so small, and I know all the doctors personally, and the pharmacists—well, if I took one Valium, everyone in town would know it and would wonder about my private life. It would be such a strain. This way, no one knows but you—and we are too close to judge one another.”

  Perhaps Katrina would have judged Judy had she not been under the illusion that the Valium she supplied Judy was the only Valium Judy ever took. But what did it matter what Katrina didn’t know; in this case the illusion did everyone nothing but good. Katrina had a friend and the satisfaction of knowing she was helping a friend; and Judy had her Valium.

  Judy had her Valium, and in the evenings she had her vodka-and-tonics or scotch-and-waters, and sometimes at lunch she had her wine. Still she did not think of herself as addicted. She never, ever lost control. The alcohol, like the drugs, helped her keep control. And in a life with a façade as flawless as Judy’s, control was essential.

  And control was flowing back into her body, she could feel it in her blood. That blessed calm. She slumped against the bathroom wall, closing her eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths, shaking her head in wonder at herself: How could she continue to let such insignificant things upset her? How silly she was! Reynolds Houston was alone and winter was approaching, and he was probably only feeling that human need to reaffirm human contact against the coming darkness. She checked her face in the mirror: she looked normal, quite pretty and composed. She went back out to the kitchen to finish the pie.

  Now, here she sat in the sanctuary of the church, studying Reynolds as he read the Scripture lesson. She had known she would see Reynolds at church, so she had fortified herself with another Valium before leaving the house this morning. By now the drug did not so much flow through her as appear to flow around her, screening her from anything that could cause pain. She felt wrapped around by a gauze as clear as air, as impenetrable as iron. She felt beautiful, in a sturdy and respectable way. It pleased her to think how she must appear to the other people around her: a slim, strong, perfect woman, with a family that anyone would envy. She knew that no one could have been a better mother, wife, woman. And what did it cost her? Nothing. She did not drink so much that her health was impaired, and although the gloomy newsmongers, looking for something sensational, occasionally claimed that Valium might cause cancer, she knew better than to take them seriously. If Valium were harmful to human beings, why, it would be taken off the market. No one else in the world knew that she indulged in her helpful little habits, and she looked upon the drugs with gratitude. They helped her make her life pretty, and what could possibly be wrong with that? Life was difficult; life was hard; the world needed people like Judy to move through it with serenity and generosity and grace. Actually, she could think of any number of people in this very church who would do well to start improving their lives by taking nature into their own hands.

  If she turned her head ever so slightly to the left or right, she could see someone who was anxious, disorganized, not pretty, someone whose spirit was cramped by the hardships of life; it showed in the person’s face. Such a person would be much better off for the use of drugs, and would certainly be more presentable.

  For example, Leigh Findly. Sometimes it wrenched Judy’s heart to see Leigh come into the church with her daughter. Judy felt no special sympathy for Leigh—as far as Judy could see, Leigh was a silly woman who had managed to get herself divorced from a charming and intelligent man. But Leigh considered herself an artist, or so the story went, or as much of the story as Judy had been told by mutual acquaintances. Leigh considered herself an artist, and her husband had been too demanding, expecting her to do such monumental tasks as cooking regular meals and doing the laundry, so she had asked him to share the housework, and naturally he had gotten a divorce. After all, he worked at a real job and brought home the money and while some people might call the pots Leigh made valuable, they didn’t, as far as Judy knew, bring in real money. Judy felt sorry for the husband—or had felt sorry for him; it had all happened years ago. He had quickly remarried and moved away. She felt even sorrier for the child, an eighteen-year-old girl named Mandy.

  In the first place, Mandy—what a name! Judy had read in the church directory that Mandy’s real name was Amanda, and she wondered why on earth Leigh didn’t call her daughter that instead of using such a tacky nickname which conjured up images of servant girls. Mandy was a pretty girl, with long, thick blond hair that Judy would have loved to see put up in a classy French twist. But from the looks of it, Leigh Findly never reminded her daughter to put her hair up, or even to comb it. How many times they had come rushing into the church at the last minute, their clothes aflutter, Leigh’s face uncomposed, her eyes darting here and there, looking for a place to sit, and then breaking into a grin when an usher approached to seat them. What a way to enter church! Then Leigh and Mandy would sit, whispering and grinning and shuffling, taking off their coats or sweaters and turning to the right page in the hymnal, or looking for a tissue in Leigh’s purse—whatever they were doing, they did it in such an obvious way, as if they were a pair of birds settling into a nest. Judy always studied Mandy and owned that the girl did not look unhappy. But she did look unkempt, and that was never necessary. Perhaps Leigh thought that wearing such shabby clothes gave her an artistic air, but that was no reason to let her daughter dress that way. Sometimes when Mandy entered the church in sneakers of all things, or a sweater that was missing a button, Judy wanted to rush to the girl, snatch her from her mother’s side, close Mandy up in a protective embrace, and say, “It’s all right. I’ll take care of you. I know how you’re suffering!” For if Judy could know anything, it was how a teenage girl could suffer.

  But this line of thinking was courting disaster, and Judy looked away from Leigh Findly’s obvious fluffy head. It would not do to think of mothers and daughters today. She needed the tranquilizing sight of familiar, like-minded people whose lives reaffirmed her own.

  Discreetly, so that she would not insult Reynolds by not appearing to attend to his reading, she gazed around at the heads in front of her, searching for consolation. The heads that were white or gray or bald she dismissed—nice enough people, but old: they did not count.

  The Vandersons kept her attention for some time; she studied Mrs. Vanderson especially, and was torn between admiration and disgust. They were such snobs, the Vandersons, true old-New-
England-family snobs, the worst kind. Jake Vanderson was president of a paper-manufacturing company that had been in his family for generations; as president he really worked very little. He didn’t need to work, because the wealth that had been handed down to him by his ancestors was more than any one family could spend in a lifetime. He spent his time traveling—“for the company”—to places such as Bermuda and St. Tropez and Geneva, and his wife Lillian accompanied him. When they were in Londonton for any length of time, Lillian headed up charity committees and gave elaborate parties for their friends. Everyone talked about these parties—they were so clever and lavish. Judy and Ron had never been invited to one of these parties, and this was a source of irritation and even grief in Judy’s life. Oh, the Bennetts had been in the Vandersons’ house, but only for the charity parties—and those did not count socially. It was to one of the frivolous theme parties—the disco party, the F. Scott Fitzgerald party, the Halloween masquerade party—that Judy wanted to be invited; she didn’t hope to be included in one of the intimate little dinner parties. Lillian Vanderson always greeted Judy and Ron with perfect friendliness: “It’s so nice to see you,” she would say, “and how is that handsome son of yours these days?” But she never invited the Bennetts to any of her parties—and Lillian and Jake had never attended any of the Bennetts’ parties in spite of Judy’s consistent invitations. The Vandersons’ excuses were always impeccable and given with the utmost kindness, but Judy would still take their refusals as yet another private defeat. What were they doing wrong? she wondered. Sometimes she dreamed of asking: Why don’t you like us? Why won’t you include us? What can we do? Every time she heard from another couple about one of the Vandersons’ parties, her mouth went sour with bitterness. Who did they think they were, to snub the Bennetts? She and Ron had gone to the right schools, they had enough money, they wore the right clothes, they sent their children to the right schools, they attended the right church and gave to the right charities. They ran with the right social set, shopped at the right stores, read the right magazines and newspapers, voted for the right party. They were attractive, affluent, pleasant, genial, responsible, and well-liked members of the community. Why did the Vandersons leave them out?

  Well, Judy thought, with a flash of inspiration that made her nearly explode with laughter, well, she thought with a pleasure of discovery and justification so violent she felt a shiver pass through her body: Well! She would be sure that the Vandersons were not invited to the Wedding!

  This could prove tricky—for undoubtedly Sarah’s parents were acquaintances, if not friends, of the Vandersons. Since Jake Vanderson was an alumnus of the college, he always donated a satisfactory sum to the college each year. But Judy would manage it somehow. She would ask to help mail the invitations, and then lose the one to the Vandersons. Or she could ask the Staffords not to invite the Vandersons—although that would take a lot of thought in order to come up with a proper excuse. Still, she would manage it, and the idea of excluding this family who rankled in her heart provided her with the greatest satisfaction she had experienced in days.

  Now Judy felt benevolent, and as her gaze slid away from the backs of the Vandersons, she saw Pam Moyer and thought: I must do something nice for Pam. Pam and Gary Moyer were old, close friends of Ron and Judy’s; they had known one another for almost twenty years. Pam and Gary had three children, and Judy and Pam had seen each other through diapers and teething and Little League and ballet lessons and school trips and legs broken while skiing and the agony of waiting for acceptance into the right college. They had so much in common. The men also had a lot in common: Gary had started his law practice the same year Ron had opened up his own contracting business. They weren’t as close as Pam and Judy—men never were—but they played tennis regularly once a week, and were comfortable enough with each other so that the two families had even taken vacations together. They had spent Christmas Day dinners together; the Bennetts and the Moyers were an integral part of one another’s lives.

  Recently it had seemed to Judy that Pam was overdoing it with her community service and political work: Pam was becoming so serious, so involved. Judy appreciated the energy Pam was dedicating to the various social issues in the world, but wished that Pam could be a little lighter—her earnestness was getting to be a bore. It must certainly be hard on Gary, Judy thought, to have someone so dreary around; it couldn’t be good for the marriage. Judy wondered if she should speak to Pam about this, out of friendship. But no, probably she shouldn’t, for Pam had been prickly lately, and it seemed whenever they bumped into each other in the grocery store or post office, Judy could see a mote of anger floating like an unwanted shard of light in Pam’s dark brown eyes. Why should Pam be angry with her, though; what had Judy possibly done?

  Judy smiled: of course, Pam was undoubtedly jealous of the marriage between Johnny and the Stafford girl. If only she would just come right on out with it and admit it. It would be such a relief to both of them. Pam’s children were all doing well. One was in law school, one was in med school, and the youngest boy was finishing his senior year at Londonton High School. Still, none of the Moyers’ children’s accomplishments could come close to equaling John’s marriage to the daughter of the president of one of New England’s finest colleges. Judy could understand Pam’s jealousy—she would certainly feel exactly the same way if she were in Pam’s shoes. Yet she thought that Pam was being rather silly about it. She ought to be grateful that her three children were alive, healthy, and happy. Not everyone could marry the child of a college president. It would be just so much nicer if Pam would go ahead and admit how she felt. But she could not think how to approach the subject gracefully without somehow further injuring Pam. She would have to be oblique.

  She would send Pam flowers. Or buy her a book—she had seen a new coffee table sort of book on needlepoint in the local bookstore. She could get that for Pam. In the past she and Pam had often surprised each other with just such gifts, spontaneously thanking the other for her friendship, or simply giving the other woman some one thing that she would want. Women tended to do that sort of thing more than men, Judy had discovered; men just didn’t think that way. She and Pam were lucky to have each other.

  She especially was lucky, Judy thought, and as she carefully glanced around the church, looking at the other people, she smiled a small secret smile to herself: for she felt superior to every person there. Just in her line of vision, on the side, sat Suzanna Blair, who hadn’t been able to keep her husband and was now struggling along trying to raise two small children herself. Judy pitied Suzanna, but couldn’t develop very much interest in the woman, for Suzanna was younger, and didn’t have much money, didn’t run with Judy’s group, would never be of any use to Judy. In front of Suzanna sat Jean and Harry Pratt—what a time they had had of it, when Harry lost his executive position at the mill. It had been so embarrassing for everyone; no one knew what to say. One couldn’t say, “I’m so sorry that you’re suddenly poor.” It wasn’t the same in Londonton as in other less wealthy towns; wives couldn’t rush over to the Pratts’ house with casseroles and cakes, and no one could pass the hat to help them make it through a month’s mortgage. Instead, everyone in town had simply left the Pratts alone, which seemed the kindest thing to do. To his credit, Harry had rallied, and now was a manager of one of the local clothing stores. Once more the Pratts were a central part of the Londonton social life. But what a strain they had caused the community for a while!

  Near the Pratts sat Liza Howard, who was just a whore. Judy couldn’t imagine why she was allowed in church; everyone knew she had the morals of an alley cat. Judy made it a point to snub her, cut her dead, at every occasion. Liza was beautiful, that was a simple fact, but it still was a puzzle to Judy that Liza could attract men so easily. Only a fool would want to get involved with someone who was so cheap.

  Judy felt valuable and smug by contrast. Here she sat in the sanctuary of the church, with her handsome husband on one side and her handsome son on t
he other. She was wearing a light gray houndstooth-check suit with a melon-colored silk shirt and gray suede pumps. Her hair hung in a rich, competent, braided rope down her back. Once, years ago, a little old lady named Dotty Dinkman had accosted Judy after church. Laying her wrinkled hand on Judy’s arm, she had said, “Dear, I just want to tell you what beautiful hair you have. I sat staring at your nice braid all through the sermon, and it gave me the greatest pleasure—your hair is such a pretty color, and that braid is so—well—satisfying! I hope I’m not embarrassing you by telling you this.” But Judy was not embarrassed, and she thanked Dotty Dinkman with real gratitude. That was just the sort of remark that Judy rearranged her life by, and since that day she had not entered the church without that agreeable memory returning to her mind. She, too, found the neat interweaving of substance greatly satisfying; and she found herself fancying from time to time what a pleasure it must be to God, who could look down with His magical eye to see the way the lives of the people of this town interwove with one another in intricate and congenial designs.