by Nancy Thayer
“Do you?” she asked. “How lucky you are that you can think of him so clearly. I’m all muddled. He deserted me. He left me stranded. If it weren’t for you …” Her voice dropped. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be lost.”
She turned away then. She had never once cried in front of him, or shown any violent emotion, and her composure tantalized him. He began to fantasize about embracing her as she finally collapsed, weeping in his arms, in much the same way that he fantasized seeing her naked body, which she covered so completely from his sight. He drove over to her house almost every day to be sure she was all right. She was always sitting in a chair, dressed simply, her hair brushed and plaited, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t watch television or read or listen to the radio; she just sat.
“I can’t seem to go on from here,” she told Gary when at last he presumed to question her. “My husband’s dead, my son has vanished, my daughter is away. I am useless. I have no one to give to.”
“But you’re wrong,” Gary said. “You have so much to give. Any man would love to live in a house kept by you, to eat your wonderful food, to share your life, Judy.”
“Any man?” Judy asked. “Gary, what would I want with any man? And surely Johnny will be home soon …”
Gary tried to talk to Pam about Judy’s plight, but Pam had become curiously cool toward Judy in the past year, unfairly, to Gary’s mind, for now was the time that Judy needed friends the most.
“She’s got money, she’s got her health,” Pam said. “She’s a fortunate woman even though she’s been widowed. I’m sorry, Gary, but I’ve lost patience with her. The world has too many problems that need solving. She should be out trying to help others instead of sitting at home indulging in her loss.”
How harsh she has grown, Gary thought. It was the influence of all those feminist friends she ran with. He studied his wife—looked at her for the first time in years—and saw that she had changed. She was growing plump with middle age, and sloppy with her intellectual concerns. She was always rushing off to some meeting, or delivering dinners to shut-ins, or driving cancer patients to Southmark for their treatment, or canvassing for some election. He couldn’t blame her; he was proud of her; their children were almost grown and didn’t need her attention. She was doing what they talked about for years, helping her community. He admired her. But she seemed as appealing to him these days as one of the mediocre dinners she was always serving, which she pulled from the oven either burnt or half cooked and soggy. He took to driving out to Judy’s house more and more often. They would sit outside in the early evening just quietly watching spring come. Sometimes they didn’t even talk. Sometimes Judy would serve him some dessert: strawberry shortcake or rhubarb pie. “It is so lovely to have someone to cook for,” she said to Gary. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have you come out here. It gives me something to live for.”
One night he arrived later than usual. He knocked, then let himself in the front door as he usually did. The scent of perfume wafted down the stairs, and Judy called, “Oh, Gary. I didn’t think you were coming. I’ll be right down. I’ve just gotten out of the bath.”
He went up the stairs without thinking, and found her in her bathroom, tying the sash of her blue bathrobe. Her hair was not in its usual braid, but hung free, thick, glossy, all around her shoulders, down her back. He crossed the room, took her in his arms, and began to kiss her on her neck, her shoulders, down inside the damp V of the robe. He waited for her to pull him to her, to return the embrace, but she only rested her arms lightly on his chest, as if she meant to push him away but didn’t have the energy.
“Are you angry?” he asked, puzzled.
“I’m frightened,” she said.
He made love to her on the bed, untying her bathrobe and spreading it wide beneath her. She was so slim and firm, like a young girl, and so very quiet. She kept her face turned away through it all, so that the very old-fashioned thought—I am taking advantage of her—passed through Gary’s mind. But when it was over, she buried her head in his chest and cried for the first time. “My God,” she said, “I have been so lonely. I have been wanting you for so long.”
This seemed miraculous to him; Pam hadn’t wanted him at all recently. She was always busy, gone, or exhausted. In the course of their marriage they had weathered many times like this, when either he or she had been too wrapped up in a current crisis to give full attention to the other. But their unhappiness with each other recently had an air of finality about it. At last they fought, the night that Gary missed his son’s band concert because he had been visiting Judy.
“His last band concert of high school,” Pam shouted. “He played a solo!” She had been waiting up for him, lying in wait for him. She had sent their son to spend the night at a friend’s house; the other children were at college. The two of them were alone.
“I’m sorry. I’ve told you, I’m sorry,” Gary said. He hated being put in the wrong like this, and worse, he hated Pam when she was righteous.
Now she stalked about the living room, her face grim. She had her period, and they both knew that always made her bitchy, but Gary was losing sympathy with this complaint. He was familiar enough with Judy by now to know that she was never bitchy during her period.
“Are you having an affair with Judy?” Pam asked.
“Of course not!” Gary lied, indignant that she would suspect him.
“Then I do not understand,” Pam said. “Why do you have to go out there so often? Every day.”
“She’s lonely. You never go to see her.”
“I used to go see her all the time last fall. It’s spring now. She’s been widowed for months. I have tried my best to get her involved in outside activities, the church, some charities, anything, but she prefers to sit out there pining, and you are just helping her indulge herself by going out there all the time. She’s got to enter the real world, Gary. Ron kept her so protected, as if she were some fragile, sensitive creature, and now you’re doing it.”
“Maybe some people are more fragile and sensitive than others,” Gary said.
“You are having an affair with her.”
“I am merely trying to point out that not everyone can just buck up like you do, not everyone can be a … a bustler.”
“A bustler,” Pam said, and was silent. She sat down in a chair and was quiet. When she raised her head, her eyes were full of tears. “Gary,” she said, “let’s go away. Let’s go to Jamaica or Nantucket—anywhere. Let’s spend three weeks together and get to know each other again. I’ll stop bustling, and you stop nursing, and we’ll spend some time enjoying each other. Let’s go off together, please.”
Gary looked at this woman, who had borne his children, and shared his life for twenty-four years, and a cold wind passed over him. She sensed this just by the look on his face; they knew each other that well.
“Well,” she said, rising. “I see. No, I don’t suppose you do want to go off with me for a few weeks.” She crossed the room then, and stood behind the chair where Gary sat. She rested her hand gently on his shoulder. “Well,” she said lightly, “do me a favor at least. Don’t go off with anyone else.”
“I won’t.”
“We’ve been through worse than this, I suppose,” she said. “We’ll survive this, too.”
She went to bed then, but Gary did not feel cheered or pleased by her words. She was such a hearty survivor, he thought with distaste. All the qualities he had once loved her for—her optimism, patience, goodwill, courage—now seemed reflected to him in another light, so that she seemed to him pushy, gross, and tough. She would be able to take care of herself, she would pull through anything. But Judy did not have such endurance; she was truly delicate. Ron had known this, and had given up his life for her. She was the sort of woman that men had to protect, even in this liberal and feminist age.
At the beginning of the summer they finally managed to get in contact with Johnny. They had known for months that he was safe, because he
had sent postcards. The first one arrived about a month after Johnny’s disappearance. It read: “Dear Mom and Dad, This is just to let you know I’m okay. I’m sorry if I’ve worried you. I just had to get away. I know it’s hard to understand but maybe I can explain it to you someday. I’m with Liza Howard, so I don’t have to worry about money. I’ll be in touch and I’ll let you know my address as soon as we get settled down somewhere. Hope you’re okay. Love, Johnny.” The next few that followed were in the same serious, concerned tone, although no address was given. And then the postcards came less often and in a more flippant tone: “Hi, M&D, Just wanted to let you know I’m still alive, happy as a clam in Margarita Land. Haven’t even had a case of dysentery yet. Hope you’re all okay, Love, Johnny.”
When two postcards arrived within one month, both of them showing pictures of Acapulco and bearing Mexican postmarks, Gary contacted the American embassy. After several queries, he located a hotel manager in Acapulco who told Gary during a long-distance phone call that Johnny and Liza had stayed there for two weeks but were no longer staying there.
“If you see them again,” Gary told the man, “please ask him to call home. It’s an emergency.”
At the end of May, Johnny called. Gary had been sitting on Judy’s bed. They had just finished making love, and Judy had gone downstairs to get the cocktails they had started and abandoned earlier in the evening. Gary was smiling at Judy’s modesty; she pulled on her robe each time she got out of bed, even if it was just to go to the bathroom or down the stairs of her own house to get drinks. She had just entered the bedroom again, drinks in hand, when the phone rang. She handed Gary his drink, sat down on the side of the bed, and answered the phone.
“Johnny,” she said, “oh, thank God you’ve finally called. We’ve been trying and trying to reach you. Johnny, you’ve got to come home. Your father’s dead.”
The next afternoon, the last day in May, Gary drove to Hartford to meet Johnny’s plane. Judy didn’t want to make the hour-long drive; she told Gary that she had to get Johnny’s room ready, but Gary understood that it was herself she had to get ready. Johnny had put her through so much—worry, fear, anger, disappointment—and Gary felt he could make things easier for her by explaining this to Johnny.
Johnny was easy to pick out in the lines of passengers descending from the plane. Everyone else looked mortal; he looked like a tall tanned blond god. Gary couldn’t help thinking: So that’s what eight months with Liza Howard does for a man. In the car on the drive home, Gary tried to get more details from him, but Johnny only talked about places: hotels, beaches, casinos, Mexican resorts.
“Is Liza coming back to Londonton?” Gary asked.
“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I doubt if she will for a long time, if ever. In fact, she’s written her lawyer to have him put the Howard place up for sale. This is not her favorite spot in the world, you know, and if she did come back, people would only snub her.”
“Well, you two did a pretty terrible thing, you know. To your mother. To Sarah Stafford.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about Sarah. But I’m sure she’s okay. We didn’t exactly share a great love.”
“But you were engaged. And your mother—”
“I know. I feel worse about her. But Christ, Mr. Moyer, how was I to know my father would have a car accident that night? Would you tell me about it?” he added in a softer voice.
Gary told him about the accident and the funeral, and the reaction of the town. He did not tell him about the embezzled money, because he and Judy had agreed that neither child needed to know such a terrible secret. When they entered Londonton, Gary drove over to the rec center, which was finished now, and which sprawled like a glass-and-concrete giant along the Blue River.
“Look,” Gary said. “I wanted you to see this first thing.”
Over the wide double doors at the front of the center were large, bright red plastic letters: The Ron Bennett Memorial Recreation Center.
“Already people are calling it the Ben-Cen for short,” Gary said. He was slightly surprised when Johnny began to cry. He was also deeply touched. “A lot of people loved and respected your father,” he said.
“My father was a fool,” Johnny replied. “All he did his whole life was work. He and my poor mother. They lived such boring, trivial lives! They never did anything but work. They never danced all night or gambled or went scuba diving. The best they could do was to take an occasional trip to Bermuda or Nantucket. They never even went to Europe! They never went to Marrakesh.”
Gary stared at the young man, stunned. Finally he said, “I’m not sure I see that the value of a man’s life is gauged by the choice of his vacation spots. I’m afraid your months with Liza Howard have done you a lot of harm, Johnny. You’ve lost the values your parents raised you to have, and taken up ones that are frivolous, wasteful.”
“Yeah, well, at least they are my values,” Johnny said. “For eight months of my life I got to live as I wanted to, by what I thought was right. Now I’m trapped here again. I’m going to have to stick around and take care of Mother.”
Gary had drawn himself up at these words, offended. You little shit, he wanted to say. Instead he said, “If you’re worried about having to stay around to take care of your mother, you can be relieved. I intend to marry your mother as soon as my divorce from Pam comes through. This is private information, however. I don’t want it gossiped about.”
Johnny, blowing his nose in a wheat-colored linen handkerchief, had looked sideways at Gary; he seemed to leer. “Everyone’s been busy while I’ve been gone,” he said.
“Your mother still needs your support,” Gary said. “I hope you won’t take that sarcastic tone with her.” He started up the car and drove away from the rec center.
“Don’t worry,” Johnny said, and sagged against the car door, resting his head on the window frame. “I love my mother. I’ll be as good as I can be. I can see her in a different way than I did before, but I still love her.”
Now they were all together in this church. Johnny sat on one side of his mother, and Cynthia on the other: the perfect children framing the perfect mother. Thank God the kids were almost grown and the insurance money would cover Cynthia’s college tuition for the next two years, Gary thought. Pam was not being nasty about the divorce—and she easily could be, she could sue Judy as a co-respondent and cause a scandal—but the price of her compliance was high. She wanted a lot of alimony, and a lot of child support, and the house as well. It was a good thing Judy owned her house clear and free now. It was a good house. Gary had always liked it. He could foresee how the next six months to a year would be difficult, as the town sorted out its feelings about this new separation and entanglement. He and Judy would have a private wedding; they would live quietly for the first few months. Then, he knew, invitations would begin to come, and before long, he would be sitting at one end of the table in Judy’s elegant dining room, sharing dinner with a dozen good friends, eating Judy’s delicious food, and after a while their marriage would seem as natural and acceptable as the one that was taking place right now.
“The church looks beautiful, doesn’t it, Mom?” Cynthia Bennett asked.
“Actually, darling, I think it looks rather tacky,” Judy replied. “All these homegrown flowers strewn about. It’s overdone. Almost cheap.”
“Oh, Mother,” Cynthia whispered, and with as much petulance as she dared display in such a public place, she drew herself up and looked away from her mother.
Cynthia’s jealous, Judy thought. She could understand that. She could remember a wedding that had taken place during her high school days and which had filled her with envy for that one day. Sonja Wallace had gotten married in the middle of her senior year, and all the girls had admired her so, and envied her wedding showers, lacy trousseau, and early admission into adulthood. But Sonja had gotten married because she was pregnant, and she hadn’t been able to go on to college like everyone else.
In fact, after
the wedding no one had seen Sonja or thought very much about her at all. But the wedding: well, it was an event, wasn’t it, and Judy had envied Sonja that one day and could understand Cynthia’s envy now. Cynthia and Mandy were the same age, and here Mandy was, Queen for a Day, marrying a boy who, in his own way, was almost as handsome as Johnny.
But he was so young, Michael Taylor, a year younger than Mandy, just eighteen—oh, they were fools, the parents, letting these children marry at this age. It was all so inappropriate. She didn’t really approve. But when the wedding invitation had arrived, she had known she must go. If she didn’t, people would think it was that she was too embarrassed and resentful because Johnny’s wedding had fallen through. No, she had to make a public showing, after all these months of crisis. She had to go with her head held high, and with her two children at her side, presenting a united front. To do anything else would be to admit failure, and she would not do that, for she could not see how she had failed.
She had not failed, her psychiatrist told her. She had not failed, Gary told her. Yet in these past months the suggestion that she had in some way failed rang through her daily thoughts like the refrain of some catchy tune that her mind wouldn’t stop replaying. How could she not have failed: her husband had embezzled money, then committed suicide, if Gary were to be believed, and her perfect son, her darling, had run off with that woman and left Judy to face the Staffords and the town alone. She must have failed to have the two men in her life treat her in such a way—and yet, what was it she had done? How exactly had she failed? What was it she should have done differently?
Now, for example, she could, with only a slight tilt of her head, study her daughter Cynthia, who sat next to her in the pew, gazing with foolish rapture at all the flowers. Judy had given birth to this girl, and had done everything in her power to help her grow into a lovely woman, yet here she sat, a lump, overweight, with bad skin and an unbecoming hairstyle, if you could call the simple hanging down of hair around one’s face a style. When Judy questioned Cynthia about her appearance, her daughter said that she was too busy with her studies to spend much time on her looks. “Oh, sweetie, even in this liberated age, a woman’s looks are at least as important as her mind,” Judy had said to Cynthia, gently attempting to win her over. But Cynthia had only turned away. She was always turning away. Yet she came home dutifully enough, for Ron’s funeral, for the various vacations, and although she could never be as lovely as Mandy, who had such undeserved beauty, she still was retrievable if she would only try, Judy thought. If she would only lose weight, have her hair fixed in a feather cut, wear contact lenses instead of those dreadful thick glasses which hid her pretty eyes … It made Judy twitch with impatience to see her daughter; she looked like such a grind. It really was not necessary. Was it Judy’s fault?
