Authors: Nancy Thayer
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 the 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.
Everyone had problems, yet life was good. Judy was devoted to the idea of a good life, and determined to have one. No one could ever say that she did not work hard to bring this about. And she liked to work at it, at life; she was not afraid of work. If only fear were not such an intimate part of her life. If only God would speak to her with the same sweeping authority that Carlos Aranguren had.
Carlos Aranguren taught French and Spanish at the local college; his wife taught German. They were a marvelous couple, always in demand for parties and occasions because they were so majestically entertaining. Now, in church, they sat slightly out of Judy’s sight; she would have to turn her head rudely in order to see that pair of elegant heads: the serenely blond Ursula, the dramatically brunet Carlos. They were certainly the most glamorous couple at the college, if not in the entire town. They had reached Ron and Judy’s age without ever having children, and this did not seem to be an absence in their lives—they were always traveling here and there, and adding on unusual sections to their house, and having dinner parties replete with exotic foods, and they went about in such romantic clothes: tunics, caftans, ponchos, capes. Still they were respectable—no one taught at the college who was not respectable—and while this couple more than any other held the promise of doing something adventurous, outside the social pale, they had as yet done nothing outrageous. They were the town’s darlings consistently whetting the social appetite for scandal, and as consistently keeping just within the bounds of custom. It was quite a trick, and Judy imagined that the Arangurens gave the energy to this that they would have had to give to raising children. Judy was slightly leery of the couple, and knew it, as if she were a house cat occasionally required to occupy the same territory as a pair of flamingos. Yet Carlos had once said something to her that had touched her deeply.
It had been almost exactly a year ago, around Halloween, that time of year when night fell early and the woods around Judy’s house were full of rustling and she wished her children were still at home, young enough to dress up in costumes which established the idea of ghosts and witches as childish human fancies. The Sloans had had a dinner
party, a casual buffet affair, with hot chili and cornbread and green salad and beer. The Sloans’ house was a modern, architect-designed oddity with a family room floored with red tiles and a black metal fireplace in the center encircled by a sort of dry moat. This was called “the conversation pit” and everyone exclaimed in admiration of it, but Judy thought it looked like a setup in a bad restaurant. And in spite of the thick red carpet that covered the steps down into it, she found it terribly uncomfortable to sit there. But Nina Sloan was a good hostess, and she placed fruits and little chocolate cakes and trays with a variety of unusual liqueurs at the four sections of the pit that were left uncarpeted to serve as tables. Her guests arranged themselves around the blazing fire, seeming happy enough. Everyone found themselves, of necessity, divided into intimate groups—it was difficult to hear someone on the other side of the fire, and almost impossible to see anyone without kneeling uncomfortably so as to peer above the flames but below the vast cast-iron hood.
Judy found herself seated next to Carlos, and his proximity just slightly alarmed her. She wondered what on earth they would find to talk about. She was aware of how she must look to him: the All-American Housewife in her long plaid skirt, Shetland sweater, and gold chains. Few people discomfited her as Carlos did. He was so brazenly masculine—and he was such a flirt! Tonight he was wearing—of all things—a floor-length caftan which a student from South Africa had given him. It was quite beautiful, a silky deep blue with the neck and cuffs and hem embroidered in gold. Most men would have looked like fools in it, but Carlos wore it with ease. In fact, it suited him, and he knew it. He was tall, with a burnished look to his skin, and thick black hair, startling black eyes. He was vain, careful of his appearance, but his masculinity had never been called into question—he was such a womanizer.
“Oh, my darling,” he would say to whatever woman happened to be near, “I haven’t seen you for so long. Let me hold your hand. How delicious you smell. That scent reminds me of the white flowers that bloomed outside my bedroom when I was a boy in Spain.”
In spite of all his years in the United States, he still spoke with a Spanish accent, which added the thrill of foreign possibilities to his words. Men were never angered to hear Carlos romancing their wives, for Carlos was so democratic in his compliments, and so obvious. No woman at any party escaped his extravagant Spanish praise, and he did love women so much that he never found one he could not somehow admire. His blond
German wife went about her own conversations quite naturally, with no more sign of jealousy than if her husband had been playing a game of tennis. She was beautiful and clever and did not need to worry.
It had been a long time since Judy had seen Carlos, however, and as she attempted to arrange herself on the carpeted steps around the fireplace, she felt that quick flash of fear she always felt when privately encountering Carlos: what if he could not think of anything about her to praise? But Carlos immediately took up her long braid of hair and held it against his face with such tenderness that it almost seemed to become as sentient as a limb of her body.
“Ah, your beautiful hair, Judith,” he said to her. “So thick, so rich. It must be so long that unbraided it would cover your breasts.”
“Oh, Carlos.” Judy laughed—which was usually the most she could muster when he went on like this.
As Carlos spoke, he ran his hand gently along Judy’s face and down her thick braid, which fortunately had fallen down her back. Carlos’ hand slid from the end of her braid to her sweater-covered lower back, and rested there a moment.
Judy shivered. She really did not like to be touched like this. She was always delighted to receive compliments from Carlos, because he managed to compliment her on something she was in fact proud of. But tonight his words—his hands—bordered on being openly sexual, and it annoyed her. If she thought of sex at all, she saw it as a sort of personal Loch Ness monster, and she did not understand why grown ups kept trying to entice the creature up from the murky depths when after all these years they should have finally placated and subdued it. She had worked this out a long time ago with her psychiatrist, and she knew that different people had different sexual needs at different times. Men were more demanding than women. She did not mind having sex with Ron once or twice a week, because it provided relief for him. She imagined it did for him more or less what Valium did for her. Ron was a sensitive and considerate lover. He did not expect Judy to throw herself about as if she were a teenager in the throes of a hormonal assault. They had come to an implicit, sensible arrangement: he would not pester her, and she would not ignore him. She did not think they were the only couple who had worked out their marriage this way. She did not like it when Carlos slipped from the verbal into the tactile, and she found the sensations he teased up to the surface of her skin irritating. He might as well have sat on her back and tickled her; it was the same sort
of thing. She had outgrown all that.