“What did her friends think of all these changes?” his lawyer asked.
Her lawyer sat poised to object at the slightest hint of hearsay.
“By this point,” Victor continued carefully, “she really didn’t have many friends. Certainly, none that ever came to the house.” Effective pause. Surreptitious glance at Mel. “Mrs. Adilman
did
ask me if Donna was all right once.”
“Objection. Hearsay.”
“Sustained.”
Victor waited to be led; his attorney readily, though subtly, did the leading.
“What did you think of all these changes, Mr. Cressy?” his lawyer asked.
“I just kept hoping that it was something she was going through after the birth of the baby. I’d heard that women sometimes went a little crazy after—”
“Objection, your honor. Really—”
“Sustained. You’re on dangerous ground here, Mr. Gerber.”
Mr. Gerber was suitably humbled. He lowered his head and asked his next questions without raising it.
“Did things improve with time?”
“No. They got worse.”
Donna felt her foot going to sleep. It’s always darkest before the dawn, she remembered her mother once telling her. She shook her foot, felt the nerve ends tingling, and smiled with the recognition she still had nerve endings that could tingle, that she was still alive. She saw Victor’s eyes narrow—he had seen her smile and he was questioning it, disapproving of it. Fuck you, she thought, wishing she could yell it aloud, knowing she couldn’t. Not if she wanted to prove herself a fit mother, to be able to keep and raise the children she had watched come into this world.
Victor’s voice was droning on about some real or imagined slight she had done him, humiliations she had wrought. She refused to have people over, to entertain any of his associates or prospective clients, and when they went out to parties, she was often sarcastic and rude, putting him down unmercifully. Either that or she would go to the other extreme and not say anything all night. It was a nightmare; he never knew how she was going to react. Neither did anyone else. And then there was that business about cleaning the house.
Victor made the story sound as if he were hearing it for the first time himself. “It started after Sharon was born and she had to get up in the middle of the night to nurse her. Sharon would cry around two
A.M.
and Donna would feed her and then put her back to bed, but instead of going back to bed herself, she’d start to tidy up. She’d clean the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, even the kitchen floor sometimes. When Sharon gave up the two
A.M.
feeding—which she wasn’t long in doing—Donna still got up every morning around two or three and cleaned the house for at
least an hour. Once, I went into the kitchen and she was standing there washing the dishes.” He stopped, then continued sadly, “And we have an automatic dishwasher.”
Who was this crazy lady they were talking about? Donna wondered. Because undoubtedly Mrs. Victor Cressy had been a crazy lady.
She suddenly found herself thinking back to the first time the concept of hell had become a reality for her. She had been about twenty-six, living on her own, dating a lot of men, relishing her freedom and independence. A group of the people she worked with at McFaddon Advertising had decided on a Fourth of July picnic weekend at the beachfront home of the parents of one of the employees (his parents summered in the North), and she had been included, having a wonderful time until she was assigned to the kitchen clean-up crew and spent the hours from midnight till two
A.M.
washing dishes in the sink, the automatic dishwasher having decided to get in the holiday spirit and take the weekend off like everybody else. As she had stood there, her hands sinking into the hot water and overabundance of suds, watching the revelers return with yet another armload of dishes just when she had thought she was through, she had been reminded of a book she had studied in college, and one she had recalled often since, Albert Camus’
The Myth of Sisyphus.
According to the ancient Greek myth, Sisyphus had angered the gods for reasons which had escaped her then as they did now, and he had been condemned to spend the rest of eternity pushing a large and monstrously heavy rock up to the top of a huge hill, only to have it roll back down to the bottom just as he was reaching the summit. Camus had asked the
seemingly ridiculous question, was Sisyphus happy? More ridiculous still, he had concluded that yes, Sisyphus was indeed happy because he knew in advance that the rock would never reach its destination, that he would always be forced to carry it just so far and then watch it backslide, that there was no hope of his ever succeeding. And in abandoning hope, he had gained his salvation; by knowing and accepting his fate, he became superior to it. Donna had pondered these existential theories of existence as her hands went in and out of the water, and she had decided as yet another sinkful of dishes emerged from beneath the bubbles, that if, in fact, there was a hell, and each person was assigned his or her own particular and private hell, then hers would undoubtedly be eternal kitchen duty. The thought of having to spend forever at the kitchen sink, coming to the end only to find another load waiting, brought home to her the concept of hell, its possible reality, in a way that no amount of Sunday sermonizing could ever have hoped to accomplish. For the first time in her life, Donna Cressy had feared death.
And now here she sat in the starkness of the courtroom and heard herself described, accurately she had to admit, at least superficially, as some maniac for cleanliness who woke herself up in the middle of the night in order to wash the dishes her automatic dishwasher was perfectly able to handle. Did she sound like a woman in control of her life? Did a woman whose hair coloring traveled from Gloria Steinem to Lana Turner to Lucille Ball to Dorothy Lamour to Mia Farrow—anybody but herself—in the space of a few months have any right to supervise the development of two young children with perfectly healthy heads of hair?
Not according to what she had just heard. And there was more much more to come, she knew. They hadn’t begun to talk about Mel, about her immorality. They had thus far avoided any detailed mention of the children themselves. Victor was only the first witness to be called. There was doubtless a long string of witnesses to follow, all to condemn her in tones varying from outrage to pity. She had only herself. Once again she found herself smiling ruefully—why should their divorce be any different from their marriage? Then she noticed the judge was staring at her, silently questioning her smile, so incongruous under the circumstances. He thinks I’m crazy, she said to herself, as the judge banged his gavel and adjourned the session for lunch.
Victor was standing beside her before she could even think of rising from her chair, his face full of gentle concern.
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes?” he asked.
“No,” she said, standing up and pushing her chair back. Her lawyer had already moved to the back of the courtroom where he was talking to Mel.
“Donna, please, don’t be unreasonable.”
She looked genuinely surprised. “How can you expect me to be anything else? You expect the lady I just heard described by your very own sincere mouth to act with reason? As usual, Victor, you expect too much.” She began to scratch at the top of her left hand above the thumb.
“Rash back?” he asked.
She stopped scratching. “Something you forgot to mention this morning. Oh, well, the day is still young. I’m sure you’ll get around to it.” She wanted to stop but couldn’t. “Oh, and you forgot to tell him I have hemorrhoids from
reading on the toilet despite all the times you warned me against it.” She slapped her hand. “Bad little girl.”
He grabbed her hand. “Donna, please. Look what this is doing to you.”
“Please let go of me.”
He let go reluctantly. “I just want to spare you any further pain and humiliation this whole mess is going to cause you.”
“Are you going to drop the custody action?”
He looked genuinely distraught. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You don’t seriously believe I’m not fit to raise my children?” she almost shouted. Mel and Mr. Stamler looked in her direction, Mel instantly moving toward her.
“They’re
my
children too,” he reminded her, “and I’m only doing what I feel is right.” Mel was at Donna’s side.
“You won’t win, you know,” Donna said with more conviction than she felt. “The judge will hear my side of the story. He won’t let you take my children away from me.”
Victor looked from Donna to Mel with undisguised hatred. When he looked back at Donna, any concern his face had once held had vanished. His voice had lost any trace of Southern gentility, was unabashedly Northern and cold like a biting Chicago wind. “I promise you,” he said, spitting the words into the air between them, “that even if you win, you’ll lose.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Donna asked, but his back was already to her, and seconds later he was gone from the courtroom.
S
he had let the phone ring three times before it became obvious that no one else in the office was going to answer it. “McFaddon Advertising,” she said clearly, picking it up. “Donna Edmunds speaking. Just a minute please. I’ll see if he’s here.” She leaned across her desk to the one directly beside hers. “For you, Scott,” she said, placing the caller on hold. “Are you here?”
“Male or female?”
“Definitely female,” she said, smiling.
“Sound sexy?”
“Definitely sexy.”
“Then I’m definitely here.” He pressed the correct button on his desk phone and Donna replaced her receiver as Scott Raxlen uttered his first breathy hello. “Oh, yes, of course, Mrs. Camping. Could you hold on just one minute please,” he said, quickly pressing another button and turning angrily in Donna’s direction. “Thanks a lot. You didn’t tell me it was a client!”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Nice person! You know I have a headache.”
“A hangover.”
He smiled. “Hell of a party,” he said, turning back to his desk and resuming his conversation with Mrs. Delores Camping.
“How late did you stay?” Irv Warrack asked, coming up behind Donna. “What’s that you’re working on, anyway?”
“I left before you did,” she reminded him, showing him a sketch she was preparing for a design layout. “For the Petersen account.”
“That’s good. McFaddon’s going to like that.” He waved a mock cigar between his fingers. “You got a great future here, kid.” She grimaced. “You’re not happy?” he asked, obviously surprised.
Donna put down the pen she’d been sketching with. “I’m happy enough, I guess. I don’t know. I’m not sure this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life—” She looked into the kind eyes of her co-worker. “Guess I’m going through a sort of—transitional phase at the moment. Sound pompous?”
He smiled. “Just a bit. Honey,” Irv Warrack continued, conspiratorially leaning against her desk, “anyone who can write copy like ‘The Mayflower Condominiums—An Original Concept—For Original Americans’ has found what she should be doing for the rest of her life. Understand?” She laughed. “Gotta go,” he said, straightening up.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. I’m beat. Aren’t you beat?”
“It’s not even lunch time!”
“That late?” He walked toward the door. “Gotta rest. I’m taking out your friend tonight.”
“Susan?”
“That’s the one. Great girl. Cover for me, okay.” He opened the front door. “Did your friend ever show up again, by the way?”
“What friend?”
“Last night. The guy you kept looking at.”
Donna was momentarily startled. Had she been that obvious? “I left before you did, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, have a nice weekend.” He walked through the door and was gone.
“Warrack take off?” Scott Raxlen asked, finished with his phone call. Donna nodded “That’s a good idea.” He stood up and stretched. “Think I’ll go home too. Take care of my headache.”
Donna looked around the fast-emptying office. “What’s with everybody? We have one little party to celebrate the end of a successful campaign—”
“Mayflower Condominiums—An Original Concept—For Original Americans—”
“And the whole place falls apart the next morning. Rhonda doesn’t even bother to show up; Irv takes off five hours early; you’re about to do the same—”
“Who was the guy?”
“What guy?”
“The one Warrack was asking you about?”
Donna shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it. You have two sets of ears?”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. We were introduced, then he disappeared.”
“The best kind. Take my word for it, Donna, it’s better that way.”
“Go home, Scott.”
He walked to the door. “He was that good-looking, huh?”
“Go home, Scott.”
“Cover for me?”
Donna waved him out the door. She returned to her design layout, but her pen remained poised without moving. Maybe she should just get up and go home like everybody else. No, she couldn’t do that. “Why do I have to be such a Goody Two-Shoes?” she asked herself out loud. Always have to stay to the bitter end. Except at parties. Then she usually left early. Her mind drifted back to last night’s festivities, sponsored by the satisfied client. Immediately, she saw the stranger’s face. What a face, she thought, picking up the phone, feeling a sudden need to confide in someone. “Susan Reid, please. Thank you.” She waited several seconds. “Oh, all right. I’ll hold.” Why not? It was becoming obvious to her that she would get nothing much else accomplished today. She looked around. “Great,” she said into the receiver. “I’m the only one here. What? Oh, sorry. No, I wasn’t speaking to you. Will she be much longer? Thank you.” Almost five minutes later, Susan Reid finally came onto the other end. “Boy, you’re a hard lady to get to talk to. I’ve been holding on for ten minutes. I’m a busy person, you know.” She stopped. Her eyes stared straight ahead at the large picture window which looked out onto picturesque Royal Palm Road in the fashionable heart of fashionable Palm Beach. “What? Oh, sorry. Look, Susan, I have to go. I can’t talk to you now. No. What? No. Listen, I have to go. He’s here. He! Him! This gorgeous guy I met last night. He’s standing outside the front window with what looks like a bottle of champagne, my God,
it’s champagne, and two glasses. I don’t believe this. My heart is pounding like a drum. I have to go. He’s coming inside. I really don’t believe this. I’ll talk to you later. Goodbye.”