The Deep End (24 page)

“Sure you are,” Eve says quickly, surprising Joanne, who sensed that Eve wasn’t really listening. “A few
months in the country, all that fresh air, lots of other kids, plenty of adult supervision …”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Have I ever been wrong?”

“Do you feel like going for a walk?” Joanne laughs. “I need to get out of the house.”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t get as far as the corner.”

“Come on,” Joanne pleads. “It’ll do you good. It’ll do
me
good,” she corrects immediately.

“My good deed for the day?”

“I’ll meet you outside in five minutes,” Joanne tells her and hangs up before Eve can change her mind.

“So, what tests are scheduled for this week?” Joanne and Eve are circling their block for the third time. They have already discussed the weather forecast—continuing sunny skies—and the current state of Joanne’s toenails—continuing purple—which leads to talk of tennis which leads to talk of Steve Henry which leads to Joanne’s question about which tests Eve is scheduled to undergo in the coming week.

“You’re avoiding the issue,” Eve tells her.

“There’s nothing to say,” Joanne answers. “What’s the point of expensive tennis lessons when I have nobody to play with? When you get better, we’ll start the lessons together again. I don’t see what’s the big deal.”

“Steve Henry’s the big deal. And he’s yours for the taking. All you have to do is reach out and grab him.”

“I don’t want him.”

“Wait a minute,” Eve says, stopping dead in her tracks and hitting the palm of her hand against the side of her ear. “There must be something wrong with my hearing now too. I actually thought I heard you say that you didn’t
want Steve Henry.” She laughs, then turns to face her friend, eyes wide, hands on Joanne’s shoulders. “Please tell me that you didn’t say that.” Joanne laughs and shakes her head. “Why not, for God’s sake? And please don’t give me that depressing crap about your being a married woman.”

“I love Paul,” Joanne whispers. What else is there to say?

“So?”

“So, I don’t love Steve Henry.”

“Nobody’s asking you to love the man. Who said anything about love, for God’s sake? It’s probably the last thing on Steve Henry’s mind. Not that you aren’t infinitely lovable, of course.”

“Can we please talk about something else?”

Eve is silent.

“You still haven’t told me what tests you’re scheduled for this week.” Joanne slows down when she notices that Eve’s pace has slackened.

“Monday, there’s the gynecologist …”

“You’ve already seen three gynecologists.”

“This is another one.”

“You think that’s necessary?”

“Tuesday,” Eve continues, ignoring Joanne’s question, “is a series of tests at St. Francis cardiac hospital. And Thursday is an appointment with a dermatologist in Roslyn, Dr. Ronald Gold, I think his name is, no wait, that’s next Thursday, this Thursday it’s some X-rays at the Jewish Medical Center.”

“You’re being very ecumenical.”

“I’m giving everybody a chance.”

“Why a dermatologist?”

Eve stops, rolling back the hair from her face with the back of her hand. “For God’s sake, Joanne, look at me. I’m green!”

“You never had a peaches-and-cream complexion,” Joanne reminds her gently.

“No, but I never looked like moldy bread either.”

“You still don’t,” Joanne laughs. “I think you look pretty good. A little pale maybe …”

“Love is blind.” She rubs her forehead. “Look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“This flaking! And look at this.” She holds out her hands, palms down.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The veins, for God’s sake!”

Joanne sees some perfectly ordinary blue veins protruding from beneath Eve’s semitranslucent skin. “What’s wrong with them?” Joanne asks, displaying her own hands.

Eve takes a long look. “Oh,” she says, “your veins are bigger than mine.”

“It’s a very exotic condition,” Joanne tells her. “It’s called middle age.”

“Can middle age also account for the way everything in my body is drying up on me?”

“Like what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that there is no wax in my ears anymore, no mucus in my nose.”

“What do you mean? How do you know?”

“What do
you
mean—how do I know? I checked. How else would I know?”

“What do you mean you checked?” Joanne asks. “You sit around picking your ears and your nose?”

“That’s just the point. There’s nothing to pick!”

“Eve, don’t you think there’s something faintly ridiculous about this conversation?”

“Look, Joanne,” Eve pleads, her voice peppered with
invisible italics, “I don’t know
what’s
the matter with me. Maybe I
am
acting a little peculiar. Maybe I’m grasping at some pretty far-out straws. But something is happening to me,” she reiterates for what Joanne feels is the thousandth time. “Something is happening to my body. Nothing works properly. I’m in constant pain. And nobody can tell me what’s the matter. I know my body, Joanne. I know what’s normal for me and what isn’t.”

“Take it easy,” Joanne advises, trying to calm Eve down, her arm encircling her friend’s waist. “Somebody’s going to figure all this out soon enough. I promise.” Eve smiles, her body relaxing against Joanne’s arm. “You said you’re seeing a Dr. Ronald Gold?”

“A week from Thursday. Why?”

“We went to school with a boy named Ronald Gold. remember?” Eve shakes her head. “I wonder if he’s the same one.”

“He must have been short if I don’t remember him,” Eve quips. They have completed their fourth circle around the block and are back in front of their respective homes. “I think I’d better go inside now,” Eve says.

“More pains?”

“Same ones. It feels like … like someone is tightening a belt around my ribs, like something … I don’t know … is
sticking
to them. I can’t explain it. The more I try, the crazier it sounds. Brian thinks I’m off my rocker. He wants me to see a psychiatrist.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Joanne says, catching the look of animosity in Eve’s eyes. “Just to help you deal with it,” Joanne explains hastily.

“I don’t want to deal with it,” Eve informs her curtly. “I want to get rid of it.” She looks toward her house. “Look,
sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But this isn’t exactly your area, and it’s not the kind of advice I need from you. Believe me, if I thought I needed a psychiatrist, I would be the first person to go to one. Look, just stick with me, huh? Be my friend. Please.”

“I
am
your friend.”

“I know,” Eve agrees. “Going to visit your grandfather this afternoon?”

Joanne nods.

“Give the old guy a kiss from me,” Eve instructs as Joanne watches her friend slowly pull herself up the outside steps and disappear inside her front door. Then, taking a second glance at the large veins protruding from the back of her hands, Joanne heads for home.

The phone is ringing when she walks through her front door several hours later. “Oh, shit!” Joanne yells angrily in its direction, surprised by her easy use of the profanity. “Enough!” she states emphatically, marching toward it, watching it ring, not picking it up. Has he been following her? Is it a coincidence that he is calling at the precise moment that she has walked in the house, that he seems aware of her every move?

Joanne picks up the receiver on its fifth ring. “Why are you doing this?” she says instead of hello.

There is a slight pause, then, “Joanne?” the voice asks.

“Paul!”

“Who did you think it was?”

Joanne tries to laugh. “I don’t know,” she tells him, so glad to hear his voice.

“I thought you said you weren’t getting any more of those funny calls.”

Joanne isn’t sure how to answer him. He hasn’t phoned to discuss this particular problem. He has made it quite clear on previous occasions how he feels about this issue. For whatever reason he is calling—and Joanne is sure it is to tell her that the girls got away safely—it is not to be pulled into any unpleasantness. She doesn’t want to put him off by telling him the truth, that nothing has changed, except possibly for the worse. She doesn’t want him to think that she is appealing to his guilt, trying to bind him to her. Ironic, she thinks, that the only chance she has of getting him back is by proving to him that she doesn’t need him back. Especially now, when she needs him more than ever.

“Joanne, are you still getting those threatening calls?” he asks again.

“No,” she says quickly. “Just someone pestering me about some theater subscription.”

He accepts the lie easily. “That’s good. I called you earlier—you were out.”

“I went for a walk. Then I went to see my grandfather. Did the girls get off okay?”

“Everything proceeded exactly on schedule, smooth as a whistle.”

“Did Robin say anything?”

“Just goodbye. I have to tell you it was all I could do to keep from shaking her.”

“That would have gone over big with the other parents in the parking lot.”

“You’d be surprised,” he laughs. “I got the feeling I wasn’t the only father entertaining such thoughts.” Joanne can feel him smiling. He says nothing, but Joanne senses a reluctance on his part to terminate the
conversation. “They’re really growing up,” he finally exclaims, a sense of wonder in his words, and Joanne nods agreement. “You remember what it was like on your first day of camp?” he asks suddenly.

“I never went to camp,” she reminds him. “We had the cottage.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Do you think the girls missed something by our not having a cottage?” he asks after a slight pause, and Joanne finds herself staring into their backyard, at their empty, unfinished “cottage without the traffic.” Would it have made a difference?

“The girls have always enjoyed camp,” she tells him, not sure what else to say, wondering where this conversation is headed. Is he feeling at loose ends the same way she is now that the girls have left?

“They better enjoy it for what it’s costing!” he exclaims. “It’s like going to an exclusive resort for two months. Not like when I went. We slept in sleeping bags in tents, for God’s sake.”

“You did not. I’ve seen the photographs of you at camp, of your beautiful log cabins, and I remember your mother’s same complaints about what it cost to send you, and all the expensive equipment you needed.”

He laughs loudly and easily. “I guess you’re right. I must have been thinking about the canoe trips.”

“Which you always hated because there were so many bugs …”

“Not to mention those damn canoes.”

There is another long pause. “Paul …?” Joanne asks, breaking the silence, then lapsing back into it.

“Yes?” he asks.

Is he waiting for her to make the first move? To be the
one to suggest that they get together? Is that what he wants? It’s what
she
wants, she realizes, wondering what would be the best way to phrase such a request. Would you like to come over and talk? she hears herself ask, though the question remains unvoiced. Do you want to come home? Is that what you want me to say? God knows I want to say it. Yet something stops her—the certain knowledge that should she do so, he will turn her down, as he has done in the past. Help me, please, she thinks, looking at the ceiling. Tell me what to say to this man to whom I have been married for twenty years and thought I could say anything to.

Her mind is a maze of confused thoughts and images. She sees her husband sitting at their kitchen table drinking his morning coffee and grumbling about office politics. She feels him beside her, his breath warm against the back of her neck, his arms encircling her waist. Then she feels another pair of arms around her throat, hears the familiar dull rasp at her ear.

“Joanne?” Paul is asking.

“Yes, sorry, did you say something?”

“No. You started to ask me something.”

“Do I have any life insurance?” she asks, the question catching her by surprise probably as much as it does him.

There is a moment’s silence. “No,” he answers. “But
I
have plenty. Why?”

“I think I should have some.”

“Sure,” he agrees quickly, “if you’d like. I could make an appointment for you with Fred Normandy.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you. I guess I should let you go now.”

“Joanne?” he asks.

“Yes?”

Silence, then, almost tentatively, “Are you busy tonight?”

She is more nervous than at any moment in her entire life, more nervous than when they had their first date, if this is possible. She has been getting ready for two hours. She has soaked herself raw in the bathtub, polished and repolished her nails, washed her hair, set it, then combed it out only to reset it again and wet it yet a third time. She is still trying to decide what to do with it as she checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She looks frightened, she thinks, lifting her arms to apply some deodorant, flapping them up and down in the air like a crazed chicken in an effort to dry them, her breasts bobbing restlessly in her new white lace brassiere, the one she raced out this afternoon to buy, the kind that clasps in the front. So much easier, she thinks. Why hasn’t she bought this kind before? And the panties, delicate silk bikinis with a soft pink ribbon lacing through the top elastic. They make her feel pretty, she realizes, deciding to buy more next week, despite their exorbitant price.

You’ve been a bad girl, she hears a cruel voice whispering in her ear, invisible eyes traveling the length of her body, unseen fingers snapping at her new purchases. You’ll have to be punished. I’m going to start by pulling down your panties …”Well,” she states, curtly dismissing the voice with the sound of her own, “at least these will give you something pretty to pull down.”

She spins around, wondering if the men’s magazine she came across several months ago is still in the cabinet or whether Paul took it with him, deciding not to look.
Either way, it would only depress her. Not simply that she can’t measure up, this goes without saying. Even twenty years ago, she would have provided these models with no serious competition. No, what depresses her about such magazines is the eagerness of grown men to purchase them and the seemingly endless supply of young women ready to pose for them.