The Housewife Blues (14 page)

"Please," she said firmly. "You can talk
over dinner."

"Jenny, this is important," Larry said. "The
dinner can wait."

"No, it can't," Jenny said. Her throat had
constricted and her voice had tightened to a whisper. She felt miserable. In
desperation she sat down at her place at the table and gulped some wine.

"I still don't think so, Larry," she heard Vince
say, the words bouncing without meaning in her mind.

"Why don't you guys cool it," Connie said. "Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Clay Barnes is a schmuck, and Milton Hines is a
company loyalist. One of those 'my shit don't stink' guys. I don't trust
him," Larry said. "I've seen his memos. He's a back stabber."

"There's nothing worse than cold fettuccine
Alfredo," Jenny cried, finding her voice again. She was sitting alone at
the table. She poured herself another glass of wine and took a deep gulp.

"In a minute," Larry said, raising his voice.

"Well then." Jenny shrugged. "Forewarned is
forearmed." She poured herself more wine, then began to eat the
fettuccine. "Not bad," she told herself, washing it down with another
heavy draft of white wine. She was nearly finished with the fettuccine when
they came to the table. Larry gave her a look of disapproval as they took their
seats.

Jenny watched as Connie tasted the fettuccine.
"Wonderful," she said, playing with it with her fork but eating
little.

"A little on the cold side," Larry said.

"Not bad," Vince said, but he too was playing
with it with his fork.

They began to talk among themselves, only now they didn't
even give her the courtesy of an occasional glance. Their conversation was
growing increasingly distant, as if they were talking a foreign language.

She dutifully poured the wine into their glasses, then
collected the plates and went into the kitchen to put together the main dish.
Although she was beginning to feel light-headed, she still had the presence of
mind to keep the meal on schedule. Timing was crucial.

Larry came into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine
from the refrigerator. As he uncorked it, he whispered his criticism through
clenched teeth.

"The pasta was too cold and too damned rich. People
don't eat rich food in New York these days, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I thought it would be festive," she said, hoping
she was hiding the heaviness in her tongue.

He opened the oven, in which the chicken Kiev was baking.

"That also looks too damned rich," he snapped.

"If you think that's rich, wait until they have the
dessert. It's strawberries Romanoff."

He studied her with disapproval and shook his head.
"You've got a lot to learn, Jenny," he said with a sigh.

"Better get back to your crew," she said.
"They could hire someone while your back is turned." Larry glared at
her and flushed deep red. She was surprised at her own tone. Dutch courage, she
decided, feeling a giggle rise in her chest.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. But she
had turned away, busying herself with the chicken Kiev. She felt him watching
her as she arranged the portions on plates.

"We'll discuss this later," he told her ominously
when she did not respond. She heard him move out of the kitchen.

"Yes, we will," she whispered to herself as she
picked up two plates and brought them to the table, repeating the operation,
then seating herself.

"Super," Connie said, picking at the chicken Kiev. Jenny again noted that she was playing with her food, moving it around without appetite.
Connie ate a tiny bit of the chicken and one asparagus spear but didn't touch
the potatoes au gratin.

"You're one helluva cook ... uh, Jamie," Vince
said.

"Jenny," Jenny said politely.

Larry also ate sparingly, occasionally glancing at her with
a mad look. Jenny forced herself to finish everything on her plate. Just
because they were on diets didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy what she
prepared. The fact was that she didn't enjoy it at all. It was merely a way to
seem busy while they talked about things she didn't understand, and it did
mitigate to some extent the effects of the wine.

They paid little attention when she rose to clear the
dishes, although Connie did make a disinterested offer to help.

"You're my guest, Connie," Jenny responded, and
Connie, looking relieved, quickly returned her attention to the others.

When Jenny came out of the kitchen with the strawberries
Romanoff, the others were completely absorbed in their discussion and totally
ignored her presentation. But by then she had sufficiently reined in her
frustration. She knew she was still slightly drunk but felt she was carrying
out a good imitation of sobriety. Besides, what would it matter if her tongue
was heavy? She wouldn't be saying anything that they cared to listen to.

"There's no way we can get the loan without personal
signatures," Larry said as Jenny spooned the strawberries Romanoff onto
their plates. It was quite obvious that they couldn't have cared less.
"Mine and Jenny's signatures and yours and Connie's. I've explored every
avenue, interviewed other bankers. It's our only option."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," Connie said.

"It's a business risk," Vince said. "With
that kind of line, they'd be crazy if they didn't ask for all our
signatures."

"Mine, too?" Jenny piped. She was surprised to
have heard her name mentioned in a business context.

"Of course yours, too," Larry said with
irritation, glaring at her and shaking his head as if he were embarrassed by
her sudden intrusion. His words sounded like a stage aside, which the others
had barely noticed, and he quickly resumed his conversation.

"Must I?" she interrupted.

"Must you what?" Larry asked impatiently.

"Sign something," Jenny said.

Larry sighed. "Of course you must."

"What exactly will I be signing?"

"Jenny, will you please keep out of this?" Larry
snapped. He turned to Vince and Connie. "Believe me, we'll find the bank.
Trust me on this."

"Without the loan, we're kaput," Connie said.

"Listen," Larry continued. "Even in this
climate, banks have to make some loans, and it won't be long before we have the
cash flow to keep it rolling over."

"Would really throw a crimp into things if the banks
turned it down," Vince said.

"Let me handle that," Larry said.

"I'd like to know—" Jenny had wanted this
business of her signature explained, if only to make herself part of the
discussion; but at that moment Larry rose and reached for the champagne bottle
that was cooling in a bucket beside the table. They all watched in silence as
he popped the cork and carefully poured the champagne into the fluted glasses.

"I just love Dom Pérignon," Connie said, watching
the bubbles settle in her glass.

"The perfect stuff to launch our ship," Vince
said. "And if we're lucky, there will be plenty more where that came
from."

When Larry had filled all the glasses, he picked his from
the table and remained standing.

"This calls for a special toast." He raised his
glass in the direction of Vince and Connie. "To the success of our
venture."

"Here here," Vince said, touching his glass first
with Larry's. Jenny had lifted hers, but when she saw that no one intended to
touch hers she brought it up to her lips and drank. But Vince wasn't through.
He turned toward his wife. "And to Connie for pushing me into this
craziness. For better or for worse, kiddo." Connie touched glasses with
Vince and then with Larry. If there was any intention to include her, it was
aborted by the sound of the buzzer.

"I'll get it," Larry said. He went into the
foyer, where the intercom was located. She heard a voice come over the
intercom, then Larry's response. A few moments later the buzzer to the
apartment sounded and she heard the door opening and closing.

"A package for you, Jenny," Larry said, bringing
with him a fairly substantial-looking package. "The messenger was all contrition.
Some foul-up with the address. Anyway, it's addressed to you." Jenny had
forgotten. It was Myrna's package. She hadn't expected to be confronted with
this situation, and her panicky reaction cleared her head instantly.

"Just some clothes I ordered," Jenny said.

"Henri Bendel," Larry said, reading the letters
on the box.

"Bendel's?" Connie exclaimed, her head cocked as
if in disbelief.

"A little on the pricey side," Vince volunteered.

"What is it?" Larry asked, inspecting the box. He
looked genuinely puzzled as his eyes met Jenny's.

"Just a little something," Jenny said with mock
cheerfulness, hoping she was appearing calm. Beneath the calm she was seething.
It was none of their business.

"Like what?" Larry pressed. He looked at her
suspiciously, knowing that it was totally out of character for her to buy
anything at Bendel's. Besides, her allowance wouldn't cover it.

"Come on, Jenny. I'm dying to see it," Connie
trilled as if it were a challenge.

"I'd rather not. I'm not sure that it fits."

"Well, try it on and we'll see," Connie pressed.

"No," Jenny said firmly.

"No harm in opening it," Larry said.

"I said no. Absolutely no."

She got up, walked around the table, and took hold of the
box. Larry continued to hold one end of it, and for a moment a tug-of-war
ensued.

"Oh, don't be a shit, Larry," Connie said.
"It could be a surprise. You know, something that she bought for your eyes
only." She winked. "Something sexy."

"Is it that, Jenny?" Larry asked. His lips were
pressed together, and she knew he was holding back his anger.

"I don't want to show it," she said, forcing
herself to remain calm. "Anyway, it's coffee time in the living
room."

"Really, Larry," Vince said. "You should
respect her wishes. If she doesn't want us to see it, that's her right."

"Damn straight," Connie said. "Stick to your
guns." Jenny could detect their patronizing tones.

At that point Larry released his grip on the box and Jenny
quickly took it to the bedroom and slid it under the bed, out of sight. She
felt awful, as if she had betrayed Myrna, even though she hadn't. Nor would
she, except under duress. The only glimmer of hope was that Larry might forget
about it until tomorrow and by that time she would have brought it upstairs.
Then she'd tell Larry that she had sent it back to Bendel's. It occurred to her
that this was a real lie, but she dismissed it as necessary to keep her word to
Myrna.

They moved into the living room, and she served them coffee
in demitasse cups.

"Is it espresso?" Connie asked.

"Afraid it's good old American decaf."

Larry glared at her. His look said: I'll attend to you
later.

She noted that after one sip they all put the cups aside.
But even as the coffee grew cold, they continued to discuss the matter between
them. Since they didn't include her in the conversation, she made no effort to
decipher what they were saying. Her mind was more engaged with the matter of
the package lying under the bed in their bedroom, hardly a hiding place. It
was, she decided, too late for that.

After a while Vince and Connie stood up.

"We've got to go," Connie said. She turned toward
Jenny. "It was a perfectly wonderful dinner, wasn't it, Vince?"

"You've got quite a little lady there," Vince
said. "Connie can't boil water."

"But there are some things I do exceedingly
well," Connie said, winking toward Jenny. It occurred to Jenny that most
everything that Connie said to her was accompanied by a wink.

Larry shook hands with Vince and kissed Connie on the cheek
as they edged toward the door.

"Don't forget," Vince said. "Early tomorrow
morning at my place. There's lots of decisions to be made."

"I'll buy the bagels and make the coffee," Connie
said.

"No. I'll make the coffee," Vince said. They all
laughed.

Since she didn't seem to be invited to this last-minute
tête-á-tête, not to mention not being invited to tomorrow's early-morning
meeting, Jenny headed for the kitchen, where she began to scrape the dishes and
load the dishwasher. The rush of water from the sink faucet drowned out any
other sounds in the apartment.

She forced herself to concentrate on the process of
scraping the dishes, loading them, and, after a while, washing the stemware,
which she would not trust to the dishwasher. Such attention to detail crowded
out any postmortems about the dinner. What did it matter? She knew that she
would soon undergo a plethora of postmortems.

Looking at her watch, she noted that it was much too late
to call her mother. She needed to do that, to touch those people who kept her,
as they say, in the loop. There was another reason as well. She'd have to break
the news that she couldn't be with the family on the Fourth of July. Larry had
nixed it. Too crucial a time in their life, he had told her.

After picking up the phone, she hung it up again. It would
be eleven in Indiana. Her parents were always asleep by ten. No need to upset
them.

"Who are you calling at this hour?" Larry
bellowed. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, holding out a spectacular
fur coat.

"I was thinking of calling my mother," Jenny
said.

"And how would you explain"—he lifted the coat by
the collar and shook it—"this?"

"You had no right to open that," Jenny cried.

"No right? It was addressed to my wife."

"That's right. To me."

"We are husband and wife. There are no secrets between
husbands and wives." He was speaking slowly, articulating each syllable
for emphasis.

"Oh, yes, husbands and wives. Only your rule is that
only wives should inform their husbands, not vice versa."