The Housewife Blues (17 page)

"Teddy?"

"My son. I'm sure you've seen him around."

"Yes, I have. Sweet kid."

"Too sweet, maybe," he said, looking off into
space. He reflected in silence for a moment. When he lifted his eyes toward
her, he seemed frightened, as if he had revealed too much. "Never mind.
It's not important."

"You may be just imagining..." She found it
difficult to continue. What she wanted to say but couldn't was: Teddy's not
what you think.

The coffee was ready, and she poured a cup for him and one
for her. Shakily he brought the cup to his lips and sipped.

"You're right. It's pretty good."

"I've got the coffee touch," she said, sitting
down on the high chair beside him. She looked at him and smiled. "Mad at
me?"

"At you?"

"For saving your life."

"God," he said. "It's embarrassing. I can
hardly believe it. Why did I do it? I even wrote this stupid note." He
took it out and tore it into little pieces, which he put on the surface in
front of him. Then he sighed and shook his head. "This morning after they
both left, I just blundered into it, I guess. Obviously, in my haste, I chose
the wrong method."

"I wouldn't know," Jenny replied.

"I should have used pills."

"Would have saved me a lot of trouble," she said.

"Crazy talk," he said. "Can you believe
this?"

"Maybe this is what people talk about when they come
back from the dead," Jenny said. Oddly, she suddenly thought of Myrna and
her sophisticated repartee. She felt imitative, yet strangely superior, morally
superior.

"You must think I'm pretty weak," Mr. Stern said,
as if he had been reading her mind.

"Who am I to make any judgments like that?" Jenny
said. "I guess it happens. People get overwhelmed and lose their courage.
I'm not exactly an expert on it. Except..." An idea was forming in her
mind, the branch of an idea rooted in her life, her values, back in Indiana. She imagined she heard her father's twang, her mother's words.

"Except what?" he asked.

"I ... I don't want to set you off ... make you run
off and do it all again." She watched his expression for any sign of that,
not that she could have told if there were a sign.

"No. That's over. Definitely over. Temporary insanity,
let's call it." He sucked in a deep breath. "Please. Please don't say
anything. Not to..." His eyes looked up, his message clear. "Not to
them, especially. I'll be eternally grateful."

"I was about to say," Jenny said, "that it
was an act of extreme selfishness." There, it was out, and she felt better
for it.

"Who can argue with that? You can't imagine how small
I feel. It's not the end of the world. Hell, so we get evicted. I'll get a job.
I can be quite an earner. Damned recession kicked me in the butt." He
looked up suddenly. "Bet I sound like a kid whistling in the cemetery.
Shit." The color drained from his face, and he seemed to Jenny to be
sinking back into a suicidal depression. Can't have that, she told herself,
feeling somehow responsible for the man, as if saving his life gave her some
proprietary interest over him.

"Just put it out of your mind," she said.
"Remember that song from
Annie
. The sun will come up
tomorrow."

"It's up," he said, frowning. "And I've got
to move, lock, stock, and barrel. Uproot." He shook his head. "If
only..."

"If only what?" she asked.

"A little breather is all." He sighed. "The
miracle is that I was able to stall them for four months. Sally has no idea
about the eviction. The family finances are my bailiwick. Her salary goes for
Teddy's tuition and putting food on the table. Oh, she knows things are rough,
but not that rough." He looked up at Jenny. "I didn't want to upset
her. That's a laugh. Just look what I was about to present her with."

"Your corpse," Jenny said with a touch of
sarcasm.

"It was either the eviction notice or that," he
said. "The latter somehow seemed less painful."

"The easy way out," Jenny said, looking at him
archly.

"So here I am." Mr. Stern chuckled wryly.
"And I've still got to explain the eviction notice. No way out on that
one." He grew pensive, as if he were carrying on an imaginary internalized
conversation. Even his lips moved soundlessly. "Now where the hell can I
come up with the back rent?" he blurted as if responding to the hidden
voice. "All I need is time." He blew air between his teeth. "Fat
chance." He looked up, flushing. "Babbling away like an idiot."

"You'll come out of it," Jenny said, adopting her
cheerleader mode again. "You look pretty smart to me and, judging from
your quick recovery, reasonably healthy and strong. I'd say you were the kind
of guy that will make it."

He upended his coffee mug and seemed to linger behind it
for more time than it would take him to swallow. Sensing his embarrassment, she
berated herself for her Pollyannaish attitude. Somehow her words seemed hollow
and unrealistic, as if she were talking to a straw doll instead of a
flesh-and-blood human being feeling terrible pain and about to lose the roof
over his head. In a strange way, she felt responsible for the man. Hadn't she
brought him back to life? Rescued him? What now? She couldn't imagine why she
was addressing such questions. The man was a total stranger.

Often her parents had preached the doctrine of sharing with
the less fortunate, of being helpful and kind to those in need. When their
neighbors the Robinsons had gone through hard times, with Mr. Robinson out of
work and Mrs. Robinson deathly ill with pneumonia, hadn't her parents come to
their rescue, taking Jenny's best friend, Penny, to live with them and
providing the family with food, nursing help, and, Jenny was certain, money to
tide them over?

"Good deeds come back tenfold," her father had
told her. Actually it was a family litany. Being a good Christian didn't mean
going to church, they had preached. And the Golden Rule was invoked at every
opportunity. She remembered suddenly the incident with the homeless man. So
what if he'd wanted more? Desperation made people crazy. Hadn't she just
witnessed such an act?

Watching this wretched, defeated man whose life she had
saved, Jenny felt a great wave of compassion wash over her.

"And Teddy," she remembered the man had said, too
ashamed to confront "that" issue in front of her, although it was
obviously a heartache for him.

"I have something to ask you, Mr. Stern," she
began tentatively. "And I hope it won't embarrass you." Above all,
she thought, she mustn't take away his dignity.

"To ask me?"

"Would you be upset if I offered to lend you some
money? You know, to tide you over until you can pay me back."

She watched as the man's eyes seemed to wobble in his head,
then became moist. His lips trembled as they tried to form a kind of smile.

"You would do that?" he managed to say, his voice
gravelly with emotion.

"Only if it didn't offend you," she said.

Coughing into his fist, he cleared his throat. He shook his
head in disbelief. "But why?" he began, wiping away his tears.

"Let's say I feel..." Jenny searched for a word.
"Responsible. And surely you'd pay me back when you got on your feet. I
have no doubt about that."

Did she really? she wondered. Or was she superimposing her
own moral sensibilities onto him?

"I can't believe this," the man said as if he
were once again starting to converse with some being inside himself.

"Just a loan, remember."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. That would be a condition of the loan.
Not to your wife. Or Teddy. And especially..."

In her mind the idea of Larry's disapproval loomed
menacingly, and she tried to dismiss the thought. This was her money, saved by
herself. Suddenly she regretted having told Larry that she had it. Hadn't he
acknowledged to her that it was hers to do with as she wished? The memory gave
her a stab of resentment. Why did she need his permission? Considering his general
attitude about neighbors, she wouldn't expect consent anyway. None of his
business, she decided militantly, remembering her anger at not being included
in the discussions about his new business.

"As long as we keep it between ourselves," she
continued, hoping he would catch her meaning without further explanation.

"Between us. Of course," Mr. Stern said, his eyes
dry now. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Without another word, she went into the bedroom and took
her checkbook and a pen out of a drawer, then came back into the kitchen. With
the checkbook open on the kitchen island, she started writing, then paused. It
suddenly occurred to her that she didn't know the man's first name.

"To whom should I make it out?" she asked.

"Barry Stern," Mr. Stern said.

She wrote out a check for $19,000, which left approximately
$1,000 in her account, then tore it out of the book and gave it to him,
acknowledging to herself that in handing over the check, she felt good, as if
she were fulfilling something fine and valuable in herself. The man looked at
the check for a long time.

"I can't believe it," he mumbled.

"It won't bounce, either," she said lightly.

"I ... I feel very funny about this. I mean, I barely
know you. And here you are..."

"I told you. It's a loan."

"Of course it is." His eyes roamed the kitchen as
if he were looking for something. "And I should sign some paper
acknowledging that."

"That won't be necessary," she said. "I feel
quite certain that you'll pay me back."

In her heart, which was bursting with magnanimity, she felt
sure of it. Trust was trust. What difference would a piece of paper make? At
the same time she wondered whether this was another test, a true test of her
own judgment about people, a midwestern, not a New York, judgment. Or was it defiance,
defiance of Larry and his opinions about the human condition?

"I ... I don't know what to say," Mr. Stern said,
tears brimming in his eyes once more. "I don't really feel I deserve
this." Reaching out, he took one of her hands and moved it to his lips.
"You're a saint, Mrs. Burns, a true saint. You've saved my life twice
today. I feel..." He began to sob, and she gently removed her hand from
his grasp and patted his head with it.

"It's all right," she said. "You'll be fine.
I know you will."

"This is the greatest vote of confidence a man could
have," he said.

"I hope so," she said, trying to head off any
additional show of gratitude, fearing that the memory of it might embarrass him
later.

He folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket, patting
it to be sure it was still there. Then he stood up.

"It's like the first day of the rest of my life,"
he said. "I'm sure it's the beginning of a turnaround." He smiled,
took her hand again, and kissed it.

"Now, now," she said, smiling. "And remember
our bargain." She put a finger on her lips. In response he repeated the
gesture, patting the check in his shirt pocket once again. He turned and moved
toward the apartment door.

"And Mr. Stern," she called. Despite her gesture,
this thing with Teddy still nagged at her.

He turned in response, his look expectant, as if he feared
she had changed her mind.

"About Teddy," she said.

"Teddy?"

"He's..." She hesitated. It was impossible to get
the words out. Need she do more for this man? she asked herself. "He's a
fine boy, Mr. Stern. I'm sure everything will work out." Sooner or later
he would discover the truth. Quite enough salvation for one day, she decided.

"Who knows?" Mr. Stern said. "You could be
my lucky charm."

She smiled inwardly, knowing it was probably true. She
liked that. She had performed the greatest good deed of all, saving his life.
It felt wonderful to be a good luck charm.

"I hope so," she said.

He nodded, their eyes locked for a moment, then he left the
apartment.

THE RICHARDSONS?" Jenny exclaimed, flabbergasted by
the request.

"Nothing overboard," Larry said. "Just a pot
luck kind of thing. No pressure. Just a neighborly get-together."

"Neighborly?"

"You're supposed to be this big fan of neighborly, I
thought it might be appropriate to give your instincts fair play."

He had wandered into the living room from his den, where he
had been working while she was watching reruns of "Dallas" on
television. Sitting beside her for a while, he had watched the program without
comment, which was unusual for him since he detested television in general,
especially "Dallas."

"How can these airheads possibly have so many
complications in their lives?" he had once commented. And here he was
sitting next to her on the couch, actually watching the show with her. It was during
the commercial break that he'd made the startling suggestion.

"Do you object?" he asked when her response
seemed less than enthusiastic.

"No. I think it's a fine idea," she said.
"I'm just surprised."

She liked Terry Richardson, although she did not feel much
admiration for her husband, Godfrey, who was obviously carrying on adulterous
relationships with numerous women. Jenny could not forget his little midday
tryst with that bimbo. And who knew how many times he cheated outside the
apartment?

Lately, in her chance encounters with Terry in the
hallways, she had noted that Terry looked tired and wan, as if she were either
sick or carrying too great an emotional burden. Considering what Jenny knew,
she could certainly empathize with her.

With Godfrey she was polite but never truly friendly. He
didn't look so hot himself these days, she had observed. How could he,
considering the double life he had been leading?

"When would you like to do this?" she had asked.

"Sooner the better." His response puzzled her,
but then he had mused aloud: "Once you make your mind up, it's better to
act on things."

Perhaps he was having a change of heart on the issue of
neighbors, she decided, although he hadn't seemed to have had a change of heart
on much else. Nearly two weeks had gone by since the dinner with Vince and
Connie Mazzo, and he hadn't mentioned much about the new business, except to
say that everything was going according to schedule. And he hadn't lectured her
on the issue of the neighbors, which did indeed represent that he had kept at
least part of his promise. This new wrinkle in his attitude might mean that he
was beginning to discard some of his cynicism and paranoia about other people.

Jenny extended the invitation to Terry on the telephone,
and after a few moments of hesitation Terry accepted, although not without some
guilt.

"We should be reciprocating," Terry said.
"After all, you had us first months ago."

"Don't be silly," Jenny said, although she knew
that there was a lot of truth in the allegation.

"It's just that we're under such pressure. Besides,
all we do these days is work and jump into bed in exhaustion."

"Well, then make an exception," Jenny said.
"It will be good for both of you."

"Don't make a big deal," Terry said.

"I was thinking spaghetti and meatballs," Jenny
mused, happy for the acceptance.

"Good. I'll make my super sauce."

The Richardsons showed up on time a few evenings later.
Terry carried a pot of sauce, and Godfrey carried a bottle of red wine.

"Not bad," Larry said, eyeing the label and
offering an uncommonly broad smile of greeting. In fact, Jenny had noticed, he
had been oddly absorbed by the impending dinner, dropping strange hints of
concern and worry.

"Remember, low-key," he had reminded her on a
number of occasions.

"Does that mean paper plates?" she had joked. He
hadn't laughed.

"Not that low-key," he had answered, looking at
her archly and not smiling. Lately he had seemed more self-absorbed than usual,
which she attributed to the pressures involved in starting the new business. Still,
he had continued to be less than forthcoming on that subject, and she had
deliberately not added to the pressure by probing too deeply.

Both Richardsons looked tired, and although Terry seemed
cheery, her sad eyes belied her upbeat manner. Jenny dismissed any further
analysis, although based on her observations of Godfrey's behavior, it did
cross her mind that they might be having serious marital difficulties.

Jenny and Terry went into the kitchen, leaving Larry to
play host to Godfrey in the living room.

"A few little odds and ends yet to get the sauce up to
prizewinning par," Terry said. "Needs a couple of nice Bermuda onions."

Jenny brought out the onions and put them on the chopping
block. She had already put up the big pasta pot to boil and had rolled the
meatballs and put the salad makings into the wooden salad bowl.

As she sliced away at the onions, Terry kept up a steady
patter of talk.

"This is one great idea, Jenny. I can't remember how
long it's been since I had any fun. We really should do this more often, don't
you think? Only next time I want you and Larry to come up to my place."
Her talk went on and on while Jenny supplied the acknowledgments in the
appropriate places.

After a while Godfrey came in with a bottle of opened white
wine and two glasses. He poured each of the women a glass and put the bottle
down on a corner of the cutting board. Jenny noted that he stopped for a moment
to observe his wife, whose eyes were tearing from the onions.

"You okay?" he whispered.

"Of course I'm okay," she snapped. "It's
these damned onions."

"You promised," he whispered.

"I told you, it's the onions."

Jenny felt embarrassed at overhearing the exchange and
tried to appear as if she hadn't heard by mixing the salad with more enthusiasm
than was warranted. But after he had gone, Terry seemed less bouncy.

"Wine's good," she said after a deep sip.

Jenny noted that Larry had opened his very best white,
which by his own word had been bought to be used only for special occasions.

"Damned onions," Terry said, rubbing her moist
eyes with her sleeve.

"Let me," Jenny said.

"No. It's fine." She had turned away from the
cutting board and upended her wineglass. Jenny took the bottle and came around
to refill Terry's glass. Facing her at that distance, Jenny noted that there
seemed to be more to her tears than the onions. Also her hands shook as she
proffered the glass for the wine.

"Jesus, look at me," Terry said. With her other
hand she steadied the glass and brought it up to her lips, taking another deep
sip.

"Are you all right?" Jenny asked, deliberately
trying to appear unprovocative.

"Do I look not all right?" Terry said, a slight
tremor noticeable on her lips as she spoke. Then she shook her head vigorously.
"No. That is an unfair question."

"I can finish the onions," Jenny said, hoping to
avoid the confession that she sensed was about to emerge. She hated the idea of
having to listen as Terry recounted her husband's infidelities, as if somehow
her silence made her culpable. She resumed chopping the onions, aware that
Terry was studying her, perhaps trying to determine whether or not to confide
her misery.

"Jesus, Jenny. It's been awful." The woman began
to sob, her shoulders shaking as she braced her palms against the sink. Jenny's
heart went out to her, and she felt it impossible not to respond.

"Really, Terry. It couldn't be that bad."

Jenny imagined herself in that position, imagined her
reaction. Betrayal, she supposed, hurt a great deal, as if something valuable
were lost. She wanted to embrace Terry, comfort her. As she was about to do so,
she realized that her hands were moist with onion juice.

Terry bent over the sink, turned on the tap, scooped up
water, and patted her face. Then she stood up and, facing Jenny, sucked in a
deep breath.

"I promised him. He sees me like this it will only
make things worse."

Jenny was confused by the statement and must have shown it.

"It's not his fault, you see," Terry said, her
reddened eyes beginning to clear.

"Not his fault?"

"Actually I blame myself mostly for waiting too long.
Pursuing my career. My fucking career."

Jenny thought that Terry would begin crying again, but she
somehow recovered, finished her wine, then poured herself another glass. Even
though Terry seemed to be speaking in shorthand, Jenny realized that her unhappiness
didn't appear to have anything to do with infidelity, but with infertility.
Apparently they hadn't had much luck on that score.

"It's ... it's psychological. Common, the doctors say.
Oh, I feel terrible about even telling you, but who the hell can you talk to
about this, except doctors, and all they can say is that there is nothing
organically wrong."

"That's good, then," Jenny said. "Isn't
it?"

"Good? Horrible. Worse than horrible."

"Well, if there's nothing organically wrong..."

"Jenny," Terry said, her tone on the cusp of
intimidating, "don't you understand? He can't get it up. He can't fuck. He
can't even masturbate. In case you haven't heard, the sperm is in the
ejaculate. And nothing seems to help. Nothing." The outburst disintegrated
into hysteria. "We're going crazy over this. It's frustrating, maddening,
and the damned clock keeps ticking away."

Now Jenny was totally confused. The man was philandering
and he couldn't have intercourse? God, she thought, did I have that wrong.

"Jenny, I swear. I'd do anything. It sounds bizarre,
doesn't it? I adore Godfrey. I love him. I want his baby. Our baby. All he
needs to do is come and take the ejaculate to the fertility clinic for
processing. Sounds simple, right? It's not. Dammit, I'd let him do it with
anyone just to get the right stuff. I'd welcome it. But I'm scared to death to
even suggest it."

Watching Terry agonize over the situation, Jenny could
barely correlate the information. She berated herself for being smug and
judgmental, even sanctimonious. And yet, observing Terry's genuine pain, she
still harbored doubts. It was possible that the woman who came up to meet
Godfrey was nothing more than a sex object, hired to induce his orgasm. Such a
situation was simply out of her realm of experience, although it did have a
logical twist that made her feel ashamed of her original assumptions. The
perception of evil in terms of Godfrey disintegrated, and her sense of
compassion accelerated. She apologized in her heart to Godfrey. Nothing in Manhattan is ever as it seems, she thought, wondering why she had never encountered these
matters in Bedford. Not that they weren't happening, but it was the kind of
thing that Bedfordians kept hidden and suffered silently.

"So here I am laying it on you," Terry said.
"Godfrey would be enormously embarrassed if he knew I had told you. It's
worse for him, since it strikes, well, right at the heart of his manhood.
Believe me, I've learned a lot about men from this experience. Men really
define themselves by their hard-ons. It sounds awful to the ear, almost
obscene, but it's a fact that we women don't fully comprehend. Erection,
insertion, ejaculation. It's programmed into their maleness, and if the first
fails, the others go down like dominoes. I can cry for every time I turned him
down. Not that we girls are supposed to be blindly compliant, but a little
insight and understanding could have gone a long way. A man really needs the
comfort of this triad. Probably more so than a woman. Damn, I sound like a
shrink. I feel so terrible for him. The next step is an impotency clinic,
although he's not quite worked himself up to go. Listen, how many
times"—Terry lowered her voice—"how many times when you were single
did you confront ... you know ... a temporary failure? Remember how reassuring
you were, probably saying it's okay, even when you were hot as a firecracker.
Well, I've reached the limit of reassurance with poor Godfrey."

Terry's words, Jenny admitted to herself, were indeed harsh
on the ears. She had never heard such direct intimate talk from another woman,
nor had she ever confided such things to anyone. By no means was she a sexual
prude, not in her actions, but putting it into words made her uncomfortable,
although it in no way diminished her sympathy for the plight of her neighbors.

"Sex used to seem so forbidden, exotic, a secret
thing, even deliciously dirty," Terry continued, her voice now a whisper.
She had moved her face closer to Jenny's, who felt the breeze of her words and
smelled the scent she used, less subtle at this distance. "A lot of my
girlfriends hate sex. I love to fuck. I love to come. I love to make him come.
Tell you the truth, I've tried everything. Everything. When he's sleeping I
peek under the covers and look at those lovely involuntary hard-ons, which
happen when normal men sleep, but as soon as I make my move, down it goes
again." She looked squarely into Jenny's eyes. "I'm at my wits' end.
Now, for example, right now, it's right in the middle of my cycle, the perfect
time. I feel so damned..." She paused for a moment, and her voice rose.
"So inadequate. So helpless. My heart goes out to him. I don't know what
to do, and I'm scared to death that his libido may be permanently
deceased."

Jenny hoped she had hidden her sense of shock, which was
compounded by this latest revelation. She could remember only two times in her
single life when a male had failed to function, and yes, she had said those
things that Terry had mentioned. But they were exceptions. Her general
experience with the four men she'd been intimate with before her marriage was
that men reacted, got hard. Sometimes they needed a little help, but invariably
they rose to the occasion. The episodes of impotence had been temporary, very
temporary. In her experience they'd all had the opposite malady.