The Housewife Blues (22 page)

Terry, she noted, seemed equally uncomfortable. She was not
smiling, and her eyes appeared to reflect an inner sadness. Jenny's first
thought was that the visit had something to do with the incident with Godfrey.

"Got a minute, Jenny?" Terry asked, offering a
forced smile.

"Of course," Jenny replied. "Coffee?"

Terry declined, which seemed a bad sign. But she did sit
down on one of the high chairs beside the kitchen island. She looked worried
and hesitant, another bad sign.

"Godfrey okay?" Jenny asked, as if probing for
some sign of where Terry might be heading. Suddenly Terry's face brightened,
which seemed to relieve Jenny's fears.

"In that department, a miracle," Terry said.
"We had our first procedure early this week."

"Really," Jenny said.

"Things are looking up," Terry said cryptically,
offering a wink. "And we're off on a weekend jaunt. I'm meeting him at the
car rental place." She looked at her wristwatch.

"I'm happy for you," Jenny said, patting Terry's
hand.

"Doctor said we're entitled to a little relaxation.
We're going up to a bed and breakfast in the Catskills. Make up for lost time,
if you know what I'm saying." She sighed, and Jenny could see that a
darker subject had entered her mind. "Jenny, I've got a problem."

"A problem?"

That could only mean one thing, Jenny thought.

"The loan," Terry said.

"Should we be discussing that?" Jenny asked. Even
on this issue, defiance of Larry's caveats quickly lost some of its previous
luster. "I mean, its being a business thing and all that. That's Larry's
department."

"Doesn't work that way, Jenny," Terry said
haltingly. "I must tell you. I did have it in the bag. But in this
climate, well, the tiniest things matter."

"I don't understand."

"They demand absolute candor."

"You'll have to make yourself clearer, Terry."

Terry's features arranged themselves as if she were
figuratively biting the bullet, telescoping the difficulty of what she was
about to say.

"Your joint financial statement, Jenny. Unfortunately
it reflected, well, an inaccuracy. They bucked it back to me. We're under a
magnifying glass these days. The examiners. Fact is, the loan is declined. I
feel awful about it, but that's the way it is."

"But why?"

"A double whammy, I'm afraid. In the first place, the
inaccuracy."

"What inaccuracy?"

"The statement validated said there was about twenty
thousand dollars in your account. It happens to be an account in our bank,
easily checkable. There's only a thousand or so in it. I know it seems trivial.
You see, it reflects an attitude. I might have fixed it say two, three years
ago. Now we're under strict guidelines. The banking business today is in
crisis. Actually, if it weren't for the other, I might have saved it."

"What other?"

Terry hesitated, grimaced as if she had swallowed something
bitter, then plunged on.

"The signature," Terry said. "Your
signature, Jenny."

"Mine?"

Jenny's heart sank. Her simple question, she realized, was
revelation enough.

"Not yours, Jenny. That's the point. It only made
matters worse. It was an obvious forgery. Can't do these things in today's
banking environment, I'm afraid. A signature is a bond."

"But, Terry," Jenny said, wondering if the
situation could be retrieved somehow. "He didn't mean any harm."

"Probably not, I'll grant you. But that on top of the
other only made things worse. It was out of my hands. I have supervisors.
Everybody's frightened."

"But you see, Terry, he didn't deliberately lie. I
withdrew that money," Jenny said, knowing it was futile. "And it's
all right that he signed my name. He is my husband."

"Husband or not, it's still illegal. Oh, I know it's
violated every day. But he didn't even come close to copying your signature. It
was so transparently obvious."

Jenny sighed. "I don't know what to say."

"The point is ... you should have signed it yourself.
I might have intervened then."

"But he's my husband. He's entitled to sign my
name."

"Not really. Not if you haven't given him power of
attorney."

"What's that?"

"Jenny," Terry said gently. "Where have you
been?"

"Been?"

"It's like ... like you're somewhere else, like things
have passed you by."

Jenny could tell from Terry's look and tone of voice that
she was being viewed as an object of pity, as if she were a poor dumb ninny.
She felt the anger charge up in her, some of it self-directed, since she knew
perfectly well that she should have signed the document, was entitled to sign
the document. It was, after all, her account, her money.

On the other hand, she reasoned, wasn't marriage a special
case? Not that she was defending Larry in her mind. But surely married couples,
being joined legally as one, could act as one. Couldn't they? Although she did
not respond immediately, Jenny was conscious of Terry studying her.

"Don't look at me as if I were a retard," Jenny
snapped.

"In case you hadn't noticed," Terry said with the
kind of visible patience reserved for recalcitrant children, "the day of
the 'little woman' is over."

"I'm not the little woman, Terry," Jenny said
firmly. "I'm a married woman, and I made the free choice to be a
homemaker." Something seemed to give way inside of her. "Why do you
women who work outside the home think you're so superior? You make us, who
choose to be full-time housewives or mothers, seem like morons. You have
strangers keep your house, strangers take care of your kids, and you think
you're better than us because you're making wages outside the home. Chances are
that those wages are being paid to you by men who order you around. And if you
really analyzed it, you'd realize that Larry would be creating more jobs for
women like you." She wanted to continue but suddenly was confronted with
all kinds of complicated contradictions.

"Jenny," Terry said gently, "I didn't mean
it the way you think."

"Yes, you did. And I'm not so sure your values are
better than mine."

"Neither am I." Terry sighed.

"Believe me," Jenny said, anger continuing to
simmer, "I know all about the hunter-gatherers and the nurturers." In
her heart, Jenny suspected, she was, right or wrong, defending her home and
family. Maybe—she gulped over this—she was defending a lousy little shit of a
husband, but Larry was her lousy little shit. The thought softened her courage,
and her anger began to cool.

"He'll go through the roof," Jenny said, the
reality of Larry's reaction sinking in. Soon she'd have to deal with still
another level of confrontation.

"I'm sorry," Terry said, getting up. "One of
the down sides to being a banker is having to dash people's hopes and dreams."

"Larry depended on it coming through. He'll be
crushed. All because of me."

"You?" Terry said.

She wondered if somehow she might turn this around,
motivate Terry to go the extra mile.

"I didn't tell him about the money I withdrew. He just
assumed it was there when he made up the statement. It's not his fault. Can't
your bosses find it in their hearts..." She felt herself quickly
approaching the outer edges of panic.

"It doesn't work that way, I'm afraid," Terry
said. "Everybody knows that bankers don't have hearts." The attempt
at humor fell flat, and Terry seemed to agree. "Jenny, it's out of my
hands."

Jenny tamped down an urge to be vindictive, to tell Terry
what she had done with Godfrey. But that, too, seemed a confusion of values.
Perhaps Godfrey had confided to Terry what had transpired between himself and
Jenny. Apparently it had cured his impotence. Perhaps she could appeal to Terry
on that score. After all, she deserved some credit for changing her and
Godfrey's life for the better.

"Anyway," Jenny said, breaking a brief silence,
"I'm happy things are better with you and Godfrey."

It was an abrupt change in context. Terry seemed surprised.

"So am I," she said, providing what appeared to
be the minimum reply. Jenny sensed her distancing herself and was afflicted
with second thoughts about invoking the Godfrey thing. It seemed somehow wrong,
underhanded, and, probably, counterproductive.

"I'm happy for you both," Jenny said. Terry did
not reply. She stood up.

"I'll be going," she said. Her awkwardness was
apparent as she made her way to the door. Jenny watched her. Then she turned.

"The fact is," Terry said, her mannerisms more
professional than when she had first come into the apartment, all business now,
"the loan was marginal, Jenny. I was pushing it."

Yes, Jenny thought, not without a touch of inner sarcasm,
you were just being neighborly.

"I wish I had never become involved," Terry said.
"I know we would have been great friends. But now..." She left the
words hanging in the air.

"When will you tell him?" Jenny asked.

"I was hoping you might."

"Really, Terry. I couldn't."

Terry shook her head and sucked in a deep breath. "I
didn't think so."

"He—he was expecting his answer today," Jenny
stammered.

"I never give bad news on Friday." Terry sighed.
"I don't like to get it on Friday myself."

"So I'm the one who has to live with it," Jenny
said, wondering how she could possibly get through the weekend carrying this
knowledge.

"I thought maybe you'd need the time," Terry
replied. She closed the door behind her.

Time for what? Jenny wondered. Time to soften the blow?
Time to be miserable? What?

TODAY is the day you worried about yesterday and all is
well."

Myrna could picture the little plaque on the kitchen wall
of her parents' apartment before they had divorced, an innocuous little homily
that nevertheless could be summoned up in a pinch when a shot of optimism was
called for. Well, she needed it now, because today was the day she'd worried
about yesterday and all was not well.

Jack had just told her that they would not be seeing each
other again until after the election was over, and she was buying only one-half
the equation, the part about not seeing her. Only in her mind it meant forever.

It was significant, she decided, that he broke the news
after their first episode of lovemaking of the weekend. As always, after these
episodes, he was first to go to the bathroom.

A moving image of him flashed through Myrna's mind,
picturing him completing the last stage of his postcoital "toilette,"
dabbing droplets of manly Polo scent on those hairy places where they would
linger like a morning forest mist.

In a moment he would appear in his blue terry-cloth robe, a
near match to his remarkable cerulean blue eyes. Over the left breast of the
robe was the little Polo player, his reassuring phallic mallet in midstroke,
obviously poised to make the goal that would carry the chukker to triumph.
There she was again, she thought, plumbing psychological depths, searching for
barbs to prod her present discontent with him.

Anger boiled inside of her, growing more intense in his
absence. A kiss-off, she was certain. It was terrible holding it in, bloating
her. He hadn't even waited for Sunday. It was still only Friday night. She knew
it was the way he did things, getting them out fast, political damage control.
They would have two days to work it out. Only she didn't want to work it out.
She felt used, exploited. Worse, she had been a toady to a man, been mesmerized
by his powerful position, and she resented it, remembering her father.

He came out of the bathroom as expected, skin glowing, hair
glistening in moisty black, thin lips poised in a satisfying smile. Then he
moved smoothly into the kitchen, she following, and opened the refrigerator,
pulling out the Dutch vodka that they drank.

"I'm pouring," he said with a wink.
"You?"

She shrugged. He made an assumption of consent, reached for
the glasses, and went through the pouring process with his usual smooth and
measured expertise. She watched him, irritated by his precision.

"More in mine," she said. He stopped the process
for a moment and looked at her, eyebrows raised. He shook his head and added
more.

"Only until after the election. Four months. I'm being
practical. It's a game, I know. Someone is bound to find out."

"It's a kiss-off."

"No, it isn't."

"I can tell."

"You're being very unreasonable." He sighed.
"Why take the risk? It changes nothing."

"It will."

"No, it won't," he protested.

Clinking the glass he had handed her with his own, he took
a long, hard gulp. She turned away from him, mostly to hide her
unreasonableness. Politically speaking, he was right, which didn't help her
growing paranoia. With weekends to look forward to, their relationship was
anchored. They had carved out a place for themselves. Without that, she feared
an ending.

"Would you like me to throw in the towel, then?"
he asked.

Perhaps she should test the waters on that one? The
question crossed her mind fleetingly, then retreated and disappeared. His
expertise was manipulation.

"You know better," she muttered.
"Although..." She paused and watched his face. "Well, that's
another agenda." She felt a rising malevolence. Both she and her father
were experts at substituting issues, disguising meanings.

"What other agenda?" he asked, falling into the
substitution trap.

"The political agenda. One more hypocrite presiding
over the decline of a constituency."

"Jesus, Myrna."

"Just look around you, Jack. Look what it's come
to."

"Somebody has got to try and turn it around,"
Jack said, his standard response. "And stop baiting me."

"It's hopeless and you know it. Too many people
rolling in like a black tide. Actually yellow tide, brown tide, Hispanic tide,
rainbow tide. What magic wand have you got to solve the problems?" She was
wound up in her substitution, attacking.

"I'll give it up, if you ask me to. Really ask me,
sincerely. But before you make your request, think of what you'll be
asking."

"I know. I know. The most exclusive club in the world.
A great title. Ego satisfaction. Most of all, power."

"All that," Jack said, smiling. He put his hand
behind his ear, as if it were being cocked. "Do I hear any requests to
step down?"

She lowered her eyes, the substitution ploy dwindling in
intensity. Finally she shook her head and shrugged, surrendered.

"Well then, leave it alone. It's best."

"Not best." She sighed. "Expedient."

"Necessary," he told her. "We'd be spending
our time looking over our shoulders for investigative reporters, private dicks
hired by the opposition, hordes of photographers. There would be listening bugs
everywhere. Media wants your ass, they'll get you. Who would know better than
you?"

"I surrender the point. You're right, dammit."

"Why take the chance?" he replied. "Listen,
think of my deprivation as well. It will hurt like hell, Myrna."

"You'll have the campaign to keep you busy," she
said.

"And you'll have your job."

"It won't be enough, Jack."

"For me neither."

"I'm frightened."

"Of what?"

She hesitated. It had been six months of joy beyond her
wildest dreams.

"Losing you."

"Dammit." His voice rose. "Don't be such a
worrywart. No point in us being self-destructive. So far we've been lucky,
damned lucky. Hell, this is grist for the supermarket tabloids. If there's
anything that can tear us apart, it's that kind of publicity."

She pouted. He was being sensible, and she was being a
silly romantic, knowing it. Leave it alone, she begged herself.

"Would it, really? Might give me some cachet."
She sensed her innate bitchiness rising, manufacturing those little
wisecracking sarcasms that were the scourge of writers, photographers, and
artists at the magazine. She felt herself approaching meanness and couldn't
find the will to stop.

"At least I got a sable out of it," she said.

He paused, studying her, as if he were looking for the
source of her malevolence. Take you down a long road, buster, she told him
silently, another knee-jerk reaction to her frustration. Years ago a
psychiatrist had told her that with men she was always deliberately putting
herself into no-win situations, setting herself up for castrating dramas. No,
she protested to herself.

"Emotional pain makes me a harridan, Jack," she
said, trying to eliminate the nastiness of her intonation. She waited for the
meanness to subside. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"No matter what, it's still a great-looking
coat." He chuckled. "And I love to do you in it."

"Shall I put it on?" She giggled, the burst of
meanness going.

"We'll save that one for last."

"Last?"

"Of the weekend," he corrected.

He came closer, and she could feel his body embracing her
from behind, head to toe. "Bear with it. I love you."

"For now," she said.

"For always."

But his nearness did not make her fear go away. When she
was hurting, her imagination became hyper and she could fantasize tragedy,
separation, and grief complete with vivid details. Projecting their parting,
she felt herself assailed by self-pity and despair. Finally the man of her
dreams arrives, the one love of her life, her match, and now he was
disengaging, letting her down easy.

From behind, he kissed her hair, her ear, his breath warm,
tantalizing. With his fingers he played with the nipple of her right breast.

"How can we give this up?" she whispered.

"Only for four months. My eyeballs will start to
float."

"Back to my vibrator. My electric bill will
soar."

Pleasure was taking possession of her, taking the edge off
her anger. The hurt was softening, then it was gone completely, and she giggled
happily. He opened her robe and began to caress her belly, then lower, opening
her with his fingers.

"It's just not fair," she said, feeling the
pleasure accelerate. The fear of losing him, she realized, heightened her
response. His as well. She could tell.

"My satyr," she cried, losing control suddenly, a
little opening orgasm breaking over her like a soft wave, making her shudder.
"Oh, God." The glass slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor.

It was a detail to be ignored. Odd sounds bounced in the
air, like birds arguing. Her focus was elsewhere, in some soft beyond, far from
time and place, her mind and body one, concentrating only on the deepening of
pleasure. She felt him behind her inserting his penis. Expectation gave way to
still another dimension of ecstasy. Her upper torso was sprawled across the
kitchen table, and she was contorting her body to bring him deeper, as if she
were bent on swallowing him up, sucking him into her from this point of entry,
devouring him. Something really big began inside of her, coming at her with all
the weight and heft of an oncoming giant train engine, heading for some waiting
impact. She beckoned it. "Coming," she shouted, the echo
reverberating as her body gave way, accepted it, surrendered.

Then she was making her way back, but something was awry,
different. She felt the weight of him on her back. At first she told herself it
was the natural reaction of his spent energy, a post-ejaculation relaxation.
"As good as it gets," she whispered, waiting for her own deceleration
to restore control to her mind. She did not move from the table, inert,
emptied, relaxing, her heartbeat slowing, waiting for his voice. After a while
she wiggled her behind, a playful sign for him to react, speak, remove his
weight.

When he didn't, she wiggled harder.

"Jack," she called.

Was he teasing her? Her position, which did not work as
well in repose, was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

"Come on, Jack, stop playing."

When he didn't answer again, she jabbed him playfully with
her elbow. Instead of the expected reaction, he slipped off her and with a
heavy thud fell to the floor. She turned, prepared to rebuke him. He was
sprawled on the floor, his naked body unnaturally askew, like a puppet that had
been carelessly laid aside.

"This is no joke, Jack," she said, standing over
him. Bending down, she grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him slightly, then
shook him. His head wobbled lifelessly. "Jack!" she screamed. The
jolting reality of his condition sank in finally. "My God." She
cradled his head in her arms. "Jack, speak to me."

When he didn't respond, she lowered her ear to his chest.
He was breathing with difficulty, each gasp labored. Instinctively, although
she had never done it before, she ran to the phone and dialed 911, but when she
heard a responding voice she hung up quickly. No, she told herself, surprised
at this display of cool logic.

A series of action options crowded into her mind. Yet
despite what was clearly a life-and-death crisis, the familiar paranoia still
overrode all considerations. What was between them had to be kept hidden. Above
all, dead or alive, he must not be found in her apartment. Tabloid headlines
surfaced in her imagination. SENATOR DIES IN THE SACK. MAGIC RUNS OUT ON
SENATOR'S WAND. SENATOR IN SEX OVERDOSE. SPRINGER TAKES ONE SPRING TOO MANY.

She owed him the avoidance of that, didn't she? Despite the
nobility of such an idea, she did feel the tug of hypocrisy. Her reputation was
at stake as well. Worse, people would find the ridicule in it. She could be an
object of snickers and satire, like the woman who had been with Nelson
Rockefeller when he died under similar circumstances.

Then suddenly Jack was moaning, clutching his chest. When
she looked at him again, his eyelids were fluttering. But he was still gasping
for breath. A glimmer of consciousness was returning. She ran into the bedroom,
got a pillow, and put it under his head and kissed his forehead.

"It's all right, darling," she whispered.
"Stay still." Gurgling sounds were coming from his throat.
"Don't try to speak. I'll get help." An idea had emerged in her mind.
Of course, Jenny Burns. Hadn't she helped with the coat? Jenny was already part
of it, wasn't she?

She threw a robe over her naked body, then dashed down the
stairs and pressed Jenny Burns's buzzer, leaving her finger on the button.

"What is it?" Jenny cried impatiently, responding
to the continuous buzzing, opening the door. Seeing Myrna in what was certainly
a hysterical state, Jenny reacted automatically, eyes widening with fright and
confusion.

"Please, Jenny. I need help. Badly."

"What—"

"Please, Jenny, come up quickly. It's ... it's
him."

"Him?"

"I'll explain everything. I promise."

Jenny followed Myrna up the stairs.

"My God," she said, looking at the naked man.
"You've got to call for help."

"A minute, Jenny. We've got to dress him first."

Jack's eyes were open, and he seemed to have regained more
alertness, although his pallor was ashen and he was obviously in pain.

"Try to relax," Myrna told him. She rushed to the
bedroom and gathered up Jack's clothing, socks, shoes, underwear, shirt, tie,
the suit he had worn when he'd arrived. "Help is on the way, darling. Just
hold on."

Jenny knelt next to her, and both of them began to dress
him. It wasn't easy, requiring some gentle manipulation. Myrna wanted him to
look neatly dressed. Jenny seemed puzzled by the care she was taking. Both
women worked quickly, developing an efficient enough system so that Jack was
fully dressed quickly. When they had completed the process, except for the tie,
Myrna began to thread it under Jack's collar.