The Housewife Blues (23 page)

"That, too?" Jenny asked.

"That, too," Myrna replied. When it was clear she
could not tie a proper knot, Jenny intervened and managed to make one that was
passable.

"You've got to call someone," Jenny pleaded.

"In a minute—911. But first this."

Jack was still gasping for breath, but his eyes seemed to
comprehend the situation fully, and he nodded consent for Myrna's action.

"You see, darling? Everything is being done, and help
will be coming soon." She lifted Jack by the shoulders and sat him against
the wall.

"We're going to get you downstairs," Myrna said.

"Is this wise?" Jenny asked.

"Please. I promise I'll explain."

Myrna pushed Jack gently forward, got behind him, and put
her arms under his armpits.

"I'm going to lift you." She shot a glance at
Jenny. "Stand here," she said, pointing to a spot on the man's right
side. "Grab his right arm when I lift them and brace it on your
shoulder."

"I wish I were tall like you," Jenny said.
"But I am sturdy."

"One, two, three," Myrna said, lifting. Jack rose
unsteadily to his feet, while Jenny draped his arm over her shoulder and held
tight with both hands. She felt his weight, crushing at first, but then, as
Myrna got to his left side, manageable.

"Easy, Jack," Myrna said. "Help us if you
can. Try to keep us balanced."

Jack nodded as they struggled forward. Because of Jenny's
smaller stature, he listed to the right, but they managed to drag him through
the apartment door. Fortunately no one was in the corridor.

"It's going to be fine, Jack," Myrna repeated
over and over again as they maneuvered his slumping body to the elevator. It
was slow going. Jenny, grimacing with pain, was having a rough time. They
braced themselves against the wall as the elevator lumbered downward from the
third floor.

"We can do it, Jenny, I know we can," Myrna said,
offering encouragement with a cheerleader's enthusiasm. "See, Jack? We're
doing it," she said as the elevator door opened. "Just hold on.
Please, Jack. It will be fine. Right, Jenny? Won't it?"

Jenny grunted, unable to respond, obviously saving all her
energy for coping with Jack's weight. Myrna led them into the elevator, resting
against the wall of the cab. She was sweating, and her robe had opened, but she
paid no attention, concentrating on holding Jack and keeping up the patter of
encouragement.

After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator reached
the first level. With great effort, taking one cautious step at a time, they
managed to move him into the corridor. At one point Jenny faltered.

"You okay?" Myrna asked.

After a moment Jenny nodded, and they proceeded to move
toward the outside doorway.

"My apartment?" Jenny whispered.

Myrna shook her head. "Outside."

"Outside?" Jenny asked.

As they struggled to drag him through the outside door,
Myrna turned to Jack. He was still ashen, but his eyes were open.

"Understand, Jack?" Myrna asked. Jack blinked his
eyes in assent.

They paused at the top of the steps.

"Born under a lucky star, Jack," Myrna said.
"No people, and it's dark." She called out to Jenny, "Hold on to
the banister."

Jenny reached out and braced her arm on the stone banister
as they struggled down the stairs. Finally they reached the sidewalk. The
street was deserted, although there was pedestrian traffic on Third Avenue.

"Now," Myrna said. "We move to that
lamppost."

They dragged him to the lamppost, let him drop to the
ground in a sitting position, and braced him against the metal post.

"Now, Jenny," Myrna said, her heart pounding.
"Go into your apartment and call 911. Tell them that you saw a man
collapsed in front of the building—no, not in front. Near, nearer to the corner
on Third. Got it? Tell them to send an ambulance."

"Do I give them my name?"

Myrna thought a moment. "Yes."

Jenny, obviously still reeling from the extraordinary
effort, nodded and moved quickly back to the brownstone.

"Am I doing good, Jack?" Myrna asked when she had
gone.

Jack's eyes were open and he was still fighting for each
breath. But he did manage to nod his approval.

In a couple of minutes Jenny was back. "I did
it," she said.

"Now please," Myrna said. She had stood up and
moved out of the puddle of light into the shadows, leaving Jack leaning against
the lamppost. "You've got to help me on this. Please."

"Haven't I so far?"

In the distance they heard the faint sound of sirens.

"They're coming, Jack. Hear?" Myrna said. Then
she lowered her voice and whispered to Jenny, "I hope to hell it's for
him."

"I was insistent," Jenny said.

"You stuck to the story, I hope."

"Of course."

"Now when they question you ... here's the way it
happened," Myrna said, speaking hurriedly and wrapping her robe tightly
around her. The sound of the sirens seemed to be getting closer. "You saw
him from your apartment window. He fell on the sidewalk. You called 911. You
came out to help him. Nothing more. I was not here. Do you understand? I was
not here. I do not exist. Can you do this?"

There was a moment of hesitation as Jenny seemed too
confused to answer.

"I can't stay here, Jenny. Don't you see?" Myrna
pleaded.

"I understand," Jenny said, nodding. Yet Myrna
sensed something tentative about her answer. At the same time it struck her
that Jenny owed her no allegiance and, certainly, no favors. How can I possibly
rely on her? she thought, wondering if she, Myrna, could be drawn into such a
situation if the tables were reversed. No way, she thought, and yet she had to
trust this woman, did trust her.

"You'd better disappear," Jenny whispered.

Yes, Myrna decided, she is into the spirit of the thing.
And the sound of the sirens was indeed getting louder. She was thankful. The
beginning of a sob bubbled in her chest, but she swallowed hard and the sensation
disappeared.

"You see, Jack? It'll be fine. You'll see," Myrna
said, addressing the man sitting on the sidewalk. His eyes were open, and
although he continued to fight for breath, he seemed to comprehend.
"You'll know how to handle it, won't you, Jack?" He blinked his eyes
in obvious assent.

The sirens grew closer. Myrna could see the bursts of
flashing lights in the distance.

"Thank God, Jack. We'll talk later, okay?" Myrna
said, moving toward the stairs of the brownstone. Then she turned to Jenny.

"From the bottom of my heart," she began. Then,
overcome, she rushed toward the brownstone and dashed up the stone stairs.

IT MIGHT have exploded with less impact if Larry hadn't
seen it first on the front page of
The New York Times
. Of course, she
hadn't told him about it, knowing it would trigger an outburst, which she was
in no mood to endure.

But there it was on the front page of
The New York Times
.
She had been awakened out of a deep, dreamless, comalike sleep after spending
most of the night trying without success to tame her revved-up thoughts about
the strange turns her life was taking.

He had shaken her roughly, and she had scrambled into a
sitting position, frightened and barely conscious. Even Larry's voice had not
pulled her out of her disorientation.

"Read that!" he had shouted as he'd thrown the
paper at her torso.

"What?" she asked, her mind still foggy.

"That," he said, pointing.

She picked up the
Times,
then looked at Larry with
some confusion.

"That. That. That," he said, jabbing his forefinger
at the paper. "The part about Senator Springer."

"Senator Springer," she said, startled, returning
to full alertness.

SENATOR SPRINGER COLLAPSES ON EAST SIDE STREET, the
headline read. A long story followed, complete with the senator's picture. Apparently
the senator was still in intensive care, and his office had released a
statement that indicated it was one of the senator's pet eccentricities to walk
the streets at night to observe city life and to illustrate the right of
citizens to have free access to the streets, especially at night, and not be
intimidated by reports of crime. "We must take back our streets from the
hoodlums," he was quoted as having said.

Jenny shook her head in disbelief at the contorted
reasoning, although the
Times
writer hadn't completely bought the
explanation, even implying that the circumstances and the late hour were
somewhat mysterious. The writer also made it clear that the senator had not
been molested, which gave the story its only shred of believability, at least to
her.

She supposed that the explanation made good political
sense, and it was pointed out that the senator would further amplify the
incident when he recovered, which was, according to a hospital spokesman,
imminent. The heart attack was described as moderate to severe but not fatal,
downplaying its impact on the senator's career.

She was more amused than angry as she finished that part of
the story, then proceeded to find its continuation on another page. As she
read, Larry stood beside her, observing her with an angry look on his face. She
had to hand it to Myrna. She might have actually pulled off a clever political
cover-up. Not that she, Jenny, particularly enjoyed being a party to it.

She had simply followed Myrna's directions. When the police
and rescue people had shown up, she had followed her instructions to the
letter. From Jenny's perspective, she'd merely told the police who questioned
her little white lies, designed to protect the man's reputation. Simple as
that.

Jack was rushed off to the hospital, and she was
interviewed by the police. Naturally she gave her name and address and told
them, as agreed, that she had looked out of her window and seen the man lying
on the street and had called 911. Then she had gone outside and propped him up
against the lamppost.

After the police had left, she had gone back up to Myrna's
apartment and reported that she had complied with Myrna's wishes and that Jack
had been rushed off to Mount Sinai Hospital.

"A true and faithful friend," Myrna had told her,
embracing her and vowing sisterly fealty forever. "I'll never, never
forget this. We've saved a family from terrible embarrassment."

"I'd like you tell me who this man is," Jenny had
said.

"Not yet," Myrna had responded.

"Why not?" Jenny had protested.

"To protect you," Myrna had replied.

"Protect me?" Jenny had asked. It reminded her of
Larry's attitude toward her on the issue of whether to approach Terry or not,
as if she were some ignoramus who might say the wrong thing.

"Don't you see, Jenny? If you don't know who it is,
you have the luxury of deniability. You'll be less a party to it. If somebody
asks, you don't have to get involved."

"Like who?"

"Well..." Myrna paused. She seemed to be
searching her mind for a way to express herself. "Take the press, for example.
You did give your name."

"To the police. Of course. There was no way to avoid
it."

"Exactly. You did the absolutely correct thing."

Jenny sensed she was being patronized, treated like the
little woman again. "Why, thank you," she replied with just a tinge
of sarcasm, which Myrna ignored.

"So you see, the press will find out. They will call.
If I told you who he really was ... well ... you'd be vulnerable and might
spill the beans." Myrna smiled as if to sugar-coat the message.

"You mean you don't trust me to handle it," Jenny
said, but without the force of confrontation. It occurred to her that despite
all she had done for this woman, she was still that nice little dumb housewife
on the first floor.

"I didn't say that," Myrna said softly, still
patronizing, stretching out a shaking hand, pressing a thumb and forefinger
against both temples, a gesture of both exhaustion and exasperation.

Jenny shrugged, repressing on compassionate grounds any
demand to know more, yet not at all comfortable with her surrender. After all,
it was obvious that she was participating in a cover-up. Did the woman think
she had fallen off the turnip truck? It didn't take a genius to figure that
out.

"Trust me on this, Jenny. I'm in the media. I know how
it works."

She had heard "trust me" enough times in the past
few months to last a lifetime. "And you don't think I can handle it?"
she said.

"These reporters are tricky and clever. They can trap
you."

"You don't have to worry," Jenny interrupted.
"I'll be a good little girl if the media calls."

"What's come over you, Jenny?"

"It's all right. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm
sorry."

"Believe me, I understand. It's all my fault. Bringing
you into it. I have no right—"

"Let's just forget it, Myrna. It's okay. You have
nothing to worry about from me."

Jenny studied the woman. She looked awful. Dark circles had
suddenly erupted under her eyes, and she appeared to have aged ten years. No,
Jenny thought, this was definitely not the time for a confrontation.

"You just try to get a good night's sleep,
Myrna," Jenny said.

"I don't think that's possible, Jenny." She
sighed and shook her head. "I'm even afraid to call up and check his
condition."

"Would you like me to do that?" Jenny asked.

"God, no," Myrna snapped, as if to say,
"Haven't I made myself clear?" But the anger was quickly repressed,
illustrating to Jenny the bare bones of the woman's manipulation. No sense in
getting Jenny pissed off. Above all, we must keep the dumb little housewife
from blowing everything. Nevertheless, Jenny allowed herself to be embraced yet
again by Myrna, enduring her repetitive gratitude and vows of perpetual fealty.

"I owe you, Jenny. More than you know. For now and
forever," Myrna said as Jenny started toward the apartment door.
"Just stand by me on this."

"Of course I will," Jenny replied. Under the
circumstances, it seemed like the only possible reply.

"There is one thing, though," Myrna said, biting
her lower lip as if to prevent what she was about to say.

"What's that?"

"Your husband."

"I told you. He's working late these days, setting up
a new business."

"Yes. I remember. It's ... it's the sharing part ...
you know..."

"You're afraid I'll tell him," Jenny said.

"Third parties water down secrets, Jenny. I mean,
what's between us should remain between us. A sister thing."

There it was again, Jenny thought. Like the incident with
the coat. Yet she had betrayed Myrna on that, had surrendered to Larry's
intimidations. Worse, she wondered if her betrayal was transparent, visible to
Myrna's inner eye. She felt both embarrassed and angered by the possibility of
being perceived by Myrna as a diminished person, subject to a higher power ...
the man, the husband.

She was suddenly confused by the dichotomy. Didn't marriage
mean sharing? Sharing everything? Including secrets? Yet Jenny had consented,
had conspired, to hide things from her husband, eagerly conspired. It seemed
somehow to undermine the entire concept of how she'd once viewed the marriage
bond. She thought suddenly of her own parents, wondering what secrets they
withheld from each other, if any. Was her vaunted value system crumbling under
the weight of the big-city experience?

"Why put him in the loop?" Myrna pressed.
"What he won't know won't hurt him." Jenny searched Myrna's face, as
if looking for answers. But the fear and anxiety she saw there was
unmistakable. "Trust me," Myrna said after a long pause. Jenny
nodded, knowing it was without much conviction, then started toward the
apartment door.

"Jenny," Myrna called before she could step into
the corridor. Jenny stopped and turned.

"Best thing would be to take your phone off the
hook," Myrna said, her mind obviously still concentrating on preserving
Jack Whoever-he-was's reputation. "Everyone will know in the morning
anyhow."

Well, Jenny could now confirm, she was certainly right
about that.

* *
*

"There. There," Larry said, jabbing his finger
into the part of the newspaper that had the continuation of the story. Jenny
was identified by name—"Jenny Burns"—as the woman who had called 911,
along with her address. Apparently someone from the paper had tried to contact
her, because it was pointed out that she could not be reached for further
comment.

When she had returned to her own apartment last night,
Jenny had, despite a repugnant sense of surrender, taken her phone off the
hook. But then, with equal repugnance, she had put it back just as Larry had
come in the door.

"So?" Jenny said. "I saw him there ...
collapsed on the street, then I called 911. That's all there was to it."

"And you didn't think that I was worthy enough to
share this information?"

As usual he hadn't asked her about her day. She hadn't
planned to tell him anyway, and he had fallen asleep immediately upon hitting
the pillow.

"Frankly, I didn't think it was that important,"
Jenny said, quite aware of her duplicity.

"Not important? Senator Springer collapses practically
on our doorstep under mysterious circumstances and you're the one that spots
him and calls the police and you don't think that is important enough to tell
your husband?"

"All right, I suppose it was important, but only
because he's a senator."

"If he was only a bum and you were the one who called
the police, wouldn't that be worthy of telling me about this event in your
day?"

"I suppose I should have," she admitted, not
wishing to provoke him further.

"And this cock-and-bull story about walking the
streets at night. Dollars to doughnuts he was shacking up with someone in this
neighborhood." He chuckled sarcastically, while Jenny felt her stomach
knot. "Maybe even that
Vanity Fair
idiot upstairs."

She wondered if her features gave her away. But when she
shot Larry a glance, he wasn't concentrating on observing her, but was caught
up in his own ranting.

"I wouldn't know," Jenny muttered.

"What a gas that would be."

"The fact remains, I didn't know who he was,"
Jenny said, remembering Myrna's statement about preserving deniability.

"Naturally not," Larry said with what seemed to
be a deliberate attempt to diminish her, meaning that she was too uninformed to
recognized Senator Springer.

"The little woman doesn't trouble her head about such
things. Is that it?" she said. Under the circumstances, it was a question
she couldn't resist. She felt her anger begin to simmer, but still she wanted
to avoid any more confrontation, fearful that she might, in a fit of anger,
blurt out this business about the loan.

"It's not exactly your bag," Larry said.
"Notice I haven't tested you on who the other senator might be."

She was glad of that. She really didn't know, although she
was quite aware of the two senators and her congressman from Indiana. Okay, she
told herself, one for your side.

"What's the point, Larry?" she said calmly.
"So I didn't mention it. Where's the crime in that?"

"No crime," he muttered. "Just
indifference." He seemed unable to drop the subject.

"I said I was sorry. I just didn't think it was that
important," Jenny said, no longer assailed by any constraints of
conscience. She could only imagine what would have happened if he knew the
complete truth.

"I have to read it in
The New York Times,
for
chrissake."

"Well then, call it an oversight. I was too tired to
talk about it when you came in. And you were probably too tired to listen. I
would have told you this morning." She hoped that would put an end to it.

"It's indicative, that's what it is," he
persisted.

"Indicative?"

"Of your inability to understand that in New York one does not volunteer involvement." He was off on that again. She sighed
with exasperation.

"Are you saying I should have done nothing, turned my
back on the man?" She had suspected it would come down to the issue of
involvement. She chuckled to herself, realizing with some glee how far she had
bent actual events.

"At least you wouldn't have had your name in the
papers."

"Larry, can you spare me the lecture?" she asked,
watching his face darken.

"How can one ever lecture on common sense? You either
have it or you don't. Involvement has to be selective, well defined, like our
involvement with the Richardsons. It has to serve a purpose."