Wifey (11 page)

13

M
YRA AND
G
ORDON
threw a swim party the next night. They’d just had the pool landscaped and lit. Mona assured Sandy that Myra’s pool was the talk of Short Hills, just as her house had been a few years earlier, with its staircase straight out of Tara and its eight and a half bathrooms.

Sandy and Norm arrived early for a private tour of what used to be the backyard. “Fantastic!” Norman said over and over as Myra and Gordy pointed out the newly planted sights. “Absolutely fantastic! I only hope some day we can do the same thing in Watchung.”

“You’ve got to give him full rein,” Myra said of their landscaper, who called himself the Greek. No relation to Jackie’s Greek. “He’s a kook, but very talented. If you try to tell him what to do he’ll quit. I told him I wanted something that blooms so the next morning I look out my window and here’s this bush with the most gorgeous purple flower you ever saw. So I rush outside to get a closer look and the Greek, who’s watching the whole thing, gets hysterical, laughing. Because it’s plastic! His idea of a joke!”

“And you’ve got to be willing to pay,” Gordon added, “through the nose.”

Tiny lanternlike lights hung from the trees, glowing softly. The shrubbery was lush, with narrow footpaths running to the house, to the side yard, to the pool itself. Railroad ties, gravel, wood chips, wild flowers, they’d created a wooded paradise out of a bare acre lot. Sandy heard the soft sound of water splashing. She turned. Of course. A miniature waterfall tucked between the rocks. She should have known. And while it was not quite Jamaica, it was certainly as close as one could hope to get in suburban New Jersey. And not only that; it was safe here. Safe, because of an intricate burglar alarm system, hooked up to a private surveillance company who monitored it twenty-four hours a day. No one was going to get close enough to hold a machete to Myra’s throat here. If someone or something weighing over twenty-five pounds fell into the pool, or wandered onto the grounds once the alarm was set for the night, it would go off, first silently, warning the family, then with a blast. “We can sleep without worrying now,” Myra told them. “We can leave the girls and know it’s okay.”

Myra shimmered in a caftan of flimsy organza, her matching bikini showing through. Gordon had on tennis shoes and socks, bathing trunks, and a Lacoste shirt. His hair was arranged carefully to cover his bald spot. Sandy and Norman changed into their swimsuits as the other guests arrived, twenty couples, many of them Gordy’s colleagues. Doctors and their wives. Norman loved it, loved to surprise them with his knowledge of diseases and treatments by tossing out statements from last month’s issue of the
AMA Journal.

Soon the party was in full swing with Justine and her forces in charge. Justine was the ultimate caterer, the finest, the classiest, the most
gourmet.
Sandy knew the menu by heart. So did all the other guests. There would be no palatable surprises. But no one would go hungry. Crab fingers, marinated mushrooms, miniature pizzas, cheese and spinach quiche, tiny shells filled with chicken a la king, giant shrimp to hold by the tail, and later, at midnight, Justine herself would emerge from the kitchen, offering whole fillets of beef, sliced before your very eyes and placed on squares of hot garlic bread, eliminating the hostess’s need for renting china or silverware. And later still the buffet table would be laden with delectable French pastries and freshly brewed coffee.
Oh, delicious . . . delicious!
they would cry, even though they used Justine for all of their parties too. Myra threw three of them a year. The seasons would change, Myra’s hostess gowns would change, but Justine’s menu would remain the same. And next week and the week after that they would attend other parties at other homes, catered by Justine, and at midnight, would rave about the scrumptious sliced beef on garlic bread and how dependable Justine was, how you could count on her food being perfect, every time.

The women gathered in the shallow end of the pool, comfortable in the eighty-eight-degree water, drinks in hand. The men were treading water or hanging on to the sides in the deep end, less concerned about wetting their hair. Into this steamy wonderland Norman jumped with his waterproof stopwatch, impressing them all with his ability to hold his breath under water.

Steph Weintraub was still trying to convince The Club members to sign her petition. She squatted at the pool’s edge, begging for signatures, while trying to keep her paper dry, the ink from smudging. From their end of the pool the men threatened to drown her and teased Warren, “If you were a
real
man, you’d keep her in line.”

“Fuck you,” Steph yelled at them.

The response was more laughter.

At ten, a five-piece band arrived, complete with electric guitar and bongo drums, something for everyone. Sandy drank carefully although her glass seemed to fill up automatically each time she looked away. She was sure that before long someone would pass out and fall into the pool and was relieved that the house was full of doctors, just in case. Following the steak sandwiches someone declared that the
girls
should go topless. Myra was the first to discard her top, flinging it into the pool with a great whoop, then dancing a bouncing frug with Gordon’s friend, Dave Immerman. The best-breasted followed Myra’s lead, while the padded and the drooping wisely kept covered.

Gish sneaked up behind Sandy and untied her top. “Take it off . . . take it off . . . take it all off . . .” he chanted.

Sandy held her suit to her and ran for the house, away from the circus. As she passed the pool she saw that Norman was still performing his breath-holding act, as a group of bare-breasted women circled around him, oohing and aahing and shrieking for him to come up.

Sandy went to Gordon’s study, a quiet, dark room at one end of the house, and she lay down on the floor, closed her eyes, and thought about Shep. Regrets, regrets . . . her life seemed to be made up of nothing but a series of regrets. Why hadn’t she let herself go last night? It would have made more sense than this . . . this insane party. Fear of pregnancy had kept her a virgin, now it was fear of being caught, of having to face the consequences, that kept her faithful . . . shit . . .

“Sandy.”

She sat up. “Oh, Gordy.”

“It’s okay, don’t get up.”

“I needed to get away from . . .”

He nodded. “Me too.”

“It’s a lovely party, really.”

Gordon sat down on the floor, next to her, and rubbed her back. His hands were warm, firm. He massaged her neck, relaxing her. “You know something, Sandy, I hate this fucking house, this stupid party.”

“You’re drunk, Gordon.”

“Goddamned right I am. Stinko, but not so drunk I don’t know my life is shit, that I’ve had it up to here.”

“Come on, Gordy, you don’t mean that.”

“I do. I do. I want out.”

“Don’t talk that way. It’s the booze, that’s all.”

“
That’s all, she says.
What am I doing here, answer me that.”

“You love Myra and the twins. That’s what it’s all about.”

“Love? I don’t know the meaning of that word. I used to think I did, but no more.”

“Gordy, you’re talking in cliches. You better go to bed.”

“Good idea,” he said, pulling her down with him, kissing her on the mouth.

“What the hell?” Sandy said, pushing him off her.

“I’ve always wanted you, Sandy . . . always loved your little ass . . . your cunt . . . everytime I examine you I want it . . . want to kiss it . . . to fill it . . .”

“Gordon! Are you crazy?”

“Yes, but I know what I want. Please, Sandy, please let me.” He was tugging at her bikini top, pushing down her pants.

“Look, I can’t. I haven’t got my diaphragm in.”

He jumped up. “I’ll get you one. What size?”

She started to laugh. “Gordon, this is insane.”

“What size?”

“Eighty . . . but I can’t . . . really . . .”

He opened a cabinet and pulled out a box. “Eighty, eighty, here’s one.” He ran to the door and locked it, ran back to her, and said, “I can make my cock dance inside you. Just wait, you’re going to love it.”

He kneeled in front of her and pulled down her bikini pants. “I’ll put this in for you, what kind of jelly do you like?”

“I don’t use jelly.”

“You use foam?”

“No, nothing.

“You don’t use anything with your diaphragm?”

“No.”

“You have to use something. You could get pregnant without it.”

“So far I haven’t. Look, Gordy, we can’t . . . somebody . . .”

“It’s all right.”

She had never been attracted to Gordon, but now he kneeled in front of her, his penis, fat and inviting, sticking straight out from his black bush. As he inserted her diaphragm he whispered, “So beautiful . . . sweetest pussy . . .” And then he put his face between her legs and sniffed her cunt, actually put his nose into it and kissed it. She found herself not just aroused, but actually wanting him very much.

He rolled her over and entered her from behind, one hand squeezing her right breast, the other holding her pussy. It felt good. Very good.

“Your fucking sister won’t let me do it this way. Says it’s for animals, but we are animals, aren’t we, Sandy.”

He pulled out and flipped her over abruptly. “And now for my cock dance,” he said. “Lie still, don’t move.”

She lay quietly, obediently, as his cock slid into her and then she felt it moving, seemingly on its own,
dancing,
my god, he really could make it dance. Could others do that too? Or did Gordon, her short, balding brother-in-law have some special talent?

“Myra . . . Myra . . . so cold . . . hates to be dirty . . . have to come into a rubber so I don’t mess her up . . .”

This can’t be happening, Sandy thought. But she couldn’t lie still any longer, was too excited now, had to move with him, and then she was coming, coming and moaning and wrapping her legs around him as he shot into her, calling, “Yes, my pussy, my love.”

Sandy laughed. She shouldn’t have, she knew, but it all seemed terribly funny. She expected Gordon to laugh with her. To say it hadn’t really happened. Instead he sobbed.

“I should be shot, I should be hung or castrated or both. I’ll never forgive myself. Never. I’ll blow my brains out . . . throw myself out the window . . . drive the Citröen off a cliff . . . I’ve ruined you, Sandy, and I’ve humiliated my wonderful wife . . . my beautiful Myra . . . I love her so much . . . you just don’t know . . .”

“Of course you do, Gordy. Take it easy. It’s okay, no one will ever know, I promise.”

“My children, what would they think . . . fucking my sister-in-law . . . oh, Jesus . . . they hate me anyway . . . hate us both, me and Myra . . . I loved them once . . . when they were babies . . . soft and small . . . now they’re strangers, Sandy . . . hostile, moody strangers . . .”

“They’re going through a stage, Gordy. It won’t last forever.”

He was crying hard, had trouble catching his breath. “I want them back the way they were. I want my babies back. Most of the time I want to die, Sandy. I want to be dead, done with it. It’s too hard to keep going.”

Sandy stroked his hair and cradled him in her arms, the way she would Bucky or Jen.

“I want to be a little boy again.”

“Of course you do. You can be my little boy.” She held him, kissing his forehead.

“Thank you, Sandy, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”

And Sandy cried with him.

14

S
ANDY AND
G
ORDON
sat in his Citröen in the parking lot of Sip n’ Sup on the highway. Gordon had ordered two hamburgers with french fries and Cokes and now, as they unwrapped their lunches and prepared to eat them, Sandy said, “Oh, God, I’ve got to go again,” and she leaped out of the car and raced inside to the Ladies Room. She’d had stomach pains and diarrhea since 4 a.m., following her episode with Gordon. She knew it was nerves. Nerves and tension and anxiety. The fear of being caught. Having to face the consequences. She could see it all too clearly.

Her mother would say: I raised her to be a wonderful wife and this is what I get. She does it with Gordon, my beautiful Myra’s husband.

But Mother, Sandy would cry, it was Gordon’s idea.

You can’t blame the man! All men want to do those things. It’s up to the woman to say no. Didn’t I teach you to carry a magazine on every date so that if you had to sit on a boy’s lap you could spread the magazine out first? I’ll bet you didn’t have a magazine with Gordon, did you?

No, Mother. I never even thought about a magazine.

There, you see? What did I tell you? God will punish you, Sandy. He’ll never let you forget how you’ve sinned. Thou shalt not covet thy sister’s husband. That’s one of the Ten Amendments.

Commandments.

That’s what I meant.

Except it’s not.

If it’s not, it should be.

Besides, I don’t covet him. I fucked him but I do not covet him!

A
ND
E
NID:
W
HORE.
Harlot. Just like a ductla! I knew from the start she wasn’t good enough for my Norman. He only should have listened to me then. Miss High and Mighty. With her brother-in-law yet!

A
ND THE TWINS:
Really? We had no idea Daddy could still get it up!

A
ND
B
UCKY AND
J
EN:
You did it with Uncle Gordon? Eeuuuww . . .
gross!

A
ND
M
YRA:
I
’M SUING
Gordy for divorce. I’m taking the house, the cash, the investments, the cars, forty-five thousand dollars a year in alimony, and The Club membership. As for you, Sandy, I’ll never forgive you! I understand why you did it. Oh, yes, I understand very well. Jealousy. You’ve always been jealous of me because I was the favorite child. But frankly, I think you’re a fool for having done it with Gordon. All he’s interested in is sticking it up somebody’s asshole, and him a gynecologist!

No, Myra, you’ve got it all wrong. It feels good from behind, you should try it. And besides, he can do a fantastic cock dance.

Cock dance? Don’t make me laugh! He hasn’t even learned to do the Twist!

Norman: Norman would throw her out. Throw her out and forbid her to see her children. Marriage is a contract. You broke the contract. You’re out. Without a penny from me. I don’t want to see you again. Just pack up and leave. I can’t imagine why you’d go and do it with Gordon, of all people. Jesus, he can’t even play net!

S
ANDY RETURNED
to Gordon’s car, looking pale and worn out. “How long will it take before the Lomotil starts working?” she asked.

“You should feel better in a few hours,” Gordon said.

Sandy nodded.

“What I wanted to talk to you about, Sandy . . .”

“Don’t tell me,” Sandy said, interrupting. “Myra knows!”

“No, nobody knows, at least not as far as
I
know. What I want to say and I couldn’t over the phone, is that I’m willing to marry you.”

“Marry me?”

“Yes. I’ve thought it all over and decided that’s what we should do. We’ll fly down to Juarez, or wherever you go for a quickie divorce these days, and marry before we come home. That way we can get things settled up over the summer. We might have to move away. Nevada’s a possibility or New Mexico. I’ll have to look into the logistics, have to arrange to sell my practice here.” He sipped his Coke. “And who knows, maybe Norman and Myra will get together too. They have a lot in common.”

“Gordy, in spite of my diarrhea, I know that Sunday night just happened and the best thing we can do is to forget it.”

“Really? You really mean that?”

“Yes. I don’t want to marry you.”

She could see his relief. “I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am it happened, San, I could apologize for the next ten years and you’d still never know.”

“I do know, Gordy . . . really . . . it’s okay . . . it was my fault as much as yours . . . I could have stopped you . . . I wasn’t that drunk . . . as long as nobody ever finds out . . . that’s all I care about . . .”

“You’re a wonderful woman, Sandy.”

“Did you really think I’d marry you?”

“I wasn’t sure. But I felt I owed it to you to ask.”

“That was very nice, unnecessary, but nice.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

He hugged her. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“We could go across the street and take a room for a few hours.”

She laughed. “No.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, opening her purse and pulling out a small packet wrapped in Kleenex. “I brought you the diaphragm.”

“Keep it.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, go on, I have plenty. Think of it as a memento of our time together.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” She put it back in her purse and opened the car door. “Bye, Gordy.”

“Bye, San, take care and let me know if you don’t feel better soon.”

“I feel better already.” She walked across the parking lot to her own car and drove home.

Sandy couldn’t remember the combination number for her locker at The Club. Rather than admit this and have the handyman break into it, she carried her things back and forth in a canvas tote. She still tried her locker each time, hoping that one of these days she would hit on the right combination. 30-45-15 45-13-30 15-35-42 Nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Steph asked, catching Sandy in the act.

“Oh, nothing, why?”

“It looked like you were having trouble with your locker.”

“Me? No, I was just rearranging some of my things.”

“Could you zip me up?” Steph asked.

“Sure and if you’re still interested I’ve decided I’d like to sign your petition.”

“Terrific!” Steph opened her locker, which was across from Sandy’s, and handed her the petition and a pen. “This means we have just seventeen holdouts and every one of them is scared shit of her husband. Glad I had you figured wrong, Sandy. Are you going to play in the ABCD tournament?”

“No, I’m not ready for tournaments yet. I’m having my first playing lesson today.”

“Well, I’ll talk to Roger about it. He’ll tell me if you’re ready or not, and if you are, I’ll try to get you in my foursome. I’m glad you joined The Club. We can use some new faces around here. Not to mention some new ideas.”

“Thanks,” Sandy said, surprised and flattered.

It was Ringer Day. Every Tuesday was Ringer Day. A large posterboard chart hung on the wall behind the row of dressing tables. Each member’s name was neatly printed down one side. On Tuesdays, after they had played their rounds they posted their best score for any one hole. Their
Ringer.
Members without official handicaps, like Sandy, were automatically assigned a 36, the highest. She imagined the chart on Labor Day, all the little squares neatly filled in with fives and fours and threes. Except next to her name. Next to her name would still be a blank row. Oh, shit! Who cared?

Sandy had to hurry. Roger would be waiting. They were going off the back nine. Sandy had never been out on the course, except in a cart with the children when they had first joined The Club.

“Hey!” Roger called, clapping his hands. “Here she is ready for her big debut!”

“Roger, please don’t make it worse. I’m very nervous as it is.”

“Relax, Sandy. This is supposed to be fun. Steve is going to caddy for us. Steve, this is Mrs. Pressman.”

Steve nodded and said her name softly.

She had seen him before, waiting around. He wasn’t an A caddy, that much she knew, probably not a B either, but he had a nice smile and seemed shy. Good. She didn’t need any wise-ass caddy following her around. Most likely he was the son of a member, home from college for the summer. He picked up her bag and walked behind them.

“Now, listen, Sandy,” Roger said, “you’re going to stand up to the ball. Forget about everything else and hit it. The practice range is for thinking about what to do. When you’re out here you stop thinking and just let it happen.”

“Suppose it doesn’t?”

“That’s not the attitude we want to start with, is it?”

“I’m just being realistic.”

“Never mind. Confidence is what we want to stress today to prove to yourself that you can do it. Get that?”

“Yes. Sure.”

Two hours later Sandy was back at the locker room. She’d lost eight balls, had come close to getting smacked in the head when her tee shot on fifteen hit a tree and rebounded, had spent twenty minutes trying to get a shot over the water on seventeen, and had promised Roger she would come out every day to hit two buckets of balls, take a lesson twice a week, and play nine holes as often as she could.

“After next week you should start playing regularly,” he said. “And sign up for the ABCD tournament.”

“I can’t play in a tournament.”

“Sure you can. Plenty of women out there can’t hit the ball as well as you.”

“I’ll see.”

Roger held out his hand. “Next year you’re going to say, remember when . . .”

Sandy scraped her shoes on the mat outside the Ladies Locker Room, then went inside and collapsed on the floor in front of her locker. One thing she knew for sure. She hated the game of golf. So why had she made an appointment with Steve to caddy for her on Friday morning at eight? Because she was expected to. Because she always did what she was told. Because she was such a good little girl. Such a good little wifey.