The Women's Room

by Marilyn French

  Poisoning my existence, she thought.

  She walked back slowly. The image of Ben in her mind was horrible. She never wanted to see him again. It gave her agony to think she was going to have to walk back into the cottage and face him and even sleep in the same bed with him – perforce. There were only three bedrooms. Perhaps she could sleep with Chris. Or on the living room couch. It would be horrible to have to put one’s body in the same bed with that creature.

  In two days her sons were coming to visit. They would stay only two weeks. She saw them rarely. They were her children. They took up little enough of her time. Why did he have to intrude on that, why did he have to barge in as if he belonged there?

  She stopped. Tears were streaming down her face. She tried to remember how she had felt yesterday, when she was so full of love for Ben. She tried to recall the first night they made love. It was useless. The memory was like a news story about a foreign place: full of facts with no texture. He did this, he did that; she felt this, she felt that. She had an orgasm. Yes. It had probably been good. But that was in another country and besides, the wench is dead. It would be tinged with bitterness forever in her memory because it had led up only to this, inevitably to this. She had not seen what he was. He was an intolerable pressure. He was a hulking darkness, trying to take over her life.

  Her heart felt like a bruised prune. Miserably, she returned to the cottage. The lights were on, but everyone had gone to bed. When she opened the front door, Val came stumbling out of the bedroom, pulling a robe loosely about her.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked sleepily.

  Mira nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t talk to you. I’m just so tired,’ Val apologized.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Well – it’s an old saw, but it’s true. Things do look different in the morning.’

  Mira nodded stiffly. She was too timid to ask Val if she thought Chris would mind if she slept with her, and too timid to barge into Chris’s room, so she undressed in the bathroom and put on a nightgown and crept into the bed where Ben lay sleeping. She was quiet and stiff, trying not to make the bed move. He was lying on his side, facing away from her. She lay stiffly on her side, facing away from him. She was aware, after a few moments, that he was not asleep. His breathing was awake breathing. But he did not, thankfully, speak. She lay stiffly, trying to keep her body from relaxing and filling up more space and possibly touching his. After a long time, his breathing became heavier and his body relaxed a bit and curled up. He can sleep, she thought bitterly. Because she could not. She dozed on and off in the course of the night, but in the morning felt as if her insides had taken poison and her outside showed it.

  Nothing was better in the morning. Silently, Mira and Ben packed their things and loaded her car, said muted good-byes to Val and Chris and Tad, and silently they drove back the long quiet road along the Cape and back to Boston. Ben drove to his place and got out, and took his suitcase and casting rod out of the back seat. He stood beside the car for a moment, while she slid over to the driver’s seat, but she would not look at him. She was afraid her face would betray her true feelings, would reflect its hate for this huge intruder who was nothing to her, who was trying to jam himself into her life, to take it over, yes, that was it, a typical male, trying to run her life, to mold it into his image, to press into it the imprint of his huge thumb.

  She drove off. He did not call. The boys arrived, and she tried to act happy. She took them to Walden and Salem and Gloucester and Rockport. Numb, she walked with them the paths and streets she had walked only in the last two months with Ben, feeling such joy. She took them to a Szechuan restaurant and they enjoyed it: their taste had broadened a bit. She took them to an Italian restaurant and they ordered something besides spaghetti. Numbly, she spoke to them; they answered from a distance. They had not brought the TV set up with them, but after two nights of watching them fiddle restlessly, she rented one for them. But they did not watch it as much as they had the last time. She even saw each of them with a book at one time or another.

  One night, after they had been with her for a little over a week, Mira was sitting in the dark living room with her brandy and cigarette. The boys were in the bedroom watching TV, or so she thought. Because Clark idled in and sat down across from her. He did not speak, he only sat there, and Mira’s feelings reached across to him, thankful to him for sharing her isolation, her silence, the dark.

  ‘Thanks, Mom,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Thanks? For what?’

  ‘For taking us around to all those places. You have a lot of other things to do. And you’ve been to them before. You must’ve been bored.’

  He had picked up her mood, and interpreted it as boredom. ‘I wasn’t bored,’ she said.

  ‘Well, anyway, thanks,’ he said.

  It was no good. He had picked up her mood and if she didn’t explain, would assume she had been bored, and now was merely being polite. She did not know what to do. ‘It was the least I could do,’ she heard a prissy voice saying. ‘I haven’t much to offer you boys. Your father …’

  ‘He never spends any time with us.,’ Clark cut her off in a new, sharp voice. ‘We were there all summer. He took us out on the boat three times, with his wife and a whole bunch of friends. He doesn’t ever talk to us. He sends us out of the room when the conversation starts to get … well, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You mean when they start to talk about sex?’

  ‘Oh, no! No, Mom,’ he exclaimed, and his voice was full of disgust. ‘Those people never talk about sex. I mean – well, when somebody talks about someone who got divorced, or a guy who cheated on his income tax … you know. Whenever they talk about anything real,’ he concluded, ‘anything beside politenesses.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They were silent together.

  Clark tried again. ‘Anyway, it was nice of you, especially when we don’t act very – well, interested, you know.’

  ‘You were better this time than last. At least,’ she added sarcastically, ‘you gave signs of life this time.’

  She thought: he handed me a weapon and I used it. She wondered why. She wondered what she was really saying. It came to her that she was profoundly reproaching him, her son, reproaching him for existing, for being her son, for being, over the years, so much trouble and so little reward, for having needed to have his diapers changed, for waking her in the middle of the night, for chaining her to a kitchen and bathroom and house, for being her life as well as his own and not being worth it. What would be worth it? If he were a Picasso, a Roosevelt, would that repay her? But he was sixteen, and untalented. Above all she was blaming him and Normie for her misery. She had to face it: she felt it was them or Ben. She’d chosen them but she’d never forgive them for that.

  Clark stood up finally. He would, she knew, sidle out of the room. She had to say something, but her mind whirred. She did not know what she should say.

  ‘Clark.’

  He took a step toward her. She stretched out her arm, and he moved forward and took her hand.

  ‘Thank you for thanking me.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said generously.

  ‘Would you like to have dinner with some of my friends?’ she said nervously.

  He shrugged slightly. ‘Sure. I guess.’

  ‘I’ll invite them for dinner. I don’t know who’s in town, but I’ll call them. I have the most wonderful friends here, Clark – well, you’ve met Iso – they’re all really interesting people.’ She heard herself babbling.

  They were still holding hands, and he raised and lowered his arm, so they were shaking hands, arms, gently, slowly.

  ‘The reason,’ she began in the same almost hysterical babble, ‘the reason you thought I was bored was because I have been very unhappy.’

  He let go her hand. Her heart stopped. He must, of course, be sick of hearing about her unhappiness. He sat down at her feet and looked
at her. In the darkness, the streetlight shone in right on his young, clear face. He was looking at her, his eyes like blotters.

  ‘Why?’ he asked gently.

  Norm’s rangy form appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the lights in the hall. He moved into the room and switched on (just like his father, she thought) the overhead lamp.

  ‘In or out!’ she announced, and heard Val’s voice. ‘In either case, no light!’

  He switched it off.

  ‘You’re welcome to come in, Norm. If you want. We’ve just been talking.’

  He edged in and sat on the arm of the couch, near the door.

  ‘The reason,’ she recapitulated for Norm’s sake, ‘I may have seemed bored to you this past week is that I have been unhappy. I’ve been unhappy because,’ she paused, trying to figure out what the reason was, ‘I think I made a mistake.’

  They said nothing, but Norm slid off the arm and onto the seat of the couch.

  ‘I have a boyfriend,’ she began, then paused.

  ‘Yeah?’ Norm’s new deep voice – for it had deepened further this year – came from the corner.

  ‘I have a lover,’ she amended. ‘At least I did. And he wanted the four of us to take a cottage at Cape Cod for these two weeks. And I got very upset with him for that. I was too embarrassed. I was afraid of what you might think or feel.’

  There was a heavy silence. All I have done, she thought, is to shift the burden to them.

  ‘Why were you embarrassed?’ Clark asked finally.

  ‘Yeah,’ Norm said. ‘It’s nice you have someone to love you. I wish I did,’ his voice trailed off.

  I love you, she was about to say, then closed her mouth. Her heart hit hard against itself. That was it. That lay beneath all the lies. Mother loves you, son, but she can’t screw you, you can’t screw her. It’s against the rules. But she knows that to prove her love, she must not screw anyone else; you must therefore not screw anyone else either. And we will all live happily ever after in a paradise where no one even has genitals.

  ‘It’s true, he does seem to love me.’ Her voice sounded high and childlike and incredulous.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Clark’s voice out of the darkness sounded tough compared to hers. ‘You’re beautiful!’

  ‘I’m not beautiful, Clark …’

  ‘To me you are!’ he answered fiercely.

  She listened; she heard love and loyalty and she felt almost as if she had been wearing a mudpack and had sat in the sun, and the thing had hardened and cracked and all of a sudden, fallen off.

  ‘Maybe I’ll call him.’

  They were silent. It was after eleven, and no doubt they were not eager for visitors. But suddenly she did not care what they wanted. They had asked her to be herself. They would accept that. And what she was, wanted Ben. She stood up, excited, the excitement coming through in her voice. ‘I’ll call him. He may be asleep, or he may be out, but I think I’ll just give him a ring.’

  5

  He answered the phone in a tired voice, and when she said, a little timidly, ‘Ben?’ his voice went tight and hard.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ben, I see it all now. Oh, well, maybe I don’t see it all. But I see something. I would very much like to have you come over and meet my boys.’

  ‘You’re sure I won’t pollute them,’ he said bitterly, and it was only then that she realized how hurt he had been.

  ‘Oh, Ben.’ Her voice was full of tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said.

  And came in twenty minutes later, charging like a brisk wind, and talked to them about football and baseball and school and lousy teachers. They were stiff at first, then grew easier and talked in a lively way, then started to yawn – it was after twelve – and grew, finally, simply bored. Enough adult talk. They drifted off to bed, and Mira looked at Ben and he at her, and they moved toward each other the way they had the first night they made love, gracefully, naturally, both moving toward the couch, and sitting, a little apart, just looking at each other for a while, then reaching out for the other’s hands. They did not speak at all. They heard one boy, then another, in the bathroom, heard the light click off, the bedroom door close, and after a few minutes, total silence. Then they embraced, and Mira found her cheeks wet and herself blubbering, ‘Oh, God, how I’ve missed you!’ and Ben rubbed his cheeks against hers so one could not tell if he was wet from her or from himself and blubbering too, said, ‘I felt exiled to Siberia.’

  Then they could not contain themselves, they could not contain their hands, and soon they were making love, right there on the living room couch and in a living room without a door, with the boys sleeping just down the hall. She could not understand herself, but she did not stop to try: at the time, making love was the only thing that mattered to her. But afterward, after many hours and a few cigarettes, and a drink, Ben got up and dressed to go home.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ she said desperately, clutching his arm. ‘I don’t feel that way anymore … I … I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Sweetheart, this couch isn’t even very comfortable to sit on, much less to sleep on. But if two of us try to sleep on it, we’ll both need a chiropractor tomorrow. And since I don’t approve of chiropractors, I think I’d better go home.’

  ‘Go home then, you shit,’ she murmured lovingly, sleepily. ‘Knowing,’ she turned over on her back and spread her arms and legs, ‘knowing you have abandoned the woman who loves you to the cold, the isolation, the loneliness of an empty bed.’

  He bent and kissed her gently. ‘Good,’ he hissed viciously. ‘It serves her right.’

  She kissed him back. ‘Just be sure to be here at six tomorrow night for dinner, or else! …’

  Next day, she asked the boys for their reactions to Ben. They agreed he was ‘okay.’ He was even nice, they finally admitted. They had met some boys in a neighboring house: would she mind if they did not go sightseeing that day, but went to the neighborhood park and played ball?

  Wonderful!

  She got on the phone and called all her friends, but only Val and Iso were in town. She invited them for dinner. Then she went to Savenor’s and loaded up her shopping cart. She had not bought so much food since she was married and planning a party. She was in an ecstasy of bliss. The sun shone, she hummed, she drove back like a blessed madwoman, narrowly missing accidents by swerving the car with the tempos of her body. She carried the heavy bags up the two flights to her apartment without gasping for breath. She turned on the radio: violins poured out a waltz. She danced into the kitchen, unloaded her purchases, put beef bones in a great pot to simmer, and began to wash and chop vegetables. Sun was pouring through the kitchen windows. Outside she heard small children playing, arguing down in the yard over the water hose.

  Peace cupped her heart and held it gently.

  Smiling, she stood at the kitchen sink, holding a bunch of string beans in her hand, letting herself be part of it: part of the gold streaming over the kitchen, part of the mellow surge of the waltz, part of the green of the trees bowing outside the window. It was beauty and peace, the child noises outside, the delicious simmering aroma of the soup, the fresh liquid green smell of the string beans. Her home was humming happy and bright, and Ben – sexy, exciting Ben – was coming at six. It was happiness.

  She brought herself upright. My God! She dropped the string beans, dried her hands, sank into a chair, and lighted a cigarette. It was the American Dream, female version. Was she still buying it? She didn’t even like to cook, she resented marketing, she didn’t really like the music that was sweeping through the apartment. But she still believed in it: the dream stood of the happy humming house. Why should she be so happy doing work that had no purpose, no end, while the boys were off playing and Ben was off doing work that would bring him success, work that mattered?

  She got up and skimmed the broth, pondering the question, but she could not keep the joy out, it invaded her again like sun pouring over her hea
d and arms. The boys came home for something to drink.

  ‘How about keeping me company?’

  ‘Sure! Can we cook?’ Norm asked eagerly.

  She handed him the string beans and a vegetable knife and told him how to cut them. She set Clark to chiffonade the cabbage. She was careful not to watch them work, remembering her own mother’s untrusting surveillance of her at chores, and her resulting hatred of helping in the kitchen.

  ‘Yick!’ Clark shouted in disgust. She looked up dismayed from the onions she was peeling.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That soupy music! Wet-dream music: isn’t that what Iso calls it?’

  She laughed. ‘Get what you want. Just not too loud.’ He went into the living room, fiddled with the radio, and found Joni Mitchell. He came back into the kitchen singing with her, softly, under his breath. Norm joined in. They finished the song with her, singing in faint sweet voices. Mira’s eyes were wet as she sliced. One of them noticed it.

  ‘Just the onions,’ she smiled radiantly, then dropped her knife and embraced them both with her oniony hands, and they embraced her, the three of them standing there for some minutes. Then Mira went back to business.

  ‘Shit! There’s not enough oil.’

  ‘Want me to go around to Zolli’s?’

  A small grocery store stood only two blocks from where Mira lived. However, on their first visit, her spoiled suburban children had refused to walk so far for more milk; they went only when they ran out of soda. But this time, Clark went with no complaint. Then she discovered she was out of salt: Norm went. An hour later, Clark went for more soda, then Norm went when she discovered she was low on coffee. The fifth time – both of them balked. She looked at them ready to sermonize, to remind them of their past spoiledness and laziness. But she had to laugh first: ‘I guess I have a rotten memory.’