by Judy Blume
“Yes . . . well . . .” Sandy began, but Iris had already hung up.
She’d have to write to Jen tonight, explaining about the beef, suggesting that if she was hungry to demand peanut butter and to promise that on visiting day she would bring her all sorts of goodies. Pepperidge Farm cookies, fruits, potato chips, candy. No, that was wrong. Jen had to learn to get along without her. That was what camp was all about, wasn’t it? That’s what Norman said. Sandy didn’t know. She’d never gone herself. Mona didn’t trust camps. “You want polio, that’s a good way to get it,” Mona had argued when Myra begged to go to sleep-away camp. “But it’s hot and I want to go swimming,” Myra whined. “You’re hot, go sit in the bathtub,” Mona answered.
SANDY BARELY MADE THE NINE-THIRTY-TWO and found a seat in no-smoking. She’d been looking forward to this visit with Lisbeth. They hadn’t seen each other in months, not since January, when Sandy had returned from Jamaica. And on that day Sandy was sporting a full-blown herpes virus on her lower lip.
“You still get those things?” Lisbeth had asked.
“From the sun.”
“So why don’t you wear something to protect your lips, like zinc oxide?”
“Zinc’s so ugly, all that white goo.”
“No offense, San, but it’s not as ugly as a fever sore.”
“I know, and from now on I’m going to cover my lips before I go out in the sun. I’ve made up my mind, it’s crazy to suffer this way.”
“Didn’t you have one when you and Norman were married?”
“Yes, a very small one.”
“And when your father died?”
“Yes, at his funeral. I had the tail end of one at my Sweet Sixteen Party too.”
“Do you think they come from emotional upheavals?”
“No, from the sun.”
“But your father died in November, didn’t he? The same time as JFK?”
“You know something, you’re right. I never thought about that.”
“You see, there’s more to it than the sun.”
“Maybe . . .”
Lisbeth Moseley, Born Zelda Rabinowitz. Changed her first name on her fifteenth birthday, refusing to speak to anyone who didn’t address her as Lisbeth from that day on. It was she who encouraged Sandy to change the spelling of her name from Sandra to Sondra, not that it mattered. Everyone continued to call her Sandy. Lisbeth. Editor in chief of the Hillside High News. Girl Most Likely To . . . with straightened black hair and an inexpensive but successful nose job. The only one of the old crowd to go to Barnard. Lisbeth, who married a goy, when Sandy wasn’t even brave enough to date one. A genuine goy who also happened to be her professor. An elective poetry course for those students exempt from freshman English. Blond and tall and slim, he smoked a pipe and wore tweed jackets with elbows patched in leather. The stereotypical professor. Vincent X. Moseley, from Connecticut. With background. Never mind that he also had a chunky, snub-nosed wife and two little boys in a crowded apartment on West 116th Street.
He did it with Lisbeth anyway.
“Really, all the way?” Sandy asked.
“Yes, and it was wonderful . . . wonderful . . . much better than we ever thought when we used to play our silly games.”
“It didn’t hurt?”
“No.”
“Did he use a rubber?”
“No.”
“But Lisbeth, suppose you get pregnant?”
“I’m going to marry him, anyway.”
“But he’s already married.”
“She doesn’t understand him. He’s a poet. He’s very sensitive. All she understands are diapers and bottles. He’s asking for a divorce.”
Their child, Miranda, was two years older than Bucky. Lisbeth’s mother looked after her until Lisbeth got her degree, and then, when she had a job, a job with a real future, as a textbook editor at Harper’s, Miranda went to live with her parents in New York. “She’s brilliant, beautiful, and sophisticated, just as you’d expect,” Lisbeth said, matter-of-factly, to anyone who asked about Miranda.
They lived in a co-op on Riverside Drive now, and had a cabin off the coast of Maine with no indoor plumbing. Lisbeth had shown pictures of the three of them, frolicking in the outdoor tub, naked.
Lisbeth, whose mother kept kosher when the rest of the crowd ate bread over Passover, whose mother never tired of singing “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” to her daughter’s embarrassment.
Lisbeth, Sandy’s best friend. Sandy’s first lover.
THEY WERE TWELVE, going on thirteen. It was New Year’s Eve. The bedroom door was closed but not locked. There were no locks on the doors in Sandy’s house. A child might get locked in that way. And God forbid, in case of fire . . .
Mona and Ivan were in the basement recreation room entertaining their friends. Myra was out on a date. Sandy and Lisbeth were in Sandy’s bed, under the quilt. Sandy was on top, being the boy. She moved around and around, squiggling, rubbing against Lisbeth until she got that good feeling. Then it was Lisbeth’s turn to do the same. Sometimes they played Rape and other times it was Just Plain Love. They touched each other’s breasts, but never down there.
The door opened. It was Mona. “Happy New Year!” she sang, slightly tipsy, a glass of champagne in one hand. “What are you doing in the same bed?”
“Keeping warm,” Zelda/Lisbeth answered.
“You’re cold?”
“Yes,” Sandy said.
“I’ll turn up the heat, but first, come downstairs and say Happy New Year to our friends.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yes, everybody wants to see you.”
“Like this?”
“Put on your robes and slippers.”
Mona didn’t know that under the quilt the girls were naked.
“We’ll be right down,” Sandy said. “Could you close the door so nobody can see us in our pajamas.”
“There’s nobody here but me,” Mona said.
“Please, Mom, Zelda doesn’t want you to see her in just pajamas.”
“Since when?”
“Since I’ve gotten modest, Mrs. Schaedel. It just happened a few weeks ago.”
“I see,” Mona said. “All right, but hurry down because then you have to go to sleep even if it is New Year’s Eve.”
“Whew . . .” Zelda/Lisbeth said, when Mona was gone.
They got into their pajamas and robes and went downstairs, where they were hugged and kissed by Mona and Ivan’s friends. Friends from the Sunday Night Club, where the women played Mah-Jongg and the men played poker, friends from the Tuesday night group, where the women played canasta and the men played poker, and friends from the Friday Night Dance class, where Mr. Zaporro came to the house and taught them the cha-cha-cha.
Sandy had to call the friends Uncle or Aunt, and let them pinch her cheeks. When she and Zelda/Lisbeth went downstairs, Aunt Totsie spilled champagne on Sandy’s robe and Uncle Jerry was too busy to kiss her because he had his hand up Aunt Ruthie’s dress. Aunt Ruthie wore black stockings and the girls could see clear up to her garters, even caught a glimpse of her black girdle. That was really funny because Aunt Ruthie was married to Uncle Ned and Uncle Jerry was married to Aunt Edie.
“Do you think they’re going to do it?” Zelda/Lisbeth whispered to Sandy.
“No, they’re just good friends.”
“She has her hand on his fly.”
“I know, but they’re just good friends, believe me. Sometimes good friends act that way.”
“I never knew that.”
“Yes. When it’s New Year’s Eve anything goes.”
“Oh.”
LISBETH HAD SUCH DREAMS! Getting married and having babies was enough for the rest of the crowd but not for Lisbeth. She dreamed of being president of L
ord and Taylor’s. After all, she read the New York Times and longed for a zebra-covered sofa and a Manhattan apartment when the rest of them were concerned with Saturday night dates and being felt up.
And later this same Lisbeth marched on Washington and no longer dreamed of zebra-covered sofas because her consciousness had been raised to such a degree that she insisted that her mother get rid of her cherished Persian lamb coat and hat. Mrs. Rabinowitz, who had a friend, who had a cousin, who knew a man who manufactured Borgana coats and the summer before they went off to college had schlepped both girls into New York, to the wholesale house, where each bought a Borgana coat for freshman year. Lisbeth had whispered to Sandy, “It feels so good against my skin I’d like to turn it inside out and wear it naked.” And later, after she’d met Vincent, called Sandy to say, “You know that coat . . . the Borgana one . . . well, Vincent and I make love on it . . . in his office . . . on the floor . . . you ought to try using yours for that, San . . . it’s terrific!”
“Sandy! It’s been so long . . .” Lisbeth sang, hugging her, outside the Plaza. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, why?”
“I don’t know. You looked tired.”
“I’ve had a busy morning.”
“Well, let’s get a table. I’ve got so much to tell you.”
Lisbeth was in French pants and a shirt unbuttoned halfway to her navel. Sandy felt very suburban in her linen suit.
“We’re leaving for Maine on the first, taking the whole month off. Vincent is thinking about doing a book.”
Vincent was always thinking about doing a book.
“I’m just going to relax, unwind, be free.”
“Sounds wonderful. How’s Miranda . . . is she going with you?”
“Of course. She has friends there. You should see her, San . . . I should have brought pictures . . . she’s got tiny breasts and just had her first period. I taught her to use Tampax right off. Remember how we had to put up with those disgusting pads?”
Sandy nodded.
“Let’s order. Then I want to hear all about you.”
Sandy scanned the menu. “Did you ever have the chicken salad here?”
“Yes, You have to toss it yourself.”
“You mean it’s dry?”
“Yes, chunks of chicken.”
“Good . . . that’s what I like.”
“And there’s shredded lettuce on the side and mayonnaise or Russian dressing, I forget which.”
The waiter came to take their order.
“Is the chicken salad all white meat?” Sandy asked him.
“If you request it,” he answered.
“Yes, please, with mayonnaise on the side and shredded lettuce.”
“We’re not serving it shredded anymore. It’s leaf style now.”
“Oh . . . well, that’s all right.”
“So . . . what’s happening in suburbia these days?” Lisbeth asked.
“Oh, the usual. Plus we joined The Country Club this year.”
“You didn’t!”
“Norman’s playing a lot of golf and tennis. It made sense.”
“But what about you?”
“Oh, I’m taking lessons. Norm’s head of the Grievance Committee.”
“Terrific!”
Sandy laughed. “He loves it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“His first complaint had to do with a woman who ran from the golf locker room to the parking lot in her bathing suit.”
Lisbeth shook her head. “How’s the new house coming?”
“We hope it’ll be finished by Labor Day.”
“Did you sell the Plainfield house yet?”
“No, we’ve had a few offers but Norm says they’re not enough.”
“Are you going to sell it to blacks?”
“Norm says, no, even though three out of four lookers are black.”
“That’s illegal, you know.”
“I know, I know, I’ve tried to tell that to Norm, but Enid would never forgive him. You know how she feels about them.”
The waiter brought their lunch. “Mayonnaise on the side,” he said, plunking Sandy’s plate down in front of her.
They ate quietly for a moment. Then Sandy asked, “How’s your mother?”
“Not too well. She’s been undergoing all sorts of tests. Lost the feeling in her left arm.”
“I’m so sorry. Is she in the hospital?”
“She was. She’s out now. How’s yours?”
“She’s okay.”
“And how are things with you and Norman?” Lisbeth asked, looking up from her shrimp salad.
“What do you mean?”
“In general . . . I just finished a course called Marriage in a Changing Society and I’m interested.”
“We’re the same as always.” Sandy tossed some more of the chicken in mayonnaise. “Did I mention that Jen hates camp, that she wants to come home? And that I have this fungus or something that I can’t get rid of. It’s driving me crazy.”
“No, you didn’t mention that.”
“And that sometimes I . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I don’t know that either.” Sandy choked up and took a long swallow of iced tea.
Lisbeth reached across the table and patted Sandy’s hand. She spoke softly. “Tell me,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”
Sandy shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. I tire easily.”
Lisbeth put down her fork and leaned close. “I’m going to tell you something, San, because I think it might help. A few months ago Vincent and I were having our problems . . . boredom with the relationship, snapping at each other . . . the usual . . . but now we’ve got it back together . . . better than ever . . . and it’s all due to a fantastic new arrangement . . . Thursday nights off . . .”
“I don’t get it.”
“Thursday nights off from each other, from the marriage.”
Sandy still wasn’t sure what Lisbeth was trying to tell her.
“Every Thursday night I go out with another man and he goes out with another woman and then we come home and tell each other everything.”
“Sleep with, you mean?”
“Yes, of course. Isn’t it incredible that something so easy should bring us back together?”
“Who do you go with?”
“Right now it’s this art director. He’s young, his wife and kids are out at the beach for the summer, so we go to his place and just fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“And Vincent?”
“He’s got some graduate student doing her thesis on eighteenth-century poets.”
“And do they know about your arrangement, the graduate student and the art director?”
“Of course. Everything must be out in the open . . . that’s the only rule . . . no secrets . . . you see, San, it’s secrets that cause problems . . . this class I took last semester in Contemporary Relationships was fabulous . . . showed us how secrets cause strains. This openness has been such a boon to our marriage . . .”
“Well, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. I’m only telling you because I think it could do a lot for you and Norman.”
“Norman is very conservative.”
“I know, you’d have to approach the subject carefully, but I’m still convinced it could work for you.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Oh, I almost forgot . . . I’ve got something for you.” She opened her purse and pulled out a paperback book. “You haven’t read it yet, have you?”
“No,” Sandy said as Lisbeth handed it to he
r. The title was Diary of a Mad Housewife.
“I think you’ll really enjoy it. It’s funny and true. It has a lot to say.”
Did Lisbeth think she was a mad housewife too? Was that why she’d given her the book? “Thanks, I’ll start it on the train going home.”
But on the train going home, she saw Shep. God, she hadn’t seen him in what . . . almost eight years. Since she was pregnant with Jen and they’d bumped into each other at the Towers Steak House on Route 22. She’d been sitting at the bar, with Norman and another couple, and he’d walked in with a group of friends. She’d introduced him to Norman and then he’d introduced her to his wife, Rhoda. “One of my old friends,” he’d called Sandy. She’d tried hard to stay calm, cool, but she’d farted when she first saw him, silently, thank God, and after he’d been shown to his table she’d squeezed her whiskey sour glass so hard it had broken in her hand, cutting her palm. The bartender had had to give her a wet towel to sop up the blood.
Shep.
“He’ll never amount to anything,” Mona had warned. “Handsome doesn’t put food on the table. You can’t eat love.” Some people might disagree with you on that one, Mother.
He’d fooled Mona all right. Fooled all of them. He’d made it big, in shopping centers. Handsome puts food on the table after all. And were they eating love, he and Rhoda? Probably.
THEY’D MET AT MYRA’S wedding. He was the date of one of Myra’s bridesmaids, Margie Kott. Mona had advised Myra to choose her plainest friends as bridesmaids so that she’d really stand out. And she did. She looked as if she’d stepped right out of Bride’s magazine. Sandy was maid of honor, in pink organza. Everything was pink and white at Myra’s wedding, including the cageful of doves that were released as the happy couple said I do. Before they completed their circle around the room, one of them let out his stuff on Shep’s head. Sandy saw it happen and couldn’t help laughing.
“Jesus!” he’d said as she handed him a pink napkin with Myra and Gordon printed across it. “Thanks, kid. Did I get it all?”
He bent over and Sandy inspected his hair. It was thick and dark. “Yes.”
“Does it stink?”
She sniffed his head. “No, you’re okay.”