Wifey

by Judy Blume

  “It was a terrible experience for him,” Sandy said.

  “I’m the one who almost died.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “And I didn’t vomit, for chrissakes!”

  “How did you react?”

  “I don’t remember. Gordy says I was angry at him for giving them my jewelry, but I honestly don’t remember.”

  “You were probably in shock.”

  “Probably. I just can’t wait to start skiing.”

  They went back to their table and ordered Courvoisiers. “I’ll tell you this,” Gordon said, mainly to Norm, “the natives are restless everywhere. It’s only a matter of time before it really hits here. Remember the riots in Newark in ’67? Plainfield is next. You better get out before it’s too late.”

  WHEN THEY GOT HOME, after Norman had paid the baby-sitter and seen her out to her car, he said, “There’s something I think you should know, San.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got a gun.”

  “You’ve got a gun?”

  “Shush, you’ll wake the kids.”

  “Since when . . . where . . . .”

  “I got it during the riots in Newark. I never wanted you to know, but now, well, Gordon is right. It’s only a matter of time so I’m going to show you how to use it just in case.”

  “No, Norm, I don’t like guns. They terrify me. I don’t want to know.”

  He grabbed her hand and led her into his study. “Look,” he said, “I keep the gun locked in this cabinet.” He tapped one of the wall units. “And the key to the cabinet is here, in the bookcase, behind Bartlett’s Quotations. Now, the ammunition is locked in a steel box in the bottom cabinet.” He tapped again. “And the key for it is in the third drawer of my desk, under the business envelopes, so you don’t have to worry about the kids getting into it.”

  “But Norm, if somebody breaks into the house, by the time you unlock the cabinets and the ammunition box and load the gun we’ll all be dead anyway, won’t we?”

  “You don’t understand, Sandy, but then, I didn’t really expect you to.”

  “FIRST, WE’LL TRY SELLING the house ourselves,” Norman said. “No point in paying a commission if we don’t have to.”

  So, on Monday morning, Sandy placed ads in the Courier News, the Newark News and the New York Times, and made appointments with three Realtors to look at houses in Watchung. In May she found the right house. With a view. At night you could look down and see the traffic on Route 22. You could see the lights of the houses in Plainfield, twinkling. A fireplace in the family room. Three bathrooms. Lots of stone. Lots of glass. Lots of class. And all for just ninety-nine thousand five hundred dollars. Not only that, but the builder, Joe Fiori, who was putting the house up for speculation, would let them choose their own bathroom fixtures, their kitchen cabinets, their wall colors.

  Now all they had to do was sell the Plainfield house. In any other suburb it would be worth eighty-five thousand dollars, at least. Here, they’d be lucky to get forty thousand dollars for it. Plus, they had to contend with Enid, had to promise they wouldn’t sell to blacks, not even to a black doctor or lawyer. A foolish promise, since there were very few white buyers in Plainfield. But Enid refused to have ductlas living in the house she and Samuel D. had built.

  Ductlas. Enid claimed she had invented the word because they had figured out what schvartza meant. This way she could say, Do you have a decent ductla? How does she iron? My ductla eats me out of house and home. I have to hide everything. And they would never guess what she was talking about.

  All of the Pressman stores were staffed with blacks. A smart business move, initiated by Norman, when he took over. And the best way to keep them from stealing you blind was to hire a black manager for each store, give him a share of the profits, and let him contend with the rest of the employees. That way Norman never had to play the bad guy. And he would never drop dead while firing a cashier for stealing the way his father had. Sometimes, Sandy wished Norman would drop dead. Because then she’d be free. Oh, she knew that was a terrible thought, a wicked thought and she certainly didn’t wish him a long, horrible, cancerous death. Maybe an accident with the car or a blood clot to the brain, something clean and quick. Free, free, free. She’d never been free, could only imagine what it might be like. She’d never been on her own. She’d gone from Mona and Ivan straight to Norman. Little girl to little wife.

  SANDY AND NORMAN took Enid to The Club for dinner. Enid was dressed to a tee, as she liked to put it. And tonight she wore her thick, ash-blonde wig, turquoise eye shadow to match her Trevira knit dress, and the most curious pair of spectator pumps. Enid never got rid of old shoes, believing that if you held on to them long enough they’d come back into style. “Today’s are all made of plastic,” she’d once told Sandy, slipping off her shoe and holding it out. “Smell this, genuine leather top and bottom, 1947.”

  As soon as they were seated and studying the menu, Roger came over to their table. “I missed you today,” he told Sandy.

  “Oh, sorry, something came up, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “I like your haircut.”

  Sandy’s hand went to her head. “Thanks.”

  Giulio had invented a cut just for her, at least that’s what he told her. It looked neat and would require very little care. Norman didn’t like it, she could tell, even though he said it was cute, that she looked like an elf. “And anyway,” he’d told her earlier, “it’ll grow out by September and then you can have it restyled.”

  “But I like it this way,” Sandy said.

  “Don’t get me wrong, for the summer it’s okay,” Norman had answered.

  “Well,” Roger said to all of them, “enjoy your dinner.” And then, just to Sandy, “See you tomorrow.”

  “They allow ductlas in here?” Enid asked, as soon as Roger was out of earshot.

  “He’s the assistant golf pro,” Norman explained. “Sandy is taking lessons from him.”

  “They couldn’t find a white one?”

  “Roger is very good,” Norman said.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, why should I mind?” But suddenly Enid wasn’t that hungry. “A salad is all I feel up to, that and some soup.” And she sighed.

  “Jen wrote asking me to tell you she’s very unhappy about the way you’ve been addressing her letters to camp,” Sandy told Enid. “Her name isn’t Sarah, you know. You’re embarrassing her in front of her bunkmates. Do you think that’s fair?”

  “A name like Sarah, a beautiful, biblical name like Sarah should embarrass a child?”

  “No, that’s not the point. It’s not the name that embarrasses her, it’s the idea. Everyone at camp knows her as Jennifer. That is, after all, her name.”

  “Not her real name,” Enid protested.

  “Oh, yes, her real name.”

  “Look, Mom,” Norman said, “it would be better if you wrote to Jennifer. She’s at that age now.”

  Enid sighed again and picked something out of her salad. “Look at this. You’d think such a high-class club could wash their salad more carefully.”

  And that wasn’t the only thing wrong with dinner. Enid’s soup was served lukewarm. “There’s nothing less appetizing than cool soup,” Enid said, calling the waiter. “Please take this back. Soup should be served steaming hot.” She turned to Norman. “You’d think a place like this would know.”

  And the coffee was weak.

  And the cream for it might or might not have been sour, but from the looks of it Enid wasn’t taking any chances and ordered tea instead. But the tea wasn’t brewed, it was served with a bag on the side.

  “Did you shop around before you joined this place?” Enid asked. “I’m sure there are plenty of other country clubs.”

  “My sister belongs here,” Sandy said. “It’s
supposed to be the best.”

  “Maybe tonight’s an off night,” Enid said.

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “SHE’S GETTING DIFFICULT,” Norman said later.

  Getting? Sandy thought. But she said, “Yes.”

  “She’s driving everybody in the store up the wall.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got to get her out of there.”

  “What about Florida?”

  “I only wish.”

  “Your Aunt Pearl is there.”

  “You know they don’t get along.”

  “That was years ago. It might be different now that they’re both widows.”

  “And this business about not selling the house to blacks. We haven’t had a decent offer yet. If we’re going to be in the new house in time for school we’ve got to sell now.”

  “Maybe you could talk to her about it, explain how we need the money from this one in order to close on the new one.”

  “She won’t listen. Nobody can make her listen, you know that. But I have another idea.”

  “What?”

  “We can sell to a Realtor, then the Realtor can sell to a black family. A lot of people who don’t want to sell directly to blacks are doing that.”

  “Oh, Norm, I don’t know. I’d rather we sell it ourselves or just list it with a Realtor.”

  “I’d rather sell it myself too because I doubt that we can get forty to forty-five selling it to a Realtor, but if we haven’t sold it ourselves by August first, I think that’s what we should do.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “If worst comes to worst you can drive the kids up to Watchung for the first month or two of school.”

  “But that would eat up my whole day.”

  “You don’t have anything better to do.”

  “Until you said that I thought we were having a real conversation. We were actually exchanging ideas, but you had to go and ruin it with that stupid statement!”

  “What statement, what are you talking about?”

  “That business about me not having anything better to do!”

  “There you go again. No wonder we can’t ever have a conversation—you’re too goddamned touchy!”

  And later, when they were in bed, ass to ass, Sandy asked quietly, “Norman, do you love me?”

  “You know what I think of that question.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  11

  THE UNWRITTEN LAW. She had broken the unwritten law with that question. He’d told her once, when he’d asked her to marry him. “I love you, Sandy. I love you and I want to marry you. I don’t think it’s necessary to tell you that again.”

  And he hadn’t.

  And Sandy was ashamed for wanting him to, for wanting him to confirm and reconfirm his feelings for her. But that was her problem. And she would have to deal with it herself.

  They’d been married at The Short Hills Caterers, a newer wedding palace than Clinton Manor, where Myra had married Gordon. And instead of the two hundred and fifty guests of Myra’s wedding, Sandy and Norman had had only ninety. “We don’t owe so many obligations this time,” Mona told her. It was a more intimate wedding, more elegant, Sandy thought, without doves, without a ceremonial parade, without the bride feeding the groom. A no-nonsense wedding, with Norman breaking the glass on his first try and with a band who played the horah, just once, which disappointed both families. “That’s the way the happy couple wants it,” Mona explained, shrugging.

  Sandy had worn Myra’s wedding dress, taken in, and Myra and Lisbeth were co-matrons of honor in vivid blue, the tiny twins were flower girls, in pale blue organdy, toddling down the aisle, stealing the show.

  Cousin Tish caught Sandy’s bouquet and one month later ran off to Europe with Norman’s Uncle Bennett, whom she’d been seated next to at the wedding dinner. He left his wife and three children, he quit his job with IBM, to live with the love of his life, who was twenty years younger and who still slept with a retainer in her mouth, although her braces had been off for years. And to think that he’d met her in New Jersey, of all places. That they’d fucked in the bride’s changing room at The Short Hills Caterers, between the prime ribs au jus and the baked Alaska. Rumor had it that they were still together, running a small inn somewhere in the south of France, that they were deliriously happy, and that her teeth hadn’t shifted.

  Sandy and Norman spent their wedding night at the International Hotel at Kennedy Airport, found a bottle of Taylor’s Brut on ice awaiting them in their room with a card reading Thank you, thank you, thank you! We wish you a long happy life together. Signed, Uncle Bennett and Cousin Tish, which neither of them understood at the time.

  Norm had opened it and they’d toasted each other, then Sandy poured the rest of the bottle into her bathwater, having read somewhere that champagne baths were sexy. She emerged from the bathroom powdered and perfumed and dressed in her Odette Barsa bridal peignoir set, to find Norman already under the covers, on his back, one hand draped across his eyes.

  “I drank too much,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, are you feeling sick?”

  “Just the beginning of a headache.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’ll be all right. Just turn out the lights, okay?”

  “Okay.” Wasn’t he going to open his eyes? Wasn’t he going to admire his bride in her Odette Barsa peignoir set? Obviously not. Oh well, there was always tomorrow night. She untied her peignoir, laid it carefully over the chair, and climbed into bed beside him.

  How strange to be in bed together. She’d never been in bed with a man. On a bed, yes, with Shep, but never in it, never under the covers.

  He turned to her. “Hello, wifey, how’s my little wifey?”

  Sandy felt the champagne, the baked Alaska, the au jus, working their way up to her throat, thought she might be sick in her wedding bed, on her new husband. Oh, God, her husband! What a terrifying thought. Why had she done this stupid thing? Why, oh why, had she gotten married . . . and to Norman Pressman, of all people!

  Norman rolled over on top of her, pushing her night gown up above her belly.

  “Look,” Sandy said, “we don’t have to . . . if you don’t feel like it . . . there’s always tomorrow . . . I mean, we’re going to be married for a long . . .”

  “No, I’m okay and I want to, unless you . . .”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  In the rec room, in Sandy’s parents’ house, she and Norm had shared the couch, week after week, listening to music, kissing for hours, feeling each other, dry-humping until they both came, with Norman having to change his underwear. Even then he came quickly. Rub-a-dub-dub and it was all over. He’d always carried an extra pair of boxer shorts in a Safeway bag.

  Sandy needed that kissing and hugging, that petting, but maybe Norman didn’t know, didn’t understand, because now he was pushing his penis against her, trying to get inside. “Norm, I’m not ready yet . . . please . . .”

  “Relax, San, I know you’re scared. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s just that . . .”

  “It’ll be over soon. Just close your eyes and try to think of something else. I put Vaseline on the rubber so it’ll go in easier.”

  “No, Norm, wait. Please.”

  But he wasn’t listening. He was pushing, pushing inside her. She was dry, dammit.

  Sandy closed her eyes and prayed that it would be over quickly. Some wedding night! Shep . . . oh, Shep . . . I want it to be with you . . . “Norm, it can be good if you wait for me. Norm . . .”

  Push. Shove. In. Out.

  “Norm . . . ow . . . please . . .”

  “Sh
ush . . . can’t wait . . . sorry, San . . .” In and In and In and then it was over. Norm shuddered once, kissed her cheek, said “Now you’re really my little wifey,” then rolled over and fell asleep.

  Sandy was sore and bleeding. She bled so heavily they’d had to call Gordon the next morning.

  “Relax,” Gordon told her. “It’ll stop in a day or two. Wear a Tampax and enjoy yourself! See me as soon as you get back. I’ll cauterize you and fit you with a diaphragm.”

  She’d left a trail of blood all over Puerto Rico, but by week’s end she was beginning to enjoy the feeling of Norm’s penis inside her. She was still sore but she liked the way it felt moving in and out. And she was coming, coming the way she had in the rec room, coming once or even twice every time. She wanted it more and more. She wanted it morning, noon, and night. And Norman was impressed with her responsiveness. He’d had other girls, he told her, but none like her. None who could come so fast, so hard. None who wanted it so often. It looked like it was going to work after all.

  SO WHERE DID THINGS go wrong, Norm? So what happened? It seemed all right then. Comfortable. Safe. We had our babies. We made a life together. But now I’m sick. You can’t see it this time. There isn’t any rash, no fever, but I’m sick inside. I sleepwalk through life. And I’m so fucking scared! Because every time I think about life without you I shake. I wish somebody would tell me what to do. Make the hurt go away. I wish a big bird would fly up to me, take me in its mouth and carry me off, dropping me far away . . . anywhere . . . but far from you. I want my life back! Before it’s too late. Or is it already too late? Is this it, then? Is this what my life is all about? Driving the kids to and from school and decorating our final house? Oh, Mother, dammit! Why did you bring me up to think this was what I wanted? And now that I know it’s not, what am I supposed to do about it?

  12

  SLINKY JERSEY WAS OUT. Flowing chiffon was in. Sandy had guessed wrong again. Norman would be disappointed.

  This was Sandy’s first Club Formal. They’d missed the Memorial Day Dance because Bucky had been sick. Norman looked handsome in his new tuxedo with his blue ruffled shirt. She’d told him so before they’d left for The Club. And he had admired her too, saying, “That’s a very unusual color for a summer dress.”