by Judy Blume
“Yes. The saleswoman called it wine. I think you can wear it all year round, don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Sandy had a secret. Like the man on the motorcycle, she wore no underwear tonight. She hadn’t planned it that way, but she found that her panties showed through her slinky dress, spoiling the line, and it was too warm to wear panty hose. So she wore just a Tampax under her new dress, insurance against leakage. The jersey felt good against her naked bottom and her secret made her feel sexy. But she wasn’t going to tell Norman. Let him discover it on his own.
Norm brought Sandy a whiskey sour. “Drink it slowly,” he said, “so you don’t get dizzy.”
Sandy nodded.
Sherm Hyatt, who was Norman’s partner in the holiday tournament, walked toward them with his guests. “I’d like you to meet Rhoda and Shep Resnick,” he said. “Rho . . . Shep . . . say hello to two of our new Club members, Norm and Sandy Pressman.”
Sandy squeezed her whiskey sour glass.
He spoke first. “Sandy Schaedel!”
“Yes.”
“What a surprise!”
“Yes.” She would not break her glass this time. She would not sweat or stutter or fart. She would remain calm, cool, and sophisticated.
“Well, it’s certainly been a long time.”
“Eight years.”
“Eight years . . . imagine . . . Rhoda,” he said, turning to his wife, “this is Sandy Schaedel, a friend from the old days.”
“Oh, yes,” Rhoda said, extending her hand, “we met once at some restaurant.”
“The Towers,” Sandy reminded her
“That’s right . . . of course . . .”
Shep kept smiling at Sandy while Norman and Sherm heatedly discussed the latest Club Incident. Ed Braidlow had peed on the floor of the steam room and three other Club members had lodged a complaint against him.
“Norm is chairman of the Grievance Committee,” Sandy explained.
“Must be interesting,” Shep said.
“This is his first important grievance.”
“I see.”
“Do you live around here?” Rhoda asked.
“In Plainfield but we’re moving to Watchung soon. We’re building a house there.”
“We’re in Princeton.”
“Oh. It’s supposed to be nice there.”
“It is, especially for the children.”
“How many do you have?” Sandy asked.
“Four but we’re expecting our fifth any day.”
“Oh, really? You can’t tell.”
Shep and Rhoda laughed together, making Sandy feel foolish.
“Rhoda’s not pregnant,” Shep told her. “We’ve adopted our last two kids and our latest is coming from Vietnam.”
“She’s three and a half,” Rhoda added, “and adorable. I can show you her picture.” She opened her purse and pulled out a mini photo album. “There she is, isn’t she a darling?”
“Oh, yes, lovely.”
“And these are our others.” She flipped the pages so that Sandy could admire all five children. “We’ve got two boys of our own and two girls from Korea.”
“I think that’s terrific,” Sandy said. “Really, just so nice.”
“Rho,” Lexa Hyatt called, “over here . . .”
“Excuse me,” Rhoda said, “I think Lexa wants me to meet some of her friends.”
Which left Sandy alone with Shep.
“So,” he said.
“So,” she answered.
“You’re looking good, Sandy.”
“Thank you.” Pause. “Rhoda seems very nice.”
“She is.”
“And all those kids.”
“She collects kids the way some women collect recipes.”
“But you must enjoy them too.”
“I’ve always enjoyed kids.” Pause. “Norman seems nice, too.”
“Oh, yes, he is. And we have two children, a boy, ten and a girl almost eight. They’re away at camp.” Pause. “My sister’s here. You remember Myra, don’t you?”
“How could I forget? I met you at her wedding.”
Sandy’s mouth was dried out. She licked her lips, then tried sipping her whiskey sour but found her hand was shaking. “I saw you on the train last Monday.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I had to get off in Newark, to change trains. There wasn’t much time.”
“Where are you sitting for dinner?”
“Over there,” Sandy pointed, “at the table in the corner with my sister and her friends. How about you?”
“Back there, that long table. Save me a dance, will you?”
“No problem. Norman doesn’t dance.”
The band leader announced dinner and the parade to the tables began.
Gish sat next to Sandy, whispering, “You look sensational in that . . . shows off your little body just right . . . love your little tits . . . you know the old saying . . . anything you can’t fit in your mouth . . .”
“Cut it out, will you?” Sandy whispered back.
She tried to concentrate on the meal, drank more than she should have, waited until she saw Rhoda Resnick dancing cheek to cheek with Sherm Hyatt, and knew that he would come for her soon.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, standing behind her, “but could I have this dance, for old time’s sake?”
She pretended to be surprised. “Oh, Shep, how nice.” And she excused herself from the table.
Shep took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
“So,” he said, looking down at her.
“So.”
“Here we are again.”
“Yes.”
“I feel like I’m back at your sister’s wedding.”
“And I’ve just wiped the bird crap off your head.”
He laughed. “I haven’t been crapped on by a blue dove since then.”
“Pink, wasn’t it?”
“Was it?”
“I think so. Everything was pink and white.”
They were quiet for a while. The electricity was still there. Her knees were weak, she felt very warm, her hands were sweating. He held her tight. “Are you happy, Sandy? Do you have what you want?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“Sandy?”
“I don’t know. What about you?”
“I’m reasonably happy.”
“And successful, I hear.”
“Yes, but bored. I made it too fast, too soon. I miss the struggle.”
“What about all those kids?”
“That’s Rhoda’s department.”
The music ended but Shep didn’t let go of her hand.
“Do you play around, Sandy?”
She shook her head.
“Norman was the first and only?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re proud of that, aren’t you?”
“Not especially.”
The music began again. He pressed her to him, then changed his mind. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I can’t, they’ll notice.”
“No they won’t. Look at Norman with that little blonde.”
“That’s Luscious. She admires his tennis game.”
“I thought you said he doesn’t dance.”
“He doesn’t. She’s dancing, he’s just standing there.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. And look at Sherm. He thinks if he dances with Rhoda all night he’ll get the contract on my next shopping center.”
“Will he?”
“Probably. Come on.” He led her through the lobby to the double doors.
Outside it was hot and dry. Sandy smelled roses and wisteria. She had trouble breathing. What now?
Shep held her hand and they walked quickly across the eighteenth fairway and down the road to the pool. Then, off to the side of the pool, behind the cabanas.
He turned to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her. He still had that delicious way of kissing, licking the corners of her mouth, running his tongue along her teeth, sucking on her lower lip. His breath was hot on her face, in her ear, on her neck. How different from Norman’s cold, toothpaste kisses. Shep tasted of wine, of salad dressing, of sex. Shep was hard. Oh yes, she could feel it against her. Very hard. He laughed.
“Feel that,” he said, placing her hand on his trousers. “Just like the old days.”
“Shep, Norman would never forgive me. I have to get back.”
He put his hands on her ass and squeezed. “You’re not wearing anything under this are you?”
“No.” She felt faint, unable to swallow, to get a deep breath, scared she might pass out from the excitement of it, grateful for the Tampax, holding in her juices, keeping her dry so he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t guess how hot she was for him, how close to coming just from his kiss, just from his hands on her ass.
“I have to go now,” she told him. “Norman . . .”
“Norman will never know.” He was easing her dress up, his fingers on her naked bottom now.
“You don’t understand . . .”
“Relax.” He was kissing her again, one hand tightening around her breast.
“I can’t, Shep, I can’t take the chance.”
He let go and stepped away from her.
“Life is one big chance, Sandy. If you’re not willing to take it, you can’t play the game.”
“Then I guess I’m not ready for the game,” she said slowly, hating herself.
“Call me if you change your mind,” he said and walked away, leaving her alone in the dark. He never was one to force the issue, damn it!
Sandy went back to the Clubhouse, to the Ladies Room, where she splashed cold water on her face. “I know how you feel,” a strange woman said to her. “I’ve had a wee bit too much myself.”
“Oh, there you are,” Norman said when she got back to their table.
“I got hot. I needed some fresh air.”
“Don’t have anything more to drink.”
“No, I won’t.”
Steph Weintraub rushed up to her. “Sandy, you haven’t signed my petition yet. We want all the new members to sign.”
“What petition is that?”
“A refusal to accept the archaic laws of this Club which state that women cannot tee off on Wednesdays, weekends, or holidays until one p.m. I mean, we’re members too, aren’t we? So why should we just go along with this shit? I play as good a game as most of our male members. Why should I have to wait until one p.m.?”
“You shouldn’t,” Sandy said, and reached for Steph’s pen.
“Bullshit!” Gish said. “The difference, my dear, Stephanie Ball Breaker, is that we work our tails off all week, supporting you charming creatures, while you get to play every goddamned day of the week. So is it too much to ask that on Wednesdays, weekends, and holidays we get to tee off first? Talk about fair, talk about selfishness, Jesus H. Chreeist!”
“Maybe Gish is right,” Sandy said. “I hadn’t thought about . . .”
“Think for yourself, Sandy!” Steph argued.
“I never learned how.” Sandy handed the pen back to Steph, without signing her petition.
13
MYRA AND GORDON 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 smudgin
g. 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.”