Wifey

by Judy Blume

  “No.”

  “Yes, I told you. The twins are being operated on tomorrow morning. I’m taking my mother in and then spending the night with Myra at the St. Moritz.”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  “Can I bring you some soup or maybe tea and toast?”

  “Soup would be good.”

  “Okay. And Norm, I really am sorry about Jake.”

  “And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m glad the playing lesson went well.”

  Sandy sat down next to him. “Hold me.”

  He put his arms around her. She rested her face against his. “We can make it better, can’t we?”

  “What?”

  “Us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if we try, really try, we can still make it work.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “Us . . . you and me . . . the marriage . . .”

  “Don’t start in tonight, Sandy. I’m tired and my head aches.”

  SANDY PICKED UP MONA at eleven the next morning and drove into New York, leaving the car on the Port Authority parking roof. It was hot, but breezy, and Mona protected her hairdo with a pink, gauzy scarf for the short walk to the building.

  “I was up all night,” she told Sandy. “I’m so worried about the girls.”

  “They’ll be fine. It’s easy surgery. They don’t even have to put them out. They get a local.”

  “In their noses?”

  “I don’t know how they do it.”

  “It must be very painful.”

  “I don’t think so. If it was, you wouldn’t hear about so many girls having it done.”

  “It’s a shame they got the Lefferts’ nose instead of ours. We all have such good noses.”

  “I’m sure they’ll look great when it’s over.”

  “Did you know it costs eighteen hundred dollars a nose but because they’re twins and because of professional courtesy they’re getting a break—two thousand dollars for both.”

  They entered the building and waited for the elevator to carry them down to the main floor.

  “We’ll take a cab?” Mona asked.

  “Yes. The hospital’s uptown.”

  “I get confused in the city.”

  “So do I.”

  Mona held Sandy’s arm as they walked through the lobby of the Port Authority building. “Sandy,” she began, then looked around as if to make sure no one was listening, “I have something to discuss with you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not here, outside.”

  They went through the double glass doors and caught a cab. After Sandy had given the driver the address of the hospital she turned to her mother. “Go on.” Was it possible that Mona had somehow found out about her and Gordon? What a thought!

  “I met a man,” Mona whispered.

  “That’s wonderful!” Sandy told her, relieved.

  “I knew him years ago before either one of us was married and now I ran into him again at Ruth Berkow’s house. He’s still married. But he wants to see me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “If he wasn’t married I could be persuaded. He brought me a bottle of perfume over the weekend—Joy. And he sent me a dozen roses for the Fourth of July—yellow.”

  “He must have fallen for you in a big way.”

  “But he’s married.”

  “Maybe they don’t get along.”

  “They don’t, but they have a truce, he says. No love, no you-know-what but they still live together.”

  “And he wants to you-know-what with you?”

  “Sandy, God forbid! I have my reputation to consider.”

  “So what does he want?”

  “Companionship, he says.”

  “So what’s wrong with that?”

  “He’s married. A married man, Sandy. How would it look? Divorce your wife, I told him, and I’ll think about it. She’d kill herself, he says.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going out to dinner with him Saturday night. Then I’ll decide.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “But I’m nervous. If his wife finds out, I could be named coordinator, God forbid.”

  “Correspondent.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And you can’t be named just for having dinner with him.”

  “It’s all so easy for your generation!”

  “It’s not easy at all. But you’re an attractive woman, Mother, a widow, you should be going out with men. I’ve told you so since Daddy died.”

  “If you remember, I tried once.”

  “That was a bad experience. I agree.”

  “You’re telling me? You don’t know the half of it. That one went to Charlie Chaplin’s doctor in Switzerland. My hormones are like a boy’s, he tells me. First we go for a ride in his new Cadillac, to south Jersey, to the cemetery where his late wife is buried, and after, he takes me to dinner at Howard Johnson’s.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “You think I wanted anyone to know he took me to Howard Johnson’s for dinner? And that’s not the end of it either. When we get back to my place he asks if he could please come up for some coffee. Of course, coffee and a piece of Sara Lee cake, maybe? I say. Sounds beautiful, he says. And Mona, so are you. I should have known then, but no, I had to go and believe him. Miss Innocence. So he looks around my apartment, admires everything, and asks if he could please lie down on my bed. He’s not feeling well all of a sudden. Right away I start worrying that he’s going to have a heart attack in my bedroom and how will that look to the world? But he’s not having a heart attack. Not him! He grabs me and pulls me down on top of him. Can you imagine! He wants to you-know-what with me on the first date! I tell him if he doesn’t let go in a hurry I’m going to scream. Good, he says. I like my women to scream. A meshugunah! I tell him I’ll kill him and I mean it. I’m already thinking about my sewing scissors. Then he laughs and lets me go. I thought you were a sport, he says, but let’s just forget it. I have plenty of women, more than I can handle, so who needs you? And then he gets up and walks out. Such an experience! Is it any wonder I haven’t gone out since?”

  The cab pulled up in front of the hospital and Sandy paid the driver.

  “You should have told me before,” Sandy said as she and Mona walked into the lobby.

  “You think I like to bother you and Myra with my personal problems?” Mona looked around. “This is a hospital? It seems more like an office building to me.”

  “It does, doesn’t it.” They walked toward the elevator. “Does Myra know about your new friend?”

  “Morris . . . Morris Minster. No, she’s got too much on her mind right now, the noses and everything.”

  The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. “What floor did Myra say?”

  “Four, I think.”

  Sandy pressed the button.

  “Sandy, I hope you’re careful with Norman.”

  “Careful, how?”

  “Careful so you don’t get into trouble.”

  “We’re not planning on any more children if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Divorce,” Mona whispered.

  “Divorce?”

  “Yes. My friend Nettie’s daughter, who lives in Connecticut, in a very swanky neighborhood, is getting a divorce. It’s making Nettie sick. Her blood pressure’s up to God knows what. You should take good care, Sandy. Make Norman happy. Nettie’s son-in-law, a lawyer, ran off with another woman from the same street!”

  “That’s too bad for Nettie’s daughter but it has nothing
to do with me and Norman.”

  “I’m just saying there’s so much going on these days, everything is different from when your father and I were your age. You should just watch out. I told Myra the same thing.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Mother, we’re just fine.”

  “Thank God.”

  They got out on the fourth floor and Mona went up to the receptionist. “We’re looking for a Mrs. Lefferts,” she said, “Mrs. Myra Lefferts. Her twins were operated on this morning.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, Room four-sixteen. Mrs. Lefferts said her family would be here around noon.”

  They started down the hall but coming toward them were two girls with huge brown rubber noses held on by white, bloodstained tape running across their cheeks and up to their foreheads.

  Mona swayed and reached for the handrail. “Oh.”

  “Shush,” Sandy told her.

  “I feel sick.”

  “They’ve just had nose jobs, that’s all.”

  “They look like the walking dead.”

  “Come on, Mother. Connie and Kate will have the same kinds of bandages. You better get used to it.”

  “It’s good I saw them first. Otherwise I might have fainted, seeing my grandchildren that way.”

  The door to Room 416 was partially opened. Connie and Kate, in identical zombie masks, were asleep. Myra sat by the window, reading the latest issue of Vogue. She looked up, held her finger to her lips, then joined Sandy and Mona outside, in the hall.

  “How are they?” Sandy asked.

  “Fine, back in their room by nine-thirty. He did one right after the other. They were awake but groggy. Now they’ll doze on and off all day.”

  “Thank God it’s over,” Mona said. “Could you see anything? Could you tell how they look?”

  “No, it’ll take three weeks before we can tell how they’re going to look but Dr. Saphire stopped by a few minutes ago to say it went very well. No problems.”

  “Now, if they’ll just lose some weight,” Mona said.

  “They will, Mother,” Myra answered, annoyed. “They needed the incentive. Give them a few months and you won’t recognize them. I’ve already made appointments at Sassoon for the day the bandages come off.”

  “You want to go to lunch?” Sandy asked.

  “Yes. I could use a little break. The nurse will look in on them while I’m gone.” Myra went back into the room and wiped off the blood trickling down from Connie’s exposed nostril. She smoothed back Kate’s hair, planted a gentle kiss on each girl’s cheek, and tiptoed out of the room.

  SANDY PUT MONA ON the four o’clock bus back to Hillside, then went to Myra’s room at the St. Moritz to shower and change for her dinner with Vincent. When she’d made the date with him she hadn’t realized how well it would work out, had forgotten that she was to keep Myra company for a day or so while the girls were hospitalized.

  She still wasn’t sure exactly what Vincent had in mind. A good visit, she hoped. Maybe he wanted to talk with her about Lisbeth, about their arrangement, or maybe he wanted to ask her to help out with Mrs. Rabinowitz when he and Lisbeth went to Maine in August, or maybe he wanted to . . . No! She wouldn’t think about that. They were meeting for dinner, that was all, like old friends. Nothing wrong with having dinner with an old friend, was there?

  Come off it, Sandy!

  Look, I’m not going to jump to conclusions.

  She walked up to the restaurant. She was ten minutes early and decided to wait outside. She wore her green dress and carried her white blazer over her arm. She was always cold in air-conditioned restaurants. Thin blood, Norman told her. She watched the people walk by. Quite a selection. A dwarf, two shirtless men arm in arm, a group of little girls in Danskins, a stunning woman who looked like . . . my God, Sandy thought, taking off after her. Was it? Yes, she was almost sure. Jackie! The woman walked to the corner and turned left. Sandy followed. The woman had slightly bowed legs. The right hair. Sandy crossed the street and walked quickly to the corner. Jackie reached her corner and waited for the light to change. Sandy crossed at the same time, coming face to face with her. It was Jackie! She wore big sunglasses but there was no doubt. Sandy knew. Jackie knew she knew. They smiled at each other. Sandy wanted to hug her, to tell her how sorry she was about her troubles, but not to worry, that things would be better. In a second they had passed each other. Jackie walked down Central Park South, not hurrying, but with long confident strides.

  Sandy rushed back to the restaurant. Vincent was waiting. They kissed hello. “You won’t believe this,” Sandy told him, breathlessly, “but I just saw Jackie Kennedy.”

  “Of course I believe it,” Vincent said.

  “Well, I almost didn’t!”

  “You’ve always had a lot of interest in her, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, shall we go inside?”

  “Fine.”

  “Have you ever seen her in person?” Sandy asked.

  “Several times.”

  They were shown to a table in the corner. They each had two drinks, fettuccine, a green salad, a half bottle of Bolla Soave, and cappucino. They talked about their children, the pros and cons of fad dieting, the war in Vietnam, where it all would end, how his students weren’t as bright or eager as they used to be, and marriage and its future in America. Sandy found it exciting to engage in a real conversation, found she had ideas she hadn’t been aware of herself.

  When the check was presented, Sandy asked, “How’s Mrs. Rabinowitz?”

  “Not well at all. She’s going in for more tests. They suspect a brain tumor . . .”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, difficult . . .” Vincent signed the Bank-Americard receipt and checked his watch. “Well, it’s just seven-forty-five. How about a movie?”

  She tried to hide her surprise. She hadn’t considered the possibility of anything as ordinary as a movie. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s still early and you’re spending the night with your sister, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then there’s no hurry, is there?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Good. I know just the film. It’s playing up near Columbia. We can make the eight-twenty show.”

  It would probably be some artsy foreign film with titles, and after it Vincent would ask her all kinds of deep questions about its real meaning and Sandy would either have to admit, I don’t know or make something up, the way she used to when Lisbeth dragged her to films full of relevance way back when. Yet Sandy wasn’t anxious to get back to the hotel, didn’t want to meet up with Gordon.

  “X-RATED?” SANDY ASKED, when she saw the marquee.

  “Yes, but very high class,” Vincent assured her. “I’ve already seen it but I’d like very much to share it with you.”

  “I’ve never seen a porno film.”

  “This isn’t porno, Sandy, it’s artistic. There’s quite a difference.”

  “If you say so.” Sandy giggled, more from nervousness than anything else. So, it wasn’t to be ordinary after all.

  Vincent bought the tickets and they went inside.

  The picture began. A girl was walking down the street. She entered a building, climbed up several flights of stairs, let herself into an apartment, went directly to the bedroom, undressed, and was raped by two young men who had been hiding in her closet. Or maybe she wasn’t raped. Because she enjoyed it very much. Possibly the two young men were just playing games with her. But there was no time to try to figure out the plot because she was already with a third man. This time she sat on him, her hands caressing her own breasts, as she moved up and down. Was this simulated or real sex? Oh, wait a minute . . . it was real . . . his penis was inside her . . . yes, from this camera angle you could see it gliding
in and out. And now she was sucking him . . . and here were the two young men again, one of them fucking her, the other one . . . very complicated . . . Sandy lost track of which body belonged to which player. After fifteen minutes more of various sexual acts Vincent leaned close and whispered, “Does watching make you wet?”

  Sandy didn’t answer. She’d been dripping right from the start, shifting in her seat, trying to make the heat go away, trying to forget that Vincent was sitting next to her and most likely had plans.

  “Does it?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” she said, thinking over her options. She could walk out, take a cab back to the St. Moritz and never see Vincent again. That was what she should do. But she hated to make hard feelings. Vincent’s hand was on her bare thigh now. Any second now he would feel how wet she really was.

  “Vincent, this is crazy.”

  “You’re right,” he said, “let’s go.” He grabbed her hand, practically pulled her out of the theater, across the street, down another street, past a row of stores.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To my office, it’s right around the corner.”

  Oh, so that was it. “But Vincent . . .”

  “Look, Lisbeth told you about our Thursday nights, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I was sure you understood when you accepted my invitation.”

  “No, I thought . . .”

  “But it’s Thursday, I made that clear when I called, didn’t I? I said, Thursday, the seventh.”

  “Yes, but you see . . .”

  “Never mind. Here we are.” They stood in front of a small, ivy-covered building on campus, across the square from the library. Vincent fumbled in his pocket for his keys, found them, unlocked the front door, escorted Sandy up a flight of wooden stairs, unlocked the door to his office, stepped inside, turned on a table lamp, took her in his arms, and kissed her with more tongue than she found comfortable. He squeezed her breasts and whispered, “My little panda, my little bear, my mountain goat, my baby burro.” Was she hearing right? Was he kidding? He pushed her down to the floor, easing her dress up and her panties down.

  “Vincent, no.” She tried to get him off. “I can’t. I haven’t got my diaphragm, for one thing.”