The princess thus arrived at the unhappy conclusion that given the selective nature of their behavior in her presence, toads had the capacity to hear. She then tested her theory on the toad-princes who subsequently made her acquaintance; and to her great dismay, her hypothesis proved correct each and every time.
“Molly, this is brilliant!”
“I hope the Bennington people weren’t expecting science on this one. I did say on my application that I want to study creative writing.”
“Well, this is creative problem-solving, so if I were them, I’d be delighted by the way you tackled the assignment. You found a way to play to your strengths, and provided what I’m quite certain is an unexpected response to their question.”
Molly grinned. “Yeah…well. Could you see me poking around in a terrarium or something?! Not! I had to do the toads, though—by default. I didn’t even understand the first essay question, and the third one was so boring. And these people do claim to encourage individuality, right?”
And what had been the catalyst for this newfound diligence? Sylvia Plath. After devouring The Bell Jar, Molly Googled the poet, and learning a little more about her life, found a role model in the teenage Plath’s constant striving for perfection, particularly in academics. Molly’s grades had shot up (amazing what happens when one applies oneself!) during the second half of the fall semester. She was now pulling down A’s and A-minuses in everything but math and science, where her test scores were nearly miraculous (for her) solid Bs.
“And don’t worry, I won’t stick my head in the oven,” she assured me. “Just because I admire her doesn’t mean I also want to be fucked-up like her. Or that I’m going to marry an adulterer! Duh!”
Duh. Gee. Nice to know she was still Molly under all that scholastic achievement. I was so pleased with her accomplishments, though, that I lifted one of her shoplifting punishments. She was no longer on incontinent dog duty.
I hadn’t neglected Eli either, although I’d been unable to locate his lucky boxers and Mickey Mouse sock. I’d mentioned the missing undergarments to Faith when she asked me right after Mala Sonia’s reading if I had noticed any strange behavior on his part. I wanted to play the hero, so that evening, after I left the women’s health center, I braved crush upon crush of holiday shoppers, visiting four stores before I found another pair of Betty Boops. They weren’t quite the same as the aqua-colored missing pair (the new ones were green with Betty dressed in a red and white Santa minidress and stocking cap), but it was the best I could do. Heedless of calorie, cholesterol, and carb counts I cooked Eli’s favorite dinner, listened to him gripe about his long day at the drafting table, and massaged his aching shoulders, before I began to vent about my day in the dark and narrow trenches of shrinkdom. When he shrugged off my advances in the boudoir, pleading fatigue, I decided not to push it and waited instead for him to make the first move.
It had been like Santa’s Dysfunctional Workshop at the women’s health center as they were gearing up for their annual office Christmas party. I got to the sign-up sheet late and found that all the easy responsibilities, like paper goods or candy, had already been taken. So I was stuck with either cookies or music, both of which are never guaranteed to please everyone. With the cookies, there are the store-bought devotees and the homemade ones, neither of which can agree on a choice. Some people hate ginger, others hate peppermint, some can’t tolerate nuts. Music isn’t much easier. Too much “Christmas music” is either too denominational or too depressing. Statistics show that many people commit suicide over the December holidays, and I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s overdose of sentiment.
Still, cookies are a one-time thing, while CDs are forever. As far as the office party was concerned, if I did it right, I’d only have to do it once. I scribbled my name next to “Music.”
When I got home, I noticed that someone from the building management had strung some colored lights and tinsel in the lobby, and erected the shabby faux fir, decking it with dime-store ornaments. Taking a quick peep in the basement, I saw that they had neglected the laundry room, as usual. I thought it could use a large dollop of holiday cheer. After dinner, I went back downstairs and covered the door with wrapping paper, so it resembled an enormous present. I ringed the washers with twinkly white lights, which didn’t create an obstacle to doing the laundry, since for the past several days only one unit was working. We were now down to a single washing machine from half a dozen. Stevo appeared to have completely abrogated his superintendential responsibilities. He was no longer even offering the tenants false hope that new washers would be forthcoming.
Crowds had been gathering in the laundry room, and more than one fight erupted over whose turn it was for the washing machine. Last week, in an effort to ensure a fair and balanced washday (since no one else had taken the initiative to make order out of chaos), I posted a blank schedule where the tenant (or their housekeeper) could pencil in their name and apartment number next to a time slot, but it went largely unheeded. At the best of times, it resembled a coffee klatsch down there; at the worst of times, it was like the first day of the Barney’s Warehouse sale.
The day after Mala Sonia had given me the psychic reading was Christmas Eve. It was a madhouse in the laundry room; everyone seemed to have extra loads.
As Sigmund had not given me a break from his sporadic incontinence, I had a laundry emergency, dashing downstairs that afternoon only to find the washing machine in mid-cycle. It was clearly one of those days I’ve described previously: where if someone was absent when the red light went out, their stuff would get “evicted” and dumped on one of the tables in a damp heap by the next person in line for the machine.
Claude and Talia—who no longer needed her crutches, but did rely on a cane—were already waiting. Meriel came down with a bunch of things to wash for Eric and Amy, but had to keep running back and forth from their apartment to the laundry room, since Amy didn’t want her to waste the entire workday waiting for the washing machine. Alice and Izzy—who, well into her third trimester, was still negotiating her reconciliation with her husband, popped their heads in and were ready to give up when they saw how many people were ahead of them. Faith had a load of purple clothes to be laundered, and she was up next. If the nearest Laundromat weren’t over a quarter mile away, it certainly would have been a more viable option. And at the rate the snow was falling, we were practically guaranteed a white Christmas.
Although they’d been discouraged at first by the lengthy wait, Alice and Izzy suggested that we look at the bright side and turn the gathering into a festive occasion, so they went back up to Alice’s apartment to fetch homemade holiday cookies, which they brought downstairs to feed the masses.
The red light went off, and we all stared at the machine. “After you,” Claude said to Faith.
Faith hesitated. “You know, I’ve never done this. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“Bite the bullet, Faith,” Alice encouraged her. “C’mon, we’re all waiting.”
“Whose is it?” Izzy asked, pointing to the washing machine.
“I tink it belongs to Mala Sonia,” said Meriel. “She was in here when I first came down. She wanted to do more den one load, but I tell her daht everyone waiting, and she should do one and go back to de end of de line. So, she load her bigger load, de colors, and say she come back to do her white tings later.”
“I know you say I should be bold, Susan…”
“Hop to it, Faith,” Talia teased. “Don’t make me hobble over there and do it for you.” She pointed to the small table. “Dump ’em. Believe me, she’d do the same to any of us.”
Faith set up her cart beside the washing machine, then lifted the lid and began to remove Mala Sonia’s colorful array of garments, including the ruffled yellow blouse the Gypsy had been wearing when she gave me the psychic reading. She placed them in an unceremonious though remarkably tidy heap on the table.
Faith suddenly paled, and standing with her back to the clothes-c
overed table, beckoned to Claude. “Sweetheart, would you mind helping me with something?” Claude quizzically regarded the older woman. “No, I mean it,” Faith added anxiously. When Claude was too slow to respond, Faith said, “I think I need some assistance. I must have wrenched my back when I bent over the washing machine to pull out the clothes.”
“Oh, my God! I’ll help you,” I offered.
“No! No! Claude is…younger. And…and taller. If I collapse, she’ll be able to catch me much more easily. You just sit tight, Susan.”
Claude approached Faith, who drew her close and furtively whispered something in her ear.
Claude stifled a gasp, then nodded and turned to Talia, who was seated on one of the dinette chairs with her bum leg stretched out in front of her. “Talia, weren’t you telling me about this new equipment you got from your physical therapist? I was just thinking that Susan…being…being a therapist of a different sort…might be interested in seeing it. And as long as you both have a bit of a wait before you can do your wash, you might want to take her up to your apartment and show her. While…while I help Faith get rid of her back spasm.”
“What? Y’know, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Claude.”
Claude crooked her finger at Talia, and the dancer slid herself away from the table and limped over. Faith draped her arm over Talia’s shoulder and whispered to her.
Talia winced. “Actually…that wouldn’t be a bad idea, y’know? Meriel…? I can show Susan the equipment, but I may need…uh…would you just come over here for a sec!”
So Meriel joined the knot of whispering women by the table.
“Okay, something’s obviously going on,” Alice said, and rose from the couch.
“Wait! Me too,” Izzy demanded. “Pull. I can’t get up like I used to.” Alice heaved her extremely pregnant friend to her feet. I was very pointedly left out, sitting all by myself at the other end of the room like the kid who never gets picked for kickball.
The women appeared very upset. It was driving me nuts the way each of them kept looking from one to the other and then back to me with undeniable pity.
Then Alice, whose theatrically trained voice sometimes became unintentionally louder than she desired, said, in what amounted to a stage whisper, “Yes, but is it our place to tell her?”
“Okay ladies!” I planted my feet and stood up, arms akimbo.
“I’m not the kind of person who enjoys being left out of the loop. ‘Tell her’ what?”
I was met with a half-dozen horribly pained expressions. Alice bit her lip so hard that she made herself cry. Meriel wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. Faith reached out her hand and Claude clasped it in commiseration. Talia’s nose was growing red from trying not to weep, and Izzy handed her a tissue.
The cluster parted, exposing Mala Sonia’s moist pile of laundry. I still didn’t understand what the consternation was all about, so I came over to join them.
“It’s a very delicate situation. We wanted to protect you,” Faith whispered gently.
“From what?”
My clients exchanged anxious glances. Then Alice began to disentangle and separate the garments until each one became clearly visible. Faith gingerly lifted up a pair of aqua-colored Betty Boop boxers and a single navy sock depicting Mickey Mouse in a dunce cap and gown—the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. She pressed the items into my hand. “I think you told me that you were looking for these.”
“We are so sorry, Susan,” said Alice. “So, so sorry,” she reiterated, and the women enveloped me into a hug.
Progress Notes
Faith Nesbit: This client’s progress continues to be a marvel. The baby step she took in purchasing concert subscriptions some months ago became a giant leap when she screwed her courage to the sticking place and introduced herself to one of the musicians following a performance. The man is also a generation younger and of another ethnicity, and Faith seems very pleased with her ability to move on—not just from her old behavioral patterns of living for her late husband—but in the way her risk-taking has enabled her to broaden her horizons both socially and romantically. I do want to continue to take Faith’s pulse, so to speak, closely monitoring her in subsequent sessions, in order to be certain that she’s not moving too fast. Her rapid progress, while it delights me, also gives rise to my one concern: Faith has accelerated so quickly that I want to be sure she’s not headed for a train wreck.
Me: And speaking of train wrecks…I was deliriously happy that Molly seems to have gotten herself on track, supporting my contention that she was perfectly capable of fine work, as long as she discovered something to be passionate about.
However…it would appear that my marriage has become derailed. I confess that in many ways I didn’t see it coming, and yet on some far deeper level, I’d suspected it for a while. Was I in denial about Eli’s remoteness of late? He had insisted that it had everything to do with his Gia the Gypsy book. Irony of ironies, he was actually telling the truth. I can’t believe I didn’t—couldn’t—wouldn’t see it. I tell my clients to pay attention to all the signs around them, and listen to what’s not being said too; and yet I failed to do the same when it came to my own life. It’s like the cobbler’s kids who go barefoot and the dentist’s kids with rotten teeth. Now I realize that Eli’s late nights…if…well, there’s no other explanation for his missing underwear turning up in Mala Sonia’s wash. I may have been slow to catch on (okay, on a conscious level I didn’t catch on at all, GODDAMNIT!!!!!!). I’m so angry at Eli, and perhaps even angrier with myself. Once I was faced with the cold hard truth (or the damp facts), there really is only one conclusion to be drawn.
Mala Sonia had been trying to tell me something in that so-called psychic reading. Reflecting on the way things had transpired that morning…she hadn’t let me choose the cards at random the way she had done with Amy and Alice; instead, she dealt them from the deck herself…and I realize now that she might very well have manipulated the entire thing, using sleight-of-hand tricks when she laid out the cards in order for them to spell out what she wanted me to know.
The reading was in fact her admission of adultery. What an unusual thing to do—not just the method, obviously, but to confess it in the first place! Perhaps Mala Sonia had been feeling guilty about it, but didn’t know how to raise the subject with me, or how—even whether—she should reveal the truth to her rival. Had she been trying to spare my feelings or slaughter me? Oddly enough, some of the cards as she interpreted them contained rays of hope. For me, I mean.
Like a therapist, she helped illuminate the issues for the client without handing them the answer. And like a therapist, Mala Sonia allowed the client to work out the resolution or outcome of the issue herself.
Why didn’t I wonder where Eli was learning all that Romany?
And it wasn’t as if our sex life had dried up completely. Thinking about it, it was pretty de rigueur for many couples approaching twenty years together. Yeah, I wanted more than Eli was often in the mood to give, but that’s not uncommon either.
I…I can’t write any more words right now. I feel like there’s been a death in the family…and I need time to grieve before I can begin to heal. I have nothing more to say. I’m numb. I think I’m going to be sick.
KNITS
17
Right after Christmas, I sat down with Anna, my supervisor down at the women’s health center, and told her that my marriage had come unraveled. The revelation had been a sucker punch to the solar plexus, I said. And where had I been while it was happening? Asleep at the watch; in denial, perhaps; taking what seemed like a good life for granted that it was a great one. Anna asked me if I wanted to talk to someone about it, and offered to make a recommendation. I sounded like some of my clients when I expressed the desire to see an analyst who was licensed to prescribe sedatives.
Anna asked me if I wanted a referral for a couples counselor. When I got home, I broached the subject with Eli, who said that he didn’t think that was necess
ary.
“And why is that?” I asked, every nerve in my body clutching and tensing and pulsing.
“I really don’t think it’s going to help. I want to see how things go with Mala Sonia. That’s where I want to be right now.”
“And what about your kids? You’re ready to walk out on your kids over this?”
“I’ll be right across the street.”
“You’ll what?”
“Stevo’s gone. Mala Sonia told him about us the same day she tried to tell you. He left their apartment that night and didn’t come back. She says she doesn’t know where he is. Mala Sonia and the kids can’t live there if the super’s quit, but her cousin is the super of number thirty-seven across the street and there’s a vacant apartment over there that we can take. A rent-controlled tenant just died.”
“Did I really just hear you say that you are moving in with the super’s wife?!” If there was ever a person who did not deserve to have a rent-stabilized apartment on the Upper West Side fall into his adulterous lap, it’s Eli. Not only is he rubbing his affair in his family’s face, he’s probably tickled pink at the wages of sin.
Eli looked like a lost little boy. I had neither patience nor pity for his predicament. “Your suitcase is on the top shelf of the linen closet.”
I’d tried to hold it together, for the sake of Molly and Ian. I didn’t want them to see their mother turning into a screaming harpy, ruining the holidays for everyone. As it was, things were very strange up in apartment 5C. Eli kept coming and going, moving his stuff out of our place and down the street on rolling dollies. Through it all, as ridiculous as it seemed, we tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy for the children. And although they felt betrayed and confused, our kids hadn’t entirely abandoned their priorities. Molly wanted to know if she could have her dad’s home office as a bedroom. Ian fought her on the subject, claiming that she’d be going off to college soon anyway, and she didn’t need to hog the bigger room. His tiny bedroom was what would have been a maid’s room back when the building was built. So he did have a valid point about switching rooms. Once he hit his growth spurt, his limbs would be practically touching the walls.
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