by Rona Jaffe
“Tell us about your evening with Eben,” Kathryn said to Eve.
Eve gave a self-satisfied smile. She was wearing a short, tight skirt and a see-through sweater with no bra, although it was a little late for her to get away with that. Since her surgery Gara had found herself obsessed with breasts; she looked at other women all the time, on the street, everywhere. She looked at the size and shape of their breasts, amazed at what a variety there were. She wondered if their owners were properly enjoying them, and wondered, when she looked at opulent, sexy breasts bouncing along on the chests of young women who were a little bit self-conscious, a little too aware, if sometime in the future they would lose them. But she was much less obsessive than she had been at the beginning when she had not even looked at their faces. She was getting better.
“Two evenings,” Eve said. “There’s nothing like a young, stiff prick.”
“Women who are getting laid dress sexier than they did when they weren’t,” Gara said dryly.
“Is that true?” Felicity asked with some alarm.
“Well, you don’t have to worry,” Kathryn said. “You’re married.”
“I hardly ever have sex with my husband,” Felicity said. “I hate him.” She opened her cell phone. “I’d better call him.”
“Eben Mars is very interesting and very rich,” Eve said. “I like him. He’s crazy, though. The second time he called me up at the last minute, said he was on my corner with his portable phone and said: ‘Do you want to fuck?’”
“And did you?” Kathryn asked.
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t anybody use a regular phone anymore?” Gara said.
“Nope.”
“All those antennas sticking up out of people’s ears, like bugs.”
“Hello, Slugger,” Felicity cooed into her phone. “Whatcha doing?” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and made a face. “As if I didn’t know.”
Gara listened to Felicity talking to her husband in that soft, wheedling voice, and knew Felicity had an ambivalence she might not yet be aware of. She wanted to get away from Russell but she still called him constantly, as if she needed him as much as he needed her. She said she hated him, but she loved him, too. Gara knew Felicity had been in therapy for a few years, and wondered if she would ever get to the point where she would either change her life or resign herself to it.
Felicity clicked off and folded her phone. “I hate him,” she said.
“What did he do?” Eve asked, excited at the prospect of hearing something bad.
“Nothing. He was very nice for a change. He’s probably glad I’m not there.”
“If you can’t stand him, why did you talk to him for a good five minutes?” Gara asked.
Felicity shrugged.
“You know,” Gara said, “there are women who would be very satisfied to have a rich husband for the lifestyle and a sexy, discreet lover for the passion.”
“And they all live in Europe,” Felicity said.
“No they don’t,” Kathryn said cheerfully. “You should hear some of the stories I hear when I’m having lunch and playing tennis and going to the gym.”
“I’m sure,” Gara said.
“I don’t want a rich husband or any other kind,” Eve said. “I’m never going to get married again. I didn’t even want to get married in the first place.”
“Neither did I,” Kathryn said.
“Then why did you?”
“I was young and dumb,” Kathryn said. “What about you?”
“I was pregnant. You remember what it was like in the sixties. Abortion was illegal so you married him. I was still in high school.”
“Ah,” they all said, sympathizing.
“But I threw him out after the baby was born, and divorced him and forbade him to have anything to do with me,” Eve said. “I wouldn’t take a penny from him. He was not a person I wanted to have in my life. He was just a cute guy who walked me home from school and carried my books. He was a lousy husband.”
“What did you expect from a kid?” Gara said. “Did your daughter still see him?”
“Sometimes. She can if she wants to. That one mistake ruined everything for me.” She sounded very bitter.
“But you have your beautiful daughter,” Felicity said. “I only met Nicole once, that time you brought her here, but I loved her.”
“Yeah?” said Eve. “Sometimes I’d like to go to my daughter’s funeral.”
There was a stunned silence. “Well, I married for love,” Felicity said finally. “That shows how much anyone knows about anything. I thought Russell was a god.”
“I married for love, too,” Gara said.
Their food arrived: the usual broiled chicken and salad, except for Eve, who had ordered the chicken fried steak. She had a metabolism in high gear and could eat anything. All that anger must burn calories, Gara thought. Too bad mine doesn’t.
“Another bottle of wine?” Felicity asked.
“I don’t know . . .” Gara said.
“Oh, come on,” Kathryn said. “If we don’t drink it, Eve can take it home.”
They ordered the wine. “I tried to leave my husband once,” Felicity said. “I hadn’t met my friend yet; I was still a good wife. I came home late from the office with wine on my breath because my colleague and I had had a drink when we got through working. Russell slammed me against the wall and hit me three times, and when I got away from him he locked the door and stood in front of it so I couldn’t get out. I was screaming; I thought he was going to kill me. He kept asking: ‘Who were you with tonight?’ He called me a slut. I had never cheated on him, never. The next morning I looked so bad I was ashamed to go to work, but I did because I wanted to talk to the divorce lawyer in our firm. He took photos of me with my bruises and said I had a good case. I made the mistake of telling my mother.”
“And . . . ?”
“She looked at the photos of me all beaten up, and she said: ‘What did you do to deserve it?’”
“Oh, no!” Kathryn said.
“She said I had to go back to him. She said without Russell I’d have nothing.”
“But you know that’s not true,” Gara said.
“She said she’d lived in an unhappy marriage and so could I,” Felicity said. Russell swore he’d never hit me again, so . . .”
“And did he?” Kathryn asked.
“Once. About a year later. By that time I had my friend, but he didn’t know it. He was just jealous, as usual.”
“So your husband really pushed you into your affair,” Eve said.
“Yes, but not the way you think.” Felicity sipped her wine. “Let’s not talk about him anymore. I’m too happy right now.”
“But you can still divorce him now if you want,” Eve said. “Do you still have the pictures?”
“Oh, sure. In my safe deposit box at the bank. But they won’t do any good. The statute of limitations has run out. So Kathryn, we never asked you what happened with you and that oil man you met last week.”
“Oh, yes, what was his name?” Kathryn said. “Stanley. Was it Stanley? I’m getting middle-aged and forgetful.”
“There’s no more middle age,” Eve said. “You’re young and then you’re youthful.” The others laughed and Eve looked pleased.
“He called me every day, so I went to dinner with him one night last week and he was obnoxious,” Kathryn said cheerfully. “So I told him to buzz off.”
“Next!” they all said in unison, and laughed.
“Cute,” Kathryn said, looking across the room. They turned to see Little Billie walking through the crowded restaurant to talk to his mother, who was sitting at the bar. Hands reached out from tables to pat him, women cooed at him, trying to get his attention, all of them admirers in the presence of such nonchalant beauty. He said hello to the people he knew well and igno
red the rest.
“He looks like an angel,” Felicity said. “I wish I had one like that. A little darker. I wouldn’t keep him in a bar at night. I’d keep him home with me.”
“He is with his mother,” Gara said, although she wondered how much longer Little Billie would put up with a life that was so different from the lives of his friends.
She glanced over at the bar. Little Billie’s posture was stubborn, and Billie was shaking her head no, looking annoyed. Then he went back to his booth, sulking, and after a moment or two in reverie, Billie came over to their table and sat down.
“How many of you have kids?” she asked.
Kathryn and Eve raised their hands, and after considering whether her former stepsons counted, Gara did too.
“Pain in the ass sometimes, huh?” Billie said.
“For sure,” Kathryn said.
“He’s in my face about going home,” Billie said. “We live in a high rise, the kids play in the halls. He wants to be with them. This is a new, unpleasant development.”
“Well,” Gara said, “a nine-year-old kid wants friends his own age.”
“He has them in the daytime,” Billie said. “This is a school night, and children stay at home with their parents, wherever home might be. You’re a therapist, Gara; what do you think?”
“I think that’s a good point,” Gara said.
“You’re a feminist, Billie,” Eve contributed brightly. “This is where you work, and you have your child in the workplace. That’s acceptable.”
“Who asked you?” Billie said, annoyed.
Felicity and Gara slid their glances at one another and tried not to laugh. Billie didn’t like Eve; they were both surprised she had come to sit with them when Eve was there. Billie must really be upset about this, Gara thought.
“He’s such a good kid most of the time,” Billie said.
They looked at Little Billie in his booth, his chin propped on his hands, giving his mother the evil eye. But then he stifled a smile. It was obvious he couldn’t stay angry at her for too long.
“A darling face like that,” Billie said, “it makes you want to bite his nose.” She smiled at him and he looked away. “Hey, Pete,” she said to the waiter. “Bring Little Billie a hot fudge sundae. He likes it with vanilla.”
“You’re a good mother,” Felicity said. Apparently she had changed her mind.
“Well, I try,” Billie said. She got up without saying goodbye and went to greet a party of four that was coming in.
“She should send us a free hot fudge sundae,” Eve said. “For the free advice.”
“Just don’t ask for it,” Gara said, but they all knew what was coming.
“Pete,” Eve called to the waiter. “We get a hot fudge sundae too, and don’t put it on the bill.”
“No!” the other three groaned in unison.
“With four spoons,” Eve said. “I’m still hungry.”
“You can’t do that,” Gara said.
“No?” Eve said in the brusque, belligerent tone she took on whenever anyone criticized her. “Why not? I can do anything I want.”
The sundae arrived and only Eve ate it. Kathryn didn’t like ice cream, Felicity was always on a stricter diet than the rest of them, and Gara was embarrassed. She also knew it would no doubt appear on Eve’s check and if she took even one bite Eve would demand that she split the cost. That was Eve. She wondered if Eve was really that hard up for money, or if she just liked wheeling and dealing and getting something for nothing. Eve often said she had always had to take care of herself. It must have taken courage for Eve to tell her ex-husband she didn’t want any money or help from him. Not that a kid his age would have had much cash to contribute, but still . . .
Eve licked up the last drop of ice cream. Felicity looked at her watch and pulled out her cell phone again and called Russell.
“I’ll be home very soon,” she said to him, reassuringly. “I miss you, too, Slugger.”
“Check!” Kathryn called.
When Pete brought the bills they looked them over. The hot fudge sundae did not appear on either of them. “Free!” Eve announced triumphantly. “I told you I can get anything I want. It just takes the power. You all should listen to me.”
“I like the power of cash,” Kathryn said.
“I like my power,” Eve said. “The power of belief in myself.”
Can anyone really be that confident? Gara wondered as they paid the bill and prepared to leave. What must she think when she’s all alone?
Chapter Eight
EVE BADER WAS BORN on a small, struggling chicken farm twenty miles outside of Miami. She literally was born on the farm, since her mother went into labor early and her father had taken the truck into town to get something fixed. It was 1950, and her parents had gotten the money for their house and their dream from the G.I. Bill. The house was falling down when they got it and the dream collapsed soon after, and by the time she was five her parents were divorced.
She was an only child in a neighborhood overflowing with postwar fecundity. Everybody had brothers and sisters and friends, a mother who stayed at home and car pooled, and a father who went to work. She had a father who was absent, a mother who could drive a tractor, a neurotic tabby cat named Mayhem, and a black and white TV that showed a test pattern most of the day.
When Eve wasn’t helping feed the chickens or clean the house she was watching the test pattern blankly, lying on the modern brown and orange tweed couch, stroking her cat, and wondering if it could be possible to send oneself right through that geometric design on the little screen to the world beyond where the people who would fill the screen at night originated. The yellow school bus stopped on the corner to take her to school and brought her home, she did her homework, and that was her life. The other kids didn’t seem to like her, but she didn’t know why. She wondered whether it was her personality or her clothes. She was the only girl at school who arrived in jeans, like a boy. It was just easier that way, her mother said.
“The kids make fun of me,” Eve protested. “They don’t like anybody who looks different.”
“You’d better be different,” her mother would say. “Do you want to grow up to be like me? You don’t want to get married; men are no good. You have to be independent and be somebody.”
“Be what?”
“Pick something.”
When she was seven Eve decided she was going to be an actress, go to New York City, and be on Playhouse 90. The programs changed and went off the air, a lot of the television shows began to be seen in color, and she had new, alternative dreams of stardom. Maybe she would go to Hollywood instead of New York. Maybe she would be on a soap opera and wear those gorgeous clothes. It was a good thing, not a bad one, that she had grown up different. You had to have your own style to become famous. She set out to develop one.
She was always in the school play. In high school it wounded her to have to be the Nurse, not Juliet, because everyone knew that the girl who played Juliet was prettier, and more delicate, and more tragic; but Eve got to be Lady Macbeth. That was her finest hour. On stage she had heat and intensity. When she did the blood-on-my-hands scene some of the kids in the audience tittered, but she knew it was because they were stupid. Her mother had told her to pick, and she had picked. She knew her destiny.
When cute John Hawke, who was in her class and who did lighting on that production of Macbeth, became her boyfriend, Eve never for an instant thought that she’d spend her life with him. It was nice to have a good-looking boyfriend, to experiment with sex, to have someone to hang around with, to seem popular; and that was enough, that was normal, that was for now.
When she got pregnant she was stunned. Everyone was afraid of pregnancy, but still, when it happened, there was something unreal about it. She was only seventeen years old! Abortion was illegal, and she didn’t even know where to go to ge
t one. There were only two choices for her: go away to a home for bad girls and then give the baby up for adoption, or marry John. Eve didn’t want a baby, but she certainly wasn’t giving away any child of hers to be raised by who knew what.
It was humiliating to have a rushed and almost secret marriage to a boy she didn’t love, with his parents glaring at her; worse to have to leave school because she was showing; and worst of all to have to live with him in her mother’s house, in her childhood bedroom with the pictures of movie stars on the walls, because there was no money for them to be independent and his parents hated her too much to let the young couple live with them. She didn’t know if she was a kid or an adult. She wished fervently that none of this had ever happened. She was fat and ugly and tired and lonely, and to make matters worse, he was madly in love with her and thought all of this was real life. His parents and her mother insisted John finish high school, but he kept making plans for the job he would get after he graduated and where they would live when they had a place of their own.
Eve didn’t tell him that she had been planning the divorce while she was standing in front of the justice of the peace.
When their daughter, Nicole, was born, Eve had to wait almost a year for the sake of propriety before she told him she intended to get divorced. You couldn’t break up too soon after the baby came because it made the forced marriage so obvious you might as well not have gotten married in the first place. She had never been particularly happy, but she thought that was the worst year of her life. John was in his senior year of high school, having a good time the way she should have been, and her mother had to work. Eve had hoped her mother would help her with the baby, but everything fell to her. The infant was constantly demanding. She realized she was not maternal, and somehow that did not surprise her. Maybe those feelings would come later. Right now she was exhausted and miserable . . . and bored.
She never did go back to school, but that didn’t really matter, since the public library was well stocked with what she wanted so she could read plays at home; which she did, hungrily, imagining herself on stage in various leading roles, the rapt audience out front sending her a generous wave of admiration. She wondered if she needed acting lessons and, if so, who would pay for them. She read biographies of actors and actresses, was particularly taken by the ones who hadn’t needed lessons to become stars, and decided she was a natural too.