As always, they watched the Huntley-Brinkley report till the end.
‘Goodnight, Chet.’
‘Goodnight, David.’
‘And good night for NBC news. Stay tuned for more election coverage.’
Billie had not been listening, or really even watching. She was knitting Christmas stockings for Elisabeth and Sam, who were in bed. Sam was getting a Santa going down a chimney and Elisabeth’s stocking would have a snowman. It was the hardest thing she’d ever knitted, and needed all her concentration. She frowned when Jacko spoke, because she’d been silently counting stitches.
‘What?’
‘I said, let’s celebrate.’
‘Why?’
He ignored her and opened a bottle of Zinfandel from Buena Vista. He’d bought it in a nostalgic mood; his dad had been entitled to discounts, and Zinfandel had often been on the table at home.
‘Here’s to our saviour,’ Jacko said, touching her glass with his own. ‘Kennedy almost certainly won,’ he prompted. ‘Skin of his teeth, but it looks like he’s got it in the bag. Thank God for the electoral college.’
‘The what college?’
‘Never mind. Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ said Billie, automatically, and put her glass down without drinking. She resumed knitting. It had been a long day. Martha from the PTA had phoned to scold her about forgetting to bake three cakes for the school sale as, apparently, she’d promised. Then Elisabeth had wet herself at kindergarten again. Twice, so she’d had to wear the kindergarten underpants and skirt home. Elisabeth had whined all the way home, not because of her humiliation, but because the underpants were blue, and she hated the colour blue. Sam had brought home a note from school asking Billie to arrange for a parent-teacher meeting soon, to discuss Sam’s ongoing problems with reading. What problems with reading? There was nothing wrong with Sam’s reading ability. Now, this. Christmas stockings beyond her knitting ability. Why had she begun? They were 50¢ at Woolworths, for heaven’s sake. In August Billie loved the idea of Christmas, but although it was still only November, it had already begun to feel like something that loomed.
Jacko drank and smoked. Squatted in front of the set and turned the channels till he found another program about the election results. Such a close race, still counting till this morning and the result not confirmed till now. It was incredible, because Nixon actually won the popular vote. He wanted to race outside and find other people who also thought it was incredible. He wanted to drink a Goddamn case of this stuff.
‘Can we get a puppy? The kids would love one.’
‘No,’ he said distractedly, and lit another cigarette.
‘What if it was one like Lassie? I can’t believe you don’t want a dog. I thought all men liked dogs.’
‘Billie. Listen, honey.’ He spoke very slowly. ‘The Republicans damn near won, but they lost.’
‘I heard. So what?’
‘So it’s important. It’s very good news.’
‘I know! Your face looks funny. Are you drunk?’
He’d been feeling old lately, and hating his job. He hated this town too. And the neighbours in the apartment below. They had a dog that barked continually, and the wife never said hello unless Jacko said hello first. He’d apply to Golden Gate Freight Press again. Why not? Hell, he’d look for jobs anywhere in California; Oregon was not for him. He was thirty-three years old already, for Christ sake. According to the news yesterday, he only had thirty-six more years. If he was lucky. And here he was, stalled in some podunk town, with a valley wife who didn’t know the difference between a Republican and a Democrat. In fact, who the hell was she? He didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. In the back of his mind, that very small cool room, he wondered: So then, is this what my marriage is? This daily, constant getting to know a person you thought you already knew. Was it just that, plus a slow accumulation of joint memories? Surely marriage must be more, could be better than this…this business of thinking he knew her, and then not. Estrangement and intimacy, round and round. In the beginning it had been thrilling not really knowing her, but the best bits now were the times Billie felt familiar and comprehensible. It was so cosy, then. He wanted that feeling back.
‘Oh come here, Billieboo.’ He patted the place next to him on the sofa and smiled his old self-mocking leer. That used to break the ice.
‘Get lost.’ Then, softly: ‘I’m all comfy here.’
‘I’ll rub your feet.’
‘Are you spilling ash on the rug again?’
Billie scolded herself silently for nagging. Rule number three in How to Keep your Husband Happy: Do not criticise him. She stood up and took him an ashtray.
‘Here you go, sweetie. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay. Take your shoes off and sit down.’
‘Just going to finish this row.’
She went back to her seat. I’d be happy if he never touched me again, she thought. She crossed her legs, smoothed her hair back and argued with herself while still managing to knit. Rule number two taunted her. Make him feel valued and attractive. He needs to feel you respect and love him.
Oh, just go sit on his lap, she chided herself. Go on, it’s what he’d love.
Why? I don’t want to. (She had a few sips of wine.)
Go on, just do it. He’s your husband. He’s not a bad man.
I didn’t say he was.
Well? You read the book.
Billie drank more wine.
Chapter two. Please Your Husband. His home is his refuge from the world of work.
Billie imagined herself doing just this, so a second later when she put down her knitting, rose and walked over to her husband, she felt distant from herself. False. She stood in front of him, then leaned over, stroked his head softly, enjoying the feel of his feathery cowlicks. He looked up, eyebrows raised.
Sit, she commanded herself. That’s what wives are supposed to do. Don’t think about it.
So Billie curled up on his lap like a little girl. Like Shirley Temple, who her five-year-old daughter loved. Nothing sexual in this yet. Nothing that would require rinsing out her douche bag, anyway. She burrowed into his chest near his armpits, prolonging this part. Quite enjoying this part, actually. It was so relaxing, just cuddling. Soporific. Then she told herself: No man is as wonderful as my Jacko. No man is as handsome – look at those cowlicks! His smart eyes! He’s my King Arthur. Where would I be without him?’
Exactly. Where would you be? Like your mother. Alone and poor. You are very lucky he married you.
Still burrowed into his chest, Billie slowly and softly sang in her Marilyn Monroe voice: Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.
He needs me, she told herself, putting her arms up to his neck, and wriggling her body tighter into his. Do not undermine him. Do not challenge him, or ask why he is late. He needs you.
You think so? she asked herself.
Oh yes, she answered. He doesn’t know how much. I won’t ever let him know how much.
Are you sure?
Yes. Oh yes.
She felt his muscles relax, his skin heat. Her muscles relaxed, her skin heated.
Then he started unhooking her bullet bra, and she let him.
Half an hour later in their bedroom, she was staring at the ceiling and asking herself: I don’t have to do that for another week, right?
That’s right, she answered herself, yawning deeply. Not unless he wants to.
Then, just as she was telling herself to get up and douche before she fell asleep, she fell asleep.
Three Years Earlier
Two Women and Three Breasts
February 14th, 1957, Piggleston, Oregon
10:04am
He sat in the office he shared with five other men, recalling the squeamish face she’d made last night when he’d suggested beef teriyaki for dinner sometime.
‘What’s the matter?’ he’d asked ingenuously, hoping she wasn’t really that provincial, and yet a
lso willing her to confirm it out loud.
‘Nothing. Only it sounds foreign.’
This had both pleased him and depressed him. Was part of him actually happy when she displeased him? His parents had always seemed at odds – perhaps he felt more at home in a marriage that was not harmonious. Not a good thought. He put it aside and took a look at the secretaries. They sat outside his office, but were visible to him because the wall was mostly glass. The three women sat typing, almost continually. They never seemed to look at their typewriters, just the scribbled shorthand on the yellow pads. Two of the women were unattractive, but one was a pretty blond, about twenty years old. The office reminded him of his first job in San Francisco, Perkins Petroleum Products, where he’d met Billie. That sweet-legged, red-lipped blonde bombshell, though it was getting harder and harder to associate that Billie with his wife.
On his desk was a photo of her. She watched him all day. He didn’t normally notice, but he kept glancing at her today. The thing was, they’d fought again last night, and right now, as far as Jacko was concerned, Billie was an ungrateful brat with the taste of a three-year-old. Maybe it was having children that had changed her, made her greedy and stupid. And no sense of humour at all these days. She used to tease him sometimes, and giggle, and whistle, and dance around the apartment in her underpants and bra. She used to say she was going to start reading so they could discuss novels, but she’d not mentioned that in a long time. She watched reruns and ate Tollhouse cookies, while he read Penguins and sipped Chardonnay. Was this difference down to his relative proximity to San Francisco while growing up? He felt he’d been married at least twenty-five years, not five years. He’d tried teasing her about ageing before her time, about her figure becoming more womanly, but she’d just stared at him and burst into tears. Of course, he’d read about wives like her, he’d listened to husbands in the office complain about their wives too. How they never did anything but complain and nag and they hated sex. But he never thought it would happen to his darling Billie.
Bottom line? Billie was not much fun any more.
And this job was not much fun any more either. He thought he’d love working for a newspaper and he didn’t. The hours were a joke. Either up before dawn, or home after midnight, and every Goddamn weekend and holiday. The only good thing was that he saw a lot of his kids. Though when they started school, that’d change.
In principle, reporting should feed into his fiction writing, but sadly rarely did. Piggleston was worse than Smithton, their last town. Another dull newspaper in another dull town. What was wrong with him? Jacko sighed. With each new job, he’d been convinced his life was vastly improving, that he was moving up. And none of it was good for his writing. He spent an hour a day scribbling out the story of Josh McCoy, womanizing longshoreman living in the Tenderloin. But lately it had gone so flat. He reached for Josh in his mind, tried to get a grip of him again, but Josh seemed to have deflated like a balloon filled with fart. Just an unpleasant smell lingering.
The only inspiration in Piggleston was the lack of inspiring people and events. He considered dropping the novel for now. Writing short stories like The Dubliners, where people went about their mundane lives and became aware change was possible but then didn’t change. Yes, he should definitely try that. That’s what writers did, wasn’t it? Tap into whatever was there. He could write a collection and title it after one of the short stories. Epiphanies in…Tiffany’s. He’d have to explain that the small town jeweller named his store Tiffany’s ironically. Or not. Maybe the jeweller would be genuinely convinced his store was as elegant as the New York version. A sad delusional main character. Maybe he could be a lonely Jewish homosexual like the blind man in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Or would that be too derivative? Damn, damn, damn other writers and their books. Especially damn successful writers still in their twenties!
The phone rang and he answered.
‘Piggleston Journal.’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘No, I remembered, I’m covering that. The meeting starts at five pm tomorrow, right?’
‘No. Yes. I said yes, we understand the vote will be very close.’
‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.’ He held the phone away from him, made a face at it.
‘Yeah. Yeah. Don’t worry.’
‘I know, I know.’ He faked a laugh.
‘Oh no. We take littering very seriously.’
‘That cartoon was a joke. That’s what cartoons are.’
‘An apology? For a satirical cartoon?’
‘No, no, satire means….oh, listen, I’ve got to go now, a breaking story coming in.’
Jacko felt vastly underused. Stalled at the starting gate again. Like his Morris Minor, which was now dying at intersections and probably needed a new choke. Very irritating. British cars were great, but insanely expensive to fix. He should make some notes for that article about stray dogs scaring children in the park, but picked up his fountain pen instead and began making a list of chores and projects.
shelves – buy wood, bricks
varnish – buy
Fix bed-frame. Nails? Screws?
Billie – $. Allowance? Cash only?
Car – service
Write Ernie. Ivy.
His handwriting was clear and bold. He took pleasure in quality pens, and he admired his own writing. It made him feel like someone who was in control, and not a fraud. Which was good, because of course now and then he remembered that he was a fraud. That he’d been fired from Perkins Petroleum Products for pretending to carefully research products and update their description in the wholesale catalogue, but in fact had made most of it up. But the worst slip up had come not from his creative wording, but from some carelessly placed zeros. In the famous peach plastic toilet seat episode, by the time it had been discovered, almost 100,000 had been sold at a huge loss. He was not ashamed of lying, but he remembered keenly the humiliation of being caught.
His colleagues sat close by, writing or talking on the phone. Occasionally talking to each other. He was lucky to have a desk by the window. He looked out at downtown Piggleston. Foggy again, though not much foggier than in this office where everyone had a cigarette lit. He watched the men below, in suits and hats, looking like they knew where they were going. And women too; serious faces, purposeful strides through the grey. He was thirty years old, Goddammit, but they seemed like the real grownups. Then something happened to his perspective, and he saw them all as versions of himself. Just guessing, getting it wrong sometimes, and bumbling through their days. Faking it. Year after year, decade after decade, generation after generation. Everyone dying with loose ends, like…like unsatisfying novels. Or worse – like unfinished novels.
He smiled. Must write that down.
It always cheered him when he got a glimpse of the bigger melancholic picture. It reminded him of working on his novel. The way he’d disappear. Even the fight with Billie now evaporated – out the window it went. He stood up to get a better look out the window, as if the fight really was visible. He stood there awhile. No one noticed, but he pretended to be loosening the catch to open the window and let some smoke out.
The world was operated by a changing shift of amateurs like himself, all making lists when they felt at a loss. Or their equivalent of lists. Each overlapping generation was just passing on the baton of taking life seriously, of being productive citizens and acting as if life was worth persevering. Aside from the God he wasn’t sure he believed in any more, there was no one who was overall and permanently in charge of the world. No one alive had enough hindsight to get it completely right. (Damn, that was clever. Must write that down too, he thought.) It was a miracle the world kept running as smoothly as it did. A miracle that most people would wait in lines and pay their bills and brush their teeth and park legally and show up for doctors’ appointments and say please and thank you. Just a small per cent doing the bad stuff: stealing, killing, going bananas. Everyone else, imperfect of course, but still getting up every day and d
oing their best. Goddammit! It turned out good manners and timidity might be the glue that held the whole shebang together. But he reckoned it was a nebulous kind of glue that breathed and congealed and sometimes dissolved without warning. After all, he thought, what was the war all about, if not a total dissolving of that glue? That reminded him.
Buy glue
A cup of black coffee, that’s what he needed. Or a martini. He looked at the clock – only 10:45. An hour and fifteen minutes, and he’d put on his coat, go to the park with Billie’s dry bologna sandwich. Or would it have a smear of mayonnaise? Maybe even the crusts cut off? He could read her moods through her sandwiches. How much did she love him today? Crust-less roast chicken sandwiches on white, with lots of pepper and mayonnaise wrapped carefully in foil was code for I love you madly. Dry bologna wrapped in wax paper – well! He’d choose a park bench that his colleagues would not walk past on their way to popular cafes and bars. The trouble was, he had no friends in the office. In fact, he had no real friends in Piggleston at all. What were they doing here? Was it still necessary to live this far from the Perkins Petroleum Products scandal? These were not his people. He missed Ernie. He even missed bossy Bernice. Friends were everything, they made time fly, and not a single man here was his kind of guy. They wore polyester suits, made stupid lewd jokes, talked about pension plans, property prices, golfing vacations in Pebble Beach. They complained about their wives being frigid. About being nags. About being neurotic. They bragged about conquests, some from the typing pool.
Their contempt for their wives suddenly made him feel loyal towards Billie. He’d never cheat on her. Never! And he never trotted her out to join in their wife-trashing sessions. His Billie was many irritating things, but by God she was a class act compared to their wives. He was proud of her.
He looked at his list and picked up his pencil. Anything could be fixed, if you just thought hard enough.
Wait For Me Jack Page 24