Wives and Lovers

by Margaret Millar

  On Wednesday when she went to work she called Gordon from the pay phone behind the wharf warehouse. He answered the phone himself.

  “Dr. Foster’s office.”

  “Hello, Gordon?”

  “Hello.”

  “Is there anybody there? Can you talk?”

  “There’s no one here.”

  “Why haven’t I seen you? Is there anything the matter, Gordon?”

  “I couldn’t get away,” Gordon said wearily. “Ever since the business about the fifty-dollar check, the assump­tion is that I’m an insane gambler and not to be trusted even to go for a walk alone.”

  “You sound so bitter.”

  “I don’t mean to. Are you all right, Ruby?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Did you find a place to move to?”

  “Not yet. When will I see you, Gordon?”

  “God knows. When I can think up a new lie, I guess.”

  “I’ll be waiting tonight after I get through work.”

  “No, don’t. I can’t—I can’t stand the thought of you just sitting there in that place waiting for me. You don’t understand—I feel as if I’ve got to be there and yet I can’t get there. It tears me apart, I can’t tell you—I—”

  “I won’t wait if you don’t want me to,” Ruby said quickly.

  “Do you understand? Just for one night I want to feel that I don’t have to be two places at once, that no one’s expecting anything of me. I know, I guess this sounds childish, but just for this one night I’ve got to be a free agent. Don’t you ever feel like that, Ruby?”

  “No. I don’t want to be a free agent. I like to wait for you, even if you don’t come. What else would I do if I didn’t wait for you?”

  She hung up, and for a minute she sat staring listlessly into the round black mouth of the telephone. What else would. I do if I didn’t wait for Gordon?

  That night after work she walked to the edge of the wharf and stood with her forearms resting on the rail, watching the lights of the town. The lights flickered halfway up the mountain so that the town seemed to be pinned to the side of the mountain with stars. On the wharf the lights were going out one by one. Everyone was leaving, except the customers in the bar. The kitchen was closed, and the waitresses and the kitchen help were departing, in twos and threes. They walked quickly, on the balls of their feet so their heels wouldn’t catch in the gaps between the planks. They were all anxious to get back on the dry land since it was common talk that the wharf was heading for disintegration and no one was doing anything to stop it. Occasionally some haphazard repair work was done and a few of the rotting piles were replaced, but this did not mitigate the sense of imminent doom among the people who worked at the Beachcomber. This feeling was nurtured by the cashier, a woman called Virginia, who had escaped certain death for five years now, six nights a week. To newcomers like Ruby, Vir­ginia was careful to point out that the wharf was nearly eighty years old, and aside from the natural deterioration of the years there was also the strong possibility of a bad storm or a tidal wave.

  “Mark my words,” Virginia said. “One of these days we’ll all find ourselves in the ocean hanging onto anything that floats. And you know what I’m going to do then? I’m going to sue them! I’m going to sue the whole damn bunch of them, the owners of the wharf and the city that grants the franchise and Anderson and his outfit, and when I collect I’m going to retire, build a house in the middle of the desert and live the life of Riley. Maybe we could all sue them and all of us retire.”

  The hired help of the Beachcomber were drawn to­gether, by Virginia’s enthusiasm, into a common dread and a common dream. The life of Riley appealed to them, and those among them who couldn’t swim found them­selves eyeing the furnishings of the Beachcomber with the quality of buoyancy in mind.

  When Virginia saw Ruby leaning against the railing she paused a moment to proffer advice. She reminded Ruby that the railing was nearly eighty years old, that it was quite a drop into the sea, and the water was cold and deep. Moreover if Ruby drowned she couldn’t even sue any­body, being dead.

  Having survived one more day, Virginia sped back to land.

  Ruby leaned her full weight on the railing. I wouldn’t care, she thought. I wouldn’t care about drowning except I wouldn’t like the water to be very cold. Gordon might be sorry for a while but he’d be glad too. He wouldn’t have to think or worry about me any more, he wouldn’t have to feel obliged to me all the time. It would be a relief to him if I died.

  She began walking slowly toward shore. She wondered which of the lights of the town belonged to Gordon and what he was doing. Reading? Or perhaps he was already asleep? Poor Gordon. She hadn’t meant to cause him so much trouble. Everything had seemed very harmless and right to her in the beginning. All she wanted was to be in the same town as Gordon and to see him now and then. It wasn’t a great deal to ask for, but she hadn’t foreseen how even this much might affect Gordon’s life. Instead of making him happy she had only made him despise himself, and her too. There was no way that she could give back to Gordon his dignity and self-respect. Nothing could dis­solve the feeling of degradation that Gordon had had the night he dampened his hair under the tap in the public lavatory. He had told her about it, and Ruby understood his rage and humiliation and guilt. He had said, “I can’t stand it,” and she believed now that this was true. Gordon was destroying himself and she was the instrument of destruction.

  She groped blindly toward the lights of the town, wishing the wharf would rot away under her feet. She seemed to feel it actually moving, not rolling gently with the swell of the water, but throbbing with quick shivers like an old man with palsy. The headlights of a car beamed suddenly behind her. She stepped aside, and as the car passed her, the planks of the wharf rattled and shuddered. She began to run, as fast as she could, toward the shore.

  When she reached the boulevard the car was parked along the curb waiting for her. She recognized Mr. Ander­son at the wheel but she pretended she didn’t see him.

  He called after her, “Hop in and I’ll give you a lift home.”

  She stopped, shaking her head. “No, no thanks.”

  “Might as well.”

  “It’s such a nice night, I don’t mind walking.”

  “You look tired.” He opened the front door of the car. “Come on, get in.”

  She got in, holding the fox fur tight around her throat.

  “You don’t have to act so scared,” George said. “I assure you I’m pretty tired myself.” He was smiling, but there was a note of irritation in his voice. “I’m going to have a beer and a steak sandwich. If you want to come with me, fine. If you don’t, I’ll take you home first.”

  “I’ll—just get out any place and walk home.”

  “That suits me.” He started the car and headed up Main Street. “You’re a funny girl. I can’t make you out.”

  She said nothing. She was not interested in Mr. Ander­son’s opinion of her. She hardly considered him a human being, he was so remote from her thoughts.

  “I’m sorry I had to speak a little rough to you about that bar check,” George said. “But I’m in business, and if I want to stay in business I have to shoot off my mouth once in a while.”

  “I didn’t mind.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll get off at the next corner, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Well, it isn’t, but there’s not much I can do about it, is there?”

  At the next corner he stopped the car. He leaned across her to open the door. She shrank back against the seat to avoid his touch.

  George said dryly, “Is there something the matter with me or is there something the matter with you? You’re not married or anything, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not, either. I was, but I’m
not any more. Won’t you let me take you out sometime?”

  “I really don’t care much about going out.”

  “That’s that, then.”

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As soon as he drove off, she went straight to Mr. Gomez’s café. She sat there until closing time, drinking coffee. She kept her eye on the door, out of habit. Gordon didn’t even know she’d be waiting, so there wasn’t the slightest hope that he would come. But she got a certain bitter satisfaction in watching the door anyway, facing the hopelessness.

  She sat there for an hour and a half, seeing quite clearly that there was no future for her and Gordon, and there was no easy way out. The wharf would not rot under her feet, no tidal wave would engulf her, no storm would carry her out to sea.

  During the week she sent the fox fur back to her aunt, parcel post, and she let George drive her home two nights in a row. He assumed that she was becoming more friendly toward him and Ruby didn’t bother to correct him. She was slipping back into her old habits of evasiveness. It was hardly worthwhile to tell the truth to anyone or explain anything. Let Mr. Anderson assume whatever he wanted to assume, it didn’t matter.

  On Thursday night she met Gordon at the café for the last time. She arrived full of enthusiasm about the new job Mr. Anderson had promised her. A new job meant a new life, new hope, new chances.

  Gordon was waiting for her when she got there. He looked out of place in the regular Thursday-night crowd. He was not watching the door for her arrival. He was watching the people at the bar in sober bewilderment, as if he too was aware of the difference between them and himself, but could not figure out what this difference was. These people were not drunk, yet the possibility of becoming drunk was already coloring their evening. They could cut loose if they liked, and they relaxed into quick friendships, easy laughter, loose wallets. The regulars at the café formed a kind of club for the kind of people for whom ordinary clubs were impossible. They were Mr. Gomez’s Rotarian Kiwanis of the Masonic Order of the Elks and Lions. They convened to exchange slaps on the back, stories, political arguments, gossip and news of absentee members, and to mitigate their loneliness.

  Gordon, watching them, wished that he could walk over and join the club, or that he could look forward to one night every week when he could relax and forget his re­sponsibilities. One night, not to get drunk, but to sit up at the bar with the regulars and roll thirteenth-ace for the next quarter for the juke box. He felt like a wistful child, on the outside looking in, yet he knew quite well that what he was looking into was nothing that he could accept or enjoy. Gordon could never unlock his chains; they had been forged long before he met Elaine.

  “Hello, Gordon.” Ruby sat down beside him. She had meant to blurt out her good news right away, but her throat felt clogged and furry and she spoke so softly he had to bend his head to hear her. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve missed you terribly. Have you missed me?”

  “Yes.” He took her hand and held it. There was a desperate strength in his grip as if he knew that something valuable was slipping away from him and he was unable to stop it, unable even to assess its value.

  “I missed you,” he said, “but I didn’t want to see you. I had to reason things out and give you a chance to do the same.”

  “I didn’t want a chance to reason things out. Everything I’ve done is unreasonable if you look at it that way.”

  “No, wait, Ruby. I tried—I tried to figure out a way where we’d all come out all right, you and Elaine and I and the kids.” He drew in his breath painfully. “And there isn’t any way. We all have to suffer for my selfishness.”

  “We haven’t done anything so terrible. Why should you let your conscience bother you like this? Elaine isn’t hurt.”

  “She is, and so are my children, and me, and you most of all, Ruby. What have you gotten out of all this except grief?”

  “I don’t think of that, Gordon. I love you. I’ve told you that so often and you never understand it, do you?”

  “Understand it? No, I don’t. I’ve tried to figure that out, too. I can’t understand why you should love me, I don’t know what love is. I only know it needs certain things in order to survive. It can’t grow like a mushroom in a pile of dirt in the cellar.”

  She got up. Her head felt light and empty. “You shouldn’t have said that, Gordon. You’re right but you shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say. You hurt me. You hurt me, Gordon.”

  She walked toward the front door. Her eyes were dazed and her mouth still hung open a little in terrible surprise.

  7

  Mr. Escobar arrived for work on Saturday morning. He steered his bicycle with his right hand, and with his left he balanced over his shoulder his own tools, a rake, a spading fork, a hedge clipper and a shovel as polished and sharp as a carving knife. In his bicycle basket he carried an oiled rag, a small wooden box which he used to trap gophers, a bottle of Pepsi-Cola, and three bologna on rye sandwiches moistened with cold beans.

  He drove up Mrs. Anderson’s lane and parked his bicycle in the garage. A small black and white dog came bouncing across the yard. When Escobar opened the gate the dog danced wildly around his legs and finally flung itself on his heavy boots, stomach up. Escobar leaned down and rubbed its stomach. The friendly dog was a good omen. Only friendly people kept friendly dogs.

  “Little fellow,” Escobar said. “Hello, pretty little fellow.”

  Wendy got up and shook herself. Then she started to explore with her nose every inch of his boots. Escobar cleaned his boots almost daily but they never quite lost the smell of fertilizer. Sometimes Lucia, his wife, complained of this. She was a city girl, born and raised in San Diego, and she considered manure (even steer manure swept off cement floors) as rather coarse and unpleasant. When Escobar tried to explain to her that manure was sometimes necessary as food for plants, Lucia wasn’t quite convinced. She kept two potted geraniums on the windowsill in the kitchen and they got along nicely without fertilizer, only a little water now and then.

  The boots moved across the yard and Wendy followed them, sniffing, and yelping in frustration when they wouldn’t stand still.

  Ruth came to the screen door. “Be quiet, Wendy.”

  “He is a pretty little fellow,” Escobar said.

  “It’s a she. A girl. Her name’s Wendy.”

  “She’s a pretty little fellow.”

  “She’s only a pup, eight months old. Naturally”—Ruth’s laugh came through the door, sharp and defensive—“naturally she’s not a thoroughbred.”

  Escobar nodded cautiously. He was not certain what a thoroughbred dog was, since he had always connected the word with horses. He could not see Ruth clearly through the screen door, but he didn’t like her sound, and in spite of the omen of the friendly dog, Escobar was uneasy. He hoped the woman would stay on the other side of the screen door.

  “Mrs. Anderson’s gone to work,” Ruth said. “I’m her cousin. I’ll be here all morning if you want to consult me.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Mrs. Anderson said just to start in. The tools are in the garage. I noticed, I happened to be looking out the window, and I noticed you brought some extra ones.”

  He nodded again and began to back away from the porch. The dog followed him and Ruth called her back.

  “Wendy, come here.”

  “Go on, little fellow,” Escobar said, waving his hand toward the house. “Go on.”

  The dog paused and Ruth said, “Come and get your goody. Here’s your goody. Come on.”

  She opened the door and the dog streaked into the house. Escobar had a momentary glimpse of her before she closed the door again. She was an old lady with white hair.

  Ruth fed We
ndy the rest of the scrambled eggs from breakfast, bit by bit, and as she fed her she talked. This was Ruth’s hour—two of them had gone to work, and the other one was still in bed—and she intended to spend it as she usually did. But with the Mexican out in the yard, she felt self-conscious, as if he might be eavesdropping. He couldn’t hear anything, of course, since she talked in whispers to avoid waking Josephine, but still he was there, and the words she used to the dog were a little different from usual.

  “There, my pretty, there’s your goody. What a glutton you are. What a fat little glutton. And the manners! Sniffing people like that, my goodness, what bad man­ners!”

  He probably smells, Ruth thought. He looked clean enough but they all smelled under the surface. Their dark skins didn’t show the dirt and they were too lazy to wash if it wasn’t necessary. Bone-lazy. She would have to supervise him and see that he didn’t cheat Hazel out of her hard-earned money by standing around watering things instead of really working, or by taking too much time to eat his lunch. Hazel was too easy on other people and too easy on herself as well.