The Housewife Blues

by Warren Adler

  She was suddenly confused by the dichotomy. Didn't marriage mean sharing? Sharing everything? Including secrets? Yet Jenny had consented, had conspired, to hide things from her husband, eagerly conspired. It seemed somehow to undermine the entire concept of how she'd once viewed the marriage bond. She thought suddenly of her own parents, wondering what secrets they withheld from each other, if any. Was her vaunted value system crumbling under the weight of the big-city experience?

  "Why put him in the loop?" Myrna pressed. "What he won't know won't hurt him." Jenny searched Myrna's face, as if looking for answers. But the fear and anxiety she saw there was unmistakable. "Trust me," Myrna said after a long pause. Jenny nodded, knowing it was without much conviction, then started toward the apartment door.

  "Jenny," Myrna called before she could step into the corridor. Jenny stopped and turned.

  "Best thing would be to take your phone off the hook," Myrna said, her mind obviously still concentrating on preserving Jack Whoever-he-was's reputation. "Everyone will know in the morning anyhow."

  Well, Jenny could now confirm, she was certainly right about that.

  * * *

  "There. There," Larry said, jabbing his finger into the part of the newspaper that had the continuation of the story. Jenny was identified by name—"Jenny Burns"—as the woman who had called 911, along with her address. Apparently someone from the paper had tried to contact her, because it was pointed out that she could not be reached for further comment.

  When she had returned to her own apartment last night, Jenny had, despite a repugnant sense of surrender, taken her phone off the hook. But then, with equal repugnance, she had put it back just as Larry had come in the door.

  "So?" Jenny said. "I saw him there ... collapsed on the street, then I called 911. That's all there was to it."

  "And you didn't think that I was worthy enough to share this information?"

  As usual he hadn't asked her about her day. She hadn't planned to tell him anyway, and he had fallen asleep immediately upon hitting the pillow.

  "Frankly, I didn't think it was that important," Jenny said, quite aware of her duplicity.

  "Not important? Senator Springer collapses practically on our doorstep under mysterious circumstances and you're the one that spots him and calls the police and you don't think that is important enough to tell your husband?"

  "All right, I suppose it was important, but only because he's a senator."

  "If he was only a bum and you were the one who called the police, wouldn't that be worthy of telling me about this event in your day?"

  "I suppose I should have," she admitted, not wishing to provoke him further.

  "And this cock-and-bull story about walking the streets at night. Dollars to doughnuts he was shacking up with someone in this neighborhood." He chuckled sarcastically, while Jenny felt her stomach knot. "Maybe even that Vanity Fair idiot upstairs."

  She wondered if her features gave her away. But when she shot Larry a glance, he wasn't concentrating on observing her, but was caught up in his own ranting.

  "I wouldn't know," Jenny muttered.

  "What a gas that would be."

  "The fact remains, I didn't know who he was," Jenny said, remembering Myrna's statement about preserving deniability.

  "Naturally not," Larry said with what seemed to be a deliberate attempt to diminish her, meaning that she was too uninformed to recognized Senator Springer.

  "The little woman doesn't trouble her head about such things. Is that it?" she said. Under the circumstances, it was a question she couldn't resist. She felt her anger begin to simmer, but still she wanted to avoid any more confrontation, fearful that she might, in a fit of anger, blurt out this business about the loan.

  "It's not exactly your bag," Larry said. "Notice I haven't tested you on who the other senator might be."

  She was glad of that. She really didn't know, although she was quite aware of the two senators and her congressman from Indiana. Okay, she told herself, one for your side.

  "What's the point, Larry?" she said calmly. "So I didn't mention it. Where's the crime in that?"

  "No crime," he muttered. "Just indifference." He seemed unable to drop the subject.

  "I said I was sorry. I just didn't think it was that important," Jenny said, no longer assailed by any constraints of conscience. She could only imagine what would have happened if he knew the complete truth.

  "I have to read it in The New York Times, for chrissake."

  "Well then, call it an oversight. I was too tired to talk about it when you came in. And you were probably too tired to listen. I would have told you this morning." She hoped that would put an end to it.

  "It's indicative, that's what it is," he persisted.

  "Indicative?"

  "Of your inability to understand that in New York one does not volunteer involvement." He was off on that again. She sighed with exasperation.

  "Are you saying I should have done nothing, turned my back on the man?" She had suspected it would come down to the issue of involvement. She chuckled to herself, realizing with some glee how far she had bent actual events.

  "At least you wouldn't have had your name in the papers."

  "Larry, can you spare me the lecture?" she asked, watching his face darken.

  "How can one ever lecture on common sense? You either have it or you don't. Involvement has to be selective, well defined, like our involvement with the Richardsons. It has to serve a purpose."

  A purpose, she thought with bitter irony, remembering her discussion with Terry the day before.

  "Then where is my error?" she asked. "In not telling you or in getting involved in the first place?"

  "A little of both," he said.

  "Should I have let him die there in the street?"

  "Sometimes that's an option."

  She looked up and studied his face, searching his eyes for some hint of what he was thinking. But what she found there was a sense of insult to his maleness, as if his inbred sense of domination were under attack. Worse, he didn't appear to have any insight whatsoever into her state or mind, nor did he care. What he had done, she decided, was to force her into a kind of shadowland of deception, a place where she had to rearrange her own values and perceptions to accommodate his own view of the world. In some ways she acknowledged he had tried to make her into another person. Perhaps he had succeeded, she mused. Nearly. The concept troubled her.

  Suddenly he grabbed the paper out of her hands and, folding it, threw it across the room. So he wasn't finished with it. She sucked in a deep breath, bracing herself.

  "He was a fucking United States senator, Jenny. You were saving the life of a United States senator."

  "I told you—"

  "Don't you see, dammit! Brownie points. You saved his life. Quid pro quo. It's worth something. If you'd called me, I would have told you how to play it. These things don't come around that often. I'm going into a new business. You botched a media event, an opportunity for name identification. The least you could have done is told the police that you were Mrs. Larry Burns."

  "Something wrong with Jenny? I did use Burns."

  "You're missing the point."

  "According to you, I'm always missing that."

  "Yes, you are. This was an opportunity. You should have at least consulted me."

  "I told you. I didn't know he was a senator," she said, shaking her head in resignation, spacing the words in an effort to generate a sense of the sarcastic.

  "And I would have told you to find out who this person was whose life you saved. That's the point. I know how to handle these things. You don't."

  "I've heard that before," Jenny muttered, wishing it were over.

  "Frankly, Jenny, I don't think you understand any of this." He snapped his fingers. "Not a whit."

  "I agree, then. I should have told you," she said, hoping the hollow, and untruthful, concession might cut off further argument. His reaction, she had decided, was beyond her own perception of log
ic.

  "Well, well," he said, smiling sardonically. "Do I detect contrition?"

  "No," she said firmly. "No contrition." She felt a new kind of sensation emerging inside of her. Courage, perhaps. "The fact was I didn't need to consult you. Besides, I don't exactly get a full report of your daily activities."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked smugly, folding his arms across his chest in an unmistakable gesture of belligerence.

  "We've been through that," she replied, not wishing to let anger cloud her judgment. Above all, she did not want to be goaded into telling him about her meeting with Terry and the rejection of his loan request. That bit of intelligence was on hold for Monday at the earliest. There was still the weekend to get through.

  "It's all a matter of judgment," he said, calming somewhat, sighing as if confronted with a perpetually disobedient adolescent.

  "With mine leaving much to be desired, I suppose."

  "Let's put it this way," he said. "You've got a lot to learn. And I hope you don't screw up my new business life."

  "How could I? I'm not part of it."

  "You're right about that."

  It seemed a parting word as he left the room, giving her a chance to privately assess the morning's events. Senator Springer. Admittedly it had amazed her, but she did feel that she had been true to her promise to Myrna to keep the secret from Larry. His suspicions were indeed well founded, but it troubled her to speculate what he might have done with that information.

  After a while he came back into the bedroom. She had remained in bed, contemplating her own agenda. She admitted to disorientation and uncertainty about the direction her life was taking. Also, there could be no doubt that her value system had been seriously challenged.

  "I'll be out most of the day," he said, his features hard and unsmiling.

  "It's Saturday," she replied.

  "Tomorrow, too."

  "Oh."

  "If you must know, we're moving into our new offices. Next week we're going to make the break and the announcement."

  "Isn't that a big risk?" she asked, her heart pounding.

  "Well, well," he said, turning as if to address some invisible person. "Now she's become a business adviser."

  "And the loan?" she muttered, barely able to get the words out.

  "I wouldn't trouble my pretty little head about that one, Jenny. It's in the bag."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  Again she was tempted to confront him with the truth, but she couldn't bring herself to be the messenger of misfortune and a continuing target of his rebuke.

  After he left the apartment, she got up and made herself some coffee. She was not displeased that he would be gone most of the weekend. She needed to be alone. The telephone rang, but she did not answer it. When the ringing stopped she took the receiver off the hook.

  A few moments later the door buzzer sounded. It was Myrna. She was dressed in a suit, her makeup was in place, and she had the air of someone in a hurry. She rejected Jenny's offer of coffee.

  "I saw him take off," she said.

  "He saw the Times."

  Myrna nodded and shrugged. "I can't stay. I'm out of here." Beneath the makeup her face looked ravaged. "Just in case this damage control blows up in their faces."

  "Seems to be working fine," Jenny said.

  "So far so good. But you never know. They start to really dig, he can be in deep shit." Myrna ran her fingers through her hair. "Anyway, just in case, I think it's better that I split for a while." She looked at Jenny. "No media types snooping around?"

  Jenny pointed to the phone. The receiver was off the hook.

  "Nobody show up on your doorstep?"

  "No."

  "If they do, just stay cool. Never mind. You will. I'm sure of it. Me, if it came to that, I couldn't face it. I'd look guilty. Everything shows." She studied Jenny for a moment. "You, on the other hand, could get away with murder. Scrubbed midwestern look, wide-eyed, innocent. Little-girl's voice. Small. A natural."

  "A naive little housewife, right?"

  "I used to think so. I'm not so sure anymore. But I sure as hell am glad that you were there when needed. You are something, Jenny. All in all, a tough lady."

  "Funny, I never see myself that way."

  "Part of your charm. Part of your charm."

  "You'll be happy to know that Larry ... my husband ... has no idea—"

  Myrna put out a hand, palm upward. "Stop there. I have no doubt about that, either."

  It seemed a new tack on Myrna's part, but Jenny didn't challenge it.

  "Also I know you won't ask me where I'm going. But I'll tell you anyhow. I've got an aunt in London with wide shoulders who has nursed me through these withdrawal blues before. Whole procedure usually takes ten days. Got it down to a science. Fact is, after mucho tears and hand-wringing, I've concluded he ain't ever gonna deliver the goods. His pussy is politics. That's his lech. I'm an interlude, no matter what he says. I hope he pulls through. Watch them all rally round, even the bitchy wife. I'd rather face the facts now than later. Besides, I feel morally cleansed by the action we took last night. Saved his political ass, we did. Anyway, Jenny, you're the beneficiary."

  "Me?"

  Myrna had spoken at breakneck speed, obviously hyper, barely taking a breath, and then she had stopped abruptly. "You."

  At that point she moved to the apartment door, opened it, then brought in a box that lay leaning against the corridor wall.

  "Ta-da," Myrna trilled, offering the box balanced on outstretched arms.

  "That again," Jenny exclaimed.

  "The very same. I want all tangible memories erased. Do with it what you will. Alter it and wear it. Sell it. Burn it. Give it to the homeless. Any of the above will do."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "I couldn't do it without dumping this." Myrna sighed. "Call it taking a stand. Being true to oneself. Whatever corn you concoct, it's yours. My gift to you, to whom it carries no personal connotations. Me? I can't stand having it around."

  People crack, Jenny noted to herself. And Myrna had the kind of wild look in her eye that seemed to confirm the diagnosis. No point in arguing, Jenny decided. She'd keep it for Myrna until she got back.

  "It's a fine gesture, Myrna," Jenny said, leaving it at that.

  "Already I feel like a new woman."

  Outside, they could hear the sound of a horn.

  "Three beeps. That's for me. My chariot awaits." She embraced Jenny and kissed her on both cheeks. "Worth a double-cheeker, at least. You've been a brick, Jenny dear. I'm gonna wash that man right outa my hair."

  Jenny felt Myrna's body shake with tears, then Myrna moved out of the apartment, picked up her suitcase, and walked briskly down the stairs to the street. Not looking back, she got into the cab, which pulled away from the curb with tires squealing appropriately for effect.

  No sooner had Myrna left than Jerry came in the outside entrance. He looked forlorn.

  "Still missing?" Jenny asked.

  "'Fraid so," Jerry replied. "I waited for your husband the cat lover to leave. I need your help."

  "You do?"

  "Teddy told me about your saucer-on-the-windowsill ploy. It worked once. It might again."

  In the bustle of events, Jenny had forgotten. "How long this time?" she asked.

  "The longest, Mrs. Burns. Two full days and nights. Bob and I are fit to be tied. It's awful, as any cat lover could understand. The house is desolate and we're devastated. I know you can commiserate."

  "Why do you put yourself through so much agony?" Jenny asked. "Peter is obviously incorrigible."

  "With no regard for our feelings," Jerry said. "But then even the human species stick together while giving each other pain."

  There was something deeply personal in the remark, and Jenny, of course, let it pass. But Jerry was not finished, obviously having plumbed the depths of the thought.

  "As the song says, we've grown accustomed to his smile. We've
been together through thick and thin. It's the ingratitude that flails the soul. The usual response of noncat people is that 'he's only a cat.' But he's not, really. More like a kind of person, a bit on the flouncy side and certainly inconsiderate, but lovely when he wants to be. Oh, God, I hope he comes home."

  There were tears in his eyes, and Jenny felt touched by his attachment. "I'll put the saucer out immediately," she said.

  "You're such a dear, I don't know how you..."

  He stopped in midsentence, and she completed it in her mind: "live with such an unfeeling boor." She had begun to wonder about that herself, but so far she felt she was still journeying with halting tread over the Rubicon.

  "I hope it works again," Jenny said.

  "I thank you, Mrs. Burns. You are wonderful."

  She went back into the apartment, closed the door, then went through the process of putting the saucer on the ledge of the open window. By then the coffee she had poured into her cup was cold, and she threw it out and poured another one.

  At that moment the buzzer to her inside door rang again. The activity astonished her, and she smiled to herself, once again remembering Larry's warnings.

  It was Mr. Stern, looking remarkably fit, a far cry from the state he'd been in just a few short weeks ago.

  "May I come in?" he said, offering a beaming smile.

  "Coffee?"

  "Love it," he said, stepping into the apartment, eyes surveying the surroundings, looking pleased. "What a wonderful place."

  "Why, thank you, Mr. Stern," she said with a glance over her shoulder as she came into the kitchen. She poured him a mug of coffee and sat down on the high chair near the kitchen island. He sat down beside her.

  "I saw Mr. Burns from my window," he began, then blushed. "Sounds awful, I'm sorry."

  So Larry had become the building pariah, she thought, smiling. And well deserved.

  "Whatever is between us does not concern him," she said, unable to mask her militancy.

  "I was hoping that," Mr. Stern said. "Spouses do have their little secrets from each other. Like that bit of business a few weeks ago."