But where was I going to go?
In our bedroom, the two single beds were separated by a bedside table. When I first saw the house with George, he said that our first order of business upon moving in was to remove that table and push the beds together. But we were so tired after the twelve-hour journey from Provincetown that we simply slipped into our respective beds and fell asleep instantly. When I woke the next morning, there was a note awaiting me on the table:
Darling:
Off to the city to bring in the bacon. And as you were sleeping so peacefully, I decided I could fry the bacon myself. Back on the 6.12.
Love and kisses …
Off to the city to bring in the bacon. Did this man have no sense of irony whatsoever?
I spent the day unpacking. I took a walk over to Sound Beach Avenue - Old Greenwich’s Main Street - and did some shopping. Back in’ 47, this corner of Connecticut had yet to become a busy dormitory community for Manhattan, so Old Greenwich still retained a small-town atmosphere. As befitting all small towns, all the shopkeepers quickly gauged that I was a newcomer, and turned on the communal charm.
‘Oh, you’re the gal who married Old Man Grey’s son, and is living on Park Avenue,’ said the woman in Cuff’s - the local stationery shop, and the only place in town that sold the New York Times.
‘Yes, I’m Sara Grey,’ I said, stumbling over my new last name.
‘Nice having you in town. Hope you’ll be real happy here.’
‘Well, it’s certainly a friendly place,’ I said, hoping I sounded sincere.
‘Friendly it is. And great for raising kids.’ She glanced at my midsection, which had yet to show a telltale bulge. She tried to repress a smirk. ‘If, of course, you’re planning to have kids so soon after the wedding.’
‘You never know,’ I said quietly.
In every shop on Sound Beach Avenue, I was greeted with the same question: ‘New in town?’ When I explained who I was, a knowing smile would follow, along with a pleasantly pointed comment like: ‘Heard you had a real nice little wedding.’
Or: ‘My, that was a whirlwind romance you and George had.’
By the end of this first shopping expedition, I felt as if I should wear a sign around my neck which read: Just Married and Pregnant. More worryingly, I had a stab of despair as I thought that the eight stores which lined Sound Beach Avenue would be my world.
George arrived home off the 6.12 from Grand Central Station, bearing flowers. After giving me a kiss on the lips, he noticed that half the boxes and suitcases on the living room floor had been cleared.
‘Been unpacking already?’ he asked.
‘Yes - I put most of my things away.’
‘Good work,’ he said. ‘And you can tackle all of my clothes tomorrow. And honey, if you wouldn’t mind giving the suits a light pressing …’
‘Oh, sure, I guess.’
‘Great, great. Listen, I’m going upstairs to change. How about making us a celebratory martini for our first full evening in at our new house.’
‘A martini? Okay.’
‘Not too dry. My sweet tooth is partial to vermouth. And four olives, if we’ve got any.’
‘We don’t, I’m afraid.’
‘Hey, no problem. Just add them to your shopping list tomorrow. And hey - forgot to ask … what’s for dinner?’
‘Uh, I bought some lamb chops and broccoli …’
‘Oh heck, meant to tell you - I really hate broccoli …’
‘Uh, sorry …’
‘Hey, how were you to know? Meat and potatoes - that’s my style. You know how to make a meatloaf ?’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh, it’s a cinch. I’ll have Bea - Mom’s cook - give you a call tomorrow, and tell you her top-secret meatloaf recipe. And hon …’
‘Yes?’ I said, my voice now muffled.
‘If I eat after seven at night, I just don’t sleep real good. So if you could aim to have dinner on the table no later than six forty-five, well that would be great.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. ‘A guy can’t ask for anything more than that.’
He went upstairs to change. I retreated to the kitchen and assumed my new role as housewife. I put the lamb chops in the oven to broil. I peeled the potatoes and plunged them into a pot of boiling water. I found a glass pitcher, a bottle of Gilbey’s Gin and one of vermouth. I mixed a large pitcher of martinis. I suddenly felt the need for strong alcohol.
George complimented me on my cocktails, gently reminding me again to ‘get those olives’ in the morning. He liked the lamb chops, but hinted they could be a little more well-done (‘I really like my meat scorched’). My mashed potatoes, however, didn’t pass muster (‘A little lumpy, don’t you think, hon? Anyway, I’m really a roasted potato guy’). I hadn’t done anything for dessert, which disappointed him … ‘but hey, it’s the first time you’ve cooked for me as man and wife, so gosh, why should I expect you to know my likes and dislikes. It’s a learning curve, right?’
I smiled. Tightly. Just like George’s mother.
‘Get a chance to look around Old Greenwich?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It’s very … quaint.’
‘Quaint,’ he said, rolling the word around his tongue. ‘That’s the perfect word, all right. I told you you’d like it up here.’
‘Everyone in town seemed to know who I was.’
‘Well, it is a small place. Word travels fast.’
‘Evidently - as everyone also seemed to know that I was pregnant.’
‘Oh,’ he said, worried.
‘Now I wonder how that little tidbit of news got around the community.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m implying nothing. I’m just wondering …’
‘I’ll tell you what probably happened. People heard about us getting married so quickly, so they just put two and two together.’
‘Unless, of course, somebody let slip with our little secret.’
‘Who would do that?’
‘Your mother.’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’
‘It’s just a speculation …’
‘Why on earth would she be so vindictive?’
‘It’s her style … not to mention her way of putting me in my place. In fact, if I had the money, I’d put a thousand dollars on the fact that she tipped someone in town off about my pregnancy, knowing full well that it would spread like cancer …’
‘Why are you doing this?’ he said, his tone now sharp.
‘Like I said before, I’m just speculating …’
‘Well stop speculating now. I won’t allow it.’
I stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘You won’t what?’
He took a deep breath, and tried diplomacy. ‘All I’m saying here is this: Mother may have her difficult side, but she is not hateful. Anyway, she loves you …’
‘Now that’s funny.’
‘I didn’t know I was marrying a cynic.’
‘And I didn’t know I was marrying a momma’s boy.’
He turned away, as if slapped.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘That’s okay,’ he said.
But we both knew it really wasn’t.
When I woke the next morning at nine, there was a note on my pillow:
Hey, sleepy head!
Am I going to be cooking bacon every morning?
Bea will be calling this morning with that recipe for meatloaf. Really look forward to sampling yours tonight. Hugs and kisses…
Yes, you are going to be frying your own bacon every morning. Because there’s no way I’m getting up early just to be your very own short order cook.
Bea called later that morning … right after I had finished putting away the last of George’s clothes. She sounded like a woman in her fifties - with a heavy Southern accent and the sort of deferential manners that put m
e in mind of Hattie McDaniel in Gone With the Wind. She called me ‘Miz Grey’. She referred to my husband as ‘Mistah George’. She told me that she’d been ‘cookin’ for Mistah George ever since he was a li’l child’, and how he had ‘the biggest darn sweet tooth’ she’d ever seen. She also informed me that as long as I kept that sweet tooth of his happy, I’d keep Mistah George real happy. I promised her I’d try my best.
Then she gave me her meatloaf recipe. It was long and involved. It necessitated the use of several cans of Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup, and at least two pounds of ground beef. I’d always hated meatloaf. I now knew I would grow to loathe it.
After taking down the recipe, I walked into the village and dropped all of George’s suits at the local cleaners - because there was no way I was also going to be his valet. Then I bought all the necessary ingredients for the meatloaf, not to mention a jar of olives, and a seven-layer cake at the local bakery. Walking back to the house, I passed a garage which was also selling bicycles. There was a used ladies’ Schwinn - painted black with high handlebars. There were a pair of wicker panniers on either side of the back wheel - making it the perfect bike for shopping. It was in good shape - and though twenty dollars wasn’t a cheap price for a used bike, I still felt I was getting a reasonable deal, especially as the garage owner assured me he would service the bike himself. So I handed him the money, loaded my groceries into both panniers, and cycled off down Sound Beach Avenue.
Instead of heading for home, I biked to the end of the main street - past the local high school, the local small hospital, and several substantial houses - then turned left and pushed on for over a mile until I came to a set of gates which announced my arrival at Todd’s Point Beach: Residents Only.
As it was late April, the guard at the gate wasn’t on duty, so I cycled right on, past a parking lot, and then turned left. Instantly I braked. Instantly I felt the first smile cross my lips in days. Because there, in front of me, was a long smooth strip of white sand, and the deep blue waters of Long Island Sound.
I parked the bike against a wooden fence, pulled off my shoes, and felt the sand creep between my toes. It was a mild day, the sun was at full altitude, the sky was clear. I took in several deep lungfuls of sea air, then began to hike down the beach. It was about a mile long. I meandered slowly, emptying my brain, enjoying the first moments of calm I’d felt ever since the discovery that I was pregnant. At the far end of the beach, I sat down in the sand and spent around a half-hour doing nothing but staring out at the tidal waters of the Sound - the metronomic ebb-and-flow of the surf lulling me into a temporary state of placidity. Thinking:
This beach will be my safety valve, my escape hatch. This beach will be the way I survive George, his family, Old Greenwich, meatloaf.
I returned to the house and followed Bea’s recipe to the letter: take two pounds of ground beef, mix it by hand with one minced onion, salt, pepper, and finely crushed cornflakes (yes: cornflakes), and one third of a can of Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup. Shape it into a loaf. Place it inside a baking pan. Use the remaining two thirds of a can of soup to coat it completely. Then bake in an oven for thirty-five minutes.
Knowing that George would be arriving home on the 6.12, I put the meatloaf in the oven at 6.05 … which would give me ample time to meet my husband’s ‘Dinner before Seven’ deadline. He walked in through the door at 6.20. He was carrying flowers. He gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘Something smells good,’ he said. ‘Bea must have called.’
‘She did,’ I said, handing him a martini.
‘You got the olives!’ he said, his voice fulsome - as if I’d done something extraordinary, like splitting the atom.
‘Your wish is my command,’ I said lightly.
He looked at me carefully. ‘That’s a joke, right?’
‘Yes, George - that’s a joke.’
‘Just making sure. You’re a gal full of surprises.’
‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘What kind of surprises?’
He took a sip of his martini, then said, ‘Like the new bicycle out front.’
‘It’s not new, George. It’s second-hand.’
‘It’s new to me, because I haven’t seen it before.’
He smiled. Now it was my turn to take a long sip of my martini.
‘I only bought it today.’
‘Obviously. Was it expensive?’
‘Twenty dollars.’
‘That’s not cheap.’
‘It’s a good bicycle. You want me to be riding something safe, don’t you?’
‘That’s not the issue.’
‘So what is the issue?’
‘The fact that you bought it without consulting me.’
I looked at him with something approaching shock. ‘You’re kidding me?’ I said.
His smile remained fixed. ‘All I’m saying is, if you’re going to go out and make a major household purchase like a bicycle, I’d like to be told …’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I saw the bicycle in Flannery’s Garage, the price was right, so I bought it. Anyway, I need a bicycle to get around town …’
‘I’m not disputing that.’
‘Then what are you disputing?’
‘Twenty dollars of household money was spent by you without …’
I cut him off. ‘Do you hear what you are saying?’
‘There’s no need for that tone, Sara.’
‘Yes, there is. Because you are being absurd. Listen to yourself. You sound so generous, so benevolent, such a loving husband …’
His face fell. ‘I didn’t know you had such a cruel streak,’ he said.
‘Cruel streak! All I’m doing is responding to you saying dumb things like I need to have your written approval before I dare bankrupt us by spending an extravagant twenty dollars on a bicycle …’
Silence. Finally, he said, ‘I never asked for written approval.’
That’s when I threw back the rest of my drink and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me, and falling face down on the bed. After a minute there was a tentative knock on the door.
‘You’re not crying, are you?’ he asked, sounding anxious.
‘Of course I’m not crying. I’m too angry.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘It’s your room too.’
The door opened. He tentatively came over to the bed. He had my martini glass in his right hand. It had been refilled.
‘A peace offering,’ he said, holding it out to me. I sat up and took it. He crouched down next to me, and touched his glass against mine. ‘Everyone says the first decade of marriage is always the worst.’
I tried to smile.
The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) Page 29