“No.”
He brought his hand from under her dress, circled her upper arm, and squeezed. “Perhaps you didn’t realize it.”
“I realized everything. I was polite.”
His hand tightened. Her arm hurt but she wouldn’t say so. “You have to be careful here. Men interpret friendliness differently. There aren’t many social restraints and there’s a lot of sleeping around.” He released her. “When Tom was talking about his wife being pregnant I thought about us. I want to see you pregnant for four years, too. I want to see you with a string of babies waiting for me when I come home.” His hand returned to her buttocks, but she knew he was done in by the liquor. His eyes were almost closed. She waited for a while and then took the glass out of his hand and went into the kitchen.
He couldn’t admit it, but her beauty frightened him. In his mind every male in the District of Columbia was waiting for him to turn his back. Their first day in the States, in the dining car of the train from New York, the waiter had hung around the table, swiping at imaginary crumbs—“Yes suh . . . yes suh . . .”—and moving around to get a better look.
“The table is clean enough,” Paul had said sarcastically. Inside he was enraged.
Both men and women stared at her, some brazenly, some shyly. She took it in her stride but it was unnerving to him. It made him proud in a nervous way, but it also made him unreasonably angry not to be able to control the way people stared at his wife.
She was happy to hear Larraine’s drawl over the telephone a few days later. “Ginny Hargrove says you’re brand-new to this country. Has anyone helped you get your beahrens?”
“My what?”
“Your beahrens . . . your beahrens. Has anyone shown you around?”
“Paul does when he can.”
“Want some company today?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
When she arrived Larraine inspected every inch of the apartment as if a desperado were hiding in it and she was a law officer. She eyed the dishes in the sink. “I keep my sink full of suds,” she said, “and just pop the used dishes into it through the day. That way I’m not left with a lot of dirty dishes when I’m tired at night.”
“I’m not tired at night,” said Star. “I don’t have enough to do.”
“You don’t?” She drew out the words as if stalling for time to find a solution. “What do you want to do?”
“If I knew, I’d do it. I’m not trained to do anything. What do you do all day?”
“Well, I’m newly arrived in the leisure class.” She sat down and crossed her legs, which were smooth and shapely. “The first six years of my marriage I worked for the government while Chuck finished medical school. I was tired all of the time and so was he. Then he started making some money and I figured if I wanted to stop working I’d better get pregnant, which I did.”
“Oh,” said Star. “You have children?”
“No,” she said and her voice became thin. “Not exactly.” She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t want to turn this visit into a somber occasion but I lost my little girl just a year ago. Oh, God”—she lifted her eyebrows to forestall tears—“I didn’t lose her. That sounds so awful. Like I was an absentminded idiot and left her somewhere. She died.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too,” said Larraine. “What can you do? It was a virus that attacks the heart. One day they’re perfect and the next they’re dead. When you’re a doctor, it’s really hard. You go through all the training and you can’t even save your own child. I don’t think Chuck’s over it yet. He’s really bitter.”
“I can understand why,” said Star. She felt mildly guilty for judging him so harshly.
“I told you about it so we can get it out of the way. If you heard it from someone else, you’d feel funny around me, but now we can just put it aside. OK?”
“OK.”
“Let’s see what else you’ve got here.” She got up, walked across the room, and opened a door to the linen closet. “Where do you do your laundry? In the basement?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go down there by yourself. You don’t know what kind of creeps are walking around. Do you have laundry to do today? I’ll go with you.”
“No, thanks. Not today.”
“Where do you buy your food? Do you have a Safeway nearby? It’s OK for vegetables and dry goods, but you should buy your meat at Magruder’s. Ask to see it before they cut it, otherwise they’ll give you steaks that are too fatty.” She looked around to see what she was leaving out. “Spic and Span is good for the kitchen floor. Put a little in a bucket with some warm water and use a sponge mop.” She sighed and sank down again on the sofa. “So . . . you want to find something to do while Paul’s out whacking babies’ bottoms.”
It went through her mind, This woman’s crazy. I’ve got to be careful. Maybe losing a child had unhinged her. But once she got used to the delivery—it was a very specialized verbal shorthand—and the thick Southern accent, she found she didn’t mind the outrageous intrusions.
That evening she told Paul, “I think I could be good friends with Larraine.”
He was eating at the time and didn’t respond until he had cut a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Not a good choice.”
“Why not?” Quick anger rose in her throat.
“Larraine is dissatisfied. It’s understandable, losing the kid, but to tell you the truth, she was probably like that before.”
“She’s not dissatisfied at all.”
“Maybe that’s not the right word. She’s sort of a wise guy, except she makes fun of things that aren’t funny. What I think is that she’s insecure and that’s her defense. She doesn’t fit in, but Chuck is OK. Everyone likes Chuck.”
“I don’t like Chuck.”
“You don’t? Why not?” He was really surprised.
“I don’t like the way he treats Larraine. He doesn’t mind embarrassing her.”
“He’s a very good doctor,” said Paul victoriously, as if that point collapsed her theory. “What you don’t know is that he’s carrying her.”
She didn’t understand. “Carrying her?”
“She’s no asset to him. She’s too opinionated and it’s embarrassing. She’s a liability. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got rid of her.”
When he said that, she changed the subject to stop him from going any further. That was a terrible thing to say.
Despite his reservations, Paul didn’t mind at all when Larraine showed Star the ropes, as he called them. “By all means, go ahead. It’ll do you good.” He probably felt it was safe to admit she needed some coaching from a person like Larraine. He kept reminding her that they would have to take their turn at entertaining. “Watch how they do it and do the same thing. It’ll make you feel more secure. If you want any sort of life—a life that’s interesting—then you go along with it and do things that way, too.”
Larraine saw it another way. “You’re looking at twenty-three dollars’ worth of meat,” she said one day when Star was helping her prepare for the crowd. “That was my weekly salary at the Department of Engraving just seven years ago. At least the butcher trimmed it before he weighed it.” She began to separate the steaks. “One for each and two extras in case someone wants seconds. You know what I hate? I hate when someone just takes a bite or two and leaves the rest. It isn’t the money. It’s the idea of taking something you don’t want without thinking. I usually stare at the plate in the kitchen and try to figure out who did it.” She stopped rearranging the meat and looked contrite. “I’m sorry, sugar. I know I sound cranky, but it’s these payback dinners. They’re so orchestrated. You must have filet mignon—or medallions of beef, as Ginny Hargrove calls them. You must have asparagus or some other exotic vegetable.”
“What’s an exotic vegetable?”
&nbs
p; “Carrots aren’t. Too homey. It’s got to be string beans with slivered almonds or poached endive. Ugh. And the potatoes—mashed is my favorite, but forget it. And you must have a gal serving, although I’m going to be the gal tonight.”
“I’ll help.”
“Better not. Chuck wouldn’t like it. The whole thing would be solved if we had a buffet. I prefer a nice ham or turkey myself and everyone helping themselves.”
“What would happen if you served turkey?”
“Gee.” Larraine looked puzzled. “They’d eat it, I guess.”
If Larraine had been born twenty years later, she’d have been involved in the women’s movement. She had the heart and questioning mind of an independent woman, the kind who would come into full flower in the seventies and eighties. In 1955, she was often bewildered by her own frustrations. The gift of humor and a high metabolism saved her, but she could smell something phony a mile away. She saw a lot of phoniness in their social life.
Star wasn’t as cynical. For one thing Paul loved the dinners and became very animated. He needed the order of that life and those clearly defined goals. Being around death and disease made him crave structure and control. The other men respected him and she saw that he often held the floor in a discussion. Even Sterling Hargrove, the senior man among them, took Paul aside for private consultations. She knew—he had told her countless times—that they also admired him for having landed her. Paul’s present status was the result of foresight and skill. He was exactly where he wanted to be.
Around the end of November, she noticed they were both more relaxed. He had begun to attend auctions with one of the other doctors and it was a good diversion for him. The odd piece of furniture or accessory made his face light up and it was something he liked to talk about.
Star accepted the status quo—she no longer winced when she heard her new name. It didn’t occur to her that there wasn’t that unity of purpose that would have made them a team. During the best of times, she and Paul were chugging along parallel lines, but it was always for a short run. She seldom mentioned Larraine because it brought forth unwanted information about Chuck. He had a girlfriend with whom he was seriously in love. It was just a matter of time.
On a dismal morning in early December, Larraine came by with puffy eyes and a cheerless face. “I think Chuck and I will probably get a divorce,” she said hopelessly.
Star said nothing, hoping she had misunderstood and in the next breath Larraine would make a joke. They both sat silently, eyes cast down, playing with their hands. She realized Larraine was serious. “I’m so sorry.”
Larraine, who looked ready to cry, struggled to get control of herself. “I’m sick of crying. What I’ve got to do is find a way of earning a living.”
Surely there must be a good sincere phrase of consolation, but she couldn’t find it. Everything she said sounded so unconvincing. “Could you go back to college?”
“I can’t afford to go to school just to enlighten myself and make good conversation. I’ve got to find a way to make a living. I was thinking nursing, but that would take too long.”
“Nursing?” Star was shocked. “I’d think you’d want nothing more to do with medicine.”
“Yeah . . . maybe that’s my torn psyche trying to hang on. It’s a relief, in a way—the divorce. If you’re expecting an avalanche every day it’s a relief when it comes as long as it doesn’t bury you. I hope it doesn’t bury me.”
“Do you still love him?” She couldn’t imagine loving Chuck, but then she hadn’t known him as a young lover or borne his child.
Larraine bit her lower lip to keep from crying. “I guess. He was very passionate. We had sex all the time and I’m going to miss it.”
Star had no response. The idea of sex was a distant secret that she couldn’t inspect or try to understand. The maneuvers she went through with Paul were best kept out of mind. “How can I help? You know I would do anything.”
“Moral support. That’s about it. What I’ll do, I think, is take a real-estate course. That’s something women can do that’s a little interesting. It appeals to me probably because my Irish grandmother was almost religious about owning property. Owning a piece of the earth was very important to her. She kept her money in a handkerchief until she had enough to buy the next plot.”
“Where will you live?”
“Chuck’s taken an apartment and I’m staying in the house until we sell it. Eventually I’ll have to look for something smaller. And cheaper.”
Star touched Larraine’s hand with her own. “I’d be very sad if we stopped being friends. That won’t happen, will it?”
“Of course not. I was even thinking you could take the course with me for something to do. You’re always saying you’d like to fix up every dilapidated house you see on the street. Here’s your chance to get into the business.”
“I’ll talk to Paul.”
“Sure. Ask him.”
At first Paul was against her taking the course, but the very next day he brought it up again and said he had a talk with Chuck, who thought it would be a good idea if Larraine had a friend to bolster her up. “He’s relieved that she wants to do something constructive,” said Paul. “Go with her if it’ll make you happy.”
“I’m not doing it to relieve Chuck,” she said, “but it will make me happy.”
The course began the third week in January. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at five o’clock she and Larraine squeezed into the number-seven rush-hour bus that cut off to Rhode Island Avenue, where the class met in the basement auditorium of a bank. Together with fifteen other fledgling Realtors, they sat alert and willing in front of Fred McKay, whose family had been in the business for three generations and managed a large realty office in the District and two branches in Montgomery County.
“Property,” he told them that first day, “any property—even a vacant lot—is more interesting to me than anything else in the world. Property is more tangible and more interesting than mere money. It’s a spot on this earth and you know there are only so many spots. So . . . whoever passes up the opportunity to acquire his portion of the earth is just plain stupid.” He was hoping to entice some of them to work for him as agents. He wanted to teach them how to excite the buyers, but he also wanted to spark the hope that one day they’d be buyers, too.
“Now,” he continued, “this is something you’re not going to believe. The United States government will pay for anything you buy in the way of property. That’s right. Every year they reduce your taxes because you own that property. They feel sorry for you. They say, ‘Oh, you poor thing, that property is becoming older and more decrepit every day. Pay us less taxes and keep the money for yourself.’ Of course everybody but Uncle Sam knows that the exact opposite is true. The property is appreciating in value. Also, we can use it as collateral to buy another piece of property that the government will pay for again. Now. Are you going to go up to Mr. Eisenhower and whisper what’s happening in his ear?” He shook his head. “Neither am I. Isn’t it foolish not to take advantage of this astounding moneymaking situation? You bet it is!”
By the time they walked out of the room into the crisp winter air, Star and Larraine were trying to push away the wild fantasies. They couldn’t even speak during the first few minutes. “It’s hard to believe what he says about the government being so stupidly generous. I wonder if he’s telling the truth,” said Star.
“He must be. He teaches this course every year. If he weren’t telling the truth, some student would have come back and shoved him around a little,” said Larraine.
Each week, Fred McKay tackled a different aspect of buying and selling property, and he had a truckload of success anecdotes that made his students drip saliva onto their shirts and blouses. They learned about financing, land values, zoning laws, tax credits and shelters. One of the most provocative evenings was on the subject of “cheap bait,” whi
ch amounted to hints on tapping into the buyer’s subliminal awareness. “You can add a couple of thousand to the offers you’ll get for a one-family house by boiling a cinnamon stick in water just before the buyer arrives. He’ll start to think of his mother’s apple pie and his boyhood and he’ll feel totally at home.”
Fred McKay encouraged his students to answer ads in the paper and go through at least twenty-five properties and give them a rating as investments and for value. During the week Star and Larraine looked at ten one-family houses, two multiple dwellings, and two business properties. When they returned home, bone weary, their notebooks crammed with particulars—cash flow, city taxes, heating systems, sewer systems, schools, and the quality of the drinking water—they were both on the verge of confessing something to the other that they feared was immature and irresponsible.
“Most of the people in that class are learning to sell real estate. I don’t want to sell real estate,” said Star.
“You don’t? You don’t like it?”
“There’s something I think I like better.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d rather own something of my own. I’d like to take one of the properties we saw—maybe that row house on Seventeenth and M—and redo it. What appeals to me is fixing something up with a fresh coat of paint and new shutters.”
“Yeah,” said Larraine, “then what?”
“Well . . . you could either rent it or”—she shrugged—“sell it. Although it might be tough selling something you just saved from ruin.” Larraine was silent, which was unusual. “What’s wrong? You think I’m unrealistic?”
“No. I feel pretty much the same way. We’re both unrealistic, but I’m even more so because I can’t afford to fool around. I’m going to be supporting myself.” She took a deep, meaningful breath. “How much money do you have? I don’t mean Paul’s money, I mean cash you can get your hands on.”
“Two thousand dollars.”
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