The cost of the pill too came as a shock. Maria silently counted her money and paid, refusing to give Vica a chance to mock her again. She took comfort in the fact that the pills came in a pretty round box, that they looked almost like a case of makeup. She wasn’t able to buy herself anything in those days. It was nice to own at least one new object that looked girly and pretty, even if it was birth control, and not cosmetics.
But in the long run, attractively packed as they were, the pills proved disappointing. There was a piece of paper inside the box, explaining side effects, and such, but it was all in English. She had hoped for a French translation, but there wasn’t one. She was too proud to ask Vica to translate it, too embarrassed to ask Victor, and surely it would have been wrong to ask her eight-year-old daughter. So Maria had no clue what side effects, if any, to expect. She felt more tired than usual, and, much to her horror, she would go to bed at night, lie next to her husband, and feel no desire for him. This terrified her, and it made her angry. What was the purpose of a stupid contraceptive, if it made her not want to make love in the first place?
She wanted to go back to see that doctor. But she couldn’t afford another visit. Besides, she had no idea how to get there on the subway. And she didn’t speak enough English to communicate with him. She was too embarrassed to ask Victor to accompany her, embarrassed to discuss in too much detail what was going on with her. She couldn’t tell him she thought the pill made her not want him. She would have never in a million years told him she didn’t want to make love to him.
There was no way in hell she’d ask Vica or any other woman she didn’t like to accompany her to yet another humiliating doctor’s visit. Her only choice was to stop taking the pills, and hope for the best. Expensive as they had been, she stashed them away, and waited to see what happened. She did feel better without them. And luckily, her desire for Victor returned.
However, a few months later, she found herself pregnant again. Just like the times before, the prospect of giving birth, or having her body cut open and then stitched back together, filled her with terror. But the nightmare had just begun.
When she told Victor, he was angry. He asked her why she stopped taking the pill. She told him it was making her tired and nauseous. He asked why she didn’t ask him to take her back to the doctor to have another pill prescribed, or some other form of birth control. She said she was embarrassed, and he accused her of being a prude and an irrational woman, stuck in the dark ages. She felt stupid herself. Here, where all forms of contraceptives were legal and readily available (though for a price, of course), she had been ignorant enough to get pregnant again.
“But these things are so expensive anyway,” she told him, trying to defend herself for not having gone back to that doctor.
“And you think abortions are free?”
She started crying, and locked herself in the bathroom. She had not even thought of that. She’d assumed that she would just have another baby. As terrifying as childbirth was, abortion struck her as unnatural and sad. She knew by then that she was not a good mother, that she was probably not cut out to be a mother in the first place. But could she really allow somebody to suck a baby out of her womb? And how could Victor be so cold? Didn’t it matter to him that she was carrying his child?
Later that night, he apologized. She knew he was tired, having just started to drive a cab. So she forgave him, and even felt guilty for making a scene. But then he went on to explain, that they could not afford to have another child, that there was nothing to do, but get rid of it. He spoke of it as if it were as simple as extracting a tooth. She flew into a rage and physically attacked him, pounding on him with her fists, until he grabbed her wrists to stop her.
Later she admitted that he was right, and that they had no other choice. But she stayed mad, and did not allow him to go with her to the clinic. He called to make the appointment, and she went with Mrs. Stoica. Two foreign women, whose English vocabulary combined consisted of less than twenty words. She’s still amazed that they found the place, and that she managed to communicate with the doctor. She had considered writing useful phrases on a piece of paper, and just showing it to people. What would that have been like, stopping strangers on the street, pointing them to Victor’s neat handwriting: “I need to take the R train for three stops. I need to have an abortion.” Years later she told this story to Josephine. By then she was able to laugh about the vision of herself holding up a sign reading “I need an abortion.” Josephine laughed too, but then she said that, as liberal as New York was, she might have still run into some pro-life fanatic to kill her.
Humor was the only thing she had to get her through that miserable experience. She felt so rotten, so alone, and so angry with Victor. She wasn’t sure about it yet, or rather, she refused to accept it, but that was when it first occurred to her that he didn’t love her any more. To make matters worse, he once again was right. The abortion was not just uncomfortable. It also was expensive, more so than the stupid pills, in fact. Afterwards, she sat in an armchair at the clinic, and cried while Mrs. Stoica caressed her arm, telling her that these things happen, that she’d feel better soon.
Sitting in the doctor’s office now, she realizes that for the first time, she’ll be genuinely happy to be pregnant. But her odd hopefulness has nothing to do with a real life baby. Just as young women dream of the wedding, but not of the actual marriage ahead, she holds some odd vision of what it would be like to be carrying Victor’s child, without really thinking of actually having and raising a new baby.
Her pregnancy fantasy involves first and foremost, telling Victor about it. She will go to his store, maybe with an appointment, maybe unexpectedly. She’ll once again do something or other to shock that receptionist she doesn’t like. She’ll then insist Victor take her to lunch, and this time she’ll let him take her somewhere nice. She’ll wait until after the salad to tell him.
She knows Victor. He’s cold and selfish. But he’s a good person inside, and he will try to do the right thing. She knows that now, their circumstances being different (or rather, his circumstances being different) he will not dare suggest she get rid of the baby. She enjoys thinking that he’ll offer his support, that he’ll assure her he respects her choice. Will this make her feel better? Will it erase the hurt of that other baby, the one he didn’t want? Will it erase the hurt of him ignoring her after their night of passion? Will it make her feel special to know she’s carrying Victor’s child, and that he’s being supportive, that he’s actually being nice? Whenever she imagines it, she feels happy and peaceful. As if with this baby on its way, her world will finally regain its balance.
Has she completely lost her mind? Does she want to be pregnant just so Victor will be nice to her? Does she really want him to be nice to her just because she’s pregnant?
Is she hoping to get back together with her estranged husband by having a baby at forty-four, when their other children are grown? Whenever she thinks about it, she realizes that getting back together is not realistic. It’s not even part of her pregnancy fantasy. Once she has this baby, she’ll want Victor to be part of their lives, but she won’t be able to take him back. Ever. Even if he and Monica break up, which they will, once word starts getting out about the baby. She smiles. She loves the thought of everybody knowing she slept with Victor, and that she’s carrying his child. Especially Monica.
But there are even more pleasant things to imagine. Things she and Victor will do together as the prospective parents of this unborn child. She’ll keep him at some distance, but she’ll allow for certain moments of closeness. They can, for example, come here, to this doctor’s office, where this nice nurse works. They’ll come together for the ultrasound. Then they might go for lunch. Sort of like old friends. And afterwards maybe shop for the baby. She’ll let him get things for the nursery. Maybe Victor will get her a crib from his furniture store. Do they even have cribs at his store? L once explained that one can order a vast array of furniture from a catalog and t
hat it all gets assembled somewhere in New Jersey. Would a crib qualify? If not, for sure, Victor will know where to get a good crib. And they can pick one of those contraptions with animals that spin around to hang above it for the baby to look at.
The nurse’s voice startles her.
“I’ve good news, hon.”
Maria smiles like a radiant mother-to-be.
“I just got your results from the lab. You’re most definitely not pregnant.”
The smile frozen on her lips, Maria starts sobbing again, this time louder, with a force she cannot control. How will she be able to go back to life as it was before? No lunches, no babies, no flowers, no crib, no little pastel animals spinning around. Just her, alone, having to suffer Victor’s silence, while he continues being with the other woman, as if Thanksgiving never happened.
“I know, honey, I know,” the nurse says, patting her back. “Such a relief! It’s ok, hon’, it’s ok. It was just a scare. You poor dear!”
22
Karma and the Jilted Wife
Maria rearranges her favorite gloves. It’s nearly closing time, and she’s looking forward to going home. She’ll draw herself a warm bath, she’ll close the curtains and lie in her bed, trying to let oblivion wash over her. She’s been treating herself with care and gentleness lately, the way one would treat a sick bird. She will continue her self-indulgent ritual tonight, and every other night, until her pain heals, or until she goes numb enough to ignore it. She knows from experience that she will. Eventually.
She looks up from the gloves, and notices a customer approaching, a tall, beautiful woman, wrapped in a cashmere throw, her shiny black hair bouncing in a ponytail. She looks exquisite and expensive, the kind of customer Maria usually longs for. One with money, and class, who will surely buy something. But today she’s not in the mood. She wishes the workday were over, that she were home, in bed, with the comforter pulled over her head. As the woman approaches, Maria tries to summon some energy. She shouldn’t let this sale go by. She needs her commission if she’s ever going to buy an apartment. Or at least those high-count Egyptian cotton sheets she’s been longing for lately. How spoiled she would feel sinking into those, feeling their softness brush against her skin. And why not indulge herself, in the end? If she’s going to sleep alone for the rest of her life, and if she’s going to spend most of her free time in bed, why wouldn’t she at least have fabulous sheets?
She smiles at the cashmere-wrapped woman, trying to lure her over. It amuses her how much of a temptress one has to be, to survive in the world of retail. It’s a bit like being a prostitute, except she’s selling gloves instead of her body. As the woman comes closer, Maria realizes she’s seen her before. It’s probably a return customer. She’s annoyed with herself for not remembering her. Customers like salespeople who know their names, their tastes and preferences. This woman looks familiar. But Maria’s mind draws a blank.
She smiles. Then she remembers where she’s seen those perfect features. Her stomach turns. It’s not a customer. It’s Victor’s girlfriend. And something about the determination in her step announces that this is not an unfortunate coincidence, like the night at the party. She didn’t come into the store by chance, looking for Christmas presents, she’s here to see Maria.
What on earth does she want? Maria should be annoyed, she knows it, but she prickles with morbid satisfaction. As if something in her own sick imagination has summoned up this woman, as if Monica materialized here today because Maria cannot stop thinking about her, cannot stop imagining her in bed with her husband. In some sick way, she knows she wished for this encounter. It’s curiosity, or a need for validation, but she’s been longing for another face to face.
“You here to buy glove?”
“I’m here to talk to you.”
The other woman’s voice is dignified yet conciliatory. Maria would prefer hostility.
“I’m happy to talk to you about scarf and glove. This here is some of our finest.”
She places her favorite elbow-length gloves in front of Monica. They cost $800. And by the looks of her, the well-dressed bitch can probably afford them!
The other woman’s hand cradles the fine leather.
“I need to talk to you about Victor.”
Her tone is even, business-like. Isn’t she an accountant or something? Maria wishes she had quizzed L shamelessly on the topic. She frowns. Where’s the repentance of the mistress seeking reconciliation? Or better yet, the anger of the lover betrayed?
But fine, if the other woman wants to talk business, she herself will be businesslike. With perverse pleasure, she raises her eyebrows, and flicks her hair. Even with a few strands of grey in it, her dark mane can rival Monica’s ponytail.
“I get paid to talk to you about scarf and glove. So I will do that. With a smile. But there is nothing you or anybody else can do to make me talk to you about anything else.”
“Maria…”
“I’m Mrs. Pop to you. I’m Victor’s wife, remember?”
She watches Monica’s face twitch as she hears this, watches her eyes darken. So it’s not all business, after all. The bitch has feelings!
Maria despises herself for what she just said. She hates being called ‘Mrs.’ There’s nothing more stupid than such a title, nothing more idiotic than defining a woman by whether or not she is formally attached to a man. Yet face to face with her husband’s lover, she cannot help herself.
“I need to talk to you,” the other woman says.
She has a beautiful face, harmonious, profoundly feminine. But on close inspection, she’s not as young as Maria originally thought. She has to be slightly over forty. Why has she always assumed the other woman must be younger?
“I am at work,” she says. “You can stay here and buy glove. Or you can go away. I have no interest in talking to you.”
But she’s bluffing. She’s dying to know what Monica has to say. She counts to ten, slowly.
“I’m off work in half an hour. You can wait, and then we go have one drink.”
The other woman nods, but she rolls her eyes as if Maria’s work is an extravagance designed specifically to annoy her.
Maria plucks the gloves out her hand. “I take you not interested in these.”
As she arranges cashmere scarves by color, she tries to think of the things she needs to say to the other woman. This, after all, is not an everyday encounter. She cannot let this opportunity go by. As she arranges the scarves, she’s thinking how to phrase things best. Which words will give her the most validation? Which words will she enjoy replaying over and over in her head on all her lonely nights?
Half an hour later, she and Monica are walking to a nearby bar. It’s cold outside. In her ballet flats, Maria’s ankles are freezing. She feels like she’s stepping directly onto the cold hard pavement. But there is no way she would wear sneakers in front of Monica. It’s bad enough that in her high-heeled boots (a fine leather creation Maria prices at about $500, just by eyeballing them), the other woman is more than a head taller than her. It’s bad enough that she has a beautiful face, and amazingly long legs, legs which Maria cannot help picturing wrapped around Victor’s body.
Monica reaches into her alligator purse for a pack of Marlboro lights and a silver lighter. Cartier, no less. Bitch. Everything on her is polished and expensive. As if it’s not bad enough that she has Victor. She stops to light a cigarette, and takes a long drag. Unwilling to wait, Maria walks faster, but the smoke catches up with her. Inhaling it, she misses Victor more than ever.
“I want cigarette,” she commands, and Monica obliges.
The taste of nicotine reminds her of Victor’s lips, pressed against hers, hard and rough, yet unbelievably seductive. She sucks in the smoke, inhales deeply, and for a hallucinating moment she can almost feel the strength of his body against hers. Does he kiss the other woman with the same desperation? Does he make love to her as wildly? Does she feel her whole body tingle when his lips meet her skin? Does she melt in his
arms and forget herself the way Maria does?
She straightens her back and walks with more dignity. Monica holds open the door to the bar, and Maria walks in, selects a table and sits down.
“You drink red wine?”
The other woman nods.
The bar is attractive, with simple décor, and subdued music. Just like Monica’s outfit, it looks expensive, and very up to date. Maria never goes to places like this. She can’t afford it. But she knows how to behave as if she’d been frequenting this type of establishment all her life.
She orders a moderately priced but excellent bottle of Cotes du Rhone. If the other woman thinks she has no taste or class, she is wrong. She might be toiling away in the glove department, and taking the train back to her modest apartment in Queens, wearing sneakers, which are not even new, but she knows her food, she knows her wine, and she speaks fluent French.
She waits until the wine is brought and ceremoniously opened.
“So, what can I do for you?” she finally asks.
The other woman looks her in the eye.
“I need to tell you this: The night of the Thanksgiving party…”
Maria’s heart starts beating faster.
“That was really uncool of you.”
Maria can feel the heat rise to her cheeks. Slowly, deliberately, she takes a sip wine. She allows herself a moment to savor it, to give in to the slight intoxication. She allows herself to play with the dark liquid inside the glass. And in a discreet, studied gesture, she smiles. Just for a second.
Then she looks the other woman in the face and asks:
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