How convenient for him, she thought dryly as her gaze swept across the intricate baroque pattern of the room’s yellow wallpaper. Her bedroom drapes were still drawn. Hot, white stripes of light pushed against the shades, to no avail. The bedroom was dark and cool, welcoming.
As soon as R.J. left the bedroom for the kitchen she rose, slipped from her nightgown while avoiding the mirror, and entered the bathroom. Hot steam billowed and fogged the windows. She saw herself reflected in the glass as a ghostly shadow. Annie’s words came back to her: Women look in the mirror and don’t recognize their own reflections.
She moved across the slippery tiles like an old boxer heading for the locker room after a lost match. She turned on the water faucet for the tub, making it so hot it would hurt; she wanted to feel scorching clean of whatever foulness was oozing from her pores this morning. She could smell last night’s mendacity clinging to her skin.
Lifeless described her limp manner as she soaked in the tub. The sound of dripping water from the faucet made her sleepy, but outside the room the thumping of her husband’s footfall in the bedroom, banging closet doors and slamming drawers intruded on her peace. R.J. had a heavy tread, hard on the heel. Occasionally the footfall would stop outside the bathroom door and pause. She lay still then, her muscles going taut, thinking, Go away, go away. The steps did eventually move away again. Then came the sound of a suitcase hitting the floor, followed by another stop at the bathroom door.
“What are you doing in there for so long? Are you okay in there?”
She opened her mouth then closed it. She couldn’t answer him.
The door handle jiggled. “Open the door.” It was a command. When she didn’t answer he jiggled the handle again, pounding once. “Open this door, or I’ll break it down.”
“Go away, R.J., to wherever you’re going,” she called back. “I don’t want to open the door and I won’t.”
There was a pause and then he said in a harsh voice tinged with relief, “You’re acting like some prima donna. You only think of yourself, you know that? You lie around all day doing God knows what, while I’m out there earning a living. I’d hate to think what’d happen to you on your own. You sure as hell couldn’t earn enough to take hour-long baths. Or gossip with your ding-a-ling friends. I take good care of you. You’ve got a pretty good life here. You should appreciate it.”
Doris stewed in the tub, her toes and fists clenched, her jaw stuck out and her lips mouthing retorts she did not give voice to. It’s my money that built your business in the first place. Money my daddy gave to me, not you. It’s all your fault that I’m so unhappy. You and your women friends. You haven’t touched me in months. I don’t feel like a woman anymore.
“So, you’re not going to open up that door? All right. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you can just stew in that tub for as long as you like. Enjoy yourself. I’m going out to do my job. I just hope you come to your senses by the time I get back tomorrow night. And when I do, I’d like dinner on the table...if it’s not too much to ask as head of this household.”
Doris writhed in the tub, determined not to answer him. She waited until she heard the footsteps walk away into the hall, then the creak of the front door and the slam when it closed.
He’s gone, she thought with inexpressible relief. Everyone was gone: R.J., Bobby, Sarah. She was alone again in this large house she’d spent her lifetime in. There was only herself and the yellow wallpaper. She could hear her mother’s voice in her mind’s ear: Face the facts, Doris. You’re fifty years old and still living in your parents’ house. You’re still being told what to do, how to behave. When are you going to grow up?
She raised her palm from the water and looked at her wrinkled, prunelike fingertips. She remembered when she was young, looking at these same puckered fingertips and marveling that she could look so old on the outside and still be so young on the inside.
That was how she felt now. Old on the outside but still so very young inside!
She rose from the tub and wrapped a large yellow bath towel around herself. With the corner she wiped off the steam and droplets of water from the mirror over the sink. Doris took a good long look at the face in the mirror. She saw a woman with puffy pale-blue eyes with lids as thin as tissue, washed-out peachy-colored hair, and skin that was pale and lifeless. But this time she didn’t turn away in disgust. She looked harder, deeper, into the same eyes that she’d looked into all of her life, trying to find the child in the reflection.
What she saw was her face, the way she looked right now. This face belonged to a fifty-year-old woman named Doris Bridges. Doris looked hard at the face and decided that she couldn’t let this woman die before getting to know her.
Her first thought was to get out of the room. The next was to get out of the house. She couldn’t pack fast enough. R.J. wasn’t the only one who could just pack up and leave. She threw a few essentials into a suitcase, then sat at her desk with dripping hair, smoothed out a piece of her best stationery and wrote a note to Sarah.
Her daughter would feel shock followed by indignation. How dare her mom just up and leave? Now she would have to cook and clean house. Doris smiled. Not that she did, really. There was a maid, a lawn service and a telephone. It would be good for her daughter to grow up and assume a little responsibility—like Bronte. Or, she thought with a chuckle, she could dump it all on R.J. It would be interesting to see which Sarah did. Nonetheless, maternal habit kicked in and she wrote Sarah a long list describing what was where, who to call for this and that, and how often to feed the fish.
She wrote a note to Bobby as well, but she doubted her departure would make much of a dent in his life. He was living in his own world, a college man now, meeting with friends. Doris licked and sealed the envelope thinking that was as it should be.
The next letter was for R.J. Her pen stilled over the paper. How could she write to him all that she felt at the moment? Should she tell him she knew of his affairs? But she wasn’t leaving because of the other women. Not really. She was only thinking of one woman now—herself. Or should she mention how angry she was at him for not touching her, for neglecting her body and her soul for so long she’d almost died? But could she blame him? Hadn’t she neglected herself more?
She tapped the pen against her lips, trying to put together the right words to tell him she wasn’t running away from anything, except perhaps the yellow wallpaper. She’d been locked inside this house of rules and memories for so long she had stopped growing. In so many ways she was still the little girl who’d lived here with her parents, the same blushing bride she had been when she’d married R.J. His opinions were hers. His beliefs dominated hers. And wasn’t she strongest when she preached his ideas to others? She’d been a regular pillar of the community. But underneath the coifed and polished shell she was empty. A wax figure. She’d given her self to her husband. To her children.
And now, R.J. had moved on and the children had grown up and they knew that she was nothing but a parrot to their father’s words. They looked away when she tried to make a serious point. Or when they listened, it was with a patient look followed by a wry, pathetic smile.
Doris looked at the sheet of steel-blue stationery and heard R.J.’s voice again, the rattling of the door handle, and his incessant demand that she open the door. Putting the pen to paper, Doris wrote: “Dear R.J. I opened the door. Doris.”
* * *
Doris drove directly to their lake house in Michigan. The roads were crowded with wagons and vans packed with camping gear, coolers and kids as city dwellers headed north for vacation. For fifty years she’d traveled this same route, sometimes in the back seat, sometimes in the front. There were shiny new gas stations and food bars where once upon a time there had been only a few diners and wide-open fields of crops.
When she turned off the interstate onto the rural roads, however, the landscape remained much the sa
me as in her childhood. Rolling hills were lined with rows of concord grapes still green on the vine, large-scale nurseries overflowing with stock, and rickety farm stands leaning by the roadside. She stopped at one to pick up lettuce, berries and a bouquet of brilliant flowers—reds, blues and yellows—for her table.
Back on the road she remembered riding in the backseat of her mom’s Buick with her brother, Bill, counting the out-of-state license plates, each vying for the dollar promised by Dad for the most sighted. Bill usually won. She always suspected he cheated but it didn’t matter. It was only on vacation that he played games with her and he always bought her Charleston Chews, Bit O’ Honey, Pay Day candy bars and Lik•A•Stix with the winnings anyway. Sarah and Bobby had played that same game on their journeys north as well, but oddly, she couldn’t remember those days as clearly as those of her own childhood. Mom and Dad, Grandma Alison and Grandpa Jack, Uncle Hugo and Aunt Deb... Their faces were real, almost tangible today.
She arrived at the lake house in good time, stopping only once more for milk, eggs, bread and butter. Pulling up on the gravel drive behind the cottage, she turned off the engine, and resting her head on her arm over the steering wheel, sighed deeply. She felt that she had traveled not so far in miles as in years. The memories were still rolling inside her, careening up and down, around dangerous corners and slippery slopes. She felt the wheels still turning in her veins.
Opening the door she stepped out into the fresh air of a Michigan summer’s afternoon, eager to escape from the relentless clamor in her head.
Summer was ripe. There was a heaviness in the humid air that soaked her clothes and went straight to her bones, weighing them down. She stood in the driveway a moment, ears cocked, nose high in the air. The scent of barbecue mingled with honeysuckle. Motorboats churned out on the lake beyond the wall of trees, children shouted with glee, and a dog chained to an old sycamore tree was barking.
Nothing ever changed here. She was deeply grateful; she felt secure.
Ordinarily when she arrived she took note of all that needed doing. The screen on the porch door was torn, her impatiens were wilted and desperate for water, a trail of ants marched single file to the base of the cottage. She saw all this and felt the familiar pinpricks of conscience to get the work done, to do her wifely duty. Today, however, she didn’t want to. If she hadn’t come up on the spur of the moment, she reasoned, those ants would be getting their dinner uninterrupted, the mosquitoes would continue to slip in through the tear free-as-you-please, and her flowers just might die. Life would go on without her. She was not indispensable. And rather than finding that depressing, she felt it was freeing, like dispensing with an old, heavy coat that she’d never really liked all that much anyway.
Over the porch door was a tacky metal sign that looked like a license plate and read: Leave Your Troubles At the Door. Her father had found it at some roadside stand when she was a little girl and bought it, claiming that it was perfect for the cottage. Her mother had laughed and patted his arm, and Doris had always suspected it was some private joke between them. The sign stayed up there getting rustier every year and before they entered her Dad would always say, “Okay everyone! Leave your troubles at the door!” R.J. had wanted to get rid of the sign, calling it an embarrassment, but Doris couldn’t bear to part with it. In time, her kids said the magic words as well.
“Leave your troubles at the door,” she said aloud, then picking up her baggage, walked inside.
She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. The house had that stale, closed-up scent of dank upholstery, dusty corners and cold ashes. After bringing in her groceries, she immediately walked to the windows facing the lake and opened them wide. Out there, down the slope, the lake glistened wet and wavy in the sun. She knew it was cool and refreshing just by looking at it.
If she were with the children, she’d have to begin right away putting fresh linens on the beds, scouring the sinks and toilets, vacuuming up the armies of dead bugs at the windowsills and cooking a meal for the hungry crew. Organize, clean, accommodate. As the mother, she’d feel compelled to make this house a comfortable home for her family. She didn’t begrudge the role. Not at all! For years she’d gloried in making her family happy.
But things had changed, and she had to come to grips with this fact. The children were older; they didn’t need her. She didn’t have to tend house now. She realized this with an amazement that was as welcome as it was unexpected. Looking around at the cottage she smiled, realizing with a secret delight: Why, this house has been sitting here empty—just waiting for me!
* * *
John returned home late the morning after the party, still dressed in the same overalls. He paused at the door, looking at Annie on the sofa. Then, without a word of explanation as to where he had spent the night, he went straight into the bedroom, walking with the kind of rigidity that implied he was a superior being for his ability to restrain his anger. Annie lay quietly waiting on the sofa while he showered and clumped around in the bedroom. A short while later he returned to stand at the end of the sofa carrying a suitcase in his hand. He set it down on the floor, then straightened in the manner of a grand announcement.
“I’m going to Florida,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll be there for a week. At the end of that time, I’ll call and we’ll see if I should come back home.” His face was solemn and impassive, but she didn’t miss the deep circles under his eyes or the brittle quality to his stance.
Annie only looked back at him, returning the same impassive expression. She thought that he was surprised by her reaction. It was out of character for her not to jump up, and with her usual straightforwardness, demand an explanation or coerce him one way or the other to talk or fight. She didn’t want to do any of those things, however. She didn’t have the energy. She had rather hoped that he would ask his usual, Do you want to talk? Then she would say yes. Then, if her fantasy were allowed to continue, they would lie together on the sofa all day while she told him that she had cancer and that she needed him and loved him and then he would tell her how much he loved her, too. But this wasn’t a fantasy, this was real, and he wasn’t saying any of that.
So she only replied, “Okay.”
He stared at her a moment longer, his face losing color, then he bent to pick up the suitcase and walked out of the house.
* * *
Hours later, Annie sat motionless on a garden chair in the darkness staring into the black. She was free-falling without a parachute. Isolated. She wasn’t going for alcohol. She wasn’t calling a friend. She wasn’t expecting a knight to come along on a white horse and rescue her. She had no more expectations from life. Her cup was empty; she had no more tears.
It was an unusually cool evening for July, she thought, feeling detached, as though she were already separate from the earth and climate. Autumnally cool. A brisk breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. The night was whispering. Annie closed her eyes and listened. It was a beautiful sound—very peaceful.
Why did she never come outside to listen to the trees talk, she wondered? Or follow the movement of a storm in the sky, or smell honeysuckle on a summer’s breeze? How did she get so busy that she lost touch with nature?
Her parents had always found time. They used to dance with her in the rain or laugh while they all jumped in puddles and muddied their toes on a hot, humid summer afternoon. In the fall they hiked in the mountains, holding hands, smelling the earth’s ripeness and witnessing the vibrant golds, reds and oranges of nature’s palette. In winter, Mom bundled her up in woolens so they could stand in the backyard, lift their heads and catch snowflakes on their tongues. And in the spring Dad told her that her finger was exactly the right size to poke holes into his freshly tilled soil for seeds in the garden.
Those were happy times, she remembered with a bittersweet twinge. It was so easy to find fault with her parents, to blame them, to cast them from her life and forge
t the one big truth: they loved her.
She had decided long ago that she didn’t need them. She rejected them in her struggle for control. She’d thought with control came safety, that nothing bad could happen to her. She lived indoors, in a climate-controlled environment. She passed day after day totally unaffected by the mercurial weather out of doors or the turn of seasons outside her window. How naive she was, she realized too late. Nature marched on.
To everything there is a season. A time to be born, a time to die...
A car door slammed in the driveway. Annie cocked her head and listened intently. She heard footsteps up the front walk, then the squeaky hinge of the front door. A suitcase hit the floor, followed by the jingle of keys.
John was home.
Her body tensed. She brought one knee up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it tight, but remained sitting on the back porch, listening. She followed the sound of his footfall as he paced through the house. He did not call her name, but she knew he was looking for her, so she waited, crouched on the chair.
When he stood behind her at the screen door she could hardly breathe, couldn’t find the air. He knew she was out here, just as he knew she was aware of him standing at the door—two shadows in the night.
Make your move, she cried inside. She wanted boldness now. Wanted him to take her in his arms, speak his mind, kiss her and make it all better. She didn’t want to be the one to make the first move, to once again be the strong one. She was tired, afraid. She was the little girl she’d just remembered and wanted to be taken care of. Just once.
The Book Club Page 30