“But that’s the last thing you want to do after being with the children all day, right? Little motivation sappers are what they are,” said Karen. “If I’m going to read a book, it had better be a page-turner and not a literary masterpiece that sends me to the dictionary every three pages.”
“I barely make time to read the paper.”
“I’ll bet you’re keeping up on Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky,” said Karen, smiling.
“I feel sorry for her. I think she had no idea what she was getting into.”
“Or who she was confiding in,” said Karen. “Who needs a friend like Linda Tripp?”
“Vincent says he’ll be impeached.”
“For fooling around with a twenty-one-year-old intern?”
“For lying.”
Karen scooped more chicken salad into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “He’s not the first politician guilty of that.”
The girls ran into the kitchen and announced they had finished their lunches and were ready for dessert. Britney had told Rebecca about the trifle, and Rebecca, only half believing there could be something that good in an ordinary household refrigerator, wanted to see it. Sarah solemnly rose from the table, reached into the fridge, and pulled out the chocolate creation. Rebecca gasped. “Is that for us?”
“Oh yes,” said Sarah, breaking into a smile. “Bring me your lunch dishes and tell the boys to sit down. I’ll bring your bowls out as soon as you’re ready.”
“Britney is such a good helper,” said Karen after the girls left.
“Sometimes,” said Sarah, scooping the trifle into small plastic bowls. “It helps when she’s got some incentive.”
“Incentive is the key to everything.”
On the way home from Sarah’s, Karen thought of an incentive plan for herself. When Bob traveled, which was at least twice a month, Karen could reward herself for making it through the week without losing her temper with Rebecca and Robert. The rules were simple: She could use a stern tone, but she couldn’t raise her voice more than she would in everyday conversation. She had to keep the house relatively tidy and get the children to help her. She had to have Friday night’s dinner at least underway by the time Bob got home. If he was due home later than six, the children would be fed and ready for bed so Karen and Bob could eat together at eight. If she could do all this, she would do something nice for herself. It could be anything from a night out with Bob to a sweater or new pair of pants. Clothing, she decided as she turned the car into the driveway, was an excellent idea. Buying new clothes would help Karen lose weight. She could only buy things in her old size, a six; nothing in an eight and absolutely nothing in a ten.
Bob thought it was a great idea. He told Karen incentives were an important part of his life, and there was no reason they shouldn’t be a part of hers. He was making more money now and would be happy to finance her progress. It was about time she bought some clothes. What a person wore made a statement about who that person was. Clothing had always been important to Bob, but was much more so now than in college or in the early years of their marriage. Until recently, he hadn’t spent more than two minutes each morning, most of it devoted to knotting his necktie, in front of the full-length mirror. When they were first married, he had four suits, two for the summer and two for the winter. He had a week’s supply of shirts, which he bumped up to a two-week supply when he started traveling, and a dozen or so silk ties, mostly presents from his or Karen’s parents. In the last few years, however, Bob had accumulated enough clothing to encroach on Karen’s side of the closet. Because she spent most of her time in shapeless garments that could sit in a bureau drawer, Karen had moved most of her work dresses to the attic to make room. He had gone from owning four suits to twenty, two dozen shirts to four dozen, and from twelve ties to more than Karen wanted to count. And his morning routine in the bathroom took twenty minutes instead of ten.
Karen didn’t care how long he took in the bathroom, as she had nowhere to go, but she had questioned him a couple of times in the last year or so about his abundance of clothing, which Bob ardently defended. A sharp-looking salesman always has the edge over his frumpy counterpart, he said. Nice suits, crisp shirts, bright but conservative ties, and well-shined shoes made as good a first impression as any opening line or topical joke. They had the money for it; plus, Bob had been able to write a portion of his wardrobe off on their taxes, as a work expense. It was part of being a successful businessman, he told Karen, which was exactly who he had become. And if Karen wanted to be a successful housewife, who took pride in her job and her appearance, she definitely needed a new, updated wardrobe.
As they talked that night, Karen grew more and more excited about the prospect of getting some new things. She hadn’t thought much about clothing in years, except in terms of what the children needed and what she could wear that wouldn’t require special treatment. Everything got thrown into the washing machine together. Bob had taken a liking to the dry cleaning and laundry services of Image Cleaners downtown, so Karen didn’t have to worry about ruining his shirts or separating his black socks from his white T-shirts. She told Bob she would buy just a few things and then use her incentive plan to get more. And he told her he was pleased and looking forward to seeing his wife looking and feeling like a new woman.
Their agreeable dispositions put them in the mood for sex, or rather, put Karen in the mood. Bob was always ready, and if he believed half of what he heard from other salesmen on the road, he was not alone in that category. Getting a piece was all they talked about, chatter that Bob found stimulating at first, until he realized there was no end to pussy and tit talk. Every woman passed in every hallway was a potential conquest to these guys. Bob continued to smile at their lewd suggestions like a good, chameleonic salesman, even though he was soon bored by their sexual banter. He was certainly interested in the real thing though, and wanted to have sex when he got home from a business trip or on a Saturday morning or whenever Karen consented. And her consent came more and more hesitantly and infrequently over the years.
Karen blamed her lack of response on the children. And in truth, they did wear her out. There was always something to be done. There was always something to be cleaned up. There was always something; children were needy from the moment they opened their eyes in the morning until just before and often after they closed them at night. At five, Rebecca could dress, make her bed, and eat without getting food all over herself and the kitchen. But Robert, almost three, was in many ways still a baby who needed constant care and supervision. Karen could leave him in front of the television and get a few things done a room or two away. But she could never be absolutely sure he wouldn’t get into something or fall from the couch and open his head on the coffee table. Worrying, while fruitless, took up a lot of Karen’s head space. And it was hard for Karen to turn it off and jump into bed with Bob, who had been gone all day or all week, and pretend she wanted nothing more than someone else who needed something from her. And while Bob was a good lover in that he wanted to please her, too, Karen sought a kind of pleasure not found in a seven-second orgasm. She wanted to have what Bob had, freedom. Sex became one more plus in his column and another mess to clean up in hers.
Plus, it wasn’t the same as it used to be. When Bob kissed Karen in college, it was just the two of them that mattered. The kisses were sweet, warm, and exhilarating, and the sex was secret and stolen. It didn’t happen every day; it didn’t happen every weekend. When all of the circumstances were right, when Allison was gone on a weekend that Karen didn’t have her period, or when Bob’s housemates were elsewhere so the two of them could have some privacy, it did happen, and it was satisfying for both of them. Bob had been romantic back then, often presenting Karen with flowers for the occasion or taking her out for a meal afterward, where they would extend the afterglow by lazily eating and talking about their life together after Karen’s graduation. Now, his kisses were sweaty instead of sweet; they were urgent, as if his own mouth was insufficient t
o sustain his life, as if he needed Karen’s mouth to breathe. Karen didn’t feel that urgency. Because they had sex at least once a week, she no longer felt the anticipation, the longing she felt in college when three weeks could easily pass before Karen and Bob could count on being alone. Their libido timetable was out of sync.
Nonetheless, Karen usually acquiesced to Bob’s desire, more to appease than to please him. If Bob didn’t have some kind of sexual release every three to four days, he got grumpy. He was short with the children, if he paid any attention to them at all, and he was extra useless around the house, punishing her with a turned back, with one-word answers. After sex, however, Bob was a new man, a crowned monarch. He would play cars with Robert. He would read a book to Rebecca. He would even do the pots and pans after dinner. It was more agreeable for everyone and worth twenty minutes of Karen’s time.
But that night was different. Karen felt a sexual stirring that had been absent for months. Maybe it was because she had a new resolve to lose weight and look better. Maybe it was because Bob was supportive of her new plan. Maybe it was because they were talking pleasantly instead of bickering. Whatever it was, it was working; Karen wanted to take off her clothes as much as Bob did. And sex with him felt almost as good to her as it had in college.
CHAPTER 8
NOVEMBER 1998
By the end of November, Karen had lost twelve pounds and gained three ribbed turtleneck sweaters, two pairs of wool pants, three pairs of jeans, and brown suede loafers. She had given up wearing sweatpants, replacing them with jeans or corduroys, anything with a fitted waist. She looked as good as she had in college, better even because she had tone and definition from lifting plastic-coated free weights and doing VHS-tape aerobics in the basement three times a week. Bob was newly enamored. When he walked through the back door on a Friday night after a week on the road, he was welcomed by his fit wife, with her shirt tucked in and a belt around her slim waist. And Karen, feeling good about her accomplishments, was happy to see him, too.
Her incentive plan was working better than she expected. Not only did she buy new clothing when she was a patient and kind mother, she bought herself time. She hired their babysitter, Jamie, who had recently announced to Karen that she was more interested in earning money to buy her own car than she was in after-school activities, to come three afternoons a week for two hours each day. So, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, Jamie arrived at four and stayed through what Karen called Whine Time until six. Sometimes Karen went shopping. Sometimes she went for a long walk or a bike ride. Sometimes she met Sarah (whose new next-door-neighbor was a babysitting ninth grader) at a coffee shop. “I feel like a new person,” she said, sitting down at a table with a hot chocolate in her hand.
“You look like a new person.”
“It’s on the inside more than the outside,” said Karen. “I really feel like I’ve gone through a transformation.”
“Me too. It’s amazing what a babysitter can do.”
“I’m so glad Jamie talked to me.”
“And I’m so glad Robin moved in next door.” Sarah sipped her tea. “We’ve become absolute renegades, you and I. We’re going to get kicked out of the stay-at-home-mothers club!”
“Not you,” said Karen. “Robin comes just one day a week.”
“That’s all I was able to talk Vincent into. And I was lucky to get that. You know how Vincent thinks. Mothers are supposed to love being mothers. We’re supposed to love our children completely and not want to ever leave them.”
“Even though sometimes leaving them makes us better mothers.”
“Exactly.” Sarah rubbed lotion into her hands. “I take it Jamie is working out well.”
“She’s grown up a lot since she first started watching the kids,” said Karen. “She now knows how to say no and sound like she means it. She really knows the kids now, and she seems to legitimately like them. Plus, the house is picked up when I get home.”
“Not bad for a fifteen-year-old kid.”
“The only thing I worry about is an emergency.”
“Me too.”
“Wouldn’t it would be nice to have someone who drives?”
“Like your mother.”
Karen smiled. “I guess I haven’t let that go, have I?”
“Hey, I understand. If my mother were still living, I’d expect her to babysit, too.”
“I still don’t see why she doesn’t offer. I still don’t get it.”
“She’s forgotten, Karen. That’s all, she’s just forgotten.”
Karen shifted in her seat, leaning in closer to Sarah. “Even if she’s forgotten, even if she has no recollection of how hard it is to raise children, why wouldn’t she just offer? She sees how full my hands are.”
“Not from what you tell me. You run around like a maniac getting ready for her. She probably thinks you need no help at all.”
“Meaning I bring it on myself.”
“Well, if she arrived one day without notice and saw the house trashed and the kids crying, she might think differently.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Karen moved her head from side to side. “The woman lives four towns away and rarely visits. She’s way too busy for that.”
“Shall I say it again? If you want help from your mother, you’re going to have to ask for it.”
“I’ve hinted.”
“No hinting. You need to ask for her help.”
“And admit I’m a failure.”
“That’s your trade-off,” said Sarah, leaning back in her chair. “Even though you’re not a failure.” Karen finished her drink. “Try it. Ask her.”
“Maybe I will,” said Karen, knowing as well as Sarah that she wouldn’t.
Sarah looked at her watch and then stood and looped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll call you.”
When Karen got home, Jamie and the kids were doing a puzzle on the kitchen table. As a rule, Jamie was not to turn on the TV when she babysat in the afternoons. Rebecca and Robert didn’t seem to mind. At first they missed the shows they had watched regularly before Karen hired Jamie, but they were happy to have Jamie as their new friend. Robert didn’t cry anymore when Karen left. He was very happy, though, to see her upon her return and would stop whatever he was doing and scream “Mommy’s home!” Then he’d run to her and wrap his arms around her legs. It was one of several endearing things he did, like insisting she kiss him on both cheeks at bedtime and putting his hand on her leg when she read him a book. Rebecca remained seated at the table with Jamie, working another piece into the puzzle border. Now that she was in kindergarten, she liked to do more things for herself. Karen was proud of her daughter’s independence, feeling like she had helped foster it. But, she loved the way Robert still needed her, even when she had been away for just two hours.
Karen paid Jamie, sent the children to the living room to watch TV, and started making dinner. When Bob was in town and didn’t have a late meeting, he arrived home at six forty-five and liked dinner on the table. Karen made mini meatballs and put them in the oven to bake. She poured a jar of tomato sauce into a pot on the stove and added several spices and a can of tomato paste. She filled a large pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. She cut a loaf of Italian bread in half lengthwise, put butter and a little bit of crushed garlic in the middle, and wrapped it in foil. She set that on the counter next to the oven so she wouldn’t forget to put it in. When she bent over to check the meatballs, she noticed her headache. What had been a sensitivity to light for most of the afternoon had turned into something less tolerable. She was tired; the hot chocolate hadn’t perked her up at all. She put the back of her hand to her warm forehead. She would get in bed as soon as she got the kids in bed. What she needed was a good night’s sleep.
Thirty minutes later, Bob walked into the kitchen. “Something smells good.”
“Spaghetti,” said Karen, accepting a kiss on the cheek, “and meatballs.”
“Great.” Bob removed his suit coat and
hung it on the back of his chair. “How was your day?”
“Pretty good. Although I don’t feel that well now.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I just need some sleep.”
“You and me both.” Bob walked to the fridge and grabbed a Stella. “Anything for you?”
Karen took the bread out of the oven. “Not tonight.”
Bob walked into the living room to see Rebecca and Robert. Karen could hear them talking as she finished making the salad. When Bob returned to the kitchen five minutes later with the children in tow, dinner was ready. Twelve minutes later, dinner was over. Karen, who felt worse than when she sat down, had eaten only three bites. All she could think about was getting to bed. Even Bob noticed. “You don’t look very good.”
“I don’t feel very good.”
“We can do the dishes, Mommy,” said Rebecca. “Daddy and I can do them.”
Karen looked at Bob, who shrugged. “Why not?” he said, smiling at Rebecca.
“Me too!” said Robert.
“You’re too little,” said Rebecca.
Robert’s eyes welled with tears. “We’ll find something for you to do,” said Bob, patting his son on the head. “You get into bed, Karen. We’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” said Karen, getting up from the table. “Have the kids come see me before bed.”
“Okay.” Bob rolled up the sleeves of his custom-made Egyptian cotton button-down.
“Mommy?”
Karen heard the voice, but she couldn’t respond. She was in the middle of an art history exam, and if the proctor saw her talking, she would be reported. The university had strict rules about verbal communication during exams—with, as far as Karen had heard, no exceptions. She would just keep her head down and pretend she didn’t hear anything. That was the best way to handle it. She needed to focus on the essay question before her, “Why did the Impressionistic painters often skip breakfast?” She had absolutely no idea! There had been nothing in her notes about skipping meals; in fact, there had been nothing about meals at all, unless she counted wine. Maybe it was something about the wine. Maybe, Karen thought, they were too hungover to eat.
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