by Ira Levin
‘– got laryngitis from taping for you.’
‘Because she rushed it,’ Claude said. ‘She did the whole thing in two evenings. You don’t have to do it that fast. I leave the recorder; you can take as long as you like. Would you? It would be a big help to me.’
Walter came in from the patio; he had been burning leaves out in back with Pete and Kim. He and Claude said hello to each other and shook hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Joanna, ‘I was supposed to tell you Claude was coming to speak to you. Do you think you’ll be able to help him?’
She said, ‘I have so little free time—’
‘Do it in odd minutes,’ Claude said. ‘I don’t care if it takes a few weeks.’
‘Well if you don’t mind leaving the recorder that long …’
‘And you get a present in exchange,’ Claude said, unstrapping his briefcase on the table. ‘I leave an extra cartridge, you tape any little lullabies or things you like to sing to the kids, and I transcribe them onto a record. If you’re out for an evening the sitter can play it.’
‘Oh, that’d be nice,’ she said, and Walter said, ‘You could do “The Goodnight Song” and “Good Morning Starshine”.’
‘Anything you want,’ Claude said. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘I’d better get back outside,’ Walter said. ‘The fire’s still burning. See you, Claude.’
‘Right,’ Claude said.
Joanna gave Claude his tea, and he showed her how to load and use the tape recorder, a handsome one in a black leather case. He gave her eight yellow-boxed cartridges and a black loose-leaf binder.
‘My gosh, there’s a lot,’ she said, leafing through curled and mended pages typed in triple columns.
‘It goes quickly,’ Claude said. ‘You just say each word clearly in your regular voice and take a little stop before the next one. And see that the needle stays in the red. You want to practice?’
They had thanksgiving dinner with Walter’s brother Dan and his family. It was arranged by Walter and Dan’s mother and was meant to be a reconciliation – the brothers had been on the outs for a year because of a dispute about their father’s estate – but the dispute flared again, grown in bitterness as the disputed property had grown in value. Walter and Dan shouted, their mother shouted louder, and Joanna made difficult explanations to Pete and Kim in the car going home.
She took pictures of Bobbie’s oldest boy Jonathan working with his microscope, and men in a cherry picker trimming trees on Norwood Road. She was trying to get up a portfolio of at least a dozen first-rate photos – to dazzle the agency into a contract.
The first snow fell on a night when Walter was at the Men’s Association. She watched it from the den window: a scant powder of glittery white, swirling in the light of the walk lamppost. Nothing that would amount to anything. But more would come. Fun, good pictures – and the bother of boots and snow-suits.
Across the street, in the Claybrooks’ living-room window, Donna Claybrook sat polishing what looked like an athletic trophy, buffing at it with steady mechanical movements. Joanna watched her and shook her head. They never stop, these Stepford wives, she thought.
It sounded like the first line of a poem.
They never stop, these Stepford wives. They something something all their lives. Work like robots. Yes, that would fit. They work like robots all their lives.
She smiled. Try sending that to the Chronicle.
She went to the desk and sat down and moved the pen she had left as a placemark on the typed page. She listened for a moment – to the silence from upstairs – and switched the recorder on. With a finger to the page, she leaned toward the microphone propped against the framed Ike Mazzard drawing of her. ‘Taker. Takes. Taking,’ she said. ‘Talcum. Talent. Talented. Talk. Talkative. Talked. Talker. Talking. Talks.’
TWO
She would only want to move, she decided, if she found an absolutely perfect house; one that, besides having the right number of right-size rooms, needed practically no redecoration and had an existing darkroom or something darn close to one. And it would have to cost no more than the fifty-two-five they had paid (and could still get, Walter was sure) for the Stepford house.
A tall order, and she wasn’t going to waste too much time trying to fill it. But she went out looking with Bobbie one cold bright early-December morning.
Bobbie was looking every morning – in Norwood, Eastbridge, and New Sharon. As soon as she found something right – and she was far more flexible in her demands than Joanna – she was going to pressure Dave for an immediate move, despite the boys’ having to change schools in the middle of the year. ‘Better a little disruption in their lives than a zombie-ized mother,’ she said. She really was drinking bottled water, and wasn’t eating any locally grown produce. ‘You can buy bottled oxygen, you know,’ Joanna said.
‘Screw you. I can see you now, comparing Ajax to your present cleanser.’
The looking inclined Joanna to look more; the women they met – Eastbridge homeowners and a real-estate broker named Miss Kirgassa – were alert, lively, and quirky, confirming by contrast the blandness of Stepford women. And Eastbridge offered a wide range of community activities, for women and for men and women. There was even a NOW chapter in formation. ‘Why didn’t you look here first?’ Miss Kirgassa asked, rocketing her car down a zigzag road at terrifying speed.
‘My husband had heard—’ Joanna said, clutching the armrest, watching the road, tramping on wished-for brakes.
‘It’s dead there. We’re much more with-it.’
‘We’d like to get back there to pack though,’ Bobbie said from in back.
Miss Kirgassa brayed a laugh. ‘I can drive these roads blindfolded,’ she said. ‘I want to show you two more places after this one.’
On the way back to Stepford, Bobbie said, ‘That’s for me. I’m going to be a broker, I just decided. You get out, you meet people, and you get to look in everyone’s closets. And you can set your own hours. I mean it, I’m going to find out what the requirements are.’
They got a letter from the Department of Health, two pages long. It assured them that their interest in environmental protection was shared by both their state and county governments. Industrial installations throughout the state were subject to stringent antipollutionary regulations such as the following. These were enforced not only by frequent inspection of the installations themselves, but also by regular examination of soil, water, and air samples. There was no indication whatsoever of harmful pollution in the Stepford area, nor of any naturally occurring chemical presence that might produce a tranquilizing or depressant effect. They could rest assured that their concern was groundless, but their letter was appreciated nonetheless.
‘Bullshit,’ Bobbie said, and stayed with the bottled water. She brought a thermos of coffee with her whenever she came to Joanna’s.
Walter was lying on his side, facing away from her, when she came out of the bathroom. She sat down on the bed, turned the lamp off, and got in under the blanket. She lay on her back and watched the ceiling take shape over her.
‘Walter?’ she said.
‘Mm?’
‘Was that any good?’ she asked. ‘For you?’
‘Sure it was,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it for you?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He didn’t say anything.
‘I’ve had the feeling that it hasn’t been,’ she said. ‘Good for you. The last few times.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s been fine. Just like always.’
She lay seeing the ceiling. She thought of Charmaine, who wouldn’t let Ed catch her (or had she changed in that too?), and she remembered Bobbie’s remark about Dave’s odd ideas.
‘Goodnight,’ Walter said.
‘Is there anything,’ she asked, ‘that I – don’t do that you’d like me to do? Or that I do do that you’d like me not to?’
He didn’t say anything, and then he said, ‘Whatever you want to do, that’s all.’ He turned over and looked at her
, up on his elbow. ‘Really,’ he said, and smiled, ‘it’s fine. Maybe I’ve been a little tired lately because of the commuting.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said.
‘Are you – having an affair with Esther?’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘She’s going with a Black Panther. I’m not having an affair with anybody.’
‘A Black Panther?’
‘That’s what Don’s secretary told him. We don’t even talk about sex; all I do is correct her spelling. Come on, let’s get to sleep.’ He kissed her cheek and turned away from her.
She turned over onto her stomach and closed her eyes. She shifted and stirred, trying to settle herself comfortably.
They went to a movie in Norwood with Bobbie and Dave, and spent an evening with them in front of the fire, playing Monopoly kiddingly.
A heavy snow fell on a Saturday night, and Walter gave up his Sunday-afternoon football-watching, not very happily, to take Pete and Kim sledding on Winter Hill while she drove to New Sharon and shot a roll and a half of colour in a bird sanctuary.
Pete got the lead in his class Christmas play; and Walter, on the way home one night, either lost his wallet or had his pocket picked.
She brought sixteen photos in to the agency. Bob Silverberg, the man she dealt with there, admired them gratifyingly but told her that the agency wasn’t signing contracts with anybody at that time. He kept the photos, saying he would let her know in a day or two whether he felt any of them were marketable. She had lunch, disappointedly, with an old friend, Doris Lombardo, and did some Christmas shopping for Walter and her parents.
Ten of the pictures came back, including ‘Off Duty’, which she decided at once she would enter in the next Saturday Review contest. Among the six the agency had kept and would handle was ‘Student’, the one of Jonny Markowe at his microscope. She called Bobbie and told her. ‘I’ll give him ten per cent of whatever it makes,’ she said.
‘Does that mean we can stop giving him allowance?’
‘You’d better not. My best one’s made a little over a thousand so far, but the other two have only made about two hundred each.’
‘Well that’s not bad for a kid who looks like Peter Lorre,’ Bobbie said. ‘Him I mean, not you. Listen, I was going to call you. Can you take Adam for the weekend? Would you?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Pete and Kim would love it. Why?’
‘Dave’s had a brainstorm; we’re going to have a weekend alone, just the two of us. Second-honeymoon time.’
A sense of beforeness touched her; déjà vu. She brushed it away. ‘That’s great,’ she said.
‘We’ve got Jonny and Kenny booked in the neighbourhood,’ Bobbie said, ‘but I thought Adam would have a better time at your place.’
‘Sure,’ Joanna said, ‘it’ll make it easier to keep Pete and Kim out of each other’s hair. What are you doing, going into the city?’
‘No, just staying here. And getting snowed in, we hope. I’ll bring him over tomorrow after school, okay? And pick him up late Sunday.’
‘Fine. How’s the house-hunting?’
‘Not so good. I saw a beauty in Norwood this morning, but they’re not getting out till April first.’
‘So stick around.’
‘No, thanks. Want to get together?’
‘I can’t; I’ve got to do some cleaning. Really.’
‘You see? You’re changing. That Stepford magic is starting to work.’
A black woman in an orange scarf and striped fake-fur coat stood waiting at the library desk, her fingertips resting on a stack of books. She glanced at Joanna and nodded with a near-smile; Joanna nodded and near-smiled back; and the black woman looked away – at the empty chair behind the desk, and the bookshelves behind the chair. She was tall and tan-skinned, with close-cropped black hair and large dark eyes – exotic-looking and attractive. About thirty.
Joanna, going to the desk, took her gloves off and got the postcard out of her pocket. She looked at Miss Austrian’s namestand on the desk, and at the books under the long slim fingers of the black woman a few feet away. A Severed Head by Iris Murdoch, with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and The Magus underneath it. Joanna looked at the postcard; Skinner, Beyond Freedom & Dignity would be held for her until 12/11. She wanted to say something friendly and welcoming – the woman was surely the wife or daughter of the black family the Welcome Wagon lady had mentioned – but she didn’t want to be white-liberal patronizing. Would she say something if the woman weren’t black? Yes, in a situation like this she – ‘We could walk off with the whole place if we wanted to,’ the black woman said, and Joanna smiled at her and said, ‘We ought to; teach her to stay on the job.’ She nodded toward the desk.
The black woman smiled. ‘Is it always this empty?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never seen it this way before,’ Joanna said. ‘But I’ve only been here in the afternoon and on Saturdays.’
‘Are you new in Stepford?’
‘Three months.’
‘Three days for me,’ the black woman said.
‘I hope you like it.’
‘I think I will.’
Joanna put her hand out. ‘I’m Joanna Eberhart,’ she said, smiling.
‘Ruthanne Hendry,’ the black woman said, smiling and shaking Joanna’s hand.
Joanna tipped her head and squinted. ‘I know that name,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it someplace.’
The woman smiled. ‘Do you have any small children?’ she asked.
Joanna nodded, puzzled.
‘I’ve done a children’s book, Penny Has a Plan,’ the woman said. ‘They’ve got it here; I checked the catalogue first thing.’
‘Of course,’ Joanna said. ‘Kim had it out about two weeks ago! And loved it! I did too; it’s so good to find one where a girl actually does something besides make tea for her dolls.’
‘Subtle propaganda,’ Ruthanne Hendry said, smiling.
‘You did the illustrations too,’ Joanna said. ‘They were terrific!’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you doing another one?’
Ruthanne Hendry nodded. ‘I’ve got one laid out,’ she said. ‘I’ll be starting the real work as soon as we get settled.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Miss Austrian said, coming limping from the back of the room. ‘It’s so quiet here in the morning that I’ – she stopped and blinked, and came limping on – ‘work in the office. Have to get one of those bells people can tap on. Hello, Mrs Eberhart.’ She smiled at Joanna, and at Ruthanne Hendry.
‘Hello,’ Joanna said. ‘This is one of your authors. Penny Has a Plan. Ruthanne Hendry.’
‘Oh?’ Miss Austrian sat down heavily in the chair and held its arms with plump pink hands. ‘That’s a very popular book,’ she said. ‘We have two copies in circulation and they’re both replacements.’
‘I like this library,’ Ruthanne Hendry said. ‘Can I join?’
‘Do you live in Stepford?’
‘Yes, I just moved here.’
‘Then you’re welcome to join,’ Miss Austrian said. She opened a drawer, took out a white card, and put it down beside the stack of books.
At the Centre luncheonette’s counter, empty except for two telephone repairmen, Ruthanne stirred her coffee, and looking at Joanna, said, ‘Tell me something, on the level: was there much reaction to our buying here?’
‘None at all that I heard of,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s not a town where reactions can develop to anything. There’s no place where people really intersect, except the Men’s Association.’
‘They’re all right,’ Ruthanne said. ‘Royal is joining tomorrow night. But the women in the neighbourhood—’
‘Oh listen,’ Joanna said, ‘that doesn’t have anything to do with colour, believe me. They’re like that with everybody. No time for a cup of coffee, right? Riveted on their housework?’
Ruthanne nodded. ‘I don’t mind for myself,’ she said. ‘I’m very self-sufficient, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone along
with the move. But I—’
Joanna told her about the Stepford women, and how Bobbie was even planning to move away to avoid becoming like them.
Ruthanne smiled. ‘There’s nothing that’s going to make a hausfrau out of me,’ she said. ‘If they’re that way, fine. I was just concerned about it being about colour because of the girls.’ She had two of them, four and six; and her husband Royal was chairman of the sociology department of one of the city universities. Joanna told her about Walter and Pete and Kim, and about her photography.
They exchanged phone numbers. ‘I turned into a hermit when I was working on Penny,’ Ruthanne said, ‘but I’ll call you sooner or later.’
‘I’ll call you,’ Joanna said. ‘If you’re busy, just say so. I want you to meet Bobbie; I’m sure you’ll like each other.’
On the way to their cars – they had left them in front of the library – Joanna saw Dale Coba looking at her from a distance. He stood with a lamb in his arms, by a group of men setting up a crèche near the Historical Society cottage. She nodded at him, and he, holding the live-looking lamb, nodded and smiled.
She told Ruthanne who he was, and asked her if she knew that Ike Mazzard lived in Stepford.
‘Who?’
‘Ike Mazzard. The illustrator.’
Ruthanne had never heard of him, which made Joanna feel very old. Or very white.
Having Adam for the weekend was a mixed blessing. On Saturday he and Pete and Kim played beautifully together, inside the house and out; but on Sunday, a freezing-cold overcast day when Walter laid claim to the family room for football-watching (fairly enough after last Sunday’s sledding), Adam and Pete became, serially, soldiers in a blanket-over-the-dining-table fort, explorers in the cellar (‘Stay out of that darkroom!’), and Star Trek people in Pete’s room – all of them sharing, strangely enough, a single common enemy called Kim-She’s-Dim. They were loudly and scornfully watchful, preparing defenses; and poor Kim was dim, wanting only to join them, not to crayon or help file negatives, not even – Joanna was desperate – to bake cookies. Adam and Pete ignored threats, Kim ignored blandishments, Walter ignored everything.