The Longings of Women

by Marge Piercy

  Obediently she reached for the book, toying with the idea of grabbing it and running. But she would sacrifice the book to her desire to see Becky. “It’s very important for me to meet with your client as soon as possible.”

  “It’s my job to make sure such a meeting is in her best interest.”

  “First of all, nothing I write about her will see print until two years after the trial, at the earliest. It can’t influence anyone until the case has been decided.”

  “You’d be willing to sign an agreement that you will not reveal any information gained from interviews with her and with her family until the trial process is completed?”

  “What’s the trial process?”

  “Including appeals.”

  “That could drag on for years.”

  “There’s no death penalty here. Basically if she’s convicted, I or somebody else will find a technical point to appeal on. The State Supreme Court will hear it or they won’t. I can draw up an agreement specifying exactly at what point you’re free to use the material.”

  If she did not agree, no book. He was the gate to Becky. She could not see trying to write the book without interviewing the subject. “Draw up your terms. I’ll have my publisher’s lawyer go over it. I see no reason we can’t come to an agreement quickly.”

  “It happens I’ve already drawn up an agreement.” He laid it on the table. “Take a copy along and let me know.”

  “You’ll hear from my publisher very quickly.”

  “So what good will you do her?” He put his hands on the table, palms down, leaning toward her.

  “If she gets off, the book may never come out, unless they do want her story and hers only. If she’s convicted, it’s her opportunity to express her side of the events.”

  He shrugged. “She’s interested in seeing you. Her family likes you and they’ve talked you up. They’re naive people and not hard to impress.”

  “I don’t think they’re that naive. They have a strong sense of loyalty toward Becky, and they know how she’s been portrayed in the media.”

  He grimaced. “It’s a pisser, all right. It’s going to be tough to find a jury not tainted by pre-trial publicity … Lunch?’

  It took her a minute to realize she had been issued an invitation. She accepted, of course. She had to get through him to Becky as soon as possible.

  Over a pleasant Italian lunch in an old-fashioned dark restaurant and bar where he was known to the waiters, he seemed to relax and expand. He told her she could see Becky; he would arrange it for Saturday afternoon. “I know you’ll be sympathetic to her.” His hand fell heavily on hers.

  “I’m open-minded. I have no reason to prejudge her and every reason to hear her side.” Gently, she disengaged her hand. Suddenly she realized he wasn’t touching her to underline his caring for his client; he was actually flirting with her. She could scarcely believe it. She could not remember the last time any strange man had treated her as a sexual being. She was flustered but aimed to maintain an impervious façade, as if she simply did not grasp his intent. She had the strangest feeling as she sat there that her emotional disengagement from Nicolas had penetrated her whole body and her being, so that she appeared to this lawyer as unattached, available. But who would have expected that to make any difference?

  “Becky’s cute,” he said, “but I make it a point never to get involved with clients. I like big women. They have more to offer, don’t you think?”

  “I never thought about it,” she said honestly. “Certainly you have unfashionable tastes, and I commend that But I must be getting home soon. My husband will be expecting me.”

  Somehow she didn’t think he believed her, but he contented himself with squeezing her hand as they parted outside the restaurant—where she insisted on splitting the bill. He did not fight her long. It didn’t matter, being deductible for both of them. “Stay in touch,” he said. “Let me know what you think of my little client. We can have a more leisurely lunch when you have some time.” He actually winked.

  Driving back to Cambridge for a faculty meeting, she kept shaking her head. Who would have expected Becky’s lawyer to make a pass at her? She found the incident not entirely displeasing. He had not been overly aggressive and had backed off promptly. She longed to tell someone, but there was nothing to tell: nothing had happened.

  That evening she had supper with Jane at a Chinese restaurant near the school. The report of a committee evaluating their department’s curriculum in terms of multicultural fairness was coming up, and they needed to map a strategy for what was going to be a bloody fight.

  “I love Emily,” Jane was saying as they sat over tea and fortune cookies. “But this instant motherhood or fatherhood is a bit demanding. I’m sure that’s what happens to married couples. Sex gets crowded into the wee hours when you’re too tired to play hard. They’re always around, Leila. I spent a great deal of time out of the house when I was young—didn’t you?”

  “Cities are more dangerous now—or perceived so. Parents don’t tend to put their kids out like some people put out cats.”

  Jane sighed. “Boarding school always seemed heartless and upper-class, but I’m beginning to understand the rationale.”

  Was it coming unravelled? Poor Emily. She was the lover and Jane, the beloved. Wouldn’t it be nice if people would just love each other equally and forever? What an original thought, Ms. Landsman. “I’m rather detached from Nick myself. I don’t know about my marriage.” It felt disloyal to be talking about it openly with Jane. “It may have run its course.”

  “With David gone, the flaws and the bare places must stand out.”

  She found herself telling Jane about the lawyer; exactly what she’d sworn she would not do.

  “Why are you surprised? You dress without the wee-est touch of flirtation or style, but you’re an attractive woman. He must have climbed across the table and tried to squeeze your tits for you to notice. I’ve seen men and women flirt with you and you haven’t paid the slightest attention.”

  “I never was interested. I’m the naturally monogamous type—too lazy, too timid, whatever.” She opened her fortune cookie carefully. “‘You will face difficult business decisions, but you will conquer in the end.’ That’s our next departmental meeting, and we’re going to rout the forces of reaction.”

  “You got the wrong one. Here’s yours. ‘You will meet an attractive stranger who will treat you as you deserve.’ I hope that’s not the lawyer. He doesn’t sound like a compatible addition to our social circle.”

  On her answering machine was a call from Nick. “Sweetheart, I’m disappointed you’re not home,” his voice said as she kicked her shoes off and unpeeled her pantyhose. “At a movie with a friend? I miss you. I’m wondering if you’ve decided to come down? Seems silly, I’ll be home so soon. Let me know.”

  She did not feel like letting him know. Let him worry. He had not rushed to return her calls for the last two months. She thought of Robert Green and smiled. It was not that she felt attracted to the tall lawyer with the hair implants; rather, his interest was a little toy she carried around to amuse herself, to enlarge her ego at will, like a tiny portable pump.

  There was also a message from Cathy, Sam’s mother, which she promptly returned. “Oh, Leila!” They were on a first-name basis, almost gossipy. “I’m so sorry about Zak invading you. He confessed to me when we were going to see Sam’s lawyer this morning.”

  A day for lawyers. “I’d like to meet him. And of course, Sam.”

  “You aren’t mad at us about Zak? He’s such a fussbudget. I mean, he’s a caring person, he really is. I can’t imagine my own family coming through the way he has. You’d think Sam did it to upset them. The scandal, they keep saying, it’s all over the papers.…” Cathy trailed off.

  “I wasn’t pleased to see him unannounced on my porch Saturday morning, but I never thought to blame you. Obviously you don’t control him—just as obviously as he does try to control you.” Dig, dig, Leila tho
ught.

  “He disapproves of my boyfriend, even, and Steve is a real gem.”

  “About meeting Sam, when do you think that can happen?”

  “Zak and the lawyer aren’t convinced. But I’m working on them, Leila. Sam likes the idea. Oh, could you have your publisher send him the book you gave me? You can’t give him the book yourself and I can’t.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  There was a call from Belle, which she also answered, wanting to know how the meeting with the lawyer had gone—wanting to be praised again for having made the arrangements. Leila wondered if Becky had had the same hunger for approval, for pats on the head from someone she viewed as being above her.

  When Leila finished with the answering machine’s demands, she still did not feel like talking to Nick or to his machine. She got into bed to read with Vronsky lying on her chest staring in her eyes. She realized she was feeling almost happy. She was not missing Nick. She was not bored. Her life seemed pleasantly full of people to ponder and try to understand, obstacles to overcome, friends to pay attention to, many small tangible and ineffable goods.

  They were in some museum—not Boston—Melanie and Leila. They were in light loose summer shifts with toddlers in tow. Melanie had pointed to a caryatid, a Greek woman holding up a building, a woman in the form of a structural column. “That’s you, Leila. Caught in stone.”

  Yes, and now, at least for a short time before Nick returned, the weight of the building that was her marriage was off her shoulders, her back, her head. It felt good to move freely, even if she wasn’t moving very fast or very far.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Becky

  Becky and Terry had been going out for a year, and she was beginning to feel the relationship, was stagnant. They had fallen into a pattern, which at first had been comforting to her, the dependability, knowing that she would see him on certain evenings, knowing what they would do and what was demanded of her. They went to a movie Saturday night or once in a while to a club with Chris and his current girlfriend—they changed with the months. They went out to pizza and for clams, for Mexican food, for Chinese. She watched him play tennis and occasionally, golf. They swam together at his parents’ country club. She felt she had mastered most of the complex program that was pleasing Terry, what to wear, what not to wear (of the clothes available to her). He preferred her more demure than sexy.

  Laurie graduated as a dental technician; Belle had moved to a better beauty salon where she got good tips. Scalloping had been good for Papa. Tommy was making money and wedding plans. She could spend a little on herself, and Terry sometimes bought her a present, usually jewelry or perfume. Mrs. Burgess would comment on her clothes from time to time. “Goodness, Becky, you must be very fond of that blouse, you wear it so often.”

  She tried and tried to please the Burgesses, particularly Mrs. Burgess. Mr. Burgess did not seem to mind her, particularly if his wife was not in the room. Once or twice he even smiled at her, and once he paid her a compliment, telling her she looked quite pleasant that evening. He had said it quickly and softly while his wife was putting dinner on the table. Mrs. Burgess would never like her; she had become resigned to that. They had reached a sour modus vivendi. Mrs. Burgess confined herself to little slaps, two or three an evening, and Becky pretended not to notice. Each intended to outlast the other. Mrs. Burgess had stopped trying to force her friends’ daughters on Terry, and Becky was less eager to please—since it had proved altogether impossible. Terry stood not between them but off to one side, more amused than offended if he noticed anything. He seemed to consider it natural that his mother should dislike his … girlfriend? fiancée? his lover, who seemed no closer to marriage than she had last month or six months before that.

  She was desperate. She had seen too many relationships in her own family and around her drag on and on, kids even, and marriage never took place. Eventually the couple went their separate ways, the woman doing worse than the man. Tommy was fighting to break that pattern; so was she.

  She considered faking pregnancy. But she was on the Pill, and he had been at pains to stress to her that she must watch out. She did not think he would automatically respond to pregnancy with wedding invitations. More likely, he would blame her and expect her to have an abortion. Indeed, she thought pregnancy a stupid way to launch a marriage. No thanks.

  Sylvie was home now with her baby. Becky had to wait until little Frankie was nursing or sleeping before she could depend on Sylvie’s undivided attention, and even then she had to speak fast, because Sylvie was always nodding off. She never got a night’s sleep. “Jealousy,” Sylvie said with a yawn. “Jealousy is the answer. If he thinks some jerk is going to grab you, then you become more valuable. Then he’ll want to make you his, all his, et cetera. That’s how the male ego works.”

  He knew she was crazy about him. She couldn’t hide her adoration, and that was half of what kept him with her. So how would he become jealous? She drew up characteristics of a man who would inspire jealousy. Older. He should be fairly well off. He should be offering marriage right off the mark.

  After a year of her calling her boss Mr. Taffy-hands, Terry would scarcely credit a sudden growth of interest on her part. She could not spruce up the image of anyone at work, since she had long ago described them all with malicious intent. Sylvie’s uncle had lost his wife, but Terry would be as amused at the prospect of her getting involved with a portly middle-aged plumber, as at her faking interest in the fishermen she knew. It had taken her years to meet a man like Terry. Where could she find another to threaten him with? If only Sound Cable would hire someone new, but they were not hiring. They were getting few new customers. She considered inventing a man, but she did not think she could bring that off. Terry would not spend time brooding about what was not in his face. She was convinced by his often crusty and prickly exchanges with his brother Chris that he was susceptible to jealousy, but she could not figure out how to engage it.

  Instead she concentrated on making herself indispensable. She pumped his ego, up and up. She told him he was a great lover, that he was handsome, distinguished-looking, elegant, graceful. She watched him play tennis and did not once yawn. She laughed at his jokes, usually the same she had heard in the office. She soothed him into complaisance when the increasingly frequent quarrels with his parents set him on edge.

  They were fighting about her. The elder Burgesses grew alarmed as time passed. Like her, they were conscious marriage must figure soon or the relationship taper off. They were also pestering him about getting a place of his own. Both boys were still at home. The Burgesses were paying off the boat on which she spent boring hours sitting and squinting at the water, getting burned through her sunscreen without complaint. They were talking about Mr. Burgess’s retirement in five years. They wanted to move to a smaller house, still on the water but in a development for older people that had its own golf course and medical facility. Brochures for that and similar golden-age communities were thick on the coffee table. It was a topic of avid interest to them, and of boredom to the sons. The Burgesses were aimed at retirement the way she wanted to get married.

  Chris was not earning much on commissions, so there was no chance of his moving out. The parents thought that Terry should get an apartment, nearby but out from under their roof.

  The boys were spoiled. They never picked up after themselves. They never volunteered around the house. They seemed to feel that food magically appeared and dirty clothes or spilled coffee drifted away into the great beyond, bringing cleanliness and order to areas they had abandoned to dirt and chaos. When they were married, finally, she would have to change Terry’s attitudes. He would have to understand they both worked, and if they were to live in a house or apartment, they would both have to be equally responsible. That was clear to her, and she would gently, lovingly, tenderly make it clear to him. Mrs. Burgess seemed to have little to do but pick up after her sons and make supper. A cleaning lady came in twice a week. “One of the local
Portugee,” Mrs. Burgess said, looking sideways at Becky.

  “I understand,” Becky said quietly but clearly. “My mother used to do that.” Did they expect her to disown her mother?

  “How awful for you. Did you ever clean?”

  “My parents sacrificed so that I would have a college education—so that I would have a good job.”

  “Are you looking for something better?”

  “I’m always looking for something better,” she said.

  Terry was watching a basketball game with Chris through all this. He never noticed when Mrs. Burgess was digging at her, and Becky had learned to say nothing. Someday she would get back at them. She would never forget how they had treated her. All those insults and innuendoes were put away like pins in a metal box, for the time they would be needed. After Terry had married her, she could afford to take some quiet long revenge.

  She felt more and more desperate as the spring heated toward summer, but she remained solicitous and agreeable. Since he too lived with his parents, they had a choice of making love in his car, possible although never comfortable, and going to an inexpensive motel. She figured out that he would probably save money if he moved into an apartment, over what he was spending for a motel three times a week. She joked about it occasionally.

  It was Saturday night, and he was late to pick her up. She wondered what that meant. She hoped it was simply traffic. Friday and Sunday could be heavy near the bridges to the Cape. Mama could see her watching the kitchen clock. “So many cars on the road. Don’t worry, Becky my rose. He’s crazy about you. He’ll come. What’s a few minutes?”

  Had she made too many jokes about the price of the motel? Had she talked too much about the marriages of people she knew? Had she failed to please in bed or in conversation? Her stomach clamped on itself. She could scarcely swallow. Every muscle in her body was tensing into hard knots. She walked from room to room, dodging toys, dodging her siblings.