The Longings of Women

by Marge Piercy

  The streets were dangerous, but she knew the dangers. She knew her round of church basements and garages left unlocked, of clients’ houses and bus depots and the public library and the subway, spots where she could escape from the heat or the cold or the rain. Now she would be thrown on the mercy of a strange woman way out in the country, where she could not simply walk away. She would be stuck. She felt a rising gorge of panic in her throat. They were beginning to load the passengers, starting with small children and wheelchairs. Soon it would be too late to escape.

  “I’m going to go to the bathroom before I get on the plane.” Her voice squeaked.

  “Good idea. It’s over there.” Mrs. Landsman went with her, waited outside.

  She could insist on simply walking away. But then what would she do? She had been let go by the cleaning service. There were dozens of women to supplant her, instantly. The service was not interested in her explanations of how she had ended up in Mrs. Landsman’s house. She had missed work and she had been replaced. It was that simple. She was sixty-one years old, with no room, no resting place of her own and with $527 in savings pinned to her slip. She had lost most of her little possessions in the fire that had killed her friends. She was still short of breath.

  She let Mrs. Landsman walk her back to the loading area and she got in line and she boarded the plane. She buckled herself into her seat and closed her eyes. What would become of her? She knew Mrs. Landsman had been good to her, but she would never like the woman. It was hard to like anyone whose house she had cleaned for five years. She had scrubbed Mrs. Landsman’s toilets and floors; they were not friends. She found Mrs. Landsman bossy and unsympathetic. She was a little put off by the boyfriend. The doctor who had treated her turned out to be a lesbian; that made her feel funny. It was one thing to look the other way and never quite be sure about Houdini and Mouse; it was something else to have a doctor living openly with another woman, and her a professor. The more she saw of Mrs. Landsman’s life close up, the less comfortable she felt.

  Would the sister, Mrs. Rodgers, be as difficult? She sounded softer. The sisters did not get along. She hoped that was significant. She was in deep trouble. She had to make herself necessary. She had to fit in. She had to please and maneuver and adjust—as she had when she married. As she had with Doug. But this was adjusting to a woman, an unknown woman. She felt as if she were being flung through the air, like the girl fired from the cannon in the circus, but she was not altogether sure any net was going to be spread in California to catch her when the plane landed and she was discharged into a strange land.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Becky

  Becky enjoyed most aspects of her celebrity. The “Local News and Views” program that aired every weekend from the cable studios featured her. Belle and Gracie were thrilled. Tommy was annoyingly lacking in enthusiasm. “You should keep your mouth shut, Becca,” he muttered. “Every time I turn on the TV, there’s your mouth going. Chill out. The less you say, the less rope they have to hang you with. And don’t smile so much. You start out looking serious, but pretty soon, you’re smirking like you just got the lead in the school play.”

  As if she didn’t know how to behave on camera; as if she hadn’t majored in communications in college. Tommy was out of touch. He didn’t understand this was her opportunity. Her boss was actually considering a couple of the proposals she had submitted to him over the past year. He had pulled out of the files the beauty show she had suggested doing with Belle, and the idea for a weekend morning show, say at eight Saturday, showing houses in the area for sale. They could get backing from the real estate people for that. At the weekly meeting Friday afternoon, both proposals would be considered for fall.

  Once this mess had blown over, she was sure she would have a show and then she would have her foot in the door. She would have videos as demos. She would start looking for a real job. Tommy was silly to imagine she would let this opportunity to become known to the media people in southeastern Massachusetts and in Boston slip past her. She had set up a robbery, and the police were looking for thieves. In the meantime, she was on channels four, five, seven and fifty-six in Boston on the news, and on six, ten and twelve out of Providence. Her photo was in the Herald. The photo made her nose too prominent, but she liked the way she came over on television. Tommy just didn’t understand her game plan. People recognized her sometimes in the supermarket and at the dry cleaner’s. Holly and Brad next door, who didn’t speak to her for two weeks after the murder, now gave her big hellos and invited her to their next party.

  The police came by on regular patrol every afternoon, when the two burglaries had occurred. But they could not afford to post someone there full-time. As she had planned, she had quietly taken the smaller things out of the storage area and buried them in pine woods halfway between the office and the house or tossed them in the Canal. Sam had taken the VCR out under his jacket finally, and she assumed he had disposed of it in the Canal where he had thrown the clubs and the hammer. The TV would have to wait for next week. The police had combed every inch of shrubbery and lawn in the area of the condo and the scrawny woods behind them. They interviewed everybody in the complex. Hardly anyone was home in the afternoons.

  It was a real drag to have to camp with her family. She hated it. The police wouldn’t even let her in to get her clothes for days, and she had to borrow Belle’s and Laurie’s—nothing she would normally wear. Sylvie said she could stay with Mario and her for a few nights, but it was crowded there too and she had never got on all that well with Mario. Finally the detective who’d been doing the most questioning of Becky, Sergeant Beaumont, told her she could come back and get the place cleaned up.

  Detective Beaumont stopped by the night she moved back in. “By the way, Terry’s brother Chris tells us he was having an affair. And he thought you knew about it.”

  Becky was scrubbing the bathroom. “My husband Terry was unfaithful to me once, on a golfing weekend with his brother. His brother didn’t like me, frankly, and he invited this other woman along after I couldn’t go. Terry confessed to me, yes, but I wouldn’t call it an affair, exactly. It was something he was ashamed of.”

  “You must have been upset.”

  “I was! I felt betrayed. But I also felt it was my own fault for being caught up in that theater group. I promised Terry I was going to quit. I felt I’d failed him by being busy weekends. He’d done something stupid, and I felt I’d done something just as stupid—getting so involved in putting on plays.”

  She had scarcely had a good night’s sleep since they had shut her out of her condo. It really was a mess. They had taken some of the bloody bedding, but the carpet was stained. She had cleaners in and they charged her a bundle. She was desperate to get settled again. Until the day the carpet cleaners came, she slept on the couch in the living room. The bedroom had a bad smell. She was going to have to do that room over. The bedspread was gone, the curtains she had sewn herself had been torn and the bedside lamp broken in the struggle.

  She did not want anything around to remind her of Terry. The sight of his jackets and trousers on his side of the closet, his skis, his dresser with its drawers of socks, underwear, sweaters, his sports gear, all brought back her anger. She cleared his shaving gear and aftershave and pimple cream out of the bathroom and tossed it. She had put up with so much from him. Finally she had responded to abuse with abuse. She had thrown his anger back in his face. She had served him right. He had promised to love her, he had promised in church, and then he had taken up with Heather and treated her shabbily, insulting her parents, her home, her family, insulting her. She bundled up his clothing and brought it to his parents’ house. Maybe Chris would take some of it. She wanted it out. She wanted him utterly gone.

  She felt she was being thoughtful and generous, but the Burgesses acted really weird, as if she ought to keep his old sneakers and his grey flannel pants around for souvenirs. “These are Terry’s clothes? In garbage bags?”

  “I didn’t have en
ough boxes. I thought you might want to give them to someone. I don’t wear men’s clothes, Mrs. Burgess, and I thought you’d rather have them than for me to give them to Goodwill. I thought Chris might want something to remember his brother by.”

  “I just can’t believe you’re getting rid of all his things.”

  “A therapist I’ve been seeing for trauma suggested I might be less depressed if I did that.”

  Mrs. Burgess’s face twisted. “This is all that’s left of our Terry. In garbage bags!”

  Becky restrained her impatience. “Mrs. Burgess, what should I have done with them? I was trying to do the best thing for all of us.”

  She was enormously relieved to be back in her condo again, but she could hardly relax. Sergeant Beaumont was always coming around in the evenings and weekends. He never called first. He was a skinny man with a shock of black hair that looked greasy. His eyes were a light color, pale blue or pale grey. He had a thin sharp nose and long-fingered hands that were independently active, picking up objects, a pen, a vase, to examine them, turning them over and over. It put her on edge. He always called her Becky and he spoke as if he knew all about her, a sort of imitation uncle manner.

  Sometimes he turned up at work, which was irritating. She felt it did not look good for the police to keep coming around. But it was even worse never to know when he was going to appear in her living room. She had scarcely been able to see Sam, who was complaining bitterly. She had dropped out of the theater. It didn’t seem right to be onstage with her husband just murdered. Mama had told her to stop the play acting for the time being. She had carried that as far as she cared to, anyhow. What was the use playing a vampire in a company that performed in a Masonic temple on the Cape? Really. That wouldn’t do anything for her advancement, especially now that she was becoming known to the local media.

  She did manage to see Sam every Saturday afternoon. She went to visit her family and then she went to Sam’s. “You said we could be together all the time, and I hardly see you. I can’t study. I can’t work. The counselor called me in today to talk about my grades. I can’t concentrate. I just keep thinking about you and what we did.”

  “The police are sitting on me, but they don’t know anything. It’ll blow over soon, and then we’ll be free. It’s just a matter of being patient for a couple of weeks.” She could not believe how immature he was acting. It had been a mistake to get involved with someone who was practically still a child.

  “But how can you stand it? Don’t you want to see me?”

  “Of course I do! I can’t sleep at night. I think about you every day. But I’m scared of the police. We have to take it easy, just for a couple of weeks more. Then we can do anything we want. Anything.” She gave that word a lot of spin, staring into his eyes, her hands on his shoulders.

  The truth of the matter was, she thought as she drove home, that she found Sam less appealing. In comparison to Terry, he had shone. He had been so sexy and affectionate and focused on her. But now she needed to get her life together. She didn’t long to spend an enormous amount of time with a seventeen-year-old who had a crush on her. She really ought to improve her skills, to work on concrete plans for the two programs her boss was considering. She needed to write a pilot script for the beauty program, her favorite. It was time to replace the broken lamp in the bedroom, the bedspread. Friday both her proposals had been discussed. The boss seemed to be leaning toward the real estate program, as a potential money-maker.

  She wondered how long the insurance money was going to take. The insurance company would drag their heels, that was sure. Anyhow, she was going to dress a little more sophisticated. A widow could have a certain cachet. She looked great in navy. A black suit seemed elegant if she wore light blue next to her skin. Being involved with a seventeen-year-old, no matter how devoted, did not fit in with the new image she needed to build for herself.

  Still, she had to keep Sam happy until he went away to school. Then he would become involved with someone his own age and forget the adventure with her. Not that he would really ever forget her, for she was his first love. Things would slowly peter out. In the meantime, she had to keep him satisfied but out of sight. The police were making that juggling act hard. Why couldn’t Sam understand the potential danger they were in? He couldn’t see farther than the end of his prick. Every time they had a few moments alone, she tried to talk to him about being careful and he wanted to jump on her.

  Tommy asked her if he could stash some stuff in her apartment, now that Terry was gone, but when she told him how often the police came around, he abandoned the idea. She didn’t want to be involved in Tommy’s schemes. Terry had been right: having anything illegal in her condo was idiotic. She wouldn’t let Sam come over either. She went to his home Saturdays, and twice she met him after school when she managed to get off work early. If she hadn’t quit the drama group, it would have been easier, but she took Mama’s advice seriously. People would not think that looked good, for a widow to play a vampire. She had a notion too that even acting something wicked was a bad idea. She shouldn’t stand up in public and suggest duplicity or violence.

  She spent a lot of time buttering up Helen. She walked Florrie every morning before she went to work. She spent a couple of evenings a week with Helen watching TV. Helen did not have a role in this production but was only making costumes. Becky volunteered to help. Helen knew more than she ought to, and it was important to keep her close. Helen enjoyed cooking. They were like a little family. In a way, Helen was her best friend now, as Sylvie had been for years. They understood each other very well, she felt.

  Oddly she sometimes missed Terry. Although she had imagined how wonderful it would be to come home from work to a house empty of him with his stuff thrown about and the TV blaring, she found it a little bleak. She was used to companionship. Never in her life had she ever slept in a place alone. It was unnerving. Sounds scared her. She began to think about whether she shouldn’t move as soon as the insurance money came through. Helen told her she should get herself a dog, and she considered it Not a mutt like Florrie. She wanted the right kind of dog. She began to ask people what kinds of dogs were the best.

  Captain Edelson appeared Saturday about eight. She knew he was just trying to see if she was out Saturday night. How obvious! Well, he found her with Helen working on costumes. He asked her to come upstairs so he could talk to her. She followed him obediently up to her condo. It was neat and clean. He would not find anything out of order, nothing he could poke his nose into. He wore a different jacket this one a district check, with khaki pants. His hair was light grey, cropped short. The veins were prominent in his hands. He wore a wedding ring on the finger next to the missing one. His eyes were brown, rather nice eyes in a face she would never have looked at twice. He was one of those men the gaze passes over. Still, he was better dressed than Sergeant Beaumont and he didn’t keep handling her things all the time.

  “Have you learned anything,” she started in at once. “Have you found any suspects?”

  “We’re working on several leads,” he said in his dry voice. “How are you doing? Mrs. Burgess was upset you brought Terry’s clothes over in garbage bags.” He sat at her kitchen table and motioned her into the other chair.

  “I don’t have enough suitcases or boxes! I was trying to be nice.”

  “Becky, you know a young man named Sam Solomon.”

  Becky’s heart and stomach closed on themselves like metal fists. “Sam … Yes, in the theater group I used to be in.”

  He held his silence a moment, gazing at her. She recognized the device. It was supposed to produce drama or suspense. He’d have to be better at acting than he was to manipulate her. “We’ve been told that you had an intimate relationship with this young man.”

  “Sam?” She made her eyes wide. She let her mouth drop open. “He’s in high school! He’s a kid.”

  “He’s almost eighteen. He was in the theater company with you.”

  “Right. And I liked hi
m. I was closest to my downstairs neighbor Helen and to Sam. I helped him read his parts. We all just had bit roles, but we encouraged each other … But intimate? That’s ridiculous. Who would say such a thing? Who would even think something like that?” Helen wouldn’t tell on her. But who had, then? Nobody had known. Nobody except Helen.

  Captain Edelson shook his head sadly. “I understand you might feel embarrassed about such a relationship. But it’s important for you to tell us the truth, Becky. Lying to us makes you look bad in a murder investigation.”

  “First of all, I’m not lying. I can’t imagine who would even think such a thing. I was nice to the boy, yes, but I’m just as nice to Helen, even nicer. I walk her dog all the time. Sometimes I run errands for her.”

  “Other people in the theater company noticed the relationship. They saw you embracing. One of Sam’s high school teachers became suspicious.”

  “Embracing! Everybody there was always kissing each other. That’s just theatrical put-on. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “We’ll be talking to you again soon, Becky. You might consider whether there isn’t more you want to tell us about your relationship with your husband and about your relationship with Sam Solomon.” He stood.

  “Instead of talking to idiots who make up stories about every blonde they know, why don’t you find out who broke into our condo and stole our stuff? That’s what killed my husband, and you haven’t come up with a single suspect.”

  “Don’t be sure of that, Becky. I’ll be seeing you.”

  As soon as she saw his cruiser leave, she called Sam. His mother answered. “Who is this?” She sounded suspicious.

  “I’m in his physics class. I need to ask him something.”

  Clunk. His mother went to fetch him. “Sam, the police were just here.”