Wifey (10 page)

11

T
HE UNWRITTEN LAW.
She had broken the unwritten law with that question. He’d told her once, when he’d asked her to marry him. “I love you, Sandy. I love you and I want to marry you. I don’t think it’s necessary to tell you that again.”

And he hadn’t.

And Sandy was ashamed for wanting him to, for wanting him to confirm and reconfirm his feelings for her. But that was her problem. And she would have to deal with it herself.

They’d been married at The Short Hills Caterers, a newer wedding palace than Clinton Manor, where Myra had married Gordon. And instead of the two hundred and fifty guests of Myra’s wedding, Sandy and Norman had had only ninety. “We don’t owe so many obligations this time,” Mona told her. It was a more intimate wedding, more elegant, Sandy thought, without doves, without a ceremonial parade, without the bride feeding the groom. A no-nonsense wedding, with Norman breaking the glass on his first try and with a band who played the horah, just once, which disappointed both families. “That’s the way the happy couple wants it,” Mona explained, shrugging.

Sandy had worn Myra’s wedding dress, taken in, and Myra and Lisbeth were co-matrons of honor in vivid blue, the tiny twins were flower girls, in pale blue organdy, toddling down the aisle, stealing the show.

Cousin Tish caught Sandy’s bouquet and one month later ran off to Europe with Norman’s Uncle Bennett, whom she’d been seated next to at the wedding dinner. He left his wife and three children, he quit his job with IBM, to live with the love of his life, who was twenty years younger and who still slept with a retainer in her mouth, although her braces had been off for years. And to think that he’d met her in New Jersey, of all places. That they’d fucked in the bride’s changing room at The Short Hills Caterers, between the prime ribs au jus and the baked Alaska. Rumor had it that they were still together, running a small inn somewhere in the south of France, that they were deliriously happy, and that her teeth hadn’t shifted.

Sandy and Norman spent their wedding night at the International Hotel at Kennedy Airport, found a bottle of Taylor’s Brut on ice awaiting them in their room with a card reading
Thank you, thank you, thank you! We wish you a long happy life together.
Signed,
Uncle Bennett and Cousin Tish,
which neither of them understood at the time.

Norm had opened it and they’d toasted each other, then Sandy poured the rest of the bottle into her bathwater, having read somewhere that champagne baths were sexy. She emerged from the bathroom powdered and perfumed and dressed in her Odette Barsa bridal peignoir set, to find Norman already under the covers, on his back, one hand draped across his eyes.

“I drank too much,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you feeling sick?”

“Just the beginning of a headache.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’ll be all right. Just turn out the lights, okay?”

“Okay.” Wasn’t he going to open his eyes? Wasn’t he going to admire his bride in her Odette Barsa peignoir set? Obviously not. Oh well, there was always tomorrow night. She untied her peignoir, laid it carefully over the chair, and climbed into bed beside him.

How strange to be in bed together. She’d never been in bed with a man. On a bed, yes, with Shep, but never
in
it, never under the covers.

He turned to her. “Hello, wifey, how’s my little wifey?”

Sandy felt the champagne, the baked Alaska, the au jus, working their way up to her throat, thought she might be sick in her wedding bed, on her new husband. Oh, God, her husband! What a terrifying thought. Why had she done this stupid thing? Why, oh why, had she gotten married . . . and to Norman Pressman, of all people!

Norman rolled over on top of her, pushing her night gown up above her belly.

“Look,” Sandy said, “we don’t have to . . . if you don’t feel like it . . . there’s always tomorrow . . . I mean, we’re going to be married for a long . . .”

“No, I’m okay and I want to, unless you . . .”

“No, it’s not that.”

In the rec room, in Sandy’s parents’ house, she and Norm had shared the couch, week after week, listening to music, kissing for hours, feeling each other, dry-humping until they both came, with Norman having to change his underwear. Even then he came quickly. Rub-a-dub-dub and it was all over. He’d always carried an extra pair of boxer shorts in a Safeway bag.

Sandy needed that kissing and hugging, that petting, but maybe Norman didn’t know, didn’t understand, because now he was pushing his penis against her, trying to get inside. “Norm, I’m not ready yet . . . please . . .”

“Relax, San, I know you’re scared. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s just that . . .”

“It’ll be over soon. Just close your eyes and try to think of something else. I put Vaseline on the rubber so it’ll go in easier.”

“No, Norm, wait. Please.”

But he wasn’t listening. He was pushing, pushing inside her. She was dry, dammit.

Sandy closed her eyes and prayed that it would be over quickly.
Some wedding night! Shep . . . oh, Shep . . . I want it to be with you
 . . . “Norm, it can be good if you wait for me. Norm . . .”

Push. Shove. In. Out.

“Norm . . . ow . . . please . . .”

“Shush . . . can’t wait . . . sorry, San . . .” In and In and In and then it was over. Norm shuddered once, kissed her cheek, said “Now you’re really my little wifey,” then rolled over and fell asleep.

Sandy was sore and bleeding. She bled so heavily they’d had to call Gordon the next morning.

“Relax,” Gordon told her. “It’ll stop in a day or two. Wear a Tampax and enjoy yourself! See me as soon as you get back. I’ll cauterize you and fit you with a diaphragm.”

She’d left a trail of blood all over Puerto Rico, but by week’s end she was beginning to enjoy the feeling of Norm’s penis inside her. She was still sore but she liked the way it felt moving in and out. And she was coming, coming the way she had in the rec room, coming once or even twice every time. She wanted it more and more. She wanted it morning, noon, and night. And Norman was impressed with her responsiveness. He’d had other girls, he told her, but none like her. None who could come so fast, so hard. None who wanted it so often. It looked like it was going to work after all.

S
O WHERE DID THINGS
go wrong, Norm? So what happened? It seemed all right then. Comfortable. Safe. We had our babies. We made a life together. But now I’m sick. You can’t see it this time. There isn’t any rash, no fever, but I’m sick inside. I sleepwalk through life. And I’m so fucking scared! Because every time I think about life without you I shake. I wish somebody would tell me what to do. Make the hurt go away. I wish a big bird would fly up to me, take me in its mouth and carry me off, dropping me far away . . . anywhere . . . but far from you. I want my life back! Before it’s too late. Or is it already too late? Is this it, then? Is this what my life is all about? Driving the kids to and from school and decorating our final house? Oh, Mother, dammit! Why did you bring me up to think
this
was what I wanted? And now that I know it’s not, what am I supposed to do about it?

12

S
LINKY JERSEY WAS OUT.
Flowing chiffon was in. Sandy had guessed wrong again. Norman would be disappointed.

This was Sandy’s first Club Formal. They’d missed the Memorial Day Dance because Bucky had been sick. Norman looked handsome in his new tuxedo with his blue ruffled shirt. She’d told him so before they’d left for The Club. And he had admired her too, saying, “That’s a very unusual color for a summer dress.”

“Yes. The saleswoman called it
wine.
I think you can wear it all year round, don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Sandy had a secret. Like the man on the motorcycle, she wore no underwear tonight. She hadn’t planned it that way, but she found that her panties showed through her slinky dress, spoiling the line, and it was too warm to wear panty hose. So she wore just a Tampax under her new dress, insurance against leakage. The jersey felt good against her naked bottom and her secret made her feel sexy. But she wasn’t going to tell Norman. Let him discover it on his own.

Norm brought Sandy a whiskey sour. “Drink it slowly,” he said, “so you don’t get dizzy.”

Sandy nodded.

Sherm Hyatt, who was Norman’s partner in the holiday tournament, walked toward them with his guests. “I’d like you to meet Rhoda and Shep Resnick,” he said. “Rho . . . Shep . . . say hello to two of our new Club members, Norm and Sandy Pressman.”

Sandy squeezed her whiskey sour glass.

He spoke first. “Sandy Schaedel!”

“Yes.”

“What a surprise!”

“Yes.” She would not break her glass this time. She would not sweat or stutter or fart. She would remain calm, cool, and sophisticated.

“Well, it’s certainly been a long time.”

“Eight years.”

“Eight years . . . imagine . . . Rhoda,” he said, turning to his wife, “this is Sandy Schaedel, a friend from the old days.”

“Oh, yes,” Rhoda said, extending her hand, “we met once at some restaurant.”

“The Towers,” Sandy reminded her

“That’s right . . . of course . . .”

Shep kept smiling at Sandy while Norman and Sherm heatedly discussed the latest Club Incident. Ed Braidlow had peed on the floor of the steam room and three other Club members had lodged a complaint against him.

“Norm is chairman of the Grievance Committee,” Sandy explained.

“Must be interesting,” Shep said.

“This is his first important grievance.”

“I see.”

“Do you live around here?” Rhoda asked.

“In Plainfield but we’re moving to Watchung soon. We’re building a house there.”

“We’re in Princeton.”

“Oh. It’s supposed to be nice there.”

“It is, especially for the children.”

“How many do you have?” Sandy asked.

“Four but we’re expecting our fifth any day.”

“Oh, really? You can’t tell.”

Shep and Rhoda laughed together, making Sandy feel foolish.

“Rhoda’s not pregnant,” Shep told her. “We’ve adopted our last two kids and our latest is coming from Vietnam.”

“She’s three and a half,” Rhoda added, “and adorable. I can show you her picture.” She opened her purse and pulled out a mini photo album. “There she is, isn’t she a darling?”

“Oh, yes, lovely.”

“And these are our others.” She flipped the pages so that Sandy could admire all five children. “We’ve got two boys of our own and two girls from Korea.”

“I think that’s terrific,” Sandy said. “Really, just so nice.”

“Rho,” Lexa Hyatt called, “over here . . .”

“Excuse me,” Rhoda said, “I think Lexa wants me to meet some of her friends.”

Which left Sandy alone with Shep.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she answered.

“You’re looking good, Sandy.”

“Thank you.” Pause. “Rhoda seems very nice.”

“She is.”

“And all those kids.”

“She collects kids the way some women collect recipes.”

“But you must enjoy them too.”

“I’ve always enjoyed kids.” Pause. “Norman seems nice, too.”

“Oh, yes, he is. And we have two children, a boy, ten and a girl almost eight. They’re away at camp.” Pause. “My sister’s here. You remember Myra, don’t you?”

“How could I forget? I met you at her wedding.”

Sandy’s mouth was dried out. She licked her lips, then tried sipping her whiskey sour but found her hand was shaking. “I saw you on the train last Monday.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I had to get off in Newark, to change trains. There wasn’t much time.”

“Where are you sitting for dinner?”

“Over there,” Sandy pointed, “at the table in the corner with my sister and her friends. How about you?”

“Back there, that long table. Save me a dance, will you?”

“No problem. Norman doesn’t dance.”

The band leader announced dinner and the parade to the tables began.

Gish sat next to Sandy, whispering, “You look sensational in that . . . shows off your little body just right . . . love your little tits . . . you know the old saying . . . anything you can’t fit in your mouth . . .”

“Cut it out, will you?” Sandy whispered back.

She tried to concentrate on the meal, drank more than she should have, waited until she saw Rhoda Resnick dancing cheek to cheek with Sherm Hyatt, and knew that he would come for her soon.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, standing behind her, “but could I have this dance, for old time’s sake?”

She pretended to be surprised. “Oh, Shep, how nice.” And she excused herself from the table.

Shep took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

“So,” he said, looking down at her.

“So.”

“Here we are again.”

“Yes.”

“I feel like I’m back at your sister’s wedding.”

“And I’ve just wiped the bird crap off your head.”

He laughed. “I haven’t been crapped on by a blue dove since then.”

“Pink, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?”

“I think so. Everything was pink and white.”

They were quiet for a while. The electricity was still there. Her knees were weak, she felt very warm, her hands were sweating. He held her tight. “Are you happy, Sandy? Do you have what you want?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“Sandy?”

“I don’t know. What about you?”

“I’m reasonably happy.”

“And successful, I hear.”

“Yes, but bored. I made it too fast, too soon. I miss the struggle.”

“What about all those kids?”

“That’s Rhoda’s department.”

The music ended but Shep didn’t let go of her hand.

“Do you play around, Sandy?”

She shook her head.

“Norman was the first and only?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re proud of that, aren’t you?”

“Not especially.”

The music began again. He pressed her to him, then changed his mind. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“I can’t, they’ll notice.”

“No they won’t. Look at Norman with that little blonde.”

“That’s Luscious. She admires his tennis game.”

“I thought you said he doesn’t dance.”

“He doesn’t. She’s dancing, he’s just standing there.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. And look at Sherm. He thinks if he dances with Rhoda all night he’ll get the contract on my next shopping center.”

“Will he?”

“Probably. Come on.” He led her through the lobby to the double doors.

Outside it was hot and dry. Sandy smelled roses and wisteria. She had trouble breathing. What now?

Shep held her hand and they walked quickly across the eighteenth fairway and down the road to the pool. Then, off to the side of the pool, behind the cabanas.

He turned to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her. He still had that delicious way of kissing, licking the corners of her mouth, running his tongue along her teeth, sucking on her lower lip. His breath was hot on her face, in her ear, on her neck. How different from Norman’s cold, toothpaste kisses. Shep tasted of wine, of salad dressing, of sex. Shep was hard. Oh yes, she could feel it against her. Very hard. He laughed.

“Feel that,” he said, placing her hand on his trousers. “Just like the old days.”

“Shep, Norman would never forgive me. I have to get back.”

He put his hands on her ass and squeezed. “You’re not wearing anything under this are you?”

“No.” She felt faint, unable to swallow, to get a deep breath, scared she might pass out from the excitement of it, grateful for the Tampax, holding in her juices, keeping her dry so he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t guess how hot she was for him, how close to coming just from his kiss, just from his hands on her ass.

“I have to go now,” she told him. “Norman . . .”

“Norman will never know.” He was easing her dress up, his fingers on her naked bottom now.

“You don’t understand . . .”

“Relax.” He was kissing her again, one hand tightening around her breast.

“I can’t, Shep, I can’t take the chance.”

He let go and stepped away from her.

“Life is one big chance, Sandy. If you’re not willing to take it, you can’t play the game.”

“Then I guess I’m not ready for the game,” she said slowly, hating herself.

“Call me if you change your mind,” he said and walked away, leaving her alone in the dark. He never was one to force the issue, damn it!

Sandy went back to the Clubhouse, to the Ladies Room, where she splashed cold water on her face. “I know how you feel,” a strange woman said to her. “I’ve had a wee bit too much myself.”

“Oh, there you are,” Norman said when she got back to their table.

“I got hot. I needed some fresh air.”

“Don’t have anything more to drink.”

“No, I won’t.”

Steph Weintraub rushed up to her. “Sandy, you haven’t signed my petition yet. We want all the new members to sign.”

“What petition is that?”

“A refusal to accept the archaic laws of this Club which state that women cannot tee off on Wednesdays, weekends, or holidays until one p.m. I mean, we’re members too, aren’t we? So why should we just go along with this shit? I play as good a game as most of our
male
members. Why should I have to wait until one p.m.?”

“You shouldn’t,” Sandy said, and reached for Steph’s pen.

“Bullshit!” Gish said. “The difference, my dear, Stephanie Ball Breaker, is that
we
work our tails off all week, supporting you charming creatures, while you get to play every goddamned day of the week. So is it too much to ask that on Wednesdays, weekends, and holidays we get to tee off first? Talk about fair, talk about selfishness, Jesus H. Chreeist!”

“Maybe Gish is right,” Sandy said. “I hadn’t thought about . . .”

“Think for yourself, Sandy!” Steph argued.

“I never learned how.” Sandy handed the pen back to Steph, without signing her petition.