“I’m so ashamed,” said Kari, pressing her fingers to the corners of her eyes. “I live right across the street from you and I never suspected anything.”
“What about you, Audrey?” asked Faith. “Didn’t you ever, you know, see anything?”
Audrey kneaded her forehead; mascara was smudged under her eyes.
“Like I’ve told you before, Faith, I’m not frickin’ Kreskin. It’s not like I’m in charge of what I see.” She wiped a drop of coffee off the table with her finger and looked at Merit. “Although I always did think he was kind of a control freak, but this . . . I never suspected any of this.” Her eyes widened as something occurred to her. “Is that why you’d do those extravagant trips and falls, Merit? So in case we ever did see bruises you could blame them on your clumsiness?”
Merit nodded, her chin quivering.
“I should have seen something,” said Audrey, disgust in her voice. “We all should have seen something.”
“Well, I did a pretty good job of making sure you wouldn’t,” said Merit. “I was so ashamed. How could I let any of you—anyone—know what he was doing to me? I learned right away to scream real loud on the inside, because if I didn’t make any noise, if nobody knew . . . well, then I could sometimes convince myself it wasn’t really happening.” She cocked her head and touched her swollen lip with her fingertips. “Tonight . . . tonight was the first time he ever hit my face—I mean with a closed fist. That’s what really scared me—he was hitting me in a place where everyone could see. I don’t know what excuse I would have come up with to explain—oh, dear God, I am so relieved I don’t have to explain anything anymore!”
She couldn’t hold it any longer—the floodgates broke and the tears crashed through. Audrey and Slip and Kari cried with her, and when everyone was spent from all the emotion, they made a nest of cushions and pillows in the living room and, like puppies, they fell asleep. All except Faith, who hadn’t cried, who knew someone had to stay alert, had to keep her wits about her, because if she knew anything, it was that Eric might not be done, might decide to make a sneak attack. Dawn came and pinkened the room with light, and when the bright morning sun shone in Kari’s eyes, waking her up, Faith was still wide-awake, sitting in the rocking chair, the pistol in her lap.
September 1976, 2:00 a.m.
Dear Mama,
Wade was livid that I’d taken his gun.
“What the hell, Faith?” he shouted. “What the hell? Why didn’t you come get me? Me or Jerry? Why didn’t you call the cops? What were you trying to prove?”
“Wade, please, you’re going to scare the twins,” I said. The twins were trying to catch tadpoles down at the creek and couldn’t hear us, but I felt I had to say something to calm him down. The vein in his forehead was bulging, and I was worried it was going to burst. “Let me fill up your glass.”
I had made his favorite iced tea with enough sugar to bake a cake, but he wasn’t interested in any of my diversionary tactics.
“Faith,” he said, encircling my wrist with his hand. “Sit. Sit down and talk to me.”
“Sure, honey,” I said, “as long as you don’t yell at me anymore.”
“Okay.” He sat there for a moment on the webbed lawn chair, looking down the sloped yard toward the creek. “Okay, I won’t yell at you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still mad as hell at you.” He finally took his tea off the patio table and took a long swig. “And you do know why I’m upset, right?”
I thought for a moment. “Because you didn’t want me to get hurt?”
“That’s right. I didn’t want you—or anyone else—to get hurt. Now, why didn’t you get me, Faith? Why don’t you ever let me help you?” His voice sounded wounded, as if I had just called him a name.
“I let you help me all the—“
“No, you don’t, Faith. You never talk to me about your mama or your daddy, even though I could help—“
“Wade, believe me, I’ve told you all you’d want to hear about my mama or daddy.” I swallowed hard, my heart sounding in my ears.
“Fine,” sighed Wade, meaning the exact opposite. “That’s just fine.”
“Wade, about the gun,” I said, willing to let him yell at me about anything but my parents. “I was so scared I could hardly think . . . plus I didn’t want any of the kids to wake up and get scared. I didn’t want to ruin their camp-out.”
Wade’s jaw flexed its bunched-up little muscles, but he nodded, as if understanding the subject had changed and its return was non-negotiable.
“Why not the police then, Faith? Why didn’t you girls call the police?”
“When we first heard Merit scream, I guess our instinct was to just go to her. I didn’t even think of the police until it was all over, and then Merit told us she didn’t want us to call them.”
“And you listened to her?”
“Well, of course we listened to her! And why wouldn’t we? She was the one who got beaten up, not us.”
Wade swallowed down the rest of his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If anything like that ever happens again—if Eric goes off on his wife, or somebody breaks into the house, or anything—before you do anything, I want you to get me first, okay, Faith?”
I just sat there, so he repeated, “Okay, Faith?”
“What about when you’re flying? Remember that first winter we were here and the lights went out and I didn’t know what was going on? What if there’s an intruder in the house and you’re not home? What do I do then, Wade?”
“Then you can get my gun, Faith, but first I’m going to have to show you where I keep the bullets.”
I heard him clearly, but I don’t think my mind wanted to comprehend him. We sat there staring at each other, and I couldn’t tell if Wade was ready to smile or yell at me some more.
“There were no bullets in that gun?”
Wade shook his head. “I’ve kept them in a separate place ever since the kids started walking around.”
“So if there was an intruder, I would try to shoot him with an unloaded gun?”
“Faith, have we been broken into yet? And if we are, do what I’ve always told you: get the twins, lock yourselves in the bedroom and call the police.”
“While he’s breaking the door down.” I was absolutely furious and scared, thinking of last night. “So there I was, threatening to shoot Eric Iverson with an empty gun?”
Wade nodded.
“Good grief,” I said, feeling flushed. “What if he’d come after me and I fired?”
“Either way, Faith, there’s no good ending. Either he would have beaten you up or you would have shot him. That’s why you should have gotten me. There was no need for you to play the hero.”
“I didn’t want to play the hero,” I said, feeling both a little sick and foolish. “I just wanted to help my friend. And I did, Wade. Slip and Audrey and Kari and I did help her, as much as you think we’re helpless females who can’t do anything without our big, strong men.”
“Oh, baby, you’re not getting the point,” said Wade, tipping forward on his chair to take my hands. “Do you realize what a strong possibility there was of you getting hurt? Do you think I could stand it if you got hurt, if some maniac hurt you while I was just down the block?” His voice caught a little; honest to God, Mama, I think he was ready to cry. Man, I thought, he loves me. I guess I always knew that, but still, sometimes it’s a big surprise to me that I have a husband who loves me. That just blows my mind, as Audrey would say.
I don’t think Wade would have worried so much if he knew how many times I pushed some drunken slob off you—I mean, I’ve had practice! At least I have to give you some credit—once they hit you, you always threw them out. Merit had been putting up with this crap for years.
Oh, before I forget, Mama, how’s this for gall: somehow Mr. Iverson the wife beater found a florist that was open on Labor Day and sent all of us Angry Housewives a bouquet of roses. The note read (he sent the same one to all
of us): So sorry about the misunderstanding; it was a night I’m trying to forget, and I hope you will too. Can you believe that? The florist tried to deliver to Audrey, but she took Merit and her girls somewhere—Kari thinks to a fancy hotel downtown. I don’t even know if they’ll be back for school tomorrow.
Well, Wade’s upstairs waiting for me, Mama. I’m exhausted (and my hip aches from all that running), but there’s nothing like knowing how much your man loves you to fire up the old libido, even though I’m still burned at him for not telling me about the bullets. Does he put me in the same must-be-protected-from-myself category as Beau and Bonnie? Oh, boy, the good old libido is fading fast, Mama—is he gonna hear it from me.
As always, I’m sorry, Mama,
Faith
August 1977
HOST: AUDREY
BOOK: The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck
REASON CHOSEN: “I figured we could all use a good laugh.”
Happy birthday, darling.”
“Thanks, Mother.”
“So, have you got big plans to celebrate?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them—”
“I hope you’re seeing a nice man. A nice man should be taking you out for dinner and dancing.”
“Uh, it’s not in the cards tonight.”
“Really, I don’t know why you and Paul couldn’t—”
“Mother, I’ve got to run. Thanks for the check.”
“You’re welcome. Buy yourself a dress—a nice dress; men don’t care for all that skin, they like—”
Click.
My mother’s phone call, with its implicit message—you’re a loser!—didn’t set the tone for my thirty-seventh birthday; I was already in a funk as deep as the Pacific. Paul had the boys for the weekend, which I thought might be a birthday present unto itself—two days of peace and quiet, imagine all the stuff I could get done—but all I managed to do was polish off a whole quart of orange sherbet on Friday night (I don’t even like orange sherbet but bought it because I figure it’s less fattening than ice cream. So what did I do? I doused it with about nine hundred calories of chocolate syrup to make it more palatable) and a whole pan of Rice Krispies bars (my birthday cake to myself) on Saturday. And that was just for appetizers.
I had turned down an invitation from a college friend of mine to go out—she had just gone through a divorce too, and her sense of desperation always made me feel more desperate. There weren’t any invitations coming from the Angry Housewives, as Faith and her family were vacationing in Texas, Merit and her girls had driven down to Iowa for a family reunion, and Kari and Julia were up at Kari’s brother’s cabin.
I had been hoping for a nonprofessional phone call from my tax attorney—we had dinner last night and I thought a few sparks had flown, but maybe it had just been the wine.
No matter—I had all sorts of projects to start and books to read. But I couldn’t seem to summon the energy to do anything but eat. Or smoke. Or sometimes both at the same time. I’m starting to get a little wheeze in my chest if I take a deep breath, which is very attractive if you happen to be attracted to emphysemics. And not only did I find a gray hair, I found a whole patch of gray right by my temple. At least my big beautiful breasts were still big and beautiful; they’re like the Loyalist Party, always faithful to the queen.
I reminded myself that thirty-seven is not old . . . it just looks that way. No, I’m kidding; actually I look pretty good . . . next to my grandmother. Ba da dum.
By Saturday afternoon I realized that I was either going to overdose on sugar or my own bad humor, and I decided to treat myself to a movie. It’s a therapy I highly recommend to anyone who’s feeling a little melancholy—go see a movie by yourself. I’m not guaranteeing it’ll cheer you up, but usually the people on the screen have bigger problems than you do, plus you have the popcorn all to yourself.
I saw Stage Door at a revival theater by the U, and even though I loved all those wisecracking actresses and looking at those narrow, clingy thirties dresses, even though Eve Arden’s delivery always made me laugh, even though the popcorn guy honored my request for extra butter, by the end of the movie I was sobbing. The tears I wiped away were black from my mascara and I didn’t need a mirror to know I probably looked a mess, which is why I didn’t exactly appreciate hearing “Audrey!” when I went blinking into the lobby.
It was Stuart and Grant, the couple who lived next to me.
“Here,” said Stuart, handing me a tissue. “We didn’t use all ours.”
“I personally was unmoved when that actress jumped out the window,” said Grant. “It was just so obvious.”
“So the kids are with Paul this weekend?” asked Grant, and when I nodded, he took my arm. “Good, then you can come have a drink with us.”
“I could use a drink,” I said, starting to feel weepy again. “It’s my birthday.”
“Your birthday!” said Stuart.
“Your birthday!” echoed Grant. “Then let’s make it champagne.”
We went to a bar in a hotel by the airport, and it was a pleasure getting drunk, especially with two men who found me fascinating. I didn’t care that they were gay; they were men and they found me fascinating.
“God, you’re a stitch,” said Stuart.
“You’re the stitch,” I said. “Look at you. I have never seen a man wear a suit to the movies.”
“Stuart is never not dressed up,” said Grant, whose own style of dress gave a big nod to Bohemia (today he was wearing a flowing yellow shirt with a paisley scarf as a belt).
“Not even when he goes to bed?” I asked.
“Well,” said Grant, opening one of the little paper umbrellas that came with our jumbo margaritas (we had decided that although champagne was a festive idea, we were all in a tropical-drinks sort of mood) and, fluttering his eyelashes behind it, “that’s rather an impertinent question.”
“So what’s your impertinent answer?”
It turns out it was silk pajamas or nothing at all. I told them I wore flannel or one of Paul’s old T-shirts.
“Even when you’re entertaining?” asked Grant.
“Who’s impertinent now?” I asked.
Grant shrugged. “A person would have to be blind not to notice the men that have paraded into your house.”
“Maybe I’m holding auditions for a marching band,” I shot back.
They laughed the way I used to make Paul laugh, and we ordered another round, or at least Grant and I did; Stuart was driving.
“So you’re the responsible one, huh?” I asked.
“I guess I am,” he said. “Not that Grant’s not responsible, but I guess I am the one who always considers consequences.”
“I’ll consider the consequence of drinking this margarita,” he volunteered, and took a long sip that emptied half his glass. “Ahh. Hey, after we’re done talking about my irresponsible behavior, let’s go watch the airplanes.”
“Watch the airplanes what?” I asked.
Grant looked at me as if I were daft. “Why, take off and land, silly. You mean to tell me you’ve never sat in a parked car watching the airplanes?”
“I’ve always had better things to do in a parked car.”
Grant whooped. “I’ll bet. Now hurry up and finish your drink and we’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”
As far as the airplanes go, I don’t think I was missing that much. As the mother of boys, I was not drawn to noise and motion as a means of escape or entertainment; I got too much of that at home.
We were parked, along with a half dozen or so cars, behind a chain-link fence that ran parallel to the runway. The first plane that thundered in did grab my attention, but like I said, there are many other ways I’d prefer my attention grabbed.
“Grant, Audrey’s not enjoying this,” said Stuart as I sat between them in the front seat, my fingers plugging my ears.
Grant looked at me, as hurt as if I’d insulted him personally. “You’re really not enjoyi
ng yourself?”
“A little,” I admitted, “but not because of the planes. Because of you guys, because I like your company. Because I needed company.”
“Stuart, how about if you just drive around—pick a scenic drive, maybe by the river—and Audrey here can tell us all her woes.”
“How far do you want to drive?” I asked.
“As long as it takes,” said Grant. “Right, Stuart?”
“Right,” he answered, and started the car.
“Zo,” said Grant in a thick Freudian accent. “Vhat seems to be troubling you, mein little veinerschnitzel?”
“Well, my biggest problem right now is that I’m thirty-seven years old and I’m afraid I’ll be alone—without a man—for the rest of my life.”
“That would be scary,” said Grant, reaching over me to pat Stuart’s thigh.
“Come on, Grant, let her talk,” said Stuart, and talk I did.
THE FIRST TIME I knew Paul was having an affair—that night that started out so fun, with all the Angry Housewives getting stoned, and ended so scary, with Michael nearly strangling himself—I kept my suspicions from him . . . for about a day and a half. When I confronted him, it was a scene as overwrought as any in a high school production of The Crucible.
He of course accused me of being crazy, and when I didn’t back down, he, very lawyerly, demanded that I provide evidence for my charges.
“Well, if you’re asking me if I’ve found lipstick on your collar or motel matchbooks in your pants pockets, no, I haven’t. But I know, Paul, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you’re sleeping with someone other than me.”