Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons

  Fortunately, his tuxedo was pale blue, which made his dandruff less obvious, and he was a good dancer, which in Merit’s eyes excused a multitude of sins. Merit was a good dancer too, which was not an easy thing to be in a household where dancing, while not forbidden (they were Lutherans, after all, not Baptists) was nevertheless thought of as slightly lurid and definitely unnecessary. Rock and roll had taken its time in coming to Decorah, but when it did, it was embraced, and now in a muggy gym smelling of Vitalis and Jungle Gardenia, Mennen deodorant and feet, Merit happily followed Richard’s lead as the Mello-Tones—college boys from Iowa City—played “Unchained Melody.”

  “Gosh, Merit,” whispered Richard, his breath hot against her ear, “I think I love you.”

  She stiffened in Richard’s arms, desperately trying to think of a breezy comeback. Many boys had expressed similar sentiments (boys she hadn’t even dated, boys who’d yell the words at her as she passed them in the halls), but Merit never knew what to say, could only blush and stammer and feel guilty that she didn’t return the feeling.

  “We’ve got the whole summer ahead of us,” he said, and again her ear was assaulted with heat, “a whole summer to do what I hope we’ll do tonight.”

  By the way he moved his hands down the small of her back and pressed his body to hers, it was evident what he meant.

  “Richard!” she managed to squeak, wondering what had gotten into the mild-mannered pharmacist’s son for which the senior prom constituted their first date. (Clark Eiderbaum, football captain and a member of the all-state baseball team, had broken up with her earlier that spring, telling her he could understand a girl holding out, but not to the extent that she held out.)

  Fortunately the band chose that moment to end their song, causing couples to break apart and applaud.

  “I’m . . . I’m going to the powder room,” said Merit, and as she lifted the skirt of her pink tulle formal so it wouldn’t drag on the floor, a dozen boys followed her exit with longing eyes.

  “Forget about it, Lyle,” said a girl named Jean, poking her date in the ribs with a gloved elbow. “At least with me you don’t get blue balls.”

  Sitting in a bathroom stall, Merit pondered her options, first for the evening (she could call for a ride home, but she was sure Richard Pelke would have calmed down by the time she returned to the gym; he was too mild-mannered to sustain such boldness) and then for her future. Wasn’t she supposed to be excited about it? Everyone else seemed to be excited, everyone else (except for those boys who’d immediately begin full-time work on their family’s farm) had made big conquer-the-world plans (Ginger Stanhope was going to Vassar! Dave LaFleur was going to Florida State!) but Merit had nothing more exciting to look forward to than a two-year stint at the junior college in her hometown. She looked down at her pink dyed-to-match shoes, and they suddenly struck her as so hopeful, so silly, that she thought she might cry.

  The bathroom door opened, and with a swish and rustle of chiffon and organza and satin, a group of girls entered.

  “You going to the pit?” asked one, referring to the gravel pit, which was the preferred place for high school lovers to park.

  “You bet,” said another. “Will’s bringing a keg.”

  “Who’s all going?”

  “Everybody.”

  Merit sighed; she, as usual, wasn’t considered part of “everybody.” Her shyness was perceived as standoffish (how could a girl that beautiful be shy?), and besides, any chance of a social life was pretty much overruled by her parents’ demand that she spend most of her time at home or church.

  That her parents had allowed her to date Clark Eiderbaum for the better part of the year was not that surprising; after all, Clark went to their church, and their approved dates consisted of walks home after youth group or Saturday matinees in which they supervised their siblings. But then Clark had wanted more, wanted to kiss her longer and drive out to the gravel pit, and while a part of Merit said a loud and resounding yes, the other part, stained by her parents’ large shadow, said no, and eventually Clark began dating Alice Swanstad, who was president of the pep club and, rumor had it, a girl willing to go to third base, at least.

  Listening to the girls outside the stall giggle and make plans, the feeling that had quietly tiptoed into her head while dancing with the hot-breathed Richard now stomped in, banged walls, knocked down furniture: I’ve got to get out of here!

  Toward that goal, she worked that summer cashiering at Pelke Drug (Richard, figuring it was a fluke that she had gone to the prom with him in the first place, was a gentleman and didn’t pester her for any more dates) and waitressing at LeMond’s Supper Club out on the highway, making tips that did not endear her to the older, more experienced waitresses.

  Finally one night, over a dinner of bright red meat loaf (Mrs. Mayes thought ketchup was less a condiment than an all-purpose spread) and lumpy mashed potatoes, Merit told all assembled at the table that the next day she was taking the train to Minneapolis.

  “But tomorrow’s choir practice,” her mother said.

  “I won’t be going,” said Merit softly. “In fact, you’d better find another soprano.”

  “What exactly is that supposed to mean?” asked the Reverend Mayes as he plopped a ladleful of potatoes onto his plate.

  Merit felt her courage flutter inside her like a sparrow struggling to escape. She took a deep breath, tamping it down, forcing the sparrow to stay inside her, to turn into an eagle.

  “What it means is I’ve saved money and I’m moving to Minneapolis tomorrow.”

  “Moving to Minneapolis!” said her mother, as if she had just announced she was joining the Methodists.

  Her father, whose wrath she had been steeling herself for, surprised her by laughing.

  “Oh, Merit,” he said, shaking his head. “Minneapolis? What’ll you do in Minneapolis?”

  Her face burned red as she pushed her mashed potatoes around with her fork.

  “I’m going to go to business school.”

  “Business school?” said her father, the supple joviality in his voice turning brittle. “But you’re going to school here.”

  “No, sir,” said Merit, her face so hot she felt consumed by a sudden fever. “I’m going to business school in Minneapolis.” She felt her voice catch in her throat, but swallowed down the rising sob, refusing to give her father the pleasure of seeing how scared she was. Pastor Mayes appreciated weakness in other people—it allowed him to show how strong he was. She lifted her head and looked him right in the eye, an act of defiance that, she could tell by his mild flinch, disconcerted him.

  “You’re not the one to tell us what you’re going to do. You’ve got the order reversed, missy.”

  “I’m eighteen years old. I can make my own decisions now.”

  Pastor Mayes slammed down his fist, and the silver and glassware jangled on the table.

  Mrs. Mayes brought her hand to her collar button, and Merit’s younger brother and sister, who had been witnessing this confrontation with the glee of schoolkids watching the school bully being goaded by the skinny kid, now realized one essential truth: because of his strength and power, the bully could be the bully and the skinny kid of course had no chance.

  But Merit was not done with her surprises. As her father railed about honoring one’s parents, she pushed back her chair and said, “Excuse me, but I’ve got to finish packing.”

  Slack-jawed, the Mayes family watched as Merit left the room.

  So stunned by his sister’s derring-do was fifteen-year-old Donald that he had no time to censor himself.

  “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, which of course was the wrong thing to say to a minister already inflamed by one of his children’s actions.

  IN MINNEAPOLIS, everything, for the first time in her life, clicked for Merit. A young woman whom she met while staying at the YWCA had just found an apartment and needed a roommate; she got a job waitressing at a downtown steak house where the tips were good; and she began a secreta
rial course at business school. She and her mother shared a weekly correspondence, and while there were occasional notes from her brother and sister enclosed, there was no word from her father.

  “Your dad still thinks you owe him an apology,” explained Mrs. Mayes, but Merit, having no idea why making a life of her own was grounds for apology, never paid that debt.

  In her mother’s letters was always a P.S.: “Hope you’ve found a parish of your own!”

  Merit hadn’t; she was, for the first time in her life, sleeping in on Sundays. She went home for Christmas that first year, but her father was sadly incapable of practicing what he preached and virtually ignored his daughter her entire visit. His hypocrisy (how could he exhort his parishioners to “love and cherish each other as Jesus loves and cherishes us” and yet leave the room every time Merit entered it?) turned Merit away from him as well as from his church, but the following year, alone for the holidays, she decided that what she needed to lift her gloom was to sing some carols, and so on Christmas Eve she found herself in the church nearest her apartment (Episcopalian), singing “Joy to the World” like the former soloist she was.

  The whole row ahead of her turned around to see who belonged to the high, pretty voice, and one man in particular didn’t want to turn back around.

  “I thought, I believe in angels!” he liked to tell her, reminiscing about the day they met, “because I knew I was looking into the face of one.”

  After the service, he managed to move through the crowd of people to wish her a merry Christmas and then ask her if she had plans for the evening.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “I know what day it is. I also know that sometimes people are away from their families on the holidays, and if that’s true in your case, I think you should come and spend them with mine.”

  His parents, with whom he’d been sitting in church, seemed to think there was nothing odd or out of place about their son’s invitation.

  “I’m glad you’re coming,” said Mr. Iverson, taking her arm. “Now I’ll have two beautiful women under the mistletoe.”

  “Oh, Eric,” said his wife in a voice that asked, Isn’t he just the most lovable cut-up?

  The Iversons’ grand house, with its Lake of the Isles view, was decorated not only with mistletoe but with evergreen boughs and poinsettias and a miniature English village that was arranged in a bay window, complete with fake snow and a running train whose track looped around tiny porcelain homes and shops.

  “Oh, my,” said Merit, taking in everything, including the twelve-foot tree laden with ornaments and lights.

  “I like to go all out for the holidays,” said Eric’s mother. Then in the next breath she asked, “Sherry?”

  For one rubeish moment, Merit thought Mrs. Iverson had called her by the wrong name, but before she could correct her, Eric junior said, “That sounds wonderful, Mother. One for Merit and one for me.”

  It was the best night of Merit’s life, she thought as she stretched under the fine linens of the bed the Iversons insisted she use (“It’s snowing too hard for safe driving, and besides, our Christmas brunch is something you wouldn’t want to miss”). With classical music playing on the hi-fi and in front of a crackling fire, they had sipped sherry (the first liquor, other than Communion wine, Merit had ever had) and helped themselves to the trays of cookies and sandwiches Mrs. Iverson passed around, telling stories about themselves. (As to the question about her own family, Merit replied truthfully that her father was a minister in Decorah, Iowa, and untruthfully that she hadn’t been able to get time off from work to go back for the holidays.)

  “We know what it’s like not having children home for Christmas,” said Mrs. Iverson, offering Merit a cigarette. “Our Douglas is in Cambridge—he’s studying medicine at Harvard—and our Joanie’s spending the semester in Copenhagen, studying Danish.”

  “Oh, my,” said Merit, thinking how different the lives of their Douglas and Joanie were from her own parents’ children.

  How different their celebration had been, too; there hadn’t been one reading of the Scriptures, one prayer, one recitation of the Bethlehem story, and yet Merit couldn’t remember a more special Christmas, and that was including the one in which she had been Mary in the pageant and gotten her baby doll, Betty Lou, who to her delight really did wet.

  A YEAR LATER, Pastor Mayes was officiating at the wedding of his daughter (whose honor and good standing in the family had been fully restored now that she was getting married—and to a medical student, no less), and Merit marveled at her own good luck. She truly understood, for the first time in her life, what her father had meant by the bounty of God’s blessings.

  THE IDYLL lasted nearly six months. Then one night as she was taking a bath, Eric came in and asked her if she ever aspired to be more than a secretary. Or had she always known that she wasn’t smart enough for anything that required real thought?

  “I wouldn’t say you’re borderline retarded,” said Eric, turning to regard his handsome face in the mirror, “but I’ll bet you’re not as far away from that distinction as you think.”

  Something like a chicken bone seemed to catch in Merit’s throat. Then she laughed, because surely he was joking, but when she saw the look of fury in his eyes as he turned away from the mirror, her laughter died as quickly as it had started.

  “Well, maybe I’m being too generous. Only a retard laughs when someone tells them they’re retarded.”

  Merit drew in her breath and was glad a layer of bubbles coated her bathwater; she couldn’t bear to be naked in front of him right now. Still, she crossed her arms over her breasts and drew her feet, resting on the tub’s edge, back into the water.

  He left then, muttering to himself about being saddled with an idiot wife. As if she were being pushed by an unseen hand, Merit slowly sank down in the tub, until she was underwater.

  She never knew when one of Eric’s moods might come or what had provoked them; she only knew that he would say things that made her feel thoroughly, completely worthless (he often questioned how she had gotten the name Merit, “because you certainly don’t have any”). She had trained herself to tune out the I’m-right-you’re-wrong preaching Pastor Mayes directed at her and her siblings (and the world for that matter), but Eric’s taunts and insults were too harsh to tune out, and he often held her face between his hands as he told her one horrible thing after another.

  If she cried or protested, he accused her of being a baby, and sometimes he would pull her to bed, or onto a table or floor, and pound himself into her until he screamed in release and Merit screamed without sound.

  It wasn’t constant cruelty—weeks could pass without incident, and Merit would be lulled back into a peaceful existence. Then all of a sudden Eric would be firing away, unconcerned about breaking the armistice.

  Once while sitting on the toilet (her sanctuary from him), Merit thought maybe she should leave her husband, but the thought caused clammy sweat to bead on her forehead and her heart to forget its regular rhythm. Where would she go? Going back to Decorah was as feasible as relocating to Timbuktu.

  “This is your marriage,” Merit whispered to herself; implicit in the word were all the vows she thoroughly believed in. She just hadn’t known that the “for worse” parts were going to be this bad.

  Intellectually, she knew that Eric’s outbursts were his fault, but emotionally, she thought she had to be doing something to inspire them. It became her mission to please him: wearing her hair the way he liked it, in a French roll, just like his mother’s; dressing in only the clothes he picked out (she had a closet full of outfits that made her feel like either a little girl or a church organist); watching what he watched on TV (and laughing when he laughed); cooking what she knew were his favorite foods, ad infinitum. It got so that she couldn’t remember if she really liked what a candidate stood for or voted for him because that’s who Eric liked; that she’d drink a Tom Collins with him even though t
he taste of gin made her shudder; that she stopped telling him that she thought his father was going a little overboard in his flirting (“your behind,” he had told her just last week, “is what we men of science call a perfect specimen”); that she wouldn’t do a smidgin of anything that might remotely upset him.

  But her mission had not been successful. By wanting to go to the book club meeting, she had upset him enough that he had hit her. This, however, was abuse that even he was shocked by, and his guilt apparently was going to work in her favor. That night in bed, after he rolled off her, he told her he’d been thinking over this book club business, and really, what was the harm?

  No harm at all, thought Merit, allowing herself to smile in the darkened room. No harm at all in letting a bunch of women get together to eat bon bons and yak about some love story.

  SHE HAD GOTTEN OUT OF THE HABIT of reading (Eric always pouted when Merit’s attention was diverted by anything other than himself) and so agonized over what to choose for the book club’s discussion that she sought help.

  The librarian, whose braided bun and eyeglass rims were the color of a steel filing cabinet, said, “Well, Thackeray always makes for good discussion, or Hardy,” but a young library assistant tiptoed up to Merit as she stood in the A-H aisle and pressed the book Hotel into Merit’s hands.

  “This is one of the most popular books in circulation right now,” she whispered. “I think it might be a little more fun than Jude the Obscure.”

  Now Merit stood in front of her dining room table, stubbing out what seemed to be her thousandth cigarette of the day, holding her own private pep rally as she tried to convince herself that the night wasn’t going to be a dismal failure.

  She was only a serviceable cook (she had been her mother’s helper in the kitchen for years, but her mother’s belief that cooking was a chore rather than a pleasure hadn’t gone far in spurring Merit’s culinary imagination), and baking seemed to stump her; things usually ran the gamut from underbaked to burned. The apple crumb cake that sat in the center of the table looked done, but she knew she could cut into it and be surprised. The rest of the group would be bringing food—but still, at the first meeting, Faith had made a sheet cake decorated to look like an open book (its icing calligraphy read Chapter One—We Begin) and had set such a pretty table, with pastel napkins and place cards printed with names like “Slip Salinger,” “Kari Kafka,” and “Audrey Austen.” (She had tucked her place card, “Merit Maupassant,” in her jewelry box and was oddly proud of it, even though she wasn’t quite sure who exactly Maupassant was.)