Wifey

  On the second day Sandy realized that sleeping wasn’t the answer either. So she got up, dressed in old jeans and a torn shirt, tied a bandanna around her head, and decided to keep busy. She would tackle the attic first.

  As a child Sandy was terrified of the attic in her house, imagining all sorts of creatures up there, just waiting to do her in.

  She still wasn’t completely comfortable in the attic, although this one was well lit. Even so, the man on the motorcycle could be hiding up there, could have walked right in while she was out with Banushka, and as she reached the top of the stairs he would be waiting . . .

  For what?

  Rape . . . murder . . .

  No, he’s gentle . . . shy . . .

  You call tossing his thing around that way gentle? He’s probably violent. He’ll probably strangle you first, then stab you, then . . .

  Oh, grow up, Sandy!

  She carried the radio up with her, turned on all the lights, and began to rummage through cartons filled with the accumulated junk of twelve years of married life, not to mention the cartons she and Norman had brought to the marriage. One was stuffed with her crinoline petticoats. She used to wear as many as five at a time to make sure that her skirt was fuller than anyone else’s. How important that had been at the time. Five crinolines at once; horsehair, taffeta, net; under her felt skirt, her quilted skirt, her Lanz dresses. She’d been saving her crinolines for Jen, sure that one day she would be invited to a Fifties Party, just as Sandy had attended a series of Roaring Twenties parties when she was a teenager, dressed in Mona’s flapper outfits, ropes of beads around her neck, a velvet headband across her forehead.

  Somehow, saving her crinolines for Jen to wear to a party seemed foolish now. She would get rid of them. Well, most of them anyway. No harm in saving one or two.

  She opened a carton marked “Sandy’s School Box.” She’d get rid of everything except her high school yearbook. Bucky and Jen would have a good laugh over that some day. And her Five Year Diary, with its faded blue cover, frayed at the edges. She had started it as a sophomore in high school.

  She opened it to the last entry.

  Dear Darling Diary,

  I am utterly, hopelessly in love with N. I am so much more mature now than I was last year when I thought I loved S. R. With S. R. it was all sex, sex, sex! Now, in my maturity I know that sex isn’t everything. It certainly isn’t love. N and I have so much in common. We want the same things out of life. I will wear his ZBT pin forever . . .

  Utterly, hopelessly in love.

  HAD SHE REALLY felt that way about Norman? Or had she just wanted to be so in love? She couldn’t remember anymore. She remembered loving Shep. But would it have worked out any better with him? Probably not.

  Sandy, what are you saying?

  The truth, for once . . . it wouldn’t have worked . . . not twelve years ago and not now . . .

  Sandy, I can’t believe this.

  Marriage to him would have meant a life very much like the one I lead with Norman.

  No!

  Yes, a house in the suburbs, kids, car pools.

  But Sandy, what about sex?

  Okay, so it would have been better but after a while, even with him, it would probably have become routine.

  Routine? You sit there and call such great sex routine?

  Okay . . . okay . . . so it was good, very good . . . but God, the jealousy, the mistrust, the lies . . . it wouldn’t be worth it . . .

  You don’t think he’d have given up other women for you?

  Maybe . . . I don’t know . . .

  You don’t think he runs around because it’s not good with her . . . with Rhoda?

  Okay . . . so it’s a nice idea . . . that he’d have loved me so much he wouldn’t have needed anyone else . . . a nice idea but you’ll pardon me for not believing it . . . I know him too well . . . on the airplane . . . in the restaurant . . . I think he’d be out with girls regularly, not to mention older women . . .

  Older women too?

  Look at me. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake.

  No, already!

  Yes, already.

  That’s hard to believe . . . to me you’re still a girl . . .

  To me too . . . but I don’t want to be a girl anymore . . . I want to be a woman . . .

  So be one.

  How?

  How, she asks . . . I should know?

  Hmph!

  One more question.

  Go ahead.

  If he should call now . . . if he should say he’s changed his mind . . . he wants to spend the rest of his life with you and only you . . . what then?

  The truth?

  The truth.

  I’d probably run to him.

  24

  HER VAGINAL ITCH RETURNED. She was scratching in her sleep again, waking up raw. She went back to Gordon’s office and he ran some tests. His nurse called her two days later. “Mrs. Pressman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Lefferts would like to see you tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “Why, is something wrong?”

  “Doctor wants to discuss some test results with you.”

  Oh, God! Cancer. Her punishment. Her comeuppance. How long did she have? Six months? A year?

  “Mrs. Pressman, can you make it?”

  “What? Oh, yes, I’ll be there.”

  “SANDY,” GORDON SAID, from across his walnut desk, as he tapped his fingers together, “you have gonorrhea.”

  “What?”

  “Gonorrhea.”

  “Oh, my God! I can’t . . . I mean . . . how . . . who . . .”

  “You’re not allergic to penicillin, are you?”

  “No, but Gordy . . .”

  “The nurse will give you the medication before you leave. You have to take it here, then wait for twenty minutes.”

  “Gordy, for Christ’s sake, stop talking like my doctor.”

  “What can I say, Sandy? That I’m surprised? All right, frankly, I am, but we’ve been running routine gonorrhea cultures on all our sexually active patients for the last year and you’d be amazed at how many cases we’ve detected in that time. And by the way, your itch has nothing to do with this.”

  “Could I have gotten it from you, Gordy?”

  “No. Not unless I got it from Myra.”

  “I don’t think she’s been with anyone lately.”

  “Lately, what do you mean by that?” he asked, leaning forward.

  “Nothing. I think she’d have told me if she was having an affair.”

  “But you said lately. As if you knew about something.”

  “No. That’s not what I meant at all.” Oh, Sandy, you fool. First with Hubanski and now with Gordon. Think . . . think before you speak, Sandy! Mona had warned when she was a child.

  “I haven’t been with anyone but Myra,” Gordon was saying, “except for that night with you.”

  “And I hadn’t been with anyone else but Norman.”

  “Well, if you didn’t contract it from me, then it must have been from Norman.”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “Have there been others since we were together?”

  She nodded. “Two . . . but mainly one . . . but I doubt that I got it from him. The other is more like it.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Gordon rested his elbows on his desk top and tapped his fingers together again. “In a situation like this it’s pointless to try to figure out who’s to blame. It’s a circle. The important thing is for everyone involved to be notified and treated. I’ll need the names of all of your sexual partners, Sandy . . .”

  “Oh, Gordy, do we have to go through t
hat?”

  “It’s the law.”

  Sandy hesitated. “I’d rather tell them myself. Couldn’t you please let me do that?”

  “You’ll really tell them?”

  “Yes. I promise . . . right away . . . today . . .”

  “Well, I guess in this case I could make an exception.”

  “Thank you, Gordon.”

  “You’re welcome, Sandy, and I want you to know that everything we discussed today is strictly confidential.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  SHE COULD STILL TASTE the penicillin mixture when she got home. Vile pink liquid. The nurse had stood over her saying, “Bottoms up, that’s a good girl.” And yet, something about it was funny. Funny because she’d been convinced it was cancer. And it wasn’t. Who’d have thought of gonorrhea? Another exotic illness to add to her list. But a lot easier to cure than cancer. Still, which one would make Norman more angry? Cancer, probably, because that was long-term and would mess up his life. With gonorrhea you drank the gloopy pink stuff and life went on. But he’d never forgive her. Never. He’d kick her out. Unless he got it first. Unless he gave it to her. But if not, she’d fight back. Fight for the children. She’d make the judge understand that he drove her to it.

  “HELLO, VINCENT . . . IT’S SANDY . . . Sandy Pressman . . . yes, fine . . . Vincent, I need to talk with you . . . it’s very important . . . back to Maine? . . . no, I didn’t know that . . . well, I need to talk with you privately . . . no, no . . . before Labor Day . . . now? . . . over the phone? . . . are you sure? . . . can I really talk freely? . . . I mean, no one’s listening? . . . all right . . . Vincent, I have gonorrhea . . . the doctor just told me . . . of course I’m sure . . . and Vincent, I think it’s likely that I got it from you . . . I know you didn’t come but that doesn’t mean you don’t have it . . . how do I know where you got it? . . . all those Thursday nights of yours, probably . . . yes, Lisbeth is a possibility too . . . you should both be checked out and treated . . . and don’t wait . . . you don’t necessarily have to have symptoms . . . please believe me, Vincent . . . I didn’t have any symptoms either . . . yes . . . yes, I will . . . you too . . .”

  HOW SHE WISHED that Shep wasn’t involved. That she didn’t have to phone him now.

  “Hello, Shep . . . it’s Sandy . . . Shep, I need to see you . . . it’s very important . . . no, not a motel . . . just a place to talk . . . oh, I don’t know . . . anyplace . . . how about the Ice Cream Factory in Summit . . . fine . . . see you there at two . . .”

  “A BLACK AND WHITE SODA,” Sandy told the waitress.

  “And a hot fudge sundae with coffee ice cream and nuts, no whipped cream,” Shep said. “So how are you, Sandy?”

  “Not good.”

  “What is it?”

  “A lot of things, but mostly it’s that I’ve just found out that I have gonorrhea.” In the booth behind them four small children were jumping up and down singing, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!”

  “You have gonorrhea?” he asked.

  “Yes, I saw the doctor this morning. I’m as surprised as you, Shep. I didn’t have any symptoms.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I don’t know, possibly from you.”

  “Where would I have gotten it?”

  Sandy didn’t say anything. She just picked apart the paper napkin in front of her.

  “Rhoda . . . you think I got it from Rhoda?”

  Sandy shrugged.

  “No, I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Someone else then.”

  “I haven’t been with anyone else for at least six months.”

  Six months. Twice a year. Was that how he worked it?

  “Six months is a long time,” he said. “I’d have known by now. What about Norman? You might have picked it up from him.”

  “I’ve thought about that.” Had it never occurred to him that she might have been with someone else?

  The waitress served them their ice cream.

  “Jesus . . . gonorrhea . . . I’ve never . . . even in Europe . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Shep. I wish I could make it go away.”

  “It’s not your fault, I know that.” He patted her hand. “I’m just trying to figure out what to do, what to say.”

  “You’ve got to go to the doctor. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but Rhoda, she’s going to hit the roof!”

  “Will she leave you?”

  “I hope not.” He spread his hands out on the table and looked down at them. She loved his hands, rugged yet tender, nails clipped short, a spray of black hairs below each knuckle, a callus on each palm. She shuddered, remembering the way he’d caressed her. She wanted to feel his hands on her again. She had to fold her own hands in her lap to keep from reaching out, to keep from placing her hand on his.

  “Look, Sandy . . .” he said, quietly, “this isn’t your way of getting us back together, is it?”

  He might as well have punched her in the gut. “You think I’m lying . . . that I’d make up . . .”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I should have let the doctor tell you.” She started to cry, fished in her bag for a Kleenex, and when she couldn’t find one, used the paper napkin instead. “How could you possibly think that I would ever stoop to . . .” She blew her nose. Remember, Sandy, a high fever . . . a raging virulent infection . . . oxygen . . . intensive care . . . okay, so I thought about it but I didn’t do it . . . there is a difference . . .

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I had to be sure.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for telling me yourself, kid.”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Anything wrong with your ice cream?” the waitress asked as they got up.

  “No, everything’s fine,” Shep told her.

  “But you didn’t eat it.”

  “Some other time.” Shep pressed a dollar bill into the waitress’s hand and Sandy could have sworn that as he did, he let his fingers brush against her breast.

  Outside, before Sandy got into her car, Shep put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her face. “I’ll always love you. Think you can remember that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And if you ever need me . . .”

  SHE DROVE HOME, changed her clothes, and rushed upstairs, to the attic. What to do now? Find another man? Make the best of it, like Myra? Keep busy? Yes, she’d always kept busy. First school, then marriage, then children. Busy busy busy. Until this summer. Had not being busy enough led to this . . . this strange Sandy? She attacked the cartons, tossing things into piles. She would give away all the baby clothes and the toys the children had tired of and everything she hadn’t worn in two years or more. She would combine “Norman’s Tufts Box” with “Sandy’s School Box,” saving just a few items to share with the kids someday.

  Dammit! How come Lisbeth didn’t get gonorrhea on her Thursday nights? Or Myra with her plumber? Norman, I’ve got gonorrhea. That’s how she would say it. Simple and to the point. And while we’re at it, who is Brenda Partington Yvelenski?

  She ripped open the “Tufts” box. It was stuffed with Playbills and programs and menus. Menus. Who saved menus? She opened a few of them. Jesus! He’d circled what he’d had to eat. She tossed them into the trash box. Look at that, his old sweatshirt. Pressman, ’56. She shook it out and held it up, examining it carefully. Wash it and give it to Bucky? No, throw it out, along with his track shoes, still caked with mud, and his baseball cap. He’d probably forgotten all about them by now. Besides, he expected her to sort out his junk. Junk was her job. She pulled out a tiny needlepoint pillow she’d made for him one Valentine’s Day, their initials worked into a heart. She sniffed it. Musty.

 
She dug back into the carton and this time came up with his fraternity caricature, showing a crew-cutted Norman, all big eyes and furry brows, wearing a white lab coat. The caption read: Dr. Frankenstein, I presume? Why Dr. Frankenstein? Had he set out to create a monster? Had he succeeded? Was she it?

  Oh, shit! She’d forgotten to pick up the barbecued chicken she’d ordered at the deli. She left the contents of the “Tufts Box” scattered on the attic floor and ran downstairs. Banushka barked, then whined, straining to get off his run when he saw her. “Okay, I’ll take you with me if you promise to be a good boy.” She opened all the windows in the Buick. Banushka was less likely to get car sick if he rode with his head hanging out, the wind in his face.

  She drove to South Avenue, to Larry’s Delicatessen, where, in addition to the chicken, she picked up a pound of cole slaw, a double portion of noodle pudding, two baked apples, and a slice of bologna for Banushka which she would give to him when they got home. No use looking for trouble. And as long as she’d brought him with her she might as well take a chance and drop in at the vet’s since his office was just down the street. With a little luck she’d be able to get #4 on Norman’s list out of the way now.

  Sandy was surprised that there were only two other cars and a motorcycle in the spacious lot adjoining the animal hospital. Ordinarily it was packed. She parked and carried Banushka into the new brown brick building. On the side, next to the glass doors, chrome letters in satin finish spelled out Leonard E. Krann, DVM Practice limited to Canines and Felines. She entered the building and gave the receptionist a breezy hello, as if she didn’t know coming in without an appointment was against the rules.

  “Yes?” the receptionist said, giving Sandy an icy stare.