Wifey

  “I’ve brought my dog for his shots.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No . . . but . . .”

  “Without an appointment . . .” she began.

  Sandy didn’t wait for her to finish. “But, you see, we’re moving soon and we really have to.”

  The receptionist shook her head and flipped through her appointment book. “We could see your dog on September twenty-fourth at one-thirty.”

  “But I’m here now and it makes sense. Banushka gets car sick and . . .”

  Dr. Krann passed by. “Hello, Sandy.”

  “Hello, Dr. Krann.” Funny that he called her Sandy while she called him Doctor, even though she knew Emily, his sallow-faced wife, from Giulio’s and from the A&P, where they’d chat at the meat counter on Thursday mornings, even though she’d heard that the Kranns had applied for membership to The Club. “I was just passing by and hoped you could squeeze Banushka in for his shots because we’re moving soon.”

  “You’re moving?” He sounded concerned.

  “Yes, to Watchung.”

  “Oh,” he laughed. “I was afraid you meant away.”

  Did he really care that much? Did one dog more or less make such a difference? “No, but with all there is to do . . .”

  “Sure, I understand. I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  “But doctor,” his receptionist protested, “we were going to leave early today.”

  “You go ahead, Virginia, I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Sandy said.

  “My pleasure. Bring Banushka into the back room. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish up out here.”

  Sandy found Dr. Krann, slim, boyish, and usually quite shy, very attractive. At first she’d been bothered by his left eye, which wandered, and she’d had trouble looking directly at him. But now, having learned to concentrate on his right eye, she was at ease with him. She carried Banushka, who was already tense and shaking, into an examining room and sat down, holding him on her lap. “Poor little fellow.” She stroked his soft fur and talked to him reassuringly. “It’s all right. Soon your ordeal will be over for another year and when we get home I have something yummy for you.” Banushka looked up at her, cocking his head to one side.

  “Well, here we are.” Dr. Krann walked into the room, washed up at the sink in the corner, dried his hands with a paper towel, and approached the examining table.

  Sandy hated to set Banushka down on that cold slab of metal. Dr. Krann smiled at her. Sandy smiled back. “Nice dog,” he said.

  “Yes.” You’d never guess from my seemingly calm exterior that I’m in big trouble, would you, Dr. Krann? That I have to go home and tell my husband that I have gonorrhea?

  “Could you hold him still, Sandy.”

  “Oh, sure.” Sandy had to look the other way as Dr. Krann prepared Banushka’s injections. She’d never been able to look when the kids were getting their baby shots either. But the pediatrician had had a nurse to hold them still.

  “There we go, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dr. Krann asked Banushka.

  Sandy let out a deep breath. The palms of her hands were covered with sweat.

  “Have you had a nice summer?” Dr. Krann asked.

  “Yes, how about you?”

  “Emily and I were in Europe for two weeks. We just got back.”

  “Oh, that must have been exciting. I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “It’s something everyone should do once. There’s a lot of history there.”

  “So I’ve heard. Well, thanks very much,” Sandy said, opening her purse. She pulled out her checkbook. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  He held Banushka as she wrote out the check. Not only was she sweating but her hands were shaking too. She felt a lump in her throat and thought for a minute that she might start crying. Hang on . . . hang on . . . “I really appreciate this,” she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “And next time I’ll phone ahead for an appointment.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his right eye looking directly at her, his left jumping from the wall to the door and back again.

  “Yes, of course, why?”

  “Nothing . . .”

  “I’m just not a very good doggie nurse.”

  “If you wait a minute, I’ll grab my helmet and walk you to your car.”

  “That’s not necessary . . .”

  “It’s okay. I’m finished for the day.” He returned, carrying a stars and stripes helmet. No! Sandy thought. Not Leonard Krann, DVM, with a practice limited to Canines and Felines, with a wife who has problem hair, with two small screaming, snot-nosed children. Not Lenny Krann, future Club Member. No!

  He saw her to her car, jumped on his motorcycle, revved up the motor, and took off, waving to her as he did.

  My God! Could it be?

  No! Steve had told her stars and stripes helmets were very big last year. The moon landing and all that.

  Still . . .

  25

  SHE HAD THE TABLE SET and the food attractively arranged on a platter when Norman came home. “You didn’t cook again?” he asked.

  “I was very busy and it was so hot.”

  “Carry-out food two nights in a row?”

  “Last night I wasn’t feeling well. Besides, what’s the difference?”

  “I counted on pot roast tonight. I’d really like to get back on schedule, Sandy.”

  “All right, as soon as the kids come home I’ll try. I did take Banushka to the vet though.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said Banushka is a beautiful dog . . . very strong and healthy . . . he could be a show dog he’s so perfect . . .”

  “Really?”

  “Not exactly in those words.”

  “Well, at least you managed to accomplish one thing today.”

  “Yes, at least I did.”

  SHE WAITED UNTIL AFTER DINNER, until they were both seated in the den, Norman reading the paper, Sandy with her needlepoint spread out on her lap, the TV tuned in to some variety show, a summer replacement, before saying what she had to say. “Norm, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Will you put down the paper, please, this is important . . .”

  “I can read and listen at the same time.”

  “Norman, I’ve got gonorrhea.”

  “Uh huh . . .” He turned the page.

  She raised her voice. “I said I’ve got gonorrhea!”

  “What are you talking about?” Now he put the paper down and looked across the room at her.

  “I’m talking about gonorrhea . . . the clap . . . you must have read about it in one of your AMA Journals.”

  “I know all about gonorrhea.”

  “Well, I’m telling you that I’ve got it.”

  “You’ve got gonorrhea?”

  “Yes!”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Gordon, who the hell do you think?”

  “It must be a mistake. They must have switched slides or something.”

  “No!”

  “Sandy, if this is your idea of a joke.”

  “Would I joke about something this serious?”

  “Where would you have gotten gonorrhea?”

  “From you.” Liar, liar, from Vincent X. Moseley, most likely, if Shep was telling the truth and if Rhoda doesn’t play around and if Gordon really hasn’t been with anyone else and if Myra hasn’t lately and if you didn’t.

  “The hell you did! I haven’t been with another woman since before I met you.”

  “How about a man? You can get it from them too.”

  “Are y
ou calling me a fag?”

  “I’m just stating the facts.” Almost.

  “If you’ve got gonorrhea, you got it from somebody else,” he said, raising his voice as her words sank in.

  “And I say that you got it from somebody else and gave it to me.” Better to accuse than admit.

  He stood up and paced the floor, smashing his right fist into his left palm. “I can prove that I haven’t been with anyone.”

  “How, how can you prove that?”

  He turned abruptly and pointed at her. On the TV screen John Davidson was singing to a woman named Loretta. “One of us is lying and I know it’s not me! Not that I haven’t had the chance. Just last weekend when you were away . . .”

  “Last weekend, well, I’d certainly like to hear about that.”

  “Not one, but two, get it, two women at The Club propositioned me.” He waggled two fingers in her face.

  “Who . . . who were they?”

  “You’ll never know. I didn’t take them up on it because I consider marriage a contract, not like you, you fucking bitch! I should have known. You’ve probably been screwing around for years.”

  “And what about you? You and Brenda Partington Yvelenski!”

  He turned white. “What do you know about her?”

  “Plenty.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  The audience was applauding, John Davidson was smiling his beautiful, dimpled smile.

  “You’ve been in my Tufts box?”

  “Yes.” What did that have to do with it?

  “What right did you have to go into my Tufts box?” The TV camera cut to an Alka-Seltzer commercial.

  “I was sorting out your junk. And what right did you have to give her five thousand dollars without discussing it with me?”

  “You never missed it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I suppose you read the letters?”

  What letters?

  “Answer me!”

  She just looked at him.

  “Answer me, I said!”

  “Yes, the answer is yes.” But not to that question.

  “Then you know all there is to know.” He walked across the room and switched off the TV.

  I don’t know anything, she wanted to say but she was already in too deep to back off.

  “So you know that I couldn’t have given you gonorrhea . . . so that leaves you . . . so who was it, Sandy . . . who’d you spread your legs for?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Tell me,” he shouted, lifting her out of the chair by the shoulders. “Tell me, you bitch!” he said, shaking her. He was losing control now. She couldn’t remember ever having seen Norman out of control. She found his anger frightening, but at the same time exciting. Exciting because she was the cause of it.

  “Cunt!” He smacked her across the face, catching the corner of her mouth. Her hand automatically went to the place, holding it, trying to ease the pain. She tasted blood. “Who was it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, as tears came to her eyes.

  “Aha! So you admit it, you’ve been screwing around.”

  “Yes, I admit it! I’ve been with somebody else.”

  “I ought to beat the shit out of you.”

  “You touch me again and you’ll live to regret it.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t have to tell you. I don’t have to tell you anything.” She turned and ran, ran upstairs, and then upstairs again, to the attic, locking the door behind her.

  Norman followed, yelling, “Goddamned whore. Goddamned fucking whore.” And when he reached the door to the attic and found it locked, he kicked it, shouting, “Come out of there! Come out right now!”

  “Go away,” Sandy hollered. “Go away and leave me alone!” She heard Norman clomp back down the stairs. And then it was quiet. What was he doing? Would he get the gun, shoot the lock off the attic door, then shoot her? Or himself? Or both of them? Murder-Suicide

  Local Businessman Shoots Wife, Self

  Norman Pressman, owner of Pressman’s Dry Cleaning Stores, shot and killed his wife, Sondra Schaedel Pressman, last night, before taking his own life. Friends and relatives described Mr. Pressman as a quiet man. “In fact, phlegmatic,” said Mrs. Pressman’s sister, Myra Lefferts, of Short Hills, the owner of a showplace with eight and one half baths . . .

  One of them was supposed to leave. Sandy knew that. She’d read enough books, seen enough movies. She could hear Myra advising her. Pack your bags and come over here. We’ll call a good lawyer, the best in the state. We’ll take the bastard for everything!

  But Myra, the children. What am I going to do about them? They’ll be back soon.

  For the time being you’ll stay with me. Then we’ll help you find a place of your own and you’ll start a new life. Nobody has to take what you just took. Forget what I told you two weeks ago. Get out now!

  But I want to end the marriage on my own terms, when I’m ready.

  If you’re not ready after this, then you’ll never be ready and you deserve what you get.

  Are you saying I’m a masochist?

  I’m saying you’re a meshugunah!

  SHE THOUGHT SHE HEARD the front door slam. She ran to the window and looked down. There was Norman, walking Banushka, as if it were just any other night. She went to the “Tufts Box,” her heart beating so loud she could hear it.

  She turned the box upside down, dumping the rest of its contents all over the floor. Tiny color slides spilled out of dozens of Kodak boxes. She swallowed hard, then sifted through four years of junk until she found the packet of letters, eight of them, all in blue envelopes, addressed to Norman at the Plainfield plant, in purple ink. The return address read B.P.Y. Newburyport, Massachusetts. She checked the postmarks. Yes, they were in order, beginning in October, 1969, not even a year ago, and going through May, 1970. She turned them over in her hand. Did she even want to know?

  Yes.

  Yes, she certainly did!

  October 18

  Dear Norman,

  So many years have gone by since we last saw each other yet I feel sure that you will remember me as I remember you. I made a lot of mistakes, Norman, and I know how deeply I must have hurt you. I don’t expect you to forgive me or to understand. I loved you, not Stash. How can I explain? Let me try. I guess what happened was that I saw my life with you and I got scared. You had everything so well thought out and I didn’t want to think about the future at all. I wanted to live only for the moment. So I rebelled and ran away with Stash, who didn’t have a thought in his head. Does any of this make sense to you? I hope so.

  Stash and I had three children in four years. He made some money in the used car business but then gambled it away. I finally left him, two years ago, and went to California. I worked as a waitress most of the time. Stash has never sent a penny to me or the kids. I’ve heard that he’s in New Mexico now, involved in some land deal. But I’m not complaining. I’ve never been one to complain, as you know.

  I came back east six months ago and am hoping to open a small restaurant in Newburyport. Remember the weekend we spent here? I guess that’s why I’ve always wanted to come back. That weekend with you was the happiest of my life. But enough looking back. You can’t look back, can you? You have to go forward. And that’s what I’m trying to do, with a little help from my friends. To be blunt, I’m asking you for a loan of up to $5000. I will pay you back with interest, of course, I hope within two years. Less if things go well.

  On a more personal note, what happened to us, Norman? You were going to be a great biologist and save the world. Instead you clean people’s clothes. (You see, I’ve kept up
with you!) Not that I am knocking your chosen profession. I certainly haven’t accomplished what I set out to do either. Now, instead of becoming a great actress or writer, I am happy if I can manage to feed my family. But please do not feel sorry for me. I am strong and determined. At least I haven’t changed that way.

  With love and affection always,

  Brenda Partington Yvelenski

  My God! Was she writing about Norman, her Norman? A great biologist? Saving the world? When? How? By the time Sandy had met him he was a senior business major. He’d never even mentioned biology to her.

  November 9

  Dear Norman,

  Thank you for your kind letter. I can understand that you want more information before committing yourself to an investment in my restaurant. It will be small, serving only 20–30 at a time. It is located on the main street, next to the bank. I plan to decorate with butcher block tables, wicker chairs, local artists’ work, and plenty of plants. We will have a limited menu. (Remember how we used to save menus, circling what we’d had to eat?) I am a fine cook and my children are wonderful, willing helpers. I hope to hire two or three waiters. We won’t have a liquor license at first, but customers will be encouraged to bring their own wine.

  Norman, on a more personal note, I’m glad you’re happily married and enjoying your two children. I’m sure Sandy is exactly the wife you always wanted. Even during that long, cold winter when we loved so intensely I had my doubts about us. You were already so sure of what you wanted out of life and I wanted, needed, to be free. Strange how things work out.

  With love and the happiest of memories,

  Brenda

  Exactly the wife he’d always wanted? Not lately, Brenda!

  November 24

  Dear Norman,

  Thanks so much for your letter and check. The $5000 is more than appreciated. My parents have come through as well and are lending me $2000 and my cousin, Irene, who married a stockbroker in Spokane, is lending me $2500, as is my brother, Rog, who is a butcher in Providence. Now I can go to the bank and make all the arrangements. I hope to open by Valentine’s Day which I think will be a fitting holiday considering all the love that has gone into this project, not the least of all, yours.