husbands, he made more than they did—and, too, her figure was better than any of theirs. For a moment she shared and understood the concern of women for position, a leaky umbrella in a rainy world.
She said, “I look terrible.” They were around her, hemming her in, assuring her that she looked fine and hadn’t they been through it all? The redhead in pink pants said vehemently, “Moving is hell, isn’t it? There’s coffee in the kitchen, and Jo-Jo brought cups. Paper makes it taste horrible.”
“Besides, we have to use all the plastic we can.”
They’re so friendly, Frances thought, warmed against her will by this show of neighborliness. She followed them into the house, looking into the rooms they passed but getting only an impression of bareness. The kitchen was bare too, but new linoleum and a shining, huge refrigerator brightened it and the overhead light was on. Someone had spread paper on the work counter, and an electric percolator was glugging. The redhead said, “We had the gas and electricity turned on, but you can’t get a telephone before next week. Feel free to use ours—we’re two doors over.”
How friendly would they be if they knew what I used to be? What I still am.
They wouldn’t throw stones at me. Probably wouldn’t even be rude to my face. Just snicker behind my back, and feel sorry for Bill.
She said, “I haven’t had a chance to look the house over yet, but I know our furniture’s going to rattle around in it.”
A freckle-faced blonde said, “We have some good stores here. Interior decorators, too. Besides, it’s only sixty miles to Chicago, and the big stores ship everything out by truck, so you only have to wait one day. Most of us get into Chicago every few weeks, do a little shopping and see a show. My bridge club and painting class both go once in a while.”
Frances took the cup somebody offered her. It was nice and warm in her cold fingers; she shifted it from hand to hand to get the full benefit.
“This would be a good house to do in Victorian. There’s even a bay window in the dining room. Victorian’s very good now.”
Sure. Dark wood, marble-topped tables and funereal footstools in fringed and tasseled velvet. Frances said a little shrilly, “I’m afraid I like contemporary,” and let it lie there. Someone tactfully switched the talk to the new plant—or maybe it wasn’t tact, the conversation kept coming back to plastics—and there was a respectful little huddle around Bill.
Frances stood drinking coffee, leaning against the door-jamb. Some of the furniture was still on the way and the rest sat huddled in the wrong rooms, looking shabbier than she remembered it. She felt that she could use a drink. There would be drinks at parties, she knew, unless one of the top men was ultra-religious, but apparently protocol didn’t permit it at picnics, even indoor picnics. But at least they hadn’t brought over a lot of potato salad.
The redhead was saying, “You’re probably in a hurry to get settled, but we’d love to have you spend the night at our place. I mean, feel free to say yes or no.”
“Thanks,” Bill said, managing not to meet his wife’s eyes. “They’ve got a bed set up and I guess we can find everything we need, but thanks just the same. It’s mighty nice of you.”
The redhead said, “You’ll find this is a nice friendly bunch. We get along pretty well together.”
I just bet they do. Morning coffee together every morning, and shopping trips and PTA committees. Probably just walk in without knocking. Maybe a full-time job, something to get me out of the house?
Bill put his arm around her as they stood in the doorway, seeing the guests off. His face was high colored and his eyes slightly bloodshot from the long drive; he needed a shave. He said cheerfully, “That was nice of the girls, wasn’t it? They seem like nice kids.”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t act too friendly.”
“You know it takes me a while to get acquainted.”
“Yeah. The thing you have to remember is, it makes a big difference in a place like this. People aren’t cold and impersonal in the way they are in a big city. These gals run around together all the time.”
She tried to pull away. “I’m a small-town girl, remember?”
Bill said in a wheedling voice, “Don’t be crabby.” There was no doubt about what was on his mind. She had seen that look too many times before, the fatuous but determined look of a man set on going to bed with his woman.
He said, pressing against her, “Come on upstairs. You haven’t even seen the upstairs yet. There’re four bedrooms and a sewing room, or whatever you want to use it for, and the guy Bowers bought it from is supposed to put all new fixtures in the bathroom. You can pick them out.”
“That’s nice. When it quits raining I’ll bring my suitcase up and have a bath. I’m tired out.”
“You’ll feel better after a good nap. Come on upstairs and lie down for a while.”
“Oh, Christ!”
“Don’t be that way.”
She let herself be led up the stairs, feeling his body solid and urgent against hers. With every intention of being a good wife, even a cooperative wife, she couldn’t relax or smile or even look at him. His self-conscious methods embarrassed her. She let him lead her from room to room, a husbandly arm around her waist; she predicted accurately the moment when his hand would creep up and cup her breast. He left the room with the bed till last, of course.
If he only didn’t act like sex was something to be ashamed of. There had been some good times early in their marriage, not many, but a few, enough to make her feel that all might not be lost—if he would only leave the light on, and take her as though love were a joy and not an embarrassing necessity, like having to go to the bathroom.
Frances saw no reason why she shouldn’t do anything she felt like doing when she was bedded down with someone she loved. And she had tried with Bill, not too long after their reunion. Scared but desperate and determined to salvage what she could for both of them, she had asked him to perform the acts that made her happy. He was so shocked that he sat up in bed. “Where did you find out about such things?” he wanted to know, his voice heavy with suspicion. When she told him of the book she had read, his silence let her know that he thought she was lying. To Bill’s way of thinking there was only one way she could have learned about such goings-on, and he wasn’t going to discuss it.
She had never brought the matter up again.
I guess that takes care of that, she thought, looking dully at the empty sewing room, the large bathroom, the two completely empty rooms that looked small and shabby as empty rooms do, no matter how recently they have been painted and papered. In the two front bedrooms the familiar beds and dressers were standing at all angles, but at least the beds had been set up and the box springs and mattresses pulled into place. Trust Bill to take care of any details that would make him comfortable.
He left his socks on, like a man in a hurry to get it over with and get back to work. She undressed with shaking hands, trying not to feel like a virgin facing defloration. Shut your eyes, she reminded herself. It’s not so bad if you shut your eyes.
He was neither harsh nor tender. It was the same as before, as mechanical as eating
