The five towns, p.7
The Five Towns, page 7
“Gerrie suggested I speak to you.”
“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow and squinted at the smoke from his cigarette. Evelyn wondered briefly if he slept with other women. For a moment she had a feeling that he took his black bag away from the sickroom and headed over to one of the motels near the Queens border where she heard terrible things went on that involved Five Towns people.
“It’s about Lulu,” she said.
“What’s she stolen?” he replied.
“What? Has she ever taken anything from your house?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t give a damn if she did.
“Of course it’s not that,” Evelyn protested. “She’s an honest girl. I leave her alone all the time,” she went on. This was not entirely the truth, since her mother-in-law was always at home, but she disliked Weinbloch’s insinuating manner and his false accusation. She almost didn’t tell him anything, but then decided there was no one else to consult. She’d no sooner have dreamed of taking the problem to her husband than she would discuss it with her aging mother-in-law.
“She’s gotten herself into trouble—”
“What kind of trouble?” he said; then, sensing her delicacy, he nodded. “Oh, you meant that kind of trouble. Well, no problems there. You want me to help her out?”
“No, I really thought we could all get together and figure out something, us and the Millers, the people who employ her. I think she’s our responsibility.”
“My dear, there’s only one way to help her out. And if we can talk dollars and cents—”
“You mean you know somebody?”
“Sure,” he said. “Absolutely.” And he winked.
And with that wink, Evelyn understood that he meant that he was the one who would help, and she was so shocked that she involuntarily backed away from the car. Weinbloch behaved as if they’d just finished chatting about the sewers that were to be dug quite soon. He waved his hand jauntily and tossed away his burning cigarette butt. “Gotta go,” he said. “Give me a call real soon, or come over and have a drink and we’ll see what we can do. This is strictly for a friend, you understand.” And he got into his car, started it up, and sped away. He always drove far too fast for a neighborhood in which children were playing in the street, and he’d once struck a stray dog that had wandered into his path.
Evelyn stood on the curb and began wringing her hands, a nervous gesture she was always unaware of. Arthur used to tell her to stop, that she looked like a washerwoman, but she never realized she did it. She watched the children biking up and down the block and heard the sounds of their laughter and the ringing of the bicycle bells and wondered how everything could look so easy and normal when there were very dark, sad things going on inside the houses on Bush Road and inside the hearts of the people in the houses on Bush Road. Then she turned on her heel and strode back to her home, her shoulders squared, ready to fight those sad things, even the ones in her own house.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Why do we always have a fight whenever we have to go somewhere?” Evelyn Freundlich shouted at Arthur as she slammed their bedroom door shut. There was too little privacy in their house; she was always aware that her mother-in-law or her children could hear everything she said. It was as bad as the old apartment; why hadn’t they bought a bigger house?
“Why is it always always with you? Always and never and we never do this or that,” said Arthur. He was lying on their bed dressed in his boxer shorts, undershirt, and dark socks with garters, holding a glass of scotch in one hand. The television was on, its sound lowered, the set perched atop one of the deluxe TV tables his company turned out by the thousands.
“Well, we never do go anywhere. We’re so close to the city and I have to set a dynamite charge under you to get you to take me out to dinner once in a blue moon. All I’m asking is that you not put up such a fuss whenever we have to go out. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
“Looking forward to cha-cha lessons?”
“You try living out here and spending your entire day in the car. I drive the car pool to school, I take the baby with me shopping, I take your mother to the dentist, I take Amy to tap lessons, I pick up the cleaning, I go to the bakery, then Amy has to go to Brownies. Now, when I get one chance to relax, you tell me you want to stay home.”
“Evvie, you have it all your way. You have a house, a car, a maid, you have a dishwasher and a washing machine. What the hell else do you want?”
“I want a life of my own.”
“Fine. Go have a life of your own. Just make sure you come home in time to make dinner.”
“Dinner? You call what we have dinner? Sitting around the table waiting for you to finish your second drink and maybe pour a third while the meat dries out and your children whine and your mother throws me these looks like it’s all my fault? Then you come in and eat four mouthfuls and go off back into the living room and fall asleep in front of the TV? Is that dinner? Is that a life?”
Arthur took a swallow of scotch and stared at the western on television. The set was a Dumont, their first TV, with a small screen mounted in a wooden cabinet. The downstairs TV was much larger, but the kids always came up here to watch. They liked the old familiar smaller one. Sometimes he’d sit down and watch with them. He’d put one arm around Amy and another around Marci and they would stare at the screen and laugh together. Then he felt like a family. The rest of the time he felt like a machine that made money.
“You think it’s so great for me? Wanna trade places? You take the car and fight the traffic and drive to Brooklyn and work in that noisy factory all day long. See how relaxed you are when you get home. See how you like it.”
Evelyn had turned away from him. She was standing in front of the double doors to their closet, deciding what to wear to the party. It was the Millers’ turn to have the dance lessons at their house, four couples learning all the new steps, and afterward they would have drinks and something to eat. Whenever Evelyn had a social engagement, she spent the day fantasizing how it would be, how glamorous she would look, how her laugh would sound so sophisticated and how she would say witty things that would make everyone pay attention to her. And then they would go out and it was only the same old people and her dress looked dowdy, and Harry Levin’s wife always told the best dirty jokes and her laugh sounded sophisticated and Evelyn would feel that something had been ruined for her again.
“You know, what I’d really like to do for a change is go to bed with you,” Arthur said.
“What’s that?” said Evelyn distractedly.
“Come here,” he said to her.
“Not now. We have to go out.”
“The dance teacher will wait. We’re paying her.”
“No. I just fixed my hair.”
Arthur wasn’t sure why he wanted her at all. Since they’d moved to the new house—in fact, since he’d come back from the service—there had been something missing in his wife’s response. He wondered if it had ever been there, even when they were first married. She had no spontaneity; she simply lay back and allowed him to go it alone. He recalled that, when they were first together, Evelyn had been so eager to have sex, not for any physical reason, it seemed, but rather because in the closeness of the act she felt less lonely. Now he was the one feeling lonely and shut out of his wife’s and his children’s lives. He was supposed to be head of the family, but he felt like an accessory, a discardable part interchangeable with the other anonymous husbands commuting to work on the Belt Parkway. He wasn’t sure why, but the women in the suburbs were all larger and more colorful than the men. He always saw the men in shades of gray, like the picture on the Dumont.
“Get dressed,” Evelyn ordered. “Now. I want to leave in ten minutes.”
The children came in then, tumbling through the door without knocking. They climbed up on the bed and poked their noses into Arthur’s scotch glass, wrinkling their faces in disapproval.
“Nasty drink again,” said Amy. Marci smiled and imitated her sister’s expression. She was carrying her favorite rabbit, a plushy toy that had been worn down to a dirty nub of darkened fur.
Arthur stared at his children and wondered why he felt so removed from them. Especially Amy. She was just like his wife, not at all like him. Marci, less complicated, was more familiar. He reached out and hugged both of his girls, but when they smelled the liquor on his breath they both pulled away and slid down to the floor to watch the TV. Over the sounds of gunfire and chase music, Evelyn raised her voice and scolded Arthur once more about getting ready. Watched by three pairs of accusing female eyes, he stood up, walked to the closet, and yanked out a pair of pants. Self-conscious and wishing he did not have to dress in public, he stepped clumsily into one leg, then the other. He heard his daughters giggle and he could imagine the sneer on his wife’s face. Daddy the dope, putting on his pants. He grabbed his glass from the night table and went downstairs to pour himself another drink.
After the dance teacher left the Miller house, the four couples who were sharing the cost of the lessons practiced their steps one more time and then settled down for the drinking. Sidney Miller, though not much of a drinker himself, kept a well-stocked bar and was particularly clever at concocting the sorts of drinks the ladies liked—smooth, good-tasting swirls of color that had no bitter sting of alcohol at first sip.
Harry Levin’s wife, Claire, was, as usual, the best-dressed. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, pearls, and spike-heeled pumps. Evelyn noticed that Arthur always positioned himself on a piece of furniture across from where Claire sat so as to have the best view of her legs. Evelyn wondered why she could never bring herself to buy something as revealing as Claire’s outfit—but then, looking around at the other men, she knew she did not want to show off to any one of them. Harry Levin was a coarse, ham-handed man with a red face who was on his way to making a fortune selling housedresses wrapped in cellophane. His dresses were dear to the hearts of millions of bargain-basement shoppers, but his newfound wealth had not made him generous. He was tight-fisted with his cash, and the cha-cha lesson nights at the Levin house were notable for their watery drinks and bowls of slightly rancid potato chips. No one could understand how he had married Claire, the bright butterfly; perhaps Harry was once attractive, they speculated. Evelyn always had a strange feeling when she was around Harry, and when they switched partners and danced he always held her in a way that made her feel he was poised on the verge of some terrible action. Bluebeard with shmattes, she called him privately.
Sidney Miller was sweet and grandfatherly; Evelyn trusted him. And the husband of the fourth couple, Arnold Weiss, never said more than two words. His wife, Margie, was alternately sullen and talkative; she would pout for half the evening and then suddenly, as if a trapdoor had opened and she was thrust up onto a brightly lit stage, she would come alive and chatter nonstop until Arnold dragged her out into the night.
Evelyn found herself relying on Gerrie these evenings, for if she had nothing to say to anyone while Claire crossed and re-crossed her long legs and Margie glowered or blabbed, she could always discuss neighborhood gossip with Gerrie. On this particular evening, Gerrie struck Evelyn as being preoccupied, which was not unusual. It simply meant that Gerrie was mounting a new community campaign, and Evelyn asked her what the latest fund-raising drive was.
“It’s not funds, exactly,” Gerrie said as she settled back against the floppy cushions on her couch. The Miller house was comfortable in a way that most of the other suburban homes were not. In other houses, the furniture was still so new that your back ached after spending an evening there, leaning against stiff cushions and unresponsive springs. But the carelessness of the Miller household—parents and children and pets—had worn the furniture into a soft receptiveness. The Freundlichs liked going to the Millers’ best; besides the comfortable homeyness, the food was always plentiful and delicious. That night Gerrie was serving cold cuts—kosher pastrami, corned beef, roast beef, tongue—along with sour pickles, coleslaw, potato salad, pickled tomatoes, and thick slices of rye bread from Wall’s.
“I’m worried about the Vogel business,” Gerrie said as she bit a pickle in half. “They live two houses away from me and their house and yard are a terrible mess. I don’t know what to do about them.”
“You’re never at a loss,” Harry Levin put in. He was eating his third sandwich, combinations of several meats slathered with mustard and stopped with spoonfuls of coleslaw. He bit into his sandwich and then leaned over to catch the drips of coleslaw that ran down his hand. He licked at his wrist and smacked his lips.
“But they are neighbors, we have to live with them,” Gerrie protested.
“We can’t abide the people next door to us,” Claire Levin said, taking a drag on her Kool. “They have the hugest nerve. Last week—can you believe this?—these two momsers call me on the phone and tell me their daughter is getting married the next day and they’re having the reception in the backyard and could I please keep my two brats quiet so as not to disturb their party. I mean, did you ever? My two brats? My babies, my life, my loves? I told them, Listen, I’ll make sure, special, that right in the middle of your party they’ll tear each other’s hair out over who gets to play with the Slinky.”
“They really did that?” Evelyn said. “They called?”
“The suburbs bring out the worst in most people,” said Gerrie. “You should hear what they say to me when I call up and ask for volunteers to work door-to-door.”
“Well, you know what happens when some dames work door-to-door,” Claire said mysteriously, her face wreathed in a haze of smoke.
“What?” said Sidney, Arthur, Harry, and Arnold, all at the same time.
Claire smiled. “You know.”
That was Claire’s way. In Evelyn’s day, Claire would have been known as a tease. She didn’t know what they called that sort of girl now. But it seemed to work. Look at Arnold, who never said anything. She’d gotten him to sit up and take notice. But who’d want Arnold anyway, all stringy and sinewy like a skinny, faded old barnyard rooster with a wattle under his chin?
Arthur was pouring himself another drink. He hadn’t spoken to Evelyn all night. She wished they hadn’t had a fight every time they had to go out. Many nights it left her feeling without an ally in a room full of strangers. Of course she’d known these couples for years, since they’d moved there—four years ago, was it? But they were not people she would ordinarily have chosen to be her friends. They were neighbors, enforced company, and you had to get along with them. They shared your life whether you liked it or not.
Evelyn turned toward Margie Weiss, who was still in her sullen phase, and began telling her about the new Herman Wouk book that she’d loved so much, Marjorie Morningstar. Margie was a good listener when sullen, and Evelyn went on longer than customary for her. When she finished her rapt description of the book, she found the room had quieted around her. They were all listening to what she said. They were staring at her, in fact. Was her voice that loud? She knew that when she got excited about something her voice could be quite penetrating, but she hadn’t realized she had done that this evening. She swallowed and tried to smile. She looked at Gerrie. Gerrie smiled back at her. “Well, sounds like a very interesting book. I wish I had time to read.”
“Oh, you must read it, you’d love it,” Evelyn said.
“Evelyn loves to read. She’s an innalectual,” Arthur said.
He’d had too much to drink. “Oh, not really, I wouldn’t say—” she began.
“No, no,” he said, putting up a hand. “No, no. She really misses the New York stuff that innalectuals love. My wife. The innalectual. Does everyone know what the definition of an innalectual is?”
No one said a word. Arthur smiled. Suddenly Evelyn knew what he was going to say and she didn’t want to hear it. She stood up and excused herself, running out of the room and into the kitchen where she turned on the water so as not to hear what Arthur said. She could hear everyone laughing, especially the men, so he must have said something funny, but she knew it would be cruel. Something about not liking sex. He always made jokes about that. He’d tell jokes about wives with headaches and wives who only did it once a year and wives who went to bed for jewelry, and Evelyn knew he always meant her, she was the one in the joke, he thought his life was a joke.
Margie Weiss came into the kitchen and stood next to Evelyn, staring down at the running water in the sink. Evelyn was afraid Margie would suddenly begin to talk nonstop, so she didn’t say anything.
“What was the name of that book? It sounded really interesting,” Margie said. Then she smiled. “Isn’t it boring out here? It drives me crazy sometimes. I wish I had more to do than be a suburban housewife. It really stinks.”
“But that’s what we are,” Evelyn said.
“Yeah, but they don’t like us for it,” said Margie. “My advice to you is, do whatever you want. It won’t matter in the long run.”
“But I am doing what I want,” Evelyn said automatically.
“You are?” said Margie. “Sorry. Pardon me.” And she turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Gerrie bustled in a moment later. “What was that all about?” she said. “Anything wrong with you two?” She was excited now, on the trail of some good gossip.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Evelyn. “You know how Arthur loves a good joke. Once in a while he likes me to be straight man.”
Gerrie’s face clouded with disappointment. “Well, come inside. I’m serving coffee and cake.”
“In a minute,” said Evelyn. She wanted to understand what Margie Weiss meant. Was she really doing things she despised? If that were true, what else was there for her to do? She tried to think but could come up with nothing. She was what she was, and if Arthur didn’t like it, too bad for him. She was going to enjoy being a lady of the suburbs, and when they went home tonight she was going to tell him that if he ever insulted her again she’d—she’d what? Leave him? Throw his mother out of the house? Run away? This was ridiculous. She wasn’t going to do anything of the kind. She’d just tell him off and he’d be contrite and promise not to drink so much and they’d make up and he’d try to get her to go to bed with him and she’d shove him away. Just another ordinary night in the suburbs.
