Well Behaved Wives(25)

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said.

“Yes?” Lillian softened and sweetened her tone.

“Today’s the first day of school. The girls should be here, not out. I want to have family dinners on weeknights, like always. In the kitchen. The dining room is for company.”

Lillian’s insides tumbled off a cliff. Her effort had been for naught. Her eyes burned as she choked back tears.

“Call and tell the girls not to dawdle when the Golds get home,” Peter said. “And to make sure they wash off the dog stink.”

Once Lillian had set up Peter’s TV tray, adjusted the volume on the television, refilled his tonic water, and delivered his food plate, she returned to the kitchen and stared at the pots and pans crowding the sink. Had he even noticed that she wasn’t eating with him? No matter, she’d lost her appetite for pot roast—and for Peter. Maybe the work of scouring pots would rinse her mind. No, she’d either wash the pots later or soak them overnight and scrub them before Sunny arrived at ten tomorrow.

Peter thought Sunny arrived at nine every Monday, Thursday, and Friday.

Lillian found the secret especially sweet in the moment. Every week, she had three stolen morning hours alone, before Sunny arrived, and many hours to herself on other days. She would have liked more. She always wanted what she didn’t have.

Lillian threw on the beige cardigan hanging off the back of a kitchen chair, grabbed her pocketbook, and walked out the side door, closing it with a timid click.

The weather was chillier than she’d anticipated, but Lillian had to get out of there. Needed one cigarette to calm her. She willed her discontent away like puffs of smoke.

Peter’s indifference more than saddened Lillian. It also frustrated and angered her. Two unattractive emotions, her grandmother had often said.

She ground out her cigarette with one foot and shimmied like she was doing the twist. The truth was as ugly as the crushed, lipstick-stained Marlboro butt.

Discontent choked her far more than any smoke could. Lillian did nothing meaningful. Nothing that reached beyond Wynnefield or reflected her own interests. She had so much and did so little. Sure, Peter donated to charities and Lillian organized the Purim Carnival each year, but what had happened to the girl who stuffed envelopes, who stayed up all night chatting about a better world? What had she done to create one since then?

She had once wanted to be a teacher, then a librarian—both ways to help educate the next generation. Perfect for women with degrees. You could even keep working if you were married. Not if you became pregnant, of course. She didn’t remember releasing those dreams. They had been replaced by fulfilling the expectations of marriage and family.

What was wrong with her? She must be a horrible person. Selfish, self-involved, ungrateful. Except she wasn’t.

So she must be misguided, off course. Was it too late to find her way?

Women were happy with much less than Lillian had. She knew that. She opened her mouth, but instead of words of self-consolation, an understanding struck her.

Doing all the right things for a husband and family didn’t guarantee happiness.

Lillian wished someone had warned her.

As manners maven of Wynnefield, and as someone known to be a distinguished housewife, simply because she was married to a Diamond, Lillian had kept the door on her inappropriate thoughts bolted. Now they swelled and exploded as if ignited by dynamite.

She should tell her students. She should tell her daughters.

Here was her new raison d’être—she must use her God-given voice.

If she could do it without blowing up her life.

A few hours later, her daughters were home and in bed, though Lillian knew Penny would read by flashlight until she conked out.

She poured herself a gin and tonic at the rolling glass bar cart Peter had purchased to add a little pizzazz when hosting parties. So unnecessary. Their house screamed opulence—wasn’t that pizzazz with extra pizzazz?

The cocktail warmed her inside and out.

She had a good life. Did she really have to rock the boat now?

Maybe she had overreacted to the failed attempt at time alone with Peter. She’d spent years waiting for the perfect feelings to arrive, and now it might be too late to do anything about it.

Perhaps she could tell Peter she wanted to get a job at the synagogue or a library (not retail, for heaven’s sake). Not for the money, but to keep busy. She wouldn’t change her family, just her habits.

She could explain that the right job, when she found it, would add meaning to her days. That she’d be contributing something to society, even if in a small way. The girls weren’t babies anymore, and she could use her wages for gifts, lunches out. They were affluent. People knew she didn’t need to work, so no one would question why she wanted to work. Peter would let her work because he loved her.

A man’s inattention was not the world’s worst offense.

Peter stepped into the living room and stood next to Lillian. He fixed himself another Tom Collins—his weeknight choice—as she sipped her drink and stared straight ahead, daring herself to be honest with her husband.

“I have that meeting tomorrow,” he said. “I have to get everyone on board with this new plan for imported fabric.”

Peter leaned over a little too far—from drink, perhaps—and Lillian slyly propped him up, kept him from falling. There was something satisfying about being a pillar. “George Sullivan will be there, right?”