Well Behaved Wives(55)

She tested it gently with toothpicks. The inside was only half-baked. The rim was like a brown brick. There was no salvaging this mess.

She dumped it in the garbage and watched the heavy mass sink to the bottom; its gooey middle hit the wall of the bin as it went, smearing uncooked batter along its path.

Ruth plopped down at the kitchen table, buried her face in her hands, and cried.





Chapter 22


LILLIAN

“Constance, Susan, and Peppermint,” Lillian said, flipping the switch off the percolator. The Saturday morning coffee had finished brewing a half hour ago, when she had set a breakfast of hash and eggs, toast, and coffee in front of Peter. She lifted his now-dirty dishes from the table setting in front of him and placed them in the sink with unnecessary firmness.

“What are you talking about?” Peter rose, mouth agape, pushing his bottom jaw to the right. This expression of his annoyed her. He would not twist his face like that if he knew it demoted him from a Jewish Jack Kennedy to Barney Fife. The plaid golf knickers didn’t help.

“Philip Tanner’s wife, daughter, and blue-ribbon golden retriever,” Lillian said. “And don’t mention Russia if you don’t want to rile him.”

Peter nodded. He’d be seeing Philip Tanner soon.

That would have to do. He could work with those facts. She had lost the motivation to look for more. She was tired of propping him up all the time.

“Got it.” Peter saluted like a Boy Scout and grinned, also quite like a Boy Scout—resolute, yet coy. “Wish me luck.” He kissed her forehead.

“Luck,” Lillian said.

Peter walked out the kitchen door to his last golf-game-plus-business-meeting of the season. Earlier, he’d promised to sink a hole in one for his company, and then he’d laughed. His own best audience, Peter had been trying to sink that particular “hole in one” for Diamond Textiles since July. It would be a big account, a generous addition to the family’s income. Constance, Susan, and Peppermint. Lillian was doing her part.

You’re welcome.

Lillian set a large cup on a saucer, lifted the coffeepot, then filled her cup to the rim. Saturday morning coffee on her own was indeed “good to the last drop.”

There was a time, maybe ten years earlier, maybe less, when a Saturday without Peter at home—playing with the girls or ignoring them to wash the car or read the paper—would send Lillian into nostalgic riffs, reminiscences, and longing for more time together. Not today. Not after fifteen years of marriage.

Today she sipped her coffee as steam rose from the cup, reveling in these quiet moments to herself and wondering if she should go to a psychiatrist to have her head examined. She ought to tolerate Peter’s time away, not look forward to it—what was wrong with her?

Reality had upended her youthful imaginings, and the disparity between them flashed in Lillian’s mind like déjà vu. That was it.

Oh, come on, she chided herself. She loved Peter and still found him attractive (and judging by some of the men around the neighborhood, with their balding heads and double chins, that likely wasn’t true for all wives). She relied on Peter for their beautiful house, full icebox, and comfortable life, and to provide for their girls. Her husband delivered without complaint. But.

Was Peter the one responsible for hemming in Lillian’s ideas for a more fulfilling life? Hardly. Why, he hadn’t a clue what those ideas were. He knew she was up in the middle of the night, and he worried about her mental health. Was that genuine concern or just concern about how things would look to the outside world if she were to become unstable, like her mother?

Tap, tap, tap. Her fingernails worked against the wood of the table as if they were trying to give her a Morse code message. What was really troubling her?

Ruth’s visit crept into her thoughts. Something still bothered her about that. Ruth had accused Carrie’s husband, a respected vice-principal, of terrible things. But surely this wasn’t her problem. Lillian would keep Ruth’s problems to herself.

But she’d promised herself she would stop avoiding difficult truths, so that younger housewives might feel they could challenge the status quo too. So that her children would have choices as they grew up.

What was stopping her from keeping that promise now?

Peter and Lillian had dinner out, just the two of them. It had surprised Lillian when Peter had requested that she book this specific restaurant yesterday. It was undoubtedly romantic. There were candles at the table, and a piano player who was skilled at ballads, but didn’t play so loudly it kept them from enjoying each other’s company. Lillian chalked Peter’s good mood up to the fact that he had finally scored that hole in one with Philip Tanner. Maybe he did appreciate her help.

So she was allowing herself to enjoy tonight more than she thought she would.

Perhaps she spent too much time focusing on what was wrong with her life—and not enough on what was right. Like the way Peter was smiling at her from across the table. The cute way he cut little bits of his steak and swirled them in the sauce like he was rounding up fall leaves.

They arrived home before eleven. Lillian checked on the girls, awake but in bed. By the time she slipped into their bedroom, Peter was already under the covers. She eyed him reading his book and had to admit, she did find him sexy.

Lillian flipped the door hook into the latch. Peter looked up from his novel, then returned to it.