Well Behaved Wives(7)

Lillian shook a finger at her before turning to Ruth. “Of course you should be honest. Just remember your manners.” That was silly to say—it was clear Ruth was smart and polite, if opinionated. Lillian knew the difference.

“I think when we’re nice to other people—no matter who they are—we’re showing respect for them, and that reflects on us. People shouldn’t have to be a certain way to receive our kindness and respect. Or to have rights.”

“We’re not talking about rights, Ruth,” Harriet said.

“Maybe we should be,” Ruth said. “I mean, if we have the influence you say we do”—Ruth looked at Lillian—“we could do some real good.”

“Our job is to boost our husbands and keep a home that makes them happy, so they can do their jobs,” Harriet scolded, sneering as if Ruth were daft.

“Back to the matter at hand.” Lillian turned a few pages in her notebook and spoke without glancing at the page. “Ruth isn’t wrong. When you feel good about yourself, you are inherently nice to others, and when you are polite to others, you feel good about yourself. It all makes for a lovely first impression.” Lillian consolidated the contents of two ashtrays. “Another thing to remember,” she said, “is that your appearance is also a greeting. Don’t forget to freshen up before your husband comes home from work. Change your clothes; pick a pretty lipstick. It will make you feel better, and he will see that you are at your best when he walks in the door, not frazzled from a day of shopping or dealing with the children.”

“I don’t leave the house without lipstick,” Harriet said.

Ruth swiped her fingers across shiny lips, which likely had Vaseline on them.

“Look, girls, the High Holidays are only weeks away.” Ruth switched the topic in a jolly, if unconvincing, voice. What had changed her tune? “So how about we be the Manners Musketeers until then?”

“What a lovely thing to say, Ruth,” Lillian said. Ruth shrugged, as if pushing the effort away as unimportant. Lillian understood Ruth was there at Shirley’s behest and was shrugging off nothing.

“I’ve heard the wives who take these lessons from you sometimes call themselves the Diamond Girls,” Harriet said.

“I like the sound of that,” Irene said. “Like a club.”

They were trying. Even Ruth. No harm in offering the girls a hint to make things easier.

“Do you know what’s more important than your name—just as important as being the perfect wife—and will get you out of jams more often than anything else? Something even the husbands don’t know?” Lillian asked.

That got their attention. The girls, including Ruth, leaned forward. “What’s that?” they asked in unison.

Lillian closed her notebook, then lit another cigarette. She inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. “Knowing who your friends are.”





Chapter 3


RUTH

Ruth stared at Lillian the way some people looked at car wrecks or babies—unable to look away. One moment she was entranced, the next she was appalled. Lillian’s almost-black, wavy hair didn’t budge—likely set and sprayed to hold for an entire week. Her skin was pale enough to make Ruth wonder if Lillian had taken ill, but with her winged eyeliner, precision brows, and carmine-painted lips, you knew she wasn’t simply well, but divine. Ruth couldn’t deny it: Lillian personified striking.

She’d always considered her own looks ordinary—medium-brown hair and eyes, a medium-sized nose and bust. None of which bothered her like they might have if her appearance impacted her intellect. Even with a best friend like Dotsie back home, Ruth retained a grip on her self-worth. Dotsie’s long, auburn hair and “legs for days” never intimidated her. With Dots, she’d never been subjected to that not-quite-up-to-snuff attitude she felt at Lillian’s.

Here she had little in common with the other girls, with their homespun values and domestic points of view.

Back in New York, Ruth and Dotsie had been brought together by a common cause—the Midtown Women’s Legal Aid Society. Both girls had volunteered, since Barnard, to help women who had experienced mental and physical mistreatment in the workplace or at home. The life experiences of these women were so different from Ruth’s, as she had always been treasured. She had been simultaneously intrigued and appalled and compelled to help. The plight of these women drove her the way nothing had before.

But they and all of Ruth’s contacts were back in New York.

In Wynnefield, Ruth had to find a sense of purpose like she had in New York—beyond her need for study time.

Lillian walked over and crouched in front of her, then reached out her hand with the grace of a ballerina. Ruth took it like she’d been offered a gift.

“Are you all right?” Lillian asked. “I know it’s a lot.” She touched Ruth’s knee and stood. “You’ll do just fine.”

Ruth appreciated the kindness and confidence so much that a sob bubbled up in her throat. She gulped it away. She’d been unaware until that moment of her desperate need for a friendly word.

Perhaps Lillian understood how Ruth stood at an impasse—needing to fit into her new life and family, yet reluctant to let go of the old. She had expected that understanding to come from Asher. After all, he had championed her through her years at Barnard and Columbia, knowing she never wanted a traditional life. They’d spent those years discussing the possible trajectory of Ruth’s career. She wanted to become a judge. In private, and with affection, Asher had nicknamed Ruth “Your Honor.”