Milly was dying to ask why it was not easy at home. As they left, she blurted out:
‘Why don’t you come for dinner some time?’
Oh my God! Who said that? She felt possessed. Maybe just noticing a man’s nose was enough to open the door to that kind of thing.
‘I mean, you and your wife, of course. Come this Saturday.’
It was the first time in her life Milly had initiated a date with a man, even though technically she was just inviting another married couple for dinner. Their social life was usually of Jack’s making, since that incident with Margery. Women friends had now been excised from Milly’s world. Hard enough not to be able to trust her husband, and she couldn’t make him disappear. But friends who engaged in hanky-panky with her husband – well, they were easy to dispose of. The people at their dinner parties were Jack’s friends. The main criteria, as far as Milly could make out, was that they were funny, intelligent and Democrats. A lot of authors and editors. Mostly men, without children or wives. They smoked, drank and swore a lot, and sometimes stayed the night on the sofa. Ernie and Bernice still visited, of course, though come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Bernice for a while.
There had been a time, before Jack worked in publishing and they moved back to the Bay Area, when there’d been no single people in their crowd. Milly remembered how they used to meet – always two by two. To drink, dine, flirt of course, and rehash their daily lives for the immense comfort of hearing echoes. My daughter, she’s so slow at her reading, I worry. Me too! My plumber, he wants more money, doesn’t do half the work he promised to, doesn’t do shit. I know, you can’t trust them these days. My boss, well, I’m seriously thinking of just telling him he can go screw himself. Me, too! My husband is such a slob, leaves his stuff all over the house like a baby, and he never cooks, not even a hot dog. Terrible!
Milly would never admit this to Jack, but sometimes she felt nostalgic for those days. She had much in common with those other housewives. Somehow housewives had gone out of fashion, and their new friends hardly made eye contact with her. They were always laughing hysterically at things she didn’t understand. She kept the peanut and potato chip bowls full, the ashtrays empty, and let Jack’s friends pull her on their laps sometimes, or give her a good-natured squeeze around her shoulders. Millymoo, some of them called her, and she pretended to like it.
‘Well, dinner would be really nice,’ answered a surprised Harold, as if whatever he had in mind had to be rejigged. But his smile was genuine, even humble. He was blushing, she was blushing, they were adorably pink, both of them. And the world tilted and tilted and tilted. Why weren’t the buildings crashing to the ground? Had she ever felt this sensation before? As if the normal boundaries which contained everything were suddenly gone, and she unravelled into eternity. On and on! Expanding, body and soul, into newness. No wonder Jack gave in to Colette, to Margery, to the Susans and Lindas.
The morning of the dinner party, Milly gave herself a facial. Egg yolk with a bit of olive oil, and while this was drying on her face, she scoured The Joy of Cooking for something new. She’d have time to go to the store, clean the house, put some flowers in vases, shower and give her hair a vinegar rinse to make it shine. She’d wear that new Indian print wraparound skirt and peasant blouse. Would Billy be a nightmare? Rude, sulky? Possible. Send him to stay with a friend? And what about Ike and Truman? What if they jumped up on Harold’s wheelchair? Well, they’d be bound to; they always egged each other on, and loved all visitors pathetically. Harold might even be allergic to dogs. Maybe send both dogs off with Billy. Yes.
The day went like clockwork. Facial pores tightened, menu decided upon, ingredients purchased and cooked to perfection, house tidied – well, floor vacuumed and table wiped – and white daisies and bluebells in vases, fresh as the sea. Billy and dogs escorted off the premises. Harold and his wife pulled up in a red Saab, peering doubtfully at the front door, where the house number used to be bolted. Milly spied them from the kitchen window and hobbled to the door, but Jack got there first.
‘Come in, come in! Milly’s new college friends! You must be…sorry, what’re your names?’
She’d forgotten the rogue element, her husband. He’d had a few beers. They wouldn’t realise it, but they were being mocked already. Her heart sank, because she could see how the evening would go. All the way to making fun of them after they’d left. She felt her romantic love shift into a protective blanket she wanted to toss around Harold and his nose.
But wait. Another rogue element: Harold’s wife. She was chic, petite, with a knowing smile outlined with red lipstick. Smiling right now, ready for an adventure. And was Jack taking the bait? Would he down weapons in order to pursue? Sneer or seduce? She glanced down at Harold. He was looking up at her with such open tenderness, that both Jack and the wife disappeared. Just like that! First a room crowded with question marks, then just Harold.
It rained and rained all weekend; a thin windless rain that flooded the gutters and thrummed on the roof at night while Milly lay in the dark, replaying scenes with Harold. On Monday morning, they met in the college hallway before class.
‘Done your homework?’ she asked shyly. His nose looked downright aristocratic today. A nobleman.
‘Let’s skip class,’ he said. ‘Can you? Let’s go for a coffee.’
‘Oh, yes, please. Let’s.’
They sat in the same café, in the same seats, and Milly could not help thinking of that song. We meet every day, in the same café. Me and Mrs Jones, we’ve got a thing going on. That was her, here and now. Terrifying. And, oh my, wonderful too.
‘Milly, do you mind if I ask what’s wrong with your leg?’
‘Oh, not much really. A car accident, five, no, six years ago.’
‘Bummer. What happened? Drunk driver?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. It was my fault. Hit a car head on, passing without looking.’
‘God, Milly. Was anyone else hurt?’
‘Luckily not. It wasn’t literally head on, it was more side on. I was speeding because my son had hurt himself, and I was taking him to the hospital. He’d fallen from a tree, you see. But it turned out he was hardly hurt at all, just knocked unconscious. Not a single broken bone, whereas stupid me completely wrecked herself.’ She shrugged and giggled and smacked her own forehead softly.
‘You must have been worried to death about your son. No wonder you took a chance.’
‘Oh, I was worried all right, even before he fell.’ Should she tell him about reading Sam’s diary? Would that bore a childless man? ‘But everything’s fine now. I don’t mind my leg. Well, I do mind, actually, but I’m just so lucky it’s not worse. Lucky it’s my left leg, so I can still drive. It doesn’t hurt unless I use it. Can I ask why you…?’
‘Need this chair? Multiple sclerosis.’
‘Oh, dear!’
‘Yeah. Tough, eh?’ He laughed a little, and shrugged. ‘Fuck all anyone can do about it.’
Pause. Then he said: ‘Have you read The Joy of Sex?’
‘Of course, hasn’t everyone?’ She commanded herself not to blush, to keep her voice even. She’d been mortified when Sam found it in his dad’s dresser drawer, under some T-shirts. It’d been bookmarked on the page with the Viennese Oyster position, and Sam had laughed so hard he almost cried. Even now, if anyone in the house wanted to make everyone else laugh hysterically, all they had to say was: Viennese oysters, anyone?
‘Perfect example of a bestseller that was overrated,’ said Harold. ‘Popular because it was popular.’
‘Oh, I know. Yeah. Women’s Room, too. I hated it.’
‘So, you’re not a libber?’
‘It’s not just that. I just think it’s badly written. More propaganda, than literature.’ She was quoting Jack, which felt disloyal.
Harold was wearing brown corduroy pants and a white T-shirt. His arms were very muscular, as if the chair was not electric and he was always propelling his own body with his arms.
Why had he brought up The Joy of Sex?
That night, as soon as Jack came home from work, Milly announced:
‘I won! I won! My story won the competition!’
Her voice was soft, but Jack flinched slightly, as if she’d shouted.
