Billie imagined herself doing just this, so a second later when she put down her knitting, rose and walked over to her husband, she felt distant from herself. False. She stood in front of him, then leaned over, stroked his head softly, enjoying the feel of his feathery cowlicks. He looked up, eyebrows raised.
Sit, she commanded herself. That’s what wives are supposed to do. Don’t think about it.
So Billie curled up on his lap like a little girl. Like Shirley Temple, who her five-year-old daughter loved. Nothing sexual in this yet. Nothing that would require rinsing out her douche bag, anyway. She burrowed into his chest near his armpits, prolonging this part. Quite enjoying this part, actually. It was so relaxing, just cuddling. Soporific. Then she told herself: No man is as wonderful as my Jacko. No man is as handsome – look at those cowlicks! His smart eyes! He’s my King Arthur. Where would I be without him?
Exactly. Where would you be? Like your mother.
Alone and poor. You are very lucky he married you.
Still burrowed into his chest, Billie slowly and softly sang in her Marilyn Monroe voice: Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.
He needs me, she told herself, putting her arms up to his neck, and wriggling her body tighter into his. Do not undermine him. Do not challenge him, or ask why he is late. He needs you.
You think so? she asked herself.
Oh yes, she answered. He doesn’t know how much. I won’t ever let him know how much.
Are you sure? Yes. Oh yes.
She felt his muscles relax, his skin heat. Her muscles relaxed, her skin heated.
Then he started unhooking her bullet bra, and she let him.
Half an hour later in their bedroom, she was staring at the ceiling and asking herself: I don’t have to do that for another week, right?
That’s right, she answered herself, yawning deeply.
Not unless he wants to.
Then, just as she was telling herself to get up and douche before she fell asleep, she fell asleep.
TWO WOMEN AND THREE BREASTS
THREE YEARS EARLIER
February 14th 1957
Piggleston, Oregon 10:04am
He sat in the office he shared with five other men, recalling the squeamish face she’d made last night when he’d suggested beef teriyaki for dinner sometime.
‘What’s the matter?’ he’d asked ingenuously, hoping she wasn’t really that provincial, and yet also willing her to confirm it out loud.
‘Nothing. Only it sounds foreign.’
This had both pleased him and depressed him. Was part of him actually happy when she displeased him? His parents had always seemed at odds – perhaps he felt more at home in a marriage that was not harmonious. Not a good thought. He put it aside and took a look at the secretaries. They sat outside his office, but were visible to him because the wall was mostly glass. The three women sat typing, almost continually. They never seemed to look at their typewriters, just the scribbled shorthand on the yellow pads. Two of the women were unattractive, but one was a pretty blonde, about twenty years old. The office reminded him of his first job in San Francisco, Perkins Petroleum Products, where he’d met Billie. That sweet-legged, red-lipped blonde bombshell, though it was getting harder and harder to associate that Billie with his wife.
On his desk was a photo of her. She watched him all day. He didn’t normally notice, but he kept glancing at her today. The thing was, they’d fought again last night, and right now, as far as Jacko was concerned, Billie was an ungrateful brat with the taste of a three-year-old. Maybe it was having children that had changed her, made her greedy and stupid. And no sense of humour at all these days. She used to tease him sometimes, and giggle, and whistle, and dance around the apartment in her underpants and bra. She used to say she was going to start reading so they could discuss novels, but she’d not mentioned that in a long time. She watched reruns and ate Tollhouse cookies, while he read Penguins and sipped Chardonnay. Was this difference down to his relative proximity to San Francisco while growing up? He felt he’d been married at least twenty-five years, not five. He’d tried teasing her about ageing before her time, about her figure becoming more womanly, but she’d just stared at him and burst into tears. Of course, he’d read about wives like her, he’d listened to husbands in the office complain about their wives too. How they never did anything but complain and nag and they hated sex. But he never thought it would happen to his darling Billie.
Bottom line? Billie was not much fun anymore.
And this job was not much fun anymore either. He thought he’d love working for a newspaper and he didn’t. The hours were a joke. Either up before dawn, or home after midnight, and every goddamn weekend and holiday. The only good thing was that he saw a lot of his kids. Though when they started school, that’d change.
In principle, reporting should feed into his fiction writing, but sadly rarely did. Piggleston was worse than Smithton, their last town. Another dull newspaper in another dull town. What was wrong with him? Jacko sighed. With each new job, he’d been convinced his life was vastly improving, that he was moving up. And none of it was good for his writing. He spent an hour a day scribbling out the story of Josh McCoy, womanising longshoreman living in the Tenderloin. But lately it had gone so flat. He reached for Josh in his mind, tried to get a grip of him again, but Josh seemed to have deflated like a balloon filled with fart. Just an unpleasant smell lingering.
The only inspiration in Piggleston was the lack of inspiring people and events. He considered dropping the novel for now. Writing short stories like The Dubliners, where people went about their mundane lives and became aware change was possible but then didn’t change. Yes, he should definitely try that. That’s what writers did, wasn’t it? Tap into whatever was there. He could write a collection and title it after one of the short stories. Epiphanies in…Tiffany’s. He’d have to explain that the small town jeweller named his store Tiffany’s ironically. Or not. Maybe the jeweller would be genuinely convinced his store was as elegant as the New York version. A sad delusional main character. Maybe he could be a lonely Jewish homosexual like the blind man in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Or would that be too derivative? Damn, damn, damn other writers and their books. Especially damn successful writers still in their twenties!
The phone rang and he answered. ‘Piggleston Journal.’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘No, I remembered, I’m covering that. The meeting starts at 5pm tomorrow, right?’
‘No. Yes. I said yes, we understand the vote will be very close.’
‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.’ He held the phone away from him, made a face at it.
‘Yeah. Yeah. Don’t worry.’
‘I know, I know.’ He faked a laugh.
‘Oh no. We take littering very seriously.’
‘That cartoon was a joke. That’s what cartoons are.’
‘An apology? For a satirical cartoon?’
‘No, no, satire means…oh, listen, I’ve got to go now, a breaking story coming in.’
Jacko felt vastly underused. Stalled at the starting gate again. Like his Morris Minor, which was now dying at intersections and probably needed a new choke. Very irritating. British cars were great, but insanely expensive to fix. He should make some notes for that article about stray dogs scaring children in the park, but picked up his fountain pen instead and began making a list of chores and projects.
