Some of the time, we hope, will go into writing more short stories…
Wednesday: Jerry’s left for the office and I can breathe. I wish I could sleep late and avoid these breakfast squabbles, but I can’t — and I won’t pretend to either. The only silver lining to insomnia is seeing the sun come up and I’m not about to deny myself that or the first cup of coffee from the pot, or first look at The Times. The skyline this morning was like an overexposed photograph, the buildings charcoal-green against the first light. But dawn in New York is always breathtaking. It’s my favorite time of day. Immediately followed by my least favorite: breakfast with my husband.
His putdown this morning was you, Diary. Why would a grown woman confide in a book instead of a friend? Why don’t I discuss more with him if I have so much to say? Well, I’d much rather discuss things with you than with him, and friends are hooey. And of course there are things I can share with you that I can’t with him or with anyone. You’re my seventh veil.
Well, I’m not going to let it ruin my day. Life is too short and there are wonders to enjoy. I’m meeting Stephen at the museum at 11:00. Now that it’s summer I don’t have to work at the gallery on Wednesdays or Fridays. I wish it would stay July forever. I love everything about summer — fewer clothes, fewer working hours, fewer people in the city. Alex, dearly as I love him, off to camp. The hum of the air conditioners. Walking where I want to go instead of depending on the miserable transportation in this city. The trees green, the air heavy and sweet, everyone rested and healthy and expectant. The freedom. The possibilities.
Friday: Jerry and I are going to Montauk for the weekend. To his surprise I agreed with him at breakfast that we should get off together and try to recapture what we seem to be losing. And why not? Stephen has gone to New Jersey on some marksmen’s convention or other. His preoccupation with guns is the only thing about him that disturbs me. I’m jealous, I suppose. But better guns than another woman.
Sunday: Montauk is a disaster. The inn is full of lovers and last night Jerry and I sat like wooden Indians over the candlelit mousse while seduction bloomed all around us. But this morning I got chills in my stomach watching the surf and then I took a lovely long walk down the beach. The huddled vegetation, the piny smoke, the cold sea air. If I were really free I’d have a house on a beach someplace where it’s always summer.
Returning to the inn I noticed a large family group picnicking behind a sand dune under a purple umbrella. Everyone in the group, young and old, wore a different kind of hat. They were like something out of Juliet of the Spirits. I had an urge to paint them but lost it when I spotted Jerry walking toward me from the inn. He too had seen the family and had such a soupy expression on his face that I just couldn’t bear it. How quickly he would have us raising a family that size and moving to St. Louis to be near his parents. He never misses an opportunity to get the message across.
I walked back here with him in silence and immediately reached for you. Until then he hadn’t known I’d brought you along. He turned pale and left. I hope I won’t see him again until it’s time to leave.
Tuesday: I thought Jerry would be more quarrelsome than ever after his failed weekend, but he has been very quiet at breakfast. At dinner, too. I found myself tonight making small talk to fill in the silence, but I’m not going to do it again. Let him be uncomfortable. Let him stew.
Wednesday: I had a vile phone call this morning just after Jerry left for the office. It was more threatening than obscene and I hung up immediately, but I had the impression it was someone I know — or someone I have known. But who would get any kick out of threatening me? I mind my own business — when people let me.
Thursday: Stephen didn’t show up at the museum yesterday. He’s usually waiting in the garden when I arrive, but he wasn’t there. I waited and searched until 1:00, then phoned his office — no answer — and his home, but the phone rang and rang. Ruth must have been out organizing another charity ball.
It must be terrible trying to fill your days when you’re too rich to work, especially when that’s what your husband married you for.
Friday: Still no word from Stephen, and I can’t reach him. I don’t know whether to be worried or furious. Could he have met with an accident last weekend? Why isn’t Ruth at home? Those wretched guns of his!
At the gallery yesterday the honorable and prim-seeming Mr. Plum was in a black mood about something. (You and I know better, don’t we, Diary, about how honorable Rafael Plum is when it comes to art dealers and how prim when it comes to his women employees.) Perhaps someone has beaten him at his own game. Whatever it is, I hope he is over it by Monday. It is no pleasure being there when he is like that, I assure you.
Monday: For the first time since we were married eight years ago, I wish Jerry and I had more friends to invite in. Superficial as friends are, they would fill this terrible silence he has been imposing on us for over a week now. Blessedly though, he is working late tonight and I won’t have to sit through a wordless dinner with him.
He went to the office early this morning to do some homework. I thought homework was work you did at home, but that’s what he called it.
There is still no answer at Stephen’s office or at his house, and no word from him. Could he have gone away on vacation without letting me know? Maybe he’s away on unexpected business.
Mr. Plum is still spreading a dark cloud, and his ill humor seems especially directed at me. Well, I don’t care. If he has a grievance he can tell me outright. Or doesn’t he dare?
It would be helpful to ask Myra or Jean if they know what’s behind it, but I’d rather die than go to them. I wonder if it’s in any way connected with Stephen, who usually comes by the gallery several times a week but to my knowledge hasn’t been in for two weeks.
Tuesday: I received another of those disgusting phone calls this morning. The caller is definitely a man and he gave me reason to believe he knows things about me that only someone who truly knows me would. I’d tell Jerry about him but the caller mentioned Stephen, and others besides Stephen.
Now I’ll worry every time Jerry answers the phone.
A second phone call, right on the heels of the first, was almost as disturbing but in a different way. It was Linda Hatfield, my roommate on East 66th Street, around the comer from the gallery, before Jerry and I were married. Since Jerry was dating her before he met me, it has been too awkward to keep up the acquaintance.
I don’t think she has ever married — she identified herself on the phone as Linda Hatfield. She probably hasn’t ever moved from the old apartment because I often run into her on my way to and from the gallery. I give her a cool reception, too, yet she called to ask me if I’d like to attend a matinee with her tomorrow afternoon. She has an extra ticket that her theater partner can’t use, and suddenly she thought to ask me. Isn’t that pathetic? Can you imagine anything more deadly than attending a matinee every week, come hell or high water? God, she must be lonely.
I told her that although I do have Wednesdays off, I couldn’t possibly get out of a previous commitment. She sounded disappointed. Oh, well, “Here’s to the ladies who lunch…”