“A man is judged as much by appearances as by his superior qualifications,” he said.
Imagine George talking like that even a year ago! Mary had been sure he was going through a temporary phase, that his common sense and humor would surface, and he’d settle down and be himself again. Not for a moment had she suspected that the changes she saw in him could be permanent — or that his love for her was changing too.
It was this that made the sick pain so much harder to bear, her naive stupidity. She knew that nothing stays the same; she wasn’t really stupid, but she had exempted her marriage and his love as glowing exceptions. Until death us do part. God, how could she have been so blind — and so complacent?
It took Mary Hitchman agonizing hours to absorb the shock — and the pain which, surprisingly, was so physical. It took interminable, lost days before she gained an upper hand over her self, and was ready to face the facts and decide what she would do about them. It was the hardest thing she had ever done, and the first hard thing she’d done alone. Even facing the fact that she had “a nice talent” but no genius had been shared.
Fact number one: George loved someone else — was probably making love to someone else right now, someone younger — someone who evidently did look like $250,000!
Fact number two: He would never divorce her because her family had money, and he liked being wealthy. This other woman, she was hardly more than a girl, Liz said, and didn’t have a cent.
Fact number three: She would leave him if she had to. She wouldn’t divorce him if California laws made her give him so much as half a dollar; but to live with him in a marriage of polite pretense was unthinkable. There would be no dragged-out, miserable status quo for her! Mr. George Hitchman, Esquire, wasn’t going to have his cake in the suburbs and a wife with a grand background in San Diego if she had anything to say about it! She’d have to talk to him soon, make all this clear, but first she had to meet the woman.
She was a schoolteacher and her name was Carol James. George must have met her last winter when he gave a series of lectures at San Diego State. Mary thought she remembered his mentioning a young woman with admiration — a serious, promising midwesterner, he’d said, who was working evenings toward her Master’s degree, and who had none of the far-out notions he deplored in other younger people. He certainly hadn’t mentioned her lately! Mutual friends on the faculty at San Diego State knew about the affair, had seen George and his Carol James on the campus, in the park, and once at a motel in East San Diego. They liked the girl, Liz Ferguson told Mary, and they did not like what George was doing to her. He hadn’t told her he was married — had, in fact, asked Liz and Dave Ferguson not to tell her.
“Let me handle this in my own way and in my own time,” he’d said, but he had not thought to ask them not to tell his wife.
Mary faced her facts, made her decisions, and felt better because she had given herself goals and deadlines, and something to do. Inaction is the worst liniment for disaster. She’d meet Carol James, perhaps even talk to her; that would have to wait for the atmosphere and the reality of the moment. They might never get beyond trivialities — how could she know before she saw her? She only knew she must meet the woman George was loving. She must assess the magnitude of her loss, the strength of the competition, before she talked to George — or a lawyer.
She’d manage her confrontation casually, somehow, but before that she would spend some time and money in a beauty parlor and a boutique. Like so many other complacent wives, she had let herself go disgracefully. Now that the horse was loose, she’d do something about the barn door. A facial and a manicure. Surely there was someone who could scrub off the paint and charcoal! She’d have her hair cut short. She’d have a permanent. Better yet, she’d have it dyed! She should have done this years ago. Her long unwieldy hair only aggravated the headache she’d suffered almost without letup since Liz had told her.
Bouts of ugly, stormy weeping still caught her unawares, but at least she could cut all that hair off. George wouldn’t even notice! It was a long time since he’d praised her hair, or anything else — or anything else! And no wonder, she thought, staring wildly into a mirror: she looked positively plain. She looked old, and she wasn’t forty yet. She could still compete for a man’s attention, and by God, she would! She’d give George the glamor-wife he wanted, and maybe — just maybe — it wouldn’t be too late. She could do no more, she thought with sick fury, remembering how much he’d loved her once.
George would be away — in Sacramento not La Mesa — until Saturday afternoon. She had five days to patch herself up, meet the “other woman,” and decide if her marriage, too, could be patched up. She’d know that as soon as she met Carol James. Liz Ferguson was delighted to act as middle woman — that was her favorite role. She was an ebullient extrovert who made friends easily and enjoyed being helpful. She liked being “in” on things, maneuvering, rearranging — always, of course, with the best of intentions. She and Carol taught summer classes during the week, Liz said. They would come to meet her at the cove on Saturday.
As long as the weather permitted, Mary swam at the La Jolla cove, sometimes during the week and always on Saturdays. Every summer-Saturday had found her there — and sitting in the same spot — since high school. Her friends knew this and would come, often on purpose, to join her over at the far left, where the high rocky cliff curves down around the edge of the beach to form a smaller cove within the larger one.
If this Saturday habit had started as an affectation, it had gradually become an essential part of her life. That small secluded niche in the Pacific was the only place where she felt completely at home and free within herself. (Sometimes she thought she should have been born with gills.) She had chosen her retreat well. It was a unique and beautiful place — a beach so sheltered by the cliffs on either side that you could swim there, not just fight the surf or ride the waves. She loved it because, while it was never the same, it never changed. It could be both frightening and reassuring — wild and dangerous when the tide was high and the winds blew, still and peaceful when the day was calm. Oddly enough, she had never wanted to paint the ocean, although it meant so much in her life. She only liked working with people — and animals.
Long before she was Mary Hitchman, Mary Burns had learned to swim in the cove — from one of the lifeguards — to ride the waves, and to dive far down into the clear water around the reef, where goldfish darted in the seaweed, and the world was silent. She would float for hours out beyond the rocks, letting the waves rock her gently or tumble her over into the salty spray. She had played there as a child — and daydreamed as a young girl; she’d learned to be afraid there, when the tides ran strong and she’d overestimated her own strength, and she’d learned to love George there, lying close to him on the sand, wrestling in the water — now, of course, “his work” took even his weekends. They had made love there one August night when the sand was still warm, and the beach completely deserted except for a scattering of stars in the sky and the sensuous rhythm of the waves... On Saturday, Liz would bring Carol James to this place of hers for a swim.
Waiting for Saturday, Mary fought against memory and fear at the beauty parlor and the small expensive shops in Del Mar and La Jolla. She’d never spent much money on herself; now she did so lavishly, enjoying the new experience in spite of her unhappiness. Thank heavens she still had a good figure! She became an instant blonde. She’d always envied blondes, and it made her look years younger. Her mirror, and the neighbors and friends she ran into, told her this. She had been pretty, but suddenly she was much more than that. The new hairdo and the clothes gave her a sparkle. She’d been too “sweet” before, but pain and a staunch determination to resolve her problems privately and decently gave her something happiness couldn’t give — it gave her style. The boys in front of Safeway’s whistled at her, and she walked past them with a new spring in her walk, and a new poise.