And cry herself to sleep.
With a martyred sigh Karen climbed the stairs and entered her room-a guest room now, but once truly her own, when she had lived with Ruth. It looked much as it had then, except that now it was neat; the desk cleared of books and papers and chewed pencils, the floor and chairs uncluttered by clothing, shoes, and other debris. A big mahogany wardrobe served as a closet; houses of the early nineteenth century seldom had built-in closets. "Not that you need them," Ruth had once remarked in a rare moment of sarcasm. "You never hang up your clothes anyway."
A reluctant, affectionate smile curved Karen's lips as she remembered. What a carefree slob she had been in those days! She had come full circle-still a slob, but no longer carefree. She had intended to go back to school after she married, get her degree. It had seemed easy then; after all, Jack was on the faculty. But somehow there never was time. She had taken a course or two over the years, but there was always a manuscript that needed typing or a list of references to be checked; and of course Jack's work was so much more important than anything she could hope to accomplish.
She had learned to type. Jack had encouraged her in that-it was such a useful skill. It had certainly been useful to him, but she supposed she should be grateful that he had insisted, for now it was her only marketable skill. (What a hateful word-marketable-as if she were a piece of lifeless merchandise.) She had acted as Jack's research assistant for ten years, but without the formal title, or the salary. That was going to look great on a resume. Perhaps Jack would write a reference for her.
Karen reminded herself, not for the first time, that she was in a better position than many women whose marriages have failed. Her marriage had only lasted ten years, not twenty-five or thirty. It wasn't too late for her to acquire new skills.
But which ones? There was nothing she wanted to do. Absolutely nothing.
Sunlight sifted through the curtains, warming the soft blue print of the ruffled pillow shams and matching spread, awakening golden shimmers in the polished surfaces of the furniture. The tall pier glass reflected the four-poster bed, with its knotted-lace canopy.
It also reflected Karen. Depression deepened into despair as she studied the pale defeated face and slumped body of the woman in the mirror. What made matters worse-if they could be worse-was that for an instant she had a memory-vision of the girl who had once smiled back at her from that same mirror. A tall, slim girl with long legs and bright dark eyes, and a mane of black hair that shone with a life of its own.
There was no gray in her hair, but it no longer swung free around her shoulders. Lifeless as charcoal, it lay on her head like a wig that might have been plucked at random from a shelf in a department store. Lifeless like her hopes and her ambition and her self-esteem.
The eyes of the memory-girl in the mirror seemed to sparkle, as if in mockery. Don't laugh at me, shadow girl. You, of all people, ought to sympathize--
Karen fumbled with the fastening of her skirt. Her breath came out in an unpremeditated gasp as the zipper parted. She stepped out of the skirt and kicked it across the room, tore off her blouse, and wadded it into a ball. Shoes, pantyhose, and girdle followed. Her spirits improved slightly as her physical comfort increased, but she didn't look in the mirror again.
For once the trite complaint of having nothing to wear was the literal truth. She had packed one suitcase before she fled, throwing things into it without looking at them. She ought to call Jack and ask him to send her clothes. They were of no use to him; he would probably be glad to get the last reminders of her out of the house. But he wouldn't pack them himself, not Jack. He would ask Sandra to do it. Sandy, his super-efficient secretary, soon to be his second wife. Even if Karen could have forced herself to talk to Jack, she couldn't endure the idea of Sandy touching her personal possessions. Sandy would do the job neatly and competently, as she did everything; and she would smile with the intolerable pity of the young as she folded the size fourteens and the shabby, practical lingerie. Sandy was nineteen-the same age Karen had been when she married Jack.
My God, Karen thought despondently, I'm thinking like an old woman. I look like an old woman. When did this happen? How did it happen? I'm only twenty-seven… well, almost twenty-nine. Ten years ago I wore a size 6, played tennis, jogged, watched what I ate. Why did I let this happen?
She slammed the door of the wardrobe and crossed the room, giving the crumpled blouse a kick as she passed it. There must be some garment in the house she could wear without cutting off her circulation. No use looking in Ruth's wardrobe; her aunt was several inches shorter, petite, and small-boned.
Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Ruth had kept some of the clothes she and her sister had discarded or left behind-big shirts or big dresses-floats, or tents, or sacks, or whatever they called them then. Ruth laughed at Pat for being a pack rat, but she was almost as bad, she never threw anything away. Karen remembered once having helped Ruth carry some clothes to the attic to be stored. She had never seen an attic so neat, almost dust-free, smelling of cedar and mothballs.
It was worth looking, at any rate. She had nothing better to do. Slipping her feet into scuffed sandals and her arms into a faded cotton wrapper, she started for the stairs.
JULIE was late. Business must have improved, Karen thought, as she spun lettuce and chopped vegetables. It was almost six before she heard the doorbell chime and go on chiming, as Julie leaned on the button.
Karen opened the door and stepped out of the way. Julie came through like a bull charging into the ring. She headed straight for the kitchen, hurling words over her shoulder.
"What took you so long? It's hot as the hinges of hell out there; I thought I'd die. I had to go clear to M Street to get hamburgers-"
"Two blocks," Karen jeered, following Julie.
"The discomfort index is ninety-nine. I need a drink. Where's the gin? Where are the ice cubes?"
"Sit down, I'll fix it. Gin and tonic?"
"Right." Julie dropped her packages onto the table and collapsed into a chair. Her red hair, cut in the erratic style made popular by female rock stars, stuck out in stiff spikes, glued by perspiration and hair spray. She wore an off-the-shoulder blouse and a cotton skirt; rows of plastic beads formed a breastplate around her neck, and when she raised her hand to wipe her streaming brow, a matching row of bracelets jangled and clicked. The outfit would have looked ridiculous on most women, particularly the jewelry, which was of the type Karen categorized as "Woolworth's." But it was oddly becoming to Julie's sharp, vulpine features and stocky frame. "I look like a fat fox," she had once remarked, and although Karen had made polite protestations, there was a great deal of truth in the appraisal.
Karen offered a glass tinkling with ice cubes. Julie took it; then her eyes narrowed and she studied Karen as if seeing her for the first time.
"Well, well. I didn't know vintage chic had reached the far-off Midwest."
Karen smoothed the skirt of her dress selfconsciously. It was yellow batiste faded to a soft cream and sprinkled with orange flowers. The deep ruffle framing the neck was echoed by short ruffled sleeves.