The idea was ominous: a bigger, more formidable Art. The same, she thought, the same but larger.
“He says you can sell your equity,” Art said.
“How does he know?”
“He has a used car lot.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “I’m not going to part with my car.”
“How big’s your equity?”
She said, “You can forget it, Art. I have to have that car.” From the heap which he had assembled on the bed, she separated towels; they would not need towels.
“Once you get on something,” she said, “you just go on and on. If you’ll shut up about the car—” She pretended not to see him; she carried the towels back to the dresser. “I have some money in a savings account.”
“How much?”
“The passbook’s in the drawer.” She indicated the table. “I forget. Whatever it is, you can have it.” He opened the passbook. “Two hundred dollars,” he said, pleased. “That’ll do.”
“What are you going to do about clothes?” she asked. “Your own clothes.” Reluctantly he said, “What kind of clothes do I need?”
“Don’t you know? Good god, don’t you buy your own clothes? Does she buy them for you?”
His eyes on the floor, he said, “Socks, I guess.”
“Socks and shirts and a suit of some kind and underwear.” Her voice was rising, and she remembered the trouble it had caused, the fights with Jim; she heard herself gain the acrimonious tone, the animation. And underneath it was something different, something that she did not recognize. “You’re as helpless as a baby. Go out and go to some men’s clothing store and tell them your stuff was destroyed or it was all lost. Get a neutral suit, blue or brown or gray, single-breasted. Don’t get any sport coats.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said, “sport coats make you look like a kid dressed up for Saturday night.” He was attending, aware of her conviction. “Get a couple of sport shirts,” she said, “and some plain white shirts.” And then the yearning beneath the anger came out, and she said, “I’ll go with you.”
“No,” he said.
But she had made up her mind. Going through her purse, she kept alive a running patter of talk; her eagerness was working through her, and she could not shut it off. “Why should I stake you to an outfit? What kind of a thing is this? Am I supposed to buy your clothes and feed you and support you? Am I keeping you, is that it? What am I supposed to be getting out of it?”
He had no answer; he hung his head.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “You’re supposed to look out for a woman, not live off her. I even have to think for you; I have to tell you how to dress yourself and cross the street. How long do you think I’m going to put up with this? I think I’ve had just about enough. This really is something. You better take a good look at yourself.”
“Calm down,” he said.
But she could not calm down. “Do you know what’s going to happen?” she said. “I’m the one who’s going to have to suffer for all this. I’ll lose my lease here. I’ll probably lose my job. And Rachael’s probably after me, and Jim Briskin too. And I’ll wind up borrowing on my car. I can’t afford to do that, Art; I just can’t. And that’s the last of Bob Posin. You don’t have to worry. If the police show up, it’ll be me they’ll arrest. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. God, you’re just a child; you’re like a baby, a little boy. My little boy.” She swept past him, hurrying away from him so that she was not close enough to touch him; she did not trust herself so close to him.
Going into the bedroom, she closed the door, stood for a moment, and then she thought, what’s gone wrong with me? What is it? Taking off her skirt and blouse, she changed to a blue suit. She made herself up with more powder than usual; she obscured the discoloration around her eye. Then she put on stockings and heels and a white hat with a veil. That does it, she thought. Except for the purse and gloves. She put her things into a dark leather purse, tugged on her gloves, and opened the door. Her muscles were so unresponsive that she thought some blight had fallen onto her; she was dominated by invisible fluids. As if the blight had made a passage into her nerve centers and had lodged there.
“I don’t think my eye will be too noticeable like this,” she said.
Art said, “You look like you’re going to a wedding.”
“Do I?” Approaching him, she said, “What about my eye? How does it look?”
“Not too bad. You c-c-can still see it.”
But she saw his admiration; she knew how good this suit was for her. She saw the response. “Jim likes this suit,” she said.
“You look okay,” he said, and that was as much as he would say. Disappearing into the bathroom, he spent a long time with his hair. She waited, knowing that he was fixing himself up as best he could.
Her suit made her feel superior. She was raised up, maintained. She went about the apartment, smoking, pausing to watch his progress. In this high state she was lazy and at ease. Art, in the bathroom, labored at the mirror; she walked in to inspect his progress. The mirror gave back their combined reflection. How much larger he was than she. But, she thought, she looked good with him; she looked trim and tidy. This was a deep pleasure for her, and she made the most of it. She felt wealthy, expansive; supervising him, she felt aristocratic.
“You have to shave,” she said.
“With what?”
Returning to the bedroom, she rested one of the suitcases on the chair arm; opening it, she took out a plastic-wrapped package from a side pocket. “You can use mine.”
He was astonished to see a regular razor and blades. Beside the plastic package was a blue box; on its side were elegantly printed letters, and as he accepted the razor, he read the letters, slowly, unbelievingly. On his face the dismay was so great that she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
No words were audible. He stared at the box.
“Oh,” she said innocently, “my diaphragm. I had that out the other night. Didn’t you notice?” Still he said nothing. “No,” she said, “I guess you didn’t. I have to use it.” She was curious. “Doesn’t Rachael own a diaphragm?”
“Do you know what a diaphragm is?”
His lips moved. “Sure.”
“She can get one now,” she said. “Now that she’s married. She ought to have one. Tell her. What do you use instead?”
“N-n-nothing.”
“She should use something. A diaphragm is the safest. She can go to a gynecologist and get herself fitted. They’ll measure her, and then she can get it at any drugstore. This one belongs to me and Jim . . . I got it when we were married. By the California Joint−Property Laws half of it is his.” She was enjoying herself, and she pursued him back into the bathroom. His arms and face vanished under the spray of water in the bowl; his back to her, he began industriously to wash and lather himself.
While he shaved—stripped down to his pants—she was leaning against the door-jamb, her arms folded. The bathroom was steamy and warm, and she thought how much it was like some safe cavern; it was womb-like, isolated from the world. The noise of the water, blanked out other sounds. The smell of lather filled her nose, the sweet, wet smell.
“Jim shaves twice a day,” she said. “His beard is heavy; It’s like steel wires in the morning. Do many men shave that often? I guess having to shave is really the worse of the two.”
“Two what?” Washing his face, he began to dry himself; he buried his face in a towel.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” she said, teasing him, playing with him. She walked nearer to him, and then all at once her delight vanished. In its place was lust, and she put her arms around his bare waist and clutched him as lightly as she could; she prevented herself from laying hold of him with her real devotion.