soufflé having collapsed, she had
put together a quick peach melba.
"I hope you like this as a substitute," she said,
beginning to eat hers. She concentrated on the taste. "Not bad if I say so
myself," she said, looking across the table at her husband. He hadn't
touched his dessert.
"You're so damned naive, Jenny. You think all the
people in this town are as honest and forthright as the folks back home. They
aren't. Why can't you take my advice? Believe me, I know. Why open yourself up
to insult?"
"It wasn't exactlyâ"
"Oh, yes, it was," Larry remonstrated. "You
can't deny it, Jenny. No way."
She studied her husband. What was going on here? She felt
terrible for pushing him into a foul mood. She remembered her mother's
prescription for dealing with a husband in a funk. "Tiptoe through the
tulips until he works it out of himself. He's probably reacting to something at
work and is using the subject at hand to vent his anger."
"Eat your dessert, Larry. You're missing out on
something good," she said pleasantly, hoping to close the issue. She
spooned up the last of her peach melba. He still hadn't touched his.
"I think you should stop serving desserts," he
said, patting his flat stomach and getting up from the table. "And stop
being Mrs. Goody-Goody."
He couldn't seem to get it out of his mind, which was
disturbing. She tried another tack.
"Are you saying, Larry, that you would not have
accepted the package?" Jenny asked. It came down to that, she had decided.
"Probably not," he declared. He had gotten up
from the table and had begun to unbutton his dress shirt in preparation for
weight lifting in the bedroom. "In fact, I wouldn't. She should have had
it sent to her office. She knew she wouldn't be home for a Bloomie's delivery,
which happens only in the daytime. She also probably knew that you were the
only person in the building who didn't work."
After he had gone into the bedroom she began to load the
dishwasher, mulling over his comment. Not work, she wondered. Then what is this
I'm doing?
Sometime later, after she had cleaned up the kitchen, she
found him in the bedroom lifting weights. She sat on the bed and watched him, a
process he greatly enjoyed. After a while he turned to her and she could see
that his mood had changed.
"Like what you see, baby?" he said.
"Love those buns," she told him coyly.
"Then come on over and butter them up."
She did, watching the activity in the two standing mirrors.
It was, in fact, impossible to ignore the other tenants.
Despite all Larry's caveats, she was not the kind of person who could pass
someone in the hallway, turn her eyes away, and refuse to acknowledge their
presence. Admittedly the episode with Myrna Davis, particularly Larry's
reaction to her explanation of it, made her a bit gun-shy.
There was also no way not to observe them or to prevent
herself from speculating about their lives. For example, there was Teddy Stern,
who lived with his parents in the apartment on the third floor, the only floor
that contained only one apartment.
Jenny had seen them in the hallway on weekends. Barry
Stern, Teddy's father, was a chunky man in his early forties, balding, with the
beginnings of a paunch and jowls and a serious, self-absorbed expression, as if
his mind were perpetually occupied with weighty thoughts. When she passed him
in the hallway while he waited for the elevator, she would always nod and smile
pleasantly and offer the time-honored platitudes about the weather.
"On the chilly side for May," she would say as
she headed for the front door.
"A bit," he would grunt indifferently, as if the
statement had interrupted his far more important contemplations. His wife was
only slightly more forthcoming and looked harassed and sickly with a sallow
complexion and a glazed expression. There was a dark puffiness under her eyes
as if she were on the verge of exhaustion.
Jenny had first seen Teddy Stern with his parents one
Sunday as the three of them emerged from the
put together a quick peach melba.
"I hope you like this as a substitute," she said,
beginning to eat hers. She concentrated on the taste. "Not bad if I say so
myself," she said, looking across the table at her husband. He hadn't
touched his dessert.
"You're so damned naive, Jenny. You think all the
people in this town are as honest and forthright as the folks back home. They
aren't. Why can't you take my advice? Believe me, I know. Why open yourself up
to insult?"
"It wasn't exactlyâ"
"Oh, yes, it was," Larry remonstrated. "You
can't deny it, Jenny. No way."
She studied her husband. What was going on here? She felt
terrible for pushing him into a foul mood. She remembered her mother's
prescription for dealing with a husband in a funk. "Tiptoe through the
tulips until he works it out of himself. He's probably reacting to something at
work and is using the subject at hand to vent his anger."
"Eat your dessert, Larry. You're missing out on
something good," she said pleasantly, hoping to close the issue. She
spooned up the last of her peach melba. He still hadn't touched his.
"I think you should stop serving desserts," he
said, patting his flat stomach and getting up from the table. "And stop
being Mrs. Goody-Goody."
He couldn't seem to get it out of his mind, which was
disturbing. She tried another tack.
"Are you saying, Larry, that you would not have
accepted the package?" Jenny asked. It came down to that, she had decided.
"Probably not," he declared. He had gotten up
from the table and had begun to unbutton his dress shirt in preparation for
weight lifting in the bedroom. "In fact, I wouldn't. She should have had
it sent to her office. She knew she wouldn't be home for a Bloomie's delivery,
which happens only in the daytime. She also probably knew that you were the
only person in the building who didn't work."
After he had gone into the bedroom she began to load the
dishwasher, mulling over his comment. Not work, she wondered. Then what is this
I'm doing?
Sometime later, after she had cleaned up the kitchen, she
found him in the bedroom lifting weights. She sat on the bed and watched him, a
process he greatly enjoyed. After a while he turned to her and she could see
that his mood had changed.
"Like what you see, baby?" he said.
"Love those buns," she told him coyly.
"Then come on over and butter them up."
She did, watching the activity in the two standing mirrors.
It was, in fact, impossible to ignore the other tenants.
Despite all Larry's caveats, she was not the kind of person who could pass
someone in the hallway, turn her eyes away, and refuse to acknowledge their
presence. Admittedly the episode with Myrna Davis, particularly Larry's
reaction to her explanation of it, made her a bit gun-shy.
There was also no way not to observe them or to prevent
herself from speculating about their lives. For example, there was Teddy Stern,
who lived with his parents in the apartment on the third floor, the only floor
that contained only one apartment.
Jenny had seen them in the hallway on weekends. Barry
Stern, Teddy's father, was a chunky man in his early forties, balding, with the
beginnings of a paunch and jowls and a serious, self-absorbed expression, as if
his mind were perpetually occupied with weighty thoughts. When she passed him
in the hallway while he waited for the elevator, she would always nod and smile
pleasantly and offer the time-honored platitudes about the weather.
"On the chilly side for May," she would say as
she headed for the front door.
"A bit," he would grunt indifferently, as if the
statement had interrupted his far more important contemplations. His wife was
only slightly more forthcoming and looked harassed and sickly with a sallow
complexion and a glazed expression. There was a dark puffiness under her eyes
as if she were on the verge of exhaustion.
Jenny had first seen Teddy Stern with his parents one
Sunday as the three of them emerged from the
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