blue Oxford-cloth button-down shirts slightly chewed at the collar, yet neat; rep ties; wrinkled khakis. And when, among summer’s long shadows, they’d French-kissed on the lawn behind her grandparents’ house in Clayton, he’d seemed so gentle, so easy to be with, so adult, and yet so interestingly remote in what she took to be a mature and manly way. Okay, a little insecure every now and then – she remembered noticing that – but unquestionably sophisticated. He’d given her a book about Norman Rockwell. He could whistle Carmen. She was sure he knew it all.
Although she knew a little bit as well.
She’d never wanted Stanley to find out, naturally, or to think she was “fast”, but Frances Elizabeth Kaye had, in fact, gone all the way with Arthur, her previous boyfriend. She hadn’t told her friends, or her mother, God forbid, or anyone else at all. Ever. Which may have been why, in her freshly unvirginal heart, her transgression had oppressed her so. And festered. And it was certainly why, if she hoped to save herself from slut-dom – if she hoped to marry and have children and be good – Stanley Turner looked like It.
He was responsible and safe. They both liked barbecue. And Dylan. And crucially, he’d told her that he loved her. Which was why, when he’d proposed after two years of going steady, Frannie, faux-reluctantly, had agreed to have sex before marriage with him. Mainly because Stanley was concerned about whether he would fit or not, an issue that seemed to consume him.
He did, of course.
But Frannie could have told him he would.
She’d thought they’d have babies right away. She was delighted to learn he wanted them too.
But after they’d been married for a year or so and nothing had happened, Frannie grew anxious – a little. She’d always assumed she’d be one of those girls who got pregnant right away. Otherwise, why all those warnings about premarital sex?
It was on their third anniversary that Frannie showed him her hidden stash of having-a-baby books, and the carefully kept ovulation calendar. He was surprised, pleased, and enthusiastic.
But the baby didn’t come.
They tried for months, and then for years. To the point of arguments, silences and eventually – to the grueling rounds of doctors, recommended positions, blood tests, to the rabbits that didn’t die. And every now and then, in those first years, sitting side by side on the sofa watching sitcoms with kids, or in bed after sex, Frannie and Stanley would cry.
So she started on hormone pills. The latest thing.
Seven, twelve years went by and she didn’t conceive. Despondent, now, they made the trip to the office of the famous Chicago gynecologist who, having subjected her to a weeks-long sequence of questionnaires, blood tests, x-rays, and painful exams (slumped in her slipper chair, Frannie caught her breath) he’d announced she could never have children.
Frannie hauled herself up out of the chair and leaned against the wall beside her “Primavera”.
After that, Stanley had changed.
He went to bed early.
But she was sorry, she’d said.
Rolled over when she slipped in beside him.
But she was sorry, she’d told him again.
Avoided her goodnight kiss.
Oh God, she was so sorry.
He slept in the guestroom for a long time after that. Left the house without a goodbye. Picked at her about her clothes, her lateness, her smile. (Her smile!) And why hadn’t she filled the gas tank? Did they really need another new painting? Wasn’t she supposed to walk the dog? And just what did she do all day?
Early on, she’d thought he was having an affair with the hygienist. Gradually however, she understood he no longer liked her.
So she’d asked.
Once.
They’d been driving home from a party at the Hargreaves’, the same party where a sweaty Peter Hargreaves had danced her into his mother-in-law’s empty bedroom and kissed her wetly, his mouth a wash of gin and weed. Where Frannie had shocked herself by kissing him back, pulling him to her, yanking at his belt.
Peter had moved away from her a little, thrilled.
“Do you want to?” he’d asked.
Days later she thought that if he hadn’t asked.… if he hadn’t asked, it would have all gone well. Because she liked Peter. Liked his sweet-smelling pipe and his pocket watch. His seductive grin. If she’d been honest with herself – which she mostly tried to be – of all their male friends, he was the one she most often thought about in bed. Still, his question brought her up short.
Adultery. Her?
But that night at the party, her body burned for him, and moving to the open window, she slid its filmy curtains aside and leaned her elbows on the sill, pretending to look out, but really, offering Peter her, um … ass.
If he comes over here now, if he touches me and, all right, even if he outright asks again, she told herself, I’ll do it.
She heard the bedsprings sigh behind her.
No! He’d just sat down!
She turned to face his shadow on the bed.
“So do you want to?” he asked huskily. “Tell me if you do. I’m right here – ready.” He’d unzipped his fly and although it was very dark, she was fairly sure he was waggling his penis at her.
Why hadn’t he just “taken her”, the way they did in books? She’d been hoping to be taken in adultery.
“Damn it, Peter. Why ask? Why make me say it? Why not just do it?”
And all at once, she found the wine was wearing off, so that before he could zip his fly or open his mouth, she’d rushed past him, back to the party, panicky and ashamed.
It was on their way home that she’d asked.
“Why don’t we make love anymore?”
Oh God, here she was, outright asking, just the way Peter had. She should just have reached over and rubbed him some. He used to like that.
But now she couldn’t stop.
“What’s the problem with us, Stanley? I’m nice-looking. People tell me that. Other men think I’m attractive.”
The pleading in her own voice made her start to weep.
She dashed away the tears, drew herself up on the seat beside him, and wooden and rigid, she stared through the windshield into the dark, one eyelid twitching helplessly.
She needed to know.
“Why don’t you sleep with me anymore?”
Stanley’s eyes flicked her way before fixing again on the road. He’d raked his still-fair hair and pinched his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, a familiar, pre-outburst gesture.
“What’s the point?”
Frannie froze.
“What do you mean?”
His hands, the tendons taut, slid higher on the steering wheel.
“Truth?” Stanley asked.
She sat frozen as he fumbled at his breast pocket for his cigarettes, held the pack to his mouth, lipped one out, pushed the dashboard lighter, and stared into the oncoming lights. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“It isn’t ‘what’s the point’ at all. It’s that, really, I can’t help it. And I know you can’t help it, either. So I’m sorry. I am.
“But it started after you saw that doctor in Chicago. I started not, um.… not to want you anymore. It was as if I’d, maybe unconsciously, needed a point to our lovemaking, I suppose. I know that’s not how most