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Chapter 15

Three years into their marriage, when Carolyn was twenty-two, she had become less communicative. She would not—or could not—explain other than, “I just feel like being quiet.”

He suspected an affair. There seemed little opportunity, but he knew from a few joyless liaisons during his first marriage how easily such things could be managed. As her moodiness persisted his suspicion grew into obsession, culminating with the hiring of a detective agency. Reassured about her fidelity, remorseful over the waste of money, he called himself ridiculous for his suspicions; and as her periods of quiet continued, he gradually became used to them.

At this moment he could better understand an affair; it would be easier to contend with than this Val Hunter business. And he could find ways to make a male rival sorry he was ever born.

He excoriated himself for scuttling the best chance to solve the Val Hunter problem. If he hadn’t had so much to drink, hadn’t let his contempt for the woman lead to loss of self-control, he could have befriended her; then it was only a matter of applying a tactic from the world of business: finding the right buttons to push. Little by little he would have stripped the ground out from under her. Often the simple use of caricature laid all the groundwork. Gargantua, he would have called her—smiling of course, as if he meant the nickname to be affectionate. Paula Bunyan.

He put aside the sales forecast he was reviewing and studied his desk calendar. July 23—nineteen days since the Fourth of July, since this whole mess started. Twice a week without fail she was going over to that house in the evening. For just an hour, she said each time. But it was usually an hour and a half; and last Thursday it had been two hours. She had explained: “Val and I want to listen to Geraldine Ferraro’s acceptance speech.”

“I know it’s a historic moment for women,” he had replied, “and I want to hear it too. With you, Princess.”

She shook her head. “You don’t feel the way I do, the way most women feel right now. If you could hear the women at work—” She added with finality, “You wouldn’t vote Democratic unless Reagan switched parties.”

“You’ve never even cared enough to vote,” he pointed out.

“This time I do,” she had said softly, and left the house.

He picked up the report again, and once more laid it aside. What did she want from that woman? What did she need? Why these evening visits, why couldn’t they talk over the back fence? To spend time with Neal, she had said, because I love him and I can’t invite either one of them over here. And Val is working. But artists could work anytime, midnight if they wanted to. Carolyn had said something about her own housework. But how much time did cleaning and cooking actually take? Not long, with just two people and every labor-saving device money could buy. How much dust could two people create? And Carolyn was spending more leisure time in the sun. She was tanned, and getting darker all the time.

There was no escaping the fact that Carolyn wanted to be with her. No rationalizing the issue. Why? What did they talk about? Carolyn was still checking out those scruffy library books—how much was there to learn about art, or to talk about? Certainly he was as intelligent as the Hunter woman, his job was easily as interesting—and paid a hell of a lot more besides. He did not talk about his work much, but Carolyn did not seem that interested.



He slammed a palm on his desk, scattering the pages of the report. He didn’t need any more of this, goddammit. He needed calm in his life, to feel comfortable again with his own wife. To have things the way they were before. Hard enough to stay on top of things in his work without this, and everybody knew the next territorial manager would be himself or Dick Jensen; Will Trask was watching them both with those gimlet eyes of his.

There had to be a solution—there always was. Wait it out? He could do that, but for how long? These nineteen days had been interminable; the thought of that Amazon bitch laughing at him excruciating. And he was by no means blessed with patience.

What did people do to bring more glow into their marriages? Inject some element of change, that was what.

Ludicrous as it might seem, he probably should start thinking of Val Hunter as if she were a man. Grit his teeth and act as if he were competing for Carolyn again, just as he’d had to do before he married her. Distasteful as it might be, there were advantages in approaching the problem this way. He could do things for Carolyn that Val Hunter could not hope to match.

Again he looked at his calendar. In sinking realization he saw that he was trapped, for at least three more weeks. The Olympic Games began this coming weekend; the athletes were already arriving. From all reports traffic would be horrendous. His own company had made contingency plans for bus and carpooling, had encouraged all employees to go on vacation. You wouldn’t be able to get anywhere in town, get a restaurant reservation, anything. His shoulders sagged.

Still, it never hurt to check around, to ask. Never automatically accept things as they appear, he reminded himself—that basic rule of sales also applied to life. You never knew when you might find that unexpected chink in a piece of armor that appeared impervious…

He reached for his intercom, then changed his mind. Margie couldn’t be trusted with this. She was too passive, too willing to take no for an answer, which was why she was a secretary and not in sales where she wanted to be—and why most women couldn’t make it in business. Most of them were like that.

No, he would make a few inquiries himself, see how hopeless the situation really was.

 



Date: 2015-02-03; view: 493


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