Chapter Seventeen
-- June, 1971
Stylistics – “You are Everything”
Sandra didn’t so much garden as she did “supervise the gardeners.” She crouched over her seedlings, eyeing a row of damaged pea pods, as her landscaper explained, “You see where this leaf has been nipped off sharply? How there’s no rough edges?” Sandra nodded. “That’s a rabbit, most likely.”
“I thought you said the chicken wire would keep them out?”
“Not if we’re dealing with rabbits. Rabbits are burrowers.”
“So, we poison the little buggers?”
“You don’t want to risk contaminating the plants.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Well, I’ll get you some traps and we’ll go from there.”
Sandra stood, clapping the dirt from off her hands. She snuck a peek at her watch. “Oh Lord, I’m late! I gotta get ready for my D.A.R. meeting. Are we done here?”
The gardener had already started putting away her tools. “Yeah, I’ll look into what’s needed and we can put ‘em in come Monday.”
Sandra hurried inside, followed closely by her youngest. At twelve, Lynn was goonish and dressed in the short pants of a tomboy. She was clutching a massive, twitching jack rabbit twice her size. “Can I keep it?!” she begged.
Sandra turned to see what her daughter was talking about and shrieked aloud. “Absolutely not! Get it out!”
The rabbit bucked furiously against Lynn, trying to get free. “But why not?! They let us hold ‘em in 4-H!”
“What do you mean, why not?! Because it’s not domesticated, Lynn! Get it out!”
“But whyyyyy?!” Lynn wailed.
“It could have rabies!”
Lynn stomped back out to the yard, mumbling and grumbling the entire way.
With her daughter occupied, Sandra lined up a rainbow of pills on the kitchen counter and swept them into her hand. Leaning over to sip from the faucet, she swallowed them all in one go.
**
As she dressed for the luncheon, she tried on and discarded several outfits. Each one made her feel fat and caused her to press down on her stomach until she was in a shape that vaguely pleased her. She rolled on her Carlotta stockings and added dress shields to her underarms so no one would see her sweat. She sprayed herself with Shalomar. In the foyer on the way in, she put a McCall’s and an Atlantic Monthly out so that she’d look well read.
A half hour later, Sandra’s dual “Ladies Auxiliary” and “Daughters of the American Revolution” meeting was well under way. Her guests sat at tables covered in champagne linens, eating food off of bone china. They wore chiffon blouses, pastel houndstooth dresses, and kitten heels. Cigarette holders kept their fingernails from stinking. As usual, the business of the day was handled in the first ten minutes, and the rest of the luncheon was spent playing bridge. Sandra discarded two cards. “It’s just not right, the man’s a doctor. I practically raised Bill and Janet on his book and to go ahead and get arrested like that...”
A woman in cat’s-eye glasses spoke up. “You’re so blasé about Vietnam, Sandra – what if your kids were sent there?”
“That’ll never happen. William’s seen to it...” Sandra faked a cough and palmed a black beauty. No one was the wiser. She washed it down with the iced tea from her sunflower glass as caterers circled about her with amuse-bouches.
The pills she had taken earlier were slowly working their magic. Sandra watched through heavy lids as snatches of conversation ping-ponged around her table:
“She's such a drip!”
“I don’t understand women’s lib. It’s not like we’re slaves...”
“Just imagine the horror of raising a child alone! I don’t know how they do it...”
“They were Irish... lace-curtain, but still...”
A waiter leaned in to offer Sandra a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich, but she waved him off. “None for me, thanks.”
**
After her guests left, Sandra cleaned in full make-up and dress like a woman possessed; Donna Reed, if Donna Reed was hopped up on goofballs. The T.V. played a mid-day soap, though it was currently being drowned out by a Glen Miller record that Sandra had on top volume. Not that you could hear either over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. As she maneuvered around the room, Lynn helped by lifting carpets and pushing ottomans out of the way. Together they were a manic sort of team.
The urgency was real. Sandra was on a deadline. William was away most of the week for business, importing-exporting hemp, jute, and sisal. But when he was home, they were usually in the city. She waited patiently all week for Friday to roll around because as far back as she could remember, she truly came alive in the city. It was the site of their first date; a marathon twelve hour one, at the end of which William had proposed under the Penn Station departures board. They still maintained an apartment in the village, a rented brownstone for nights when William was too tired to come home.
Sandra waited for the sound of his white wall tires coming up the stone driveway, this clean sound that marked his arrival. He’d come through the door, always just a little drunk, Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm, smelling like English leather. A quick shower and costume change and they’d be on their way.
But it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. At parties they were “close for show.” She might give him a little smooch or sit on his lap, but William could be surprisingly cruel. If she said something stupid in front of their friends, he’d go out of his way to make her feel dumb. When she started remembering that it was only a matter of time before she fixated on the hysterectomy. She would have wanted more kids, but after Lynn, God seemed to have other plans. So she had stepped up the drinking and the pill-popping - the Dexedrine for cleaning and the Valium for sleep - all in the vain hope that the weekend might get there faster.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
When William finally showed up, he was drunker than she thought he’d be. He insisted that he had to return to the office for a bit, which wasn’t a big deal as they usually parked the caddy there anyway before taking a taxi into the city.
The shower sobered him up, but not enough to listen to Sandra drone on in the car. She tried to tell him about a recipe she got from Joan Waverly that turned out badly. Sandra said it was just like Joan to leave an ingredient out to embarrass her.
At his office in Jersey City, Sandra waited while William called his service for his messages. She was marveling at the pneumatic tubes, when Nirmal stopped by. Nirmal Sethia was a squat Indian man who ran the day-to-day operations for William after he absorbed Nirmal’s shipping company. It was a good match, Nirmal needed a white face to front the business and William needed a cash injection after the company he’d inherited from Sandra’s father had seen a dip in fortunes. Within the first month they were in the black. Within the first year, they were millionaires. Still, Sandra couldn’t stand the man.
“Mrs. Benson, always so lovely to see you!” he sang.
Sandra limply offered her hand and Nirmal kissed it. “Nirmal...”
With pleasantries over, Nirmal turned back to her husband. “Will, did you call that lead?”
William shook his head. “It’s the weekend, he’s halfway to the cape by now.”
“Surely, you could--”
“It’ll wait until Monday.” William dry-swallowed a couple aspirin and grabbed his coat. “Honey, you ready?”
Sandra nodded. Nirmal looked like he wanted to say something but instead, only bowed. “Of course. You two enjoy your evening.”
Sandra felt better once they were in the taxi where they could talk about their plans. On a typical Friday, they’d grab a drink at Chumley’s with friends before catching a show. Or they’d drink at the Hemisphere club or the Russian Tea room if Sandra wanted to spy on famous people.
Tonight, they made a quick stop to pick up cash at Chase Manhattan, then met some friends for dinner at Sardi’s. Steve and Eileen were already sitting at their table when William and Sandra arrived. The couples greeted each other warmly and the waitress came by to take their orders. She was a regular and knew they didn’t need menus. Sandra got the heart of palm salad, William the steak tar tar. Sandra barely touched hers, choosing instead to chain smoke.
They were halfway through their meals when William spoke between bites. “You hear about that girl?”
“What girl?” Connerty asked.
“The one who died--” William turned to his wife, snapping his fingers. “What was her name?”
It was Connerty who filled in the blanks. “Oh, Jenny Jampler--”
William nodded. “--Jenny Jampler, that’s right. We heard one of her songs in the car. Voice like an alley cat’s!”
Steve and Eileen laughed, which just spurred William on. “What happened to music?
This Jimmy Hindrecks? He’s twenty-seven and he overdoses on drugs. I’ll give you one guess what color his skin is--”
Sandra whacked him, laughing. “You’re terrible!”
Connerty brightened. “Oh, they’re all on something. What was it?”
William drained his drink. “Sleeping pills, they said. Probably so hopped up he couldn’t come down!”
Sandra leaned in to correct him, “Now hun, you know sleeping pills are safe – you just have to take them in the proper fashion.”
Connerty smirked. “You hear that, Will? You got a future rock star on your hands!”
Sandra blushed as William stared daggers at her.
In their second cab of the night, William was beside himself. “What the fuck was that, Sandy?” he demanded. The driver shot them embarrassed looks in the rearview.
Sandra was quiet, her face red. “Please don’t talk to me like that, William.” She dug in her purse for a pill. When she found it, she threw it back with such force she thought she might have bruised her lip.
William looked at her with contempt. “Feel better now that you’re properly medicated?”
“Leave me alone!”
“Just tell ‘em anything, why don’t you?! Pretend it’s therapy!”
“They’re our friends, they don’t care--”
“Oh, the hell they don’t!”
As William blustered, Sandra let her mind drift. They were on their way to their room at the Savoy. It was the place with the bellhop that always complimented her. She looked forward to seeing him.
**
Sandra woke the next day hungover, but well-rested. As William showered, she switched the hotel room’s television on because Tricia Nixon was supposed to be getting married to Edward Cox and she hoped the networks were covering it. She wasn’t disappointed.
After a late breakfast, William looked up from his paper and seemed to notice for the first time what Sandra was watching. Nixon was onscreen, dancing with his daughter. “He’s probably having a hell of a day – the Times just leaked some Pentagon report.”
“Oh, that’s no good...” Sandra said, not really listening. She watched as Nixon introduced the Ray Conniff Singers in front of a lavish banquet hall. He even threw in a little joke: “And if the music’s square, it’s cause I like it square!” Sandra laughed. The good nature of the room quickly soured though as the lead singer stepped up to the mic and protested Vietnam and praised Ellsberg and the Berrigans, whoever they were. There was a time and place for political statements, Sandra thought, but someone’s wedding?
It was just uncalled for.
A few minutes later, William came out dressed for golf. They both loved the links but never played together because, well, that would be untoward. The two of them headed uptown, where they went their separate ways - Sandra to Bendel’s with all their boutique extras (hopefully that mincing queer who worked in the scarf section was out sick), William to play handball at the Downtown Athletic Club. Or maybe to slip out to the Playboy Club, if he remembered his key card. He said he’d meet back up with Sandra sometime around dinner.
**
Saturday night in the city varied with their whims. If they had a reservation they could go to Le Cote Basque or Le Pavillon, both owned by Henri Soule (who they knew, but didn’t know-know, you know?). They did wave to him, but then again, maybe he waved to everybody. If they didn’t have a reservation, they could always go to La Caravelle which was started by two of the maître d’hotels who had left Le Pavillion. It was good enough for the Kennedys who dined there when they were in town (get the chicken in champagne sauce, they told Esquire).
Tonight though, William had called ahead and told Sandra to meet him at Tavern. He said he’d be bringing some stragglers. Sandra walked in at half past nine, surprised to see Steve and Eileen again.
“Hey, you two!” she said. “Twice in one weekend!”
“I know, so unlike us...” Eileen said, already flushed with alcohol.
William explained, “I bumped into Stevie downtown and he said they didn’t have dinner plans, so I took pity on them.”
“The more the merrier,” Sandra beamed, ushering everyone towards their booth.
Within an hour they had eaten and were on their third cocktail. Eileen had gone from pleasantly buzzed to yelling all her responses. Fortunately, the conversation in the restaurant was at a dull roar. “Should we get another round?” Eileen asked.
Sandra readily agreed and raised her hand to flag down a waitress, but William lowered it. “I think you’ve had enough, Sandy.”
“Oh poop, Will – it’s Saturday!”
“Could you please get a hold of yourself?”
But Connerty had just started to feel his whiskey-sodas. “Nonsense Will, these girls are just sowing their wild oats. Who cares what they do as long as they go home with us, eh?!” He gave William a friendly poke in the ribs, but he wasn’t having it.
Eileen backed her friend up, her words slurring. “Yeah Will, give her a break! Lemme tell you something...” She leaned in, confidentially. “You got such a great wife. I love this woman!” She grabbed Sandra’s arm for balance. “She is such a good mother!”
**
In the cab on their way back from Tavern, William and Sandra went at it. “When you told them which pills were okay to take with alcohol, what the hell were you thinking?!”
“They knew I was joking!”
“I didn’t!”
“Don’t do this, you always do this! You make me feel about this big!” Sandra struggled to spread her thumb and pointer.
“Good, then maybe you’ll change your behavior!”
“This is like Lake George all over again.”
“When are you gonna let me off the hook, huh?! I’m sick and tired of groveling!”
“If that’s how you feel, then we might as well go home tonight. I don’t care. I don’t want to spend one more minute with you!”
They returned to the Savoy and packed what few things they had. The ride back to William’s office was completely silent. When they got there, neither of them was sober enough to drive. But William got behind the wheel anyway and without a word, drove them the forty-five minutes home, angrily swerving the entire way.