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A GOOD NAME
Sunlight falls through the kitchen window, tinted the faintly reddish hue only seen on a late afternoon in summer. The sunlight lies pooled on the immaculate, stone tiled floor, out of place in a room filled with gleaming steel, sterile blue walls, and a lingering odor of antiseptic. The woman paces the kitchen, unconsciously avoiding the puddle of sunlight. Her shoes rapping sharply against the tile, there is an agitated look in her eyes. She stops, leaning on the marble counter, tapping manicured nails while she thinks. The youthful prettiness she once possessed is transforming to the well-groomed look of a spoiled pet. Her hair is masterfully cut in the latest style; flawless makeup masks the heavy frown lines that are beginning to form. Her expensive clothes are perfectly tailored to hide the places on her body where fat is starting to intrude.
She pushes off the counter, and throws open a cupboard opposite her. Nothing inside but a few dusty bottles of wine. A bitter laugh escapes her reddened lips. She rolls swearwords silently over her tongue, afraid her husband may overhear. He does not approve of women swearing, he says it is unladylike. Every second and fourth weekend for a year in this damned place, and this is a first. They have no food. The grocery bags are sitting in their garage at home, the pate spoiling and the hand made ice cream melting. Her husband said they were in the trunk, not paying attention to what she asked, as usual. Now she doesn't know what to do. Her husband wants a smoothly run household; he won't take well to the lack of dinner. Though she knows it's his fault, the verbal blows she'd earn by saying so persuade her to find a scapegoat. He hates to make mistakes, vehemently denying them when he can. Someone on the kitchen staff at home will have to pay, instead.
At first she couldn't rebuke the staff, no matter how he raged at her. It wasn't in her nature, at least not until her husband said the employees all laughed at her for being so weak. She still remembers how terribly hurt she was. She tore furiously into them after that. She often suspects her husband told her a lie from the betrayed looks she received that first time. She had been a friend to many of them, lonely in her new place as the rich wife. The original help are long replaced, only her husband knows how she used to be. Now it's too late to relinquish her petty power, she's become dependent on it as the only control she has left in the life she leads under her husband's critical tongue. The present help are more afraid of her than him, a fact she finds both ironic and sad. This little mishap gives her another chance to exert that power. She rehearses what to say, and whom to select for punishment. She'll need the small release after the weekend is over. They are paid so well, scapegoat should be a job requirement, or so she tries to tell herself.
She roots vainly through the pantry in search of salvation. There isn't much of a personal nature at their island home, much less food. What lasts two weeks that her husband would actually eat? His snobbery extends to everything, including his tastebuds. These twice-monthly visits are a perfect example. According to him, wealthy people ALWAYS own a country home. All his friends and family own ostentatious second homes, huge country dwellings they refer to as "cottages". So they bought this extravagantly priced island "cottage" and barely use it. Her husband is excited, this Christmas it's his turn to have his family over. Every Christmas his family battles over where they'll spend next year. This year, he won. Another year with no chance of her going home for Christmas. Her family doesn't buy the feeble excuses she serves up each year. She always asks to go, he gets angry, accuses her of trying to make him look bad in front of his family, and says maybe next year. Every year she hopes it's time, but it never is. She sighs, and closes the pantry door.
She glances at the refrigerator hopefully. Maybe there's something leftover from last time. She pulls open the door, her fingers crossed. Ah, the horn of plenty overflows. Three measly items to choose from. A container of cream cheese, some molding kiwis and…a squeeze bottle of French's Mustard? She didn't buy this, did she? Her husband would sooner swallow bleach then use the cheap yellow liquid. So how did this get here? Wondering, she unscrews the lurid yellow top, and empties it into the sink. However it got here, she has to get rid of it before her husband sees the container. He would accuse her of buying it, and make fun of her 'roots'. She scoops out a tiny dollop with her finger, and puts it in her mouth. The taste reminds her of a younger, happier time, when she had believed that anything was possible. Belief is a sort of magic, transforming whoever is lucky enough to possess it. Loss of that belief has left her stranded in a once unimaginable place. She's tried drugs, alcohol, ski trips in Aspen, and hour long massages at her spa. None of it brings back that easy feeling of well being. It is beyond her, now, except in memories.
She breathes in one last whiff of the container, then throws it into the garbage. She has to make a decision about dinner, quickly. At home, the hired help make the decisions and take the responsibility off her shoulders. Out here she's on her own. All tasks become hers, including cooking meals. God, she just dreads the meals. It isn't that she minds cooking, in fact she used to love cooking for friends and family. But her recipes were mostly simple meals, not up to her husband's exacting standards. That first weekend out here had been absolute hell. Everything she cooked, her husband hated, and spared no effort to make her aware of it. After meals she'd hear him stalking about his den, muttering. Since then she's made sure to be prepared. She subscribes to every gourmet-cooking magazine and raids the finest stores for supplies before these country weekends. Still, she feels her stomach tense and her breath begin to shorten every time he picks up his fork for that first bite. Of course, if he has had a rough week, he'll start in on her no matter how good the food is.
Frustrated, she slams every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen. There really isn't a damn thing to eat in this house. She'll have to go into town and find something her husband will eat. In all their island visits she's never been to town. Her stomach sinks as she remembers jeering at the local supermarkets' tiny size as they drove by. Her husband always makes some local yokel joke, and they both laugh. She winces at the thought of shopping there. Her doubts on the stores' contents aside, they'll know she's a city dweller. She's conscious of the looks their brand new truck gets as they drive through town. She's heard the curses as her husband drives by a hitchhiker in the pouring rain on an island where hitchhiking is public transit. She quails at walking among them, her body laid bare to their curious glances. And she's painfully aware that people just don't like her anymore. Years of her husband's sharp tongue have corroded her self-confidence. Anything she says now is echoed back inside her head in his mocking tones, making it sound moronic. She never used to be this way, and it frightens her. When she was younger she always had plenty of friends, she was very easygoing with people. Now social contact with strangers has become loathsome to her, and she tends to spend most of her time inside. She's avoided all encounters for weeks and she's not prepared for one now. She must, though. Her husband won't go. The way he always scoffs at the locals makes her think he might be scared of them as well. He'll get angry with her for asking, and she'll end up going, anyway. Resigned, she plays with the key rack, trying to decide which car to take. She's definitely not taking the Durango. The shining newness of the truck bespeaks wealth playacting at being a regular joe. She's embarrassed for her husband every time he gets into it. The truck doesn't suit him. She grabs the keys to the Mercedes, and lets the old feeling of superiority settles around her like a well-worn suit of armor. Feeling much braver, she leaves.
The ordeal nearly over, she waits impatiently in the checkout line. The selection wasn't as bad as she'd feared, now she just wants to get out of here. She taps her fingers against the steel rail, and looks disgruntled. There's only one teenage cashier working, and she's busy chatting to a customer buying cigarettes. Christ. She checks her watch three times, sighing audibly between each glance. This, at least, gets the cashier's attention, who rings her groceries through while talking with the local clodhopper. He eventually wanders off, and the cashier gives her the total. Presenting her credit card with a flourish, she watches the cashier's face to see if she looks impressed. The cashier (with a hint of condensation?) asks her for ID, as she isn't a "regular". Right. This is small town nosiness or small town distrust, one of the two. Anyway, just what she expected. Out to give her a hard time, punishment for not being local. She snorts and rolls her eyes, hoping the cashier notices. She scrambles to think up some indignant retorts as the cashier looks searchingly at her.
"Hey, are you any relation to the Bergers that live here? Natalie and John?"
Taken aback, she giggles at this unexpected turn in the conversation. Another couple on this tiny island with the same name as her husband? He would HAVE to find this amusing. Unexpectedly, she's happy. She has a story to break the tension of dinner. Okay, but she must play this out in full, so she can have a good tale to tell. With a flash of innovation, she replies.
"Why yes, I am related. John is my husband's brother."
"I knew it," the cashier bubbles happily. "I didn't think you and Natalie were related, you look a fair bit older than she is. She and John are a very happy couple, and such good people, don't you think?"
"Sure," she replies, rather roughly, her good mood vanished. She's highly sensitive about her apparent age. Only thirty-four, new acquaintances often mistake her for a women in her forties, much to their mutual chagrin. Spending life under the kind of stress she lives with will age a person immeasurably. To rub salt in her wounds, her husband doesn't look a day older than when they were first married. The cashier babbles on about the wonderful deeds of the alternate Bergers, blissfully unaware of the sudden mood change. She wonders when this torture will end. She used to volunteer her time constantly, and no one sung her praises. Of course, she hasn't done anything since she married; her husband disapproves. He never donates money for any other reason than a tax deduction. He thinks all that stuff about the homeless and needy is drivel, a scam to get money out of suckers. As far as he's concerned, anyone who gets fooled by that bit is soft and weak minded. She didn't want to give him a chance to heap that same scorn upon her head, so she gave it up. But she misses helping people, she misses it terribly. This is when she actually hates her husband. Not for the choices he forced her to make, but for the choices she made voluntarily, to protect herself. She has given up a career, children and various little things, like the chance to do community work, and for what? She's miserable. Ugh, why does she even waste energy thinking about things it's too late to change? She just has to live her life, such that it is. She is furious with the cashier for her part in this ordeal, and with the stupid Bergers as well. She reaches for her groceries, determined to flee, when something the cashier says catches her attention.
"Of course, if you are picking up groceries for the Bergers, why don't you put it on their tab sheet?"
Hmm. A pleasing ending to the story, one her husband would heartily approve of.
"I AM picking up some things for them, actually. They must have forgotten to tell me to put it on their tab."
"No problem, ma'am. Say hi to them for me, will you?"
"I'll make a point of it, don't worry." She scurries out of the store, feeling a little guilty for such a mean act. She throws her ill-gotten gains into the Mercedes, and speeds off.
She relates her story at dinner, but her husband merely shrugs indifferently and continues eating. He gets up and leaves without a word when he's done. Damn Bergers. Not only did they ruin her afternoon, but they don't even make good story material. She vows to go back to the store tomorrow and put the most expensive items she can find on their tab. Even better, she'll throw it all away as soon as she's out the door. Feeling worn, she goes up to her bedroom. Warm colors, comfy furniture, and the beautiful art in her room are a marked contrast to the icy blues walls and dark, heavy furniture in her husband's bedroom. She feels safe in here; it's a room of a happy little girl, or a lover's cozy nest. She designed it herself, with the help of a decorator. She wanted to decorate the rest of the house, breathe a little life into the impersonal space, but her husband wouldn't let her. The only personal touch in the rest of the house is a teal and cream colored Persian rug that she picked out for their living room. She crosses the deep plush carpet in her bare feet and hunkers down in front of her dresser. She opens the bottom drawer, searching for a comfy nightgown to wear to bed. One catches her eye, particularly soft and lacy. She runs her fingers over it, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric. Something crackles under her fingers. A piece of folded paper is in one of the pockets. She pulls it out. On the outside is a drawing of a bed, with a naked girl perched on it, knees tucked modestly up under her chin. With a creeping sense of unease, she realizes the bed looks exactly like hers. She reads the words inside.
"I love you with all my heart, my sweetest one. When I breathe, I smell your hair, when I close my eyes, your image burns there. Your voice in my ears is the night cries of sleeping birds. Every night I pray we will be together, forever. Your Love."
She sits on the bed with a heavy thump. Her jaw clenches as she crushes the card between bunched fists. Damn him, damn him. In here, of all places. Does his mistress sleep in her bed, too? She was half expecting this, but expecting and knowing are two different things. Furious tears stream down her face and fall into the folds of the nightgown. The passion infused in the card poises a mortal blow to her self-esteem. She's managed to keep herself intact all these years with the knowledge that her husband is incapable of being any other way. She's taken the jibes knowing any other woman he married would have to do the same. Has some woman seen a quality in her husband she's ignored? Has she been in the wrong all this time? She runs probing fingers over soft, doughy flesh that was once lean. With her body looking like this, its no wonder he doesn't touch her anymore. She swears she'll go to the gym more often. She's rationalizing, and hates herself for it. Any women's magazine would say confront him, but she isn't sure she's strong enough. She smoothes the crumpled card, trying to find a hint towards whether she's failed as a wife in the lovely lines, when she realizes this card isn't written by her husband. His sentences fall like a boy dropping rocks off a bridge. Chunk. There is one sentence. Thunk. There goes another. The verses in the card are light and flowing. And she knows he doesn't draw. This card is sketched with great love and a skilled hand. So who wrote it? His mistress? The words seem … masculine, though. Questions nagging at her, she stares at the ceiling late into the night before finally dropping into uneasy rest on the floor, beside a bed she is unsure has been desecrated.
The sound of the car leaving wakes her. Good, she won't have to face him with the question in her eyes. She assembles her breakfast of grapefruit and unbuttered toast while waiting for the coffee to brew, the repast of suffering dieters everywhere. Seating herself in the breakfast nook, she closes her eyes and lets the sunlight play over her face. While enjoying the warmth, an unforeseen revelation occurs. She isn't putting herself on a diet for her husband's sake, but for her own. In fact, she doesn't care what he thinks of her looks, or what he has been up to. Sometime in the night it ceased to matter. She laughs at how brave she sounds, at least in her head. The discovery does wonders, making her stronger in places she desperately needs strength. She's even going to confront him about his mistress, no matter what he says to her. After all, they're just words. She's the one who gives them the power to wound, and she isn't going to anymore. She smiles, a peaceful, easy smile. It's her first in a long, long time. The smile transforms her. She's achingly lovely in the warm sun, and doesn't even realize it. No one's around to gaze upon her in her fleeting moment of beauty. With the ring of the doorbell it's gone, as so many beautiful things are, unwitnessed. She gets up to answer it, carrying her untouched cup of coffee with her.
An older woman, graying hair pulled down her back in a long French braid, stands on her doorstep.
"Uh, hi there. Are you a relative of the Bergers?"
Oh, no. Has this woman spoken to the cashier? She's forced to renew a lie begun to impress her indifferent husband. Guiltily, she replies "Yes. Why?"
"Well, I was hoping to speak with Natalie or John. Are either of them here?"
She's being drawn into lying in detail. "No, they are not. Can I help you?" she reluctantly asks with increasing discomfort.
"Sure, just give them this envelope, will you? It's the notes on last weeks town meeting."
As she reaches for the envelope the coffee spills, splashing the pristine white rug. The smear of brown glares up at her, shocking against the snowy white rug. The woman looks as stunned as she does.
"You better put something on that spill, Natalie will freak out if she sees that, since this isn't her house."
Not Natalie's house? Of course this wasn't Natalie's house. She peers at the woman, searching for signs of senility.
"The one time Natalie and John had me over, they were fanatical about using coasters, and eyed my wineglass when I walked over the Persian rug. They are usually so easygoing, I was surprised to feel uncomfortable. They housesit for a rich couple, and worry about the house. Anyway, I'm sure you have seen that gorgeous teal blue and cream Persian rug in the living room. I wouldn't want anything to happen to that, whether it was mine or not ! Don't worry, I'm sure Natalie has some stain remover lying around."
With an almost audible click, the pieces all fall together. There's no other woman. There are only other Bergers. They live here. They LIVE here. The woman says something to her and leaves. She barely notices. The betrayal by her husband has transformed into a far stranger reality than she could ever dream. Unbelievable. Why would they do such a thing? They must have watched the house for weeks to make sure it was safe. A deep blush spreads across her cheeks. How routine their life must have looked to the hidden watchers. Humiliated that they decided breaking and entering was a safe risk, her shock melts into anger. How dare they? They haven't just subverted the car and house, either. Some girl has taken her life and lived it better than she could. They have fulfilling, helpful lives, while she has nothing. Her husband will be enraged, he'll prosecute the "Bergers" to the fullest extent and make sure they spend a long time in jail. The sweet words in the love letter spring to her mind, and she feels a pang of pity for the young imposters. Anyone so in love will find jail a waking nightmare. She admits to herself that the real reason she's incensed is because she's jealous of the love the young couple has. She actually admires the gutsiness of these two, become upstanding members of a small community without suspicion, knowing the secluded habits of their counterparts. They have certainly taken care of her home! They must have lived here for quite some time, and she certainly never suspected a thing until this weekend. The humor of the situation strikes her, and she begins chuckling. There is an appealing irony at having a counterpart who is doing good works and living happily under the same name that has caused her so much misery. The fact is, she'd love to meet these young ruffians. Her face falls at the circumstances she will probably meet them under. Her husband won't see the humor in this, nor will he recognize that there was no harm done. As far as he goes, the "Bergers" picked the worst home possible to pull this stunt in. Speak of the devil, his car's pulling in. Those poor kids.
All their leftover groceries are loaded into the car. It is the end of the second weekend of the month. She fusses around the counters, postponing the moment of departure. Her husband glares restlessly about him.
"Move it, let's get going," he snaps at her.
She levels a long, hard look at him, saying nothing. He tries to meet her stare, fidgeting, his eyebrows raised in surprise at this unexpected confrontation. Finally he looks down, and walks out of the house, a shocked look on his face. He slams the door shut behind him. She takes a last look around, then puts an envelope on the kitchen table. She shuts off the lights, and closes the door gently. The envelope lies gleaming on the table, caught by the afternoon sunlight. The front of the envelope is marked with a looping, childish hand. It says "The Bergers." It is the envelope the older woman left behind. On the back is written, in the same childish hand, "Thanks for the good name. I hope to see you soon. Regards, Laura Berger."
She grins as the car churns up dust speeding down the country road. It seems a waste to have something so expensive so rarely used. Her husband won't catch on, he never notices anything. Besides, they're the first people she's wanted as friends in a very long time. Laura Berger takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.
--GO BACK--