J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

That was just like him. At the coffee, Ethel planned to ask the women to come over soon with their husbands, but she was afraid some of the husbands wouldn’t take to Ralph. Probably he could buy insurance from Mr Nilgren. He would want to do something for the ones who weren’t selling anything, though — if there were any like that — and they might misunderstand Ralph. He was used to buying the drinks. He should relax and take the neighbors as they came. Or move.

She didn’t know why they were there anyway. It was funny. After they were married, before they left on their honeymoon, Ralph had driven her out to Blue Island and walked her through the house. That was all there was to it. Sometimes she wondered if he’d won the house at cards. She didn’t know why they were there when they could just as well be living at Minnetonka or White Bear, where they could keep a launch like the one they’d hired in Florida — and where the houses were far apart and neighbors wouldn’t matter so much. What were they waiting for? Some of the things they owned, she knew, were for later. They didn’t need sterling for eighteen in Blue Island. And the two big pictures were definitely for later.

She didn’t know what Ralph liked about his picture, which was of an Indian who looked all in sitting on a horse that looked all in, but he had gone to the trouble of ordering it from a regular art store. Hers was more cheerful, the palace of the Doge of Venice, Italy. Ralph hadn’t wanted her to have it at first. He was really down on anything foreign. (There were never any Italian dishes on the menu at the Mohawk.) But she believed he liked her for wanting that picture, for having a weakness for things Italian, for him — and even for his father and mother, whom he was always sorry to see and hadn’t invited to the house. When they came anyway, with his brothers, their wives and children (and wine, which Ralph wouldn’t touch), Ralph was in and out, upstairs and down, never long in the same room with them, never encouraging them to stay when they started to leave. They called him “Rock” or “Rocky,” but Ralph didn’t always answer to that. To one of the little boys who had followed him down into the basement, Ethel had heard him growl, “The name’s Ralph”—that to a nine-year-old. His family must have noticed the change in Ralph, but they were wrong if they blamed her, just because she was a little young for him, a blonde, and not a Catholic — not that Ralph went to church. In fact, she thought Ralph would be better off with his family for his friends, instead of counting so much on the neighbors. She liked Ralph’s family and enjoyed having them in the house.

And if Ralph’s family hadn’t come around, the neighbors might even think they weren’t properly married, that they had a love nest going there. Ethel didn’t blame the neighbors for being suspicious of her and Ralph. Mr Nilgren in his shirt and cap that did nothing for him, he belonged there, but not Ralph, so dark, with his dark blue suits, pearl-gray hats, white jacquard shirts — and with her, with her looks and platinum hair. She tried to dress down, to look like an older woman, when she went out. The biggest thing in their favor, but it wasn’t noticeable yet, was the fact that she was pregnant.

Sometimes she thought Ralph must be worrying about the baby — as she was — about the kind of life a little kid would have in a neighborhood where his father and mother didn’t know anybody. There were two preschool children at the Nilgrens’. Would they play with the Davicci kid? Ethel didn’t ever want to see that sick look of Ralph’s on a child of hers.

That afternoon two men in white overalls arrived from Minneapolis in a white truck and washed the windows inside and out, including the basement and garage. Ralph had sent them. Ethel sat in the dining room and polished silver to the music of Carmen on records. She played whole operas when Ralph wasn’t home.

In bed that night Ralph made her run through the neighbors again. Seven for sure, counting Mrs Hancock. “Is that all?” Ethel said she was going to call the neighbor who hadn’t been home. “When?” When she got the number from Mrs Hancock. “When’s that?” When Mrs Hancock phoned, if she phoned… And that was where Ralph believed Ethel had really fallen down. She didn’t have Mrs Hancock’s number — or address — and there wasn’t a Hancock listed for Blue Island in the phone book. “How about next door?” Mrs Nilgren was still coming. “The other side?” The Manns were still away, in California, and Ralph knew it. “They might come back. Ever think of that? You don’t wanna leave them out.” Them , he’d said, showing Ethel what was expected of her. He wanted those husbands. Ethel promised to watch for the return of the Manns. “They could come home in the night.” Ethel reminded Ralph that a person in her condition needed a lot of sleep, and Ralph left her alone then.

Before Ralph was up the next morning, Ethel started to clean the house. Ralph was afraid the house cleaning wouldn’t be done right ( he spoke of her condition) and wanted to get another crew of professionals out from Minneapolis. Ethel said it wouldn’t look good. She said the neighbors expected them to do their own house cleaning— and window washing . Ralph shut up.

When he came home for lunch, Ethel was able to say that Mrs Hancock had called and that the neighbor who hadn’t been home could come to the coffee. Ethel had talked to her, and she had sounded very friendly. “That’s three of ’em, huh?” Ethel was tired of that one, but told him they’d all sounded friendly to her. “Mrs Hancock okay?” Mrs Hancock was okay. More than happy to be coming. Ralph asked if Ethel had got Mrs Hancock’s phone number and address. No. “Why not?” Mrs Hancock would be there in the morning. That was why — and Ralph should get a hold on himself.

In the afternoon, after he was gone, Ethel put on one of her new conservative dresses and took the bus to Minneapolis to buy some Swedish pastry. She wanted something better than she could buy in Blue Island. In the window of the store where they’d bought Ralph’s Indian, there were some little miniatures, lovely New England snow scenes. She hesitated to go in when she saw the sissy clerk was on duty again. He had made Ralph sore, asking how he’d like to have the Indian framed in birch bark. The Mohawk was plastered with birch bark, and Ralph thought the sissy recognized him and was trying to be funny. “This is going into my home!” Ralph had said, and ordered the gold frame costing six times as much as the Indian. However, he’d taken the sissy’s advice about having a light put on it. Ethel hesitated, but she went in. In his way, the sissy was very nice, and Ethel went home with five little Old English prints. When she’d asked about the pictures in the window, the New England ones, calling them “landscapes,” he’d said “snowscapes” and looked disgusted, as if they weren’t what she should want.

When she got home, she hung the prints over the sofa where there was a blank space, and they looked fine in their shiny black frames. She didn’t say anything to Ralph, hoping he’d notice them, but he didn’t until after supper. “Hey, what is this?” he said. He bounced off the sofa, confronting her.

“Ralph, they’re cute!”

“Not in my home!”

“Ralph, they’re humorous!” The clerk had called them that. Ralph called them drunks and whores. He had Ethel feeling ashamed of herself. It was hard to believe that she could have felt they were just fat and funny and just what their living room needed, as the clerk had said. Ralph took them down. “Man or woman sell ’em to you?” Ethel, seeing what he had in mind, knew she couldn’t tell him where she’d got them. She lied. “I was in Dayton’s…”