Ira Levin - The Stepford Wives

Mr. Cornell was writing on a pad. The top of his head was white scalp, like an under-a-rock thing, a slug, with a few strands of brown hair pasted across it. She drank the rest of the water, put the cup down, and put the bottle into her handbag. Glass clinked behind her.

Mr. Cornell turned the pad toward her and offered his pen, smiling. He was ugly; small-eyed, chinless.

She took the pen. "You have a lovely wife," she said, signing the pad.

"Pretty, helpful, submissive to her lord and master; you're a lucky man."

She held the pen out to him.

He took it, pink-faced. "I know," he said, looking downward.

"This town is full of lucky men," she said. "Good night."

"Good night," he said.

"Good night," Mrs. Cornell said. "Come again."

She went out into the Christmas-lighted street. A few cars passed by, their tires squishing.

The Men's Association windows were alight; and windows of houses farther up the hill. Red, green, and orange twinkled in some of them.

She breathed the night air deeply, and stomped bootfooted through a snowbank and crossed the street.

She walked down to the floodlit cr6che and stood looking at it; at Mary and Joseph and the Infant, and the lambs and calves around them. Very lifelike it all was, though a mite Disneyish.

"Do you talk too?" she asked Mary and Joseph.

No answer; they just kept smiling.

She stood there-she wasn't trembling any more-and then she walked back toward the library.

She got into the car, started it, and turned on the lights; and cut across the street, backed, and drove past the cr6che and up the hill.

THE DOOR OPENED AS SHE came up the walk, and Walter said, "Where have you been?"

She kicked her boots against the doorstep. "The library," she said.

"Why didn't you call? I thought you had an accident, with the snow.

"The roads are clear," she said, scuffing her boots on the mat.

"You should have called, for God's sake. It's after six."

She went in. He closed the door.

She put her handbag on the chair and began taking her gloves off.

"What's she like?" he asked.

"She's very nice," she said. "Sympathetic."

"What did she say?"

She put the gloves into her pockets and began unbuttoning her coat. "She thinks I need a little therapy," she said. "To sort out my feelings before we move. I'm 'pulled two ways by conflicting demands."' She took the coat off.

"Well that sounds like sensible advice," he said. "To me, anyway. How does it sound to you?"

She looked at the coat, holding it by the lining at its collar, and let it drop over the handbag and the chair. Her hands were cold; she rubbed them palm against palm, looking at them.

She looked at Walter. He was watching her attentively, his head cocked.

Stubble sanded his cheeks and darkened his chin-cleft. His face was fuller than she had thoughthe was gaining weight-and below his wonderfully blue eyes pouches of flesh had begun to form. How old was he now? Forty on his next birthday, March third.

"To me," she said, "it sounds like a mistake, a very big mistake." She lowered her hands and palmed her skirted sides. "I'm taking Pete and Kim into the city," she said. "To Shep and-"

"What for?"

"-Sylvia's or to a hotel. I'll call you in a day or two. Or have someone call you. Another lawyer."

He stared at her, and said, "What are you talking about?"

"I know," she said. "I've been reading old Chronicles. I know what Dale Coba used to do, and I know what he's doing now, he and those other-CompuTech Instatron geniuses."

He stared at her, and blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Oh cut it out." She turned away and went down the hallway and into the kitchen, switching on the lights. The port to the family room showed darkness. She turned; Walter stood in the doorway. "I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," he said.

She strode past him. "Stop lying," she said. "You've been lying to me ever since I took my first picture." She swung around and started up the stairs. "Pete!" she called. "Kim!"

"They're not here."

She looked at him over the banister as he came from the hallway. "When you didn't show up," he said, "I thought it would be a good idea to get them out for the night. In case anything was wrong."

She turned, looking down at him. "Where are they?" she asked.

"With friends," he said. "They're fine."

"Which friends?"

He came around to the foot of the stairs. "They're fine," he said.

She turned to face him, found the banister, held it. "Our weekend alone?" she said.

"I think you ought to lie down awhile," he said. He put a hand to the wall, his other hand to the banister. "You're not making sense, Joanna," he said.

"Diz, of all people; where does he come into things? And what you just said about my lying to you."

"What did you do?" she said. "Put a rush on the order? Is that why everyone was so busy this week? Christmas toys; that's a hoot. What were you doing, trying it for size?"

"I honestly don't know what you're-"

"The dummy!" she said. She leaned toward him, holding the banister. "The robot! Oh very good; attorney surprised by a new allegation. You're wasting yourself in trusts and estates; you belong in a courtroom. What does it cost? Would you tell me? I'm dying to know. What's the going price for a stay-in-the-kitchen wife with big boobs and no demands? A fortune, I'll bet. Or do they do it dirtcheap, out of that good old Men's Association spirit? And what happens to the real ones? The incinerator?

Stepford Pond?"

He looked at her, standing with his hands to the wall and the banister.

"Go upstairs and lie down," he said.

"I'm going out," she said.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "Not when you're talking like this. Go upstairs and rest."

She came down a step. "I'm not going to stay here to be-'

"You're not going out," he said. "Now go up and rest. When you've calmed down we'll-try to talk sensibly."

She looked at him standing there with his hands to the wall and the banister, looked at her coat on the chair-and turned and went quickly up the stairs. She went into the bedroom and closed the door; turned the key, switched on the lights.

She went to the dresser, pulled a drawer open, and got out a bulky white sweater; shook it unfolded and thrust her arms in and sleeved them. She pulled the turtleneck down over her head and gathered her hair and drew it free. The door was tried, tapped on.

"Joanna?"

"Scram," she said, pulling the sweater down around her. "I'm resting. You told me to rest."

"Let me in for a minute."

She stood watching the door, said nothing.

"Joanna, unlock the door."

"Later," she said. "I want to be alone for a while."

She stood without moving, watching the door.

"All right. Later."

She stood and listened-to silence-and turned to the dresser and eased the top drawer open. She searched in it and found a pair of white gloves. She wriggled a hand into one and the other, and pulled out a long striped scarf and looped it around her neck.

She went to the door and listened, and switched the lights off.

She went to the window and raised the shade. The walk light shone. The Claybrooks' living room was lighted but empty; their upstairs windows were dark.

She raised the window sash quietly. The storm window stood behind it.

She'd forgot about the damn storm window.

She pushed at its bottom. It was tight, wouldn't budge. She hit at it with the side of her gloved fist, and pushed again with both hands.

It gave, swinging outward a few inches-and would swing no farther. Small metal arms at its sides reached open to their fullest. She would have to unclamp them from the window frame.

Light fanned out on the snow below.