Ira Levin: The Stepford Wives

"Thanks. Won't they object?"

"It's our house."

"Are you sure you're not looking for a waitress?"

He laughed. "Oh God, there's no fooling her," he said. "Okay, you got me.

But an intelligent waitress, all right? Would you? It really might do some good."

"Okay," she said. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll even be an intelligent beautiful waitress; how's that for cooperation?"

"Fantastic. Unbelievable."

THERE WERE FIVE OF THEM, and one, a cheery little red-faced man of about sixty, with toothpick-ends of waxed mustache, was Ike Mazzard, the magazine illustrator. Joanna, shaking his hand warmly, said, "I'm not sure I like you; you blighted my adolescence with those dream girls of yours!" And he, chuckling, said, "You must have matched up pretty well."

"Would you like to bet on that?" she said.

The other four were all late-thirties or early-forties. The tall black-haired one, laxly arrogant, was Dale Coba, the president of the association. He smiled at her with green eyes that disparaged her, and said, "Hello, Joanna, it's a pleasure." One of the die-hard men-only's, she thought; women are to lay. His hand was smooth, without pressure.

The others were Anselm or Axhelm, Sundersen, Roddenberry. "I met your wife," she said to Sundersen, who was pale and paunchy, nervous-seeming.

"If you're the Sundersens across the way, that is."

"You did'? We are, yes. We're the only ones in Stepford."

"I invited her to a get-together, but she couldn't make it."

"She's not very social." Sundersen's eyes looked elsewhere, not at her.

"I'm sorry, I missed your first name," she said.

"Herb," he said, looking elsewhere.

She saw them all into the living room and went into the kitchen for ice and soda, and brought them to Walter at the bar cabinet. "Intelligent?

Beautiful?" she said, and he grinned at her. She went back into the kitchen and filled bowls with potato chips and peanuts.

There were no objections from the circle of men when, holding her glass, she said "May I?" and eased into the sofa-end Walter had saved for her. Ike Mazzard and Anselm-or-Axhelm rose, and the others made I'm- thinking-of-rising movements-except Dale Coba, who sat eating peanuts out of his fist, looking across the cocktail table at her with his disparaging green eyes.

They talked about the Christmas-Toys project and the Preserve-the-Landscape project. Roddenberry's name was Frank, and he had a pleasant pug-nosed blue-chinned face and a slight stutter; and Coba had a nickname-Diz, which hardly seemed to fit him. They talked about whether this year there shouldn't be Chanukah lights as well as a cr amp;che in the Center, now that there were a fair number of Jews in town. They talked about ideas for new projects.

"May I say something?" she said.

"Sure," Frank Roddenberry and Herb Sundersen said.

Coba was lying back in his chair looking at the ceiling (disparagingly, no doubt), his hands behind his head, his legs extended.

"Do you think there might be a chance of setting up some evening lectures for adults?" she asked. "Or parentand-teenager forums? In one of the school auditoriums?"

"On what sub, ject?" Frank Roddenberry asked.

"On any subject there's general interest in," she said. "The drug thing, which we're all concerned about but which the Chronicle seems to sweep under the rug; what rock music is all about-I don't know, anything that would get people out and listening and talking to each other."

"That's interesting," Claude Anselm-or-Axhelm said, leaning forward and crossing his legs, scratching at his temple. He was thin and blond; bright-eyed, restless.

"And maybe it would get the women out too," she said. "In case you don't know it, this town is a disaster area for baby-sitters."

Everyone laughed, and she felt good and at ease. She offered other possible forum topics, and Walter added a few, and so did Herb Sundersen.

Other new-project ideas were brought up; she took part in the talk about them, and the men (except Coba, damn him) paid close attention to her-Ike Mazzard, Frank, Walter, Claude, even Herb looked right at her-and they nodded and agreed with her, or thoughtfully questioned her, and she felt very good indeed, meeting their questions with wit and good sense. Move over, Gloria Steinem!

She saw, to her surprise and embarrassment, that Ike Mazzard was sketching her. Sitting in his chair (next to still-watching-the-ceiling Dale Coba), he was pecking with a blue pen at a notebook on his dapper- striped knee, looking at her and looking at his pecking.

Ike Mazzard! Sketching her!

The men had fallen silent. They looked into their drinks, swirled their ice cubes.

"Hey," she said, shifting uncomfortably and smiling, "I'm no Ike Mazzard girl."

"Every girl's an Ike Mazzard girl," Mazzard said, and smiled at her and smiled at his pecking.

She looked to Walter; he smiled embarrassedly and shrugged.

She looked at Mazzard again, and-not moving her head -at the other men.

They looked at her and smiled, edgily. "Well this is a conversation killer," she said.

"Relax, you can move," Mazzard said. He turned a page and pecked again.

Frank said, "I don't think another b-baseball field is all that important."

She heard Kim cry "Mommy!" but Walter touched her arm, and putting his glass down, got up and excused himself past Claude.

The men talked about new projects again. She said a word or two, moving her head but aware all the time of Mazzard looking at her and pecking.

Try being Gloria Steinem when Ike Mazzard is drawing you! It was a bit show-offy of him; she wasn't any once-in-a-lifetimemustn't-be-missed, not even in the Pucci loungers. And what were the men so tense about? Their talking seemed forced and gap-ridden. Herb Sundersen was actually blushing.

She felt suddenly as if she were naked, as if Mazzard were drawing her in obscene poses.

She crossed her legs; wanted to cross her arms too but didn't. Jesus, Joanna, he's a show-offy artist, that's all. You're dressed.

Walter came back and leaned down to her. "Just a bad dream," he said; and straightening, to the men, "Anyone want a refill? Diz? Frank?"

"I'll take a small one," Mazzard said, looking at her, pecking.

"Bathroom down that way?" Herb asked, getting up.

The talking went on, more relaxed and casual now.

New projects.

Old projects.

Mazzard tucked his pen into his jacket, smiling.

She said "Whew!" and fanned herself.

Coba raised his head, keeping his hands behind it, and chin-against-chest, looked at the notebook on Mazzard's knee. Mazzard turned pages, looking at Coba, and Coba nodded and said, "You never cease to amaze me."

"Do I get to see?" she asked.

"Of course!" Mazzard said, and half rose, smiling, holding out the open notebook to her.

Walter looked too, and Frank leaned in to see.

Portraits of her; there were page after page of them, small and precise-and flattering, as Ike Mazzard's work had always been. Full faces, three-quarter views, profiles; smiling, not smiling, talking, frowning.

"These are beautiful," Walter said, and Frank said, "Great, Ike!" Claude and Herb came around behind the sofa.

She leafed back through the pages. "They're-wonderful," she said. "I wish I could say they were absolutely accurate-"

"But they are!" Mazzard said.

"God bless you." She gave the notebook to him, and he put it on his knee and turned its pages, getting out his pen. He wrote on a page, and tore it out and offered it to her.

It was one of the three-quarter views, a non-smiling one, with the familiar no-capitals ike mazzard signature. She showed it to Walter; he said, "Thanks, Ike."

"My pleasure."

She smiled at Mazzard. "Thank you," she said. "I forgive you for blighting my adolescence." She smiled at all of them. "Does anyone want coffee?"