Alison Lurie: The War Between the Tates: A Novel

Erica heard this; she knew that something important and dangerous had been said, something she would have to think about—But not now, not yet! Frightened as well as hurt, she counterattacked. “If you thought it was such a mistake for Wendy to marry Brian, why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you try to stop it?”

Sandy shrugged. “I don’t believe in interfering in people’s lives. What will be, will be.”

That was mean too, Erica thinks as she and Danielle proceed past the squash courts under pink flowering trees. Almost deliberately, as if he had wanted to quarrel with her at their last meeting, so that they needn’t meet again; so he could be completely detached, free of all human ties. But it was mean all the same. And also untrue—as she had discovered after he left town.

The truth had come out by accident in a conversation with Brian last Sunday. It was a mild evening, and they were standing outside talking after Jeffrey and Matilda had gone into the house.

“So Wendy came around and gave you her version of events,” Brian said. “How long had you known she was pregnant, by the way?”

“I guess about two weeks,” Erica replied, puzzled by this question. “Since you told me.”

“I didn’t mean—that is, I just wondered if you might have heard of it sooner. Everyone else in town seems to have known for months: Linda Sliski, and the rest of that female gang, and that fellow in the occult bookstore—all her pals.”

“In the bookstore?” Erica said, her voice rising. “Do you mean Sandy Finkelstein? Do you mean Sandy knew Wendy was pregnant, the whole time?”

“So it seems.”

“But he didn’t tell ... anybody,” Erica exclaimed, substituting the last word for “me.”

“Says who? For all I know, he told everyone who walked into the store.”

“That’s awful.” Erica clenched her jaw; her head felt tight, like a bad headache coming on. “You know what?” she added after a pause. “Sandy never said anything to anyone, because he wanted you to marry Wendy. That’s why he told her all that stuff about children belonging to God, so she wouldn’t feel guilty about presenting you with someone else’s baby.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Brian, who now that Zed had left Corinth preferred to regard him as a harmless ninny. “Why would he want that?”

Erica, who could have told him why, remained silent. For the rest of her life, probably, she would remain silent. It would be hard enough for them without that, if they did eventually decide ...

Already on Sunday, as they stood talking on the lawn in the mild, misty evening, she had thought that Brian might want to come back home. She is surer of it now. He hasn’t mentioned the matter yet, but she knows he is going to mention it; probably today; perhaps within the next hour. He may say he wants it because of her, but that is only part of the truth. He is also embarrassed and worn out by the feminist crisis and the crises’ of Wendy, and tired of living alone. Also he thinks the children are getting better; and in a way he is right.

Of course they are older—Jeffrey is sixteen now, and Matilda fourteen—and therefore out of the house more. They are also marginally cleaner and more polite when in it. Erica really has very little to do with them; she maintains certain rules and schedules, but has more or less given up trying to control what they wear or eat or read or watch on TV. In return, they are minimally agreeable to her, like people forced by a war or flood or some other natural disaster to share living quarters. They have even made a few gratuitous gestures of good will: Jeffrey, without being asked, took down all the storm windows last month; and Matilda brought Erica’s stereo back downstairs.

But the real change is that they have become strangers. Their names, their faces, their bodies, their voices, their gestures, their tastes and opinions—all are unfamiliar. They are no longer monstrous overgrown versions of her children, but two young people Erica hardly knows. In a way it is a relief that nothing now remains to remind her of her beloved, lost Jeffo and Muffy.

And it is not only Muffy and Jeffo who have disappeared, or are disappearing. Everything and everyone is in flux now, confused, disintegrating in time and space. The campus elms are dying and being cut down; they are demolishing the old courthouse; Jones Creek Road is turning into Glenview Homes, and Danielle Zimmern into Ellie Kotelchuk. Her serious, responsible, loving husband has changed into an unreliable adulterer and reputed antifeminist; and she herself has become the woman in the washroom mirror.

In this last respect, Brian has changed less than she He is still the most handsome man Erica has ever met, though today he looked strained and worn. It can’t be good for him to live in that stale sealed-in apartment, without even a balcony outside so he could get a little air and sun. He tans readily, and by this time of year is usually already brown from working in the garden, but now the garden looks unpruned and shabby, and Brian pale and unhealthy, like someone who is sleeping badly and eating frozen dinners. Probably he isn’t taking proper care of himself because of self-hatred, a syndrome Erica knows very well. He is embarrassed and ashamed of his behavior over the past year, and he believes everyone is laughing and sneering at him because of Wendy’s pregnancy and all those stupid newspaper articles. No doubt some of them are.

If she doesn’t listen to him seriously today when he suggests moving back to the house on Jones Creek Road, it will be as if she wanted him to go on making himself ill in Alpine Towers; as if she were sneering at him too, and tramping on him when he is down, instead of magnanimously helping him up again.

On the other hand, if he does come home, she will have to be even more magnanimous afterward. She will have to make up her mind never to say anything that might remind Brian of how selfish and irresponsible and ridiculous he has been, of how much pain and embarrassment he has caused his family, not to mention Wendy Gahaghan and Donald Dibble and the Department of Political Science. That will be very difficult.

But she can do it, if she really tries. And Brian will be grateful—grateful enough, for instance, to agree that she should continue working. And perhaps there is something to be said for Danielle’s marriage contract idea. A separate bank account—A cleaning-lady once a week—A three-week vacation; and one for Brian too, that would be only right—

Erica has crossed campus now and turned downhill through Collegetown. The streets here have also been closed to traffic, and people stand watching the Peace March in the open doorways of shops, and on both sidewalks. Since most sympathizers are already marching, only a few of these people applaud or cheer. The majority look on silently, or whistle and call out wisecracks as the group from WHEN passes: “Burn your bras!” “Pussy power!” One makes an obscene gesture, another an obscene suggestion.

They wouldn’t dare do that if Brian were here, Erica thinks; if Bernie Kotelchuk were here. It was wrong of the Hens to exclude men; we need them sometimes, if only to protect us from other men. Danielle’s friends would say that was just another proof of our oppression—that when real equality is achieved, men won’t be necessary. Are the sexes, then, to live apart forever in warring camps?

Downtown, the vanguard of the march has reached its objective, a small park near the courthouse. In the center by the fountain, the leaders are gathered under a ten-foot-banner bearing the inscription HOPKINS COUNTY MARCH FOR PEACE, watching the park fill with then followers. Brian is amazed and pleased by their number and enthusiasm, and the number and inventiveness of the signs they carry.