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“Welcome home,” David whispered in my ear, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs. I couldn’t help smiling. Not bad for a farmgirl born in a shack.
The next day, I decided to take the kids to the playground. I was walking hand in hand with James. The twins were following sullenly behind, intentionally kicking the sidewalk with every step to scuff their shoes. We walked in the long shadows of the houses, the street silent around us. It was unsettling, as if everyone lay dead behind their doors, sprawled out on freshly vacuumed carpets and soap-scented bedspreads. I was used to a dogpile of car horns, angry voices slipping out of window cracks, the metallic grinding of a city constantly erecting itself. The playground was livelier and James breathed a sigh of relief to see other children running around and shouting.
A group of Stepford wives had congregated by the benches. They were dressed like Easter eggs, all soft pastels and gentle patterns, with wasp waists that meant they must have girdles surgically attached. I was wearing a black miniskirt and a striped top with a pair of very expensive boots. I looked like a brunette Brigitte Bardot, all boobs and legs, but with a better face. Unfortunately, Doris Day still reigned supreme here.
I lit a cigarette and watched, idly, as three women detached themselves from the flock and cruised over to me. They looked me up and down and smiled, but I could see in their eyes the grudging acknowledgment that I was beautiful and they were merely decorated. I’ve never had a problem admitting I was attractive. In life, you have to be honest about your strengths and weaknesses or you’ll waste your time trying to be a brain surgeon when you’re as dumb as a bag of hammers.
“Hello, we’ve been waiting to meet you!” one of the women exclaimed, as if I had made some mistake by failing to find them.
“You’re the new Mrs. Priestly aren’t you?” another asked, her eyes fixed on my wedding ring.
“I am!” I said brightly, trying to convey that special newlywed excitement at hearing my married name. I’d already had so many names at that point that I felt like replying: ‘I don’t know. Am I?’
I gestured at the children to go and play. Diane and Rose ran off, hand in hand, and were instantly surrounded by other children who were fascinated by them being identical. It was always the same. Whether it was kids or adults, everyone went crazy for the twins. They accepted this adoration, like they accepted everything they were given.
James hesitated, scanning the playground as he dug his foot into the dirt. My heart began to break at his little face, peeking out shyly from under his bangs. But then he spotted another boy sitting by himself, constructing an elaborate mountain complete with twig trees and stick bridges. Soon they were happily playing, their heads bent together as they earnestly discussed their project. I felt a wave of relief. You can never explain to someone who isn’t a mother how your every mood depends on your child, how even everyday disappointments become tragedies when you see your child experience them.
“Welcome to town. I’m Belinda Vaughn. This is Patsy Beauteen and Carol Davidson,” the head witch said, gesturing to the rest of the coven. I couldn’t help noticing how her hair never moved, not even a quiver, no matter how much the wind tried. She must have put half a can of Aqua Net into that do. Bullets would have bounced off it.
“Pleasure,” Patsy said, laying her dainty hand in my palm like it was a gift. I understood their roles instantly. Belinda was the leader, the boss who kept everyone in line. She wasn’t pretty but she was thin and knew how to do her makeup and a lot of people mistake that for beauty. Carol actually was good-looking, with thick golden hair and sky-blue eyes but when you met her gaze, you could tell she was a dim bulb. She caught me looking and smiled dreamily, as if she’d had a lobotomy for lunch. And Patsy was the horsey one, the less attractive friend that the other two kept around in the hope that her life would be crappier than theirs. Bonus points if she had a drunk husband, a shrew of a mother-in-law, and some juvenile delinquents for children.
“Yes, hello. My name is Cecilia,” I said, squeezing Carol’s hand and making sure the ruby in my ring jabbed her.
“We hear David met you in New York? And that he proposed after a week?” Belinda said. She was smiling but her eyes were as beady as a city pigeon’s.
“It was a few weeks,” I said, turning to check on James, who was still happily playing with the other boy. I wondered which children belonged to these women. Knowing my luck, they would all become my children’s best friends.
“Why the hurry?” Patsy asked.
I smiled at her and popped a hand on my hip. “Well, I just couldn’t wait to get up here and meet you all,” I said, my voice dripping with sweetness. They frowned, unable to tell if I was joking or not.
“We’re glad he’s married though. We all thought David might end up a lifelong bachelor. People were starting to worry about him. . .”Patsy said. The implication was clear. In 1968, ‘lifelong bachelor’ was the small-town euphemism for a man being light in his loafers. In New York City, you just called them gay.
“And are those your children from a. . .previous marriage?” Belinda asked delicately. Her eyes were fixed on me like a boxer looking for an opening.
“I’m a widow,” I said flatly.
The women visibly relaxed. “Oh good. Well, not good. . .”Patsy fumbled. I stood there smoking, watching her sputter.
“This is a small town, we were just worried you’d be one of those big-city divorcees. They’re a little. . .fast for Leosville,” Belinda explained, as if divorcees were an invasive species, blowing through town like tent caterpillars, seducing the locals and perverting the children. It seemed like in Leosville, you could swear off someone for serving an unfashionable dessert whereas in New York a person would have to sacrifice a shoeshine boy to the Devil before anyone raised an eyebrow.
“Nope, when I get married, it’s ’til death do us part,” I said, smiling. The women smiled back uncertainly.
“We do hope you’ll get involved with the PTA, the Women’s League, and some of our other local groups. It’s women like us who keep this town from becoming, oh, say. . .New York City,” Belinda said smugly. She was clearly the president of all of those groups. You probably couldn’t run a lemonade stand in Leosville without Belinda taking over.
“I’ll pass,” I said, already bored with the conversation. “I think this town could do with a little New York.”
I used my first cigarette to light my second one before throwing it on the ground just a little too close to their feet. They seemed shocked that I wasn’t willing to pay tribute to their dime-store queen. But I don’t play nice with other women, especially not a bunch of housewives re-enactingLord of the Flies.
And yes, James’s new best friend did turn out to be Belinda’s son.
ShockAndBlah:
She’s not really a girl’s girl is she?
BurntheBookBurnerz:
No, she lives for the male gaze. She thinks all women are competition. Although it is interesting she chose a female journalist for the podcast.