She shouldn’t have done it. She loved Peter. She didn’t want to give him less; she wanted to give herself more. Like Ruth had said.
The front door closed with a bang. Lillian whisked off the apron. Hausfrau was not the look she was going for. It wasn’t a mistake, though, to wear her royal blue shirtwaist with its tight matching belt and coordinating kitten heels. Peter had always loved her in blue.
In her imagination, Lillian leafed through her notebook of happy housewife, husband, and home tips. Then she checked her reflection in the mirror hung over the server and smoothed her hair. She undid one button and adjusted the collar and neckline to reveal a peek of cleavage, no more. But certainly no less. It mattered how she looked when her husband walked through the door. Isn’t that what she taught in her lessons? How was a man supposed to care if his wife didn’t?
She’d dressed up for many occasions and gotten merely a nod. She tried to release her anticipation and focus instead on how good she had it in prestigious Wynnefield, on this street, as mistress of this house. She pressed her lips together and headed for the foyer.
Why did her thoughts continue to center on what was missing instead of what she possessed?
It wasn’t Peter’s fault that she felt shortchanged. He bestowed on her a generous personal allowance, in addition to household funds. And she had to admit, she liked that. Lillian paid Sunny’s bus fare out of her own money and often added an extra dollar or two to her pay envelope every Friday. Her mother would have approved. Lillian tipped generously, treated her friends in restaurants, purchased thoughtful gifts. She socked away the rest for a rainy day that might never come.
Lillian smiled wide and sucked in her stomach as she stepped into the foyer. No Peter.
He’d had time to hang up his trench coat and fold his suit jacket over the banister. He must surely have noticed the dining room table. Anyone who stood in the circular entryway was treated to a glimpse of the traditional walnut table flanked by ten chairs, all set under a Baccarat crystal six-arm chandelier that had belonged to Peter’s parents.
Before getting to know the Diamonds, Lillian had assumed most Jews emigrated in the early 1900s, as her father had as a baby, but Peter’s family had been in Philadelphia since the 1870s. They had made their fortune in textiles.
Lillian stepped toward voices coming from the den, the room she’d redecorated recently with a modern flair and palette of greens and golds.
Peter had already flipped on the television.
“I thought I heard you,” she said. Gracious greetings. Do as you teach. “Welcome home. Did you have a nice day?”
Peter turned from the evening news and smiled. His eyes crinkled closed. They made a striking couple, he with sandy hair and brown eyes, naturally tanned skin, and a physique envied by men and adored by women. Lillian’s coloring provided a perfect foil for his. Dark hair, blue eyes, pale skin. They were balanced, symmetrical, appealing.
“It was fine,” Peter said. “Where are the girls?”
I know you like me in blue. Thank you for noticing.
“The girls are watching Susie Gold and their dog for a few hours.”
“On a school night?”
“Practice for a dog-sitting job—I couldn’t say no. The girls adore Susie and the dog.”
“Lillian, I don’t want a dog.”
She ignored this. Now was not the time for that conversation. “I made pot roast. I thought we’d eat in the dining room tonight.”
His face softened. “It smells good, Lil. I’ll be in in a minute.”
“I’ll get it on the table.” She felt brightened by his flicker of enthusiasm.
Peter looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Did you say pot roast?”
So he was listening—at least to the menu.
“There are only four girls in my class this time.”
“Well, that should be easy then.”
“I wouldn’t say it was easy, Peter. We’re planning to finish all the lessons before the High Holidays.”
“They’re learning to host parties and wear the right clothes and use the right forks, aren’t they? It can’t be that difficult.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lillian seethed. “You make it sound like that’s all we wives do. We manage households and our husbands’ careers, raise children, prepare meals, arrange the social calendar.”
But wasn’t he right? Wasn’t that exactly what the etiquette classes taught them?
“It’s not supposed to mean anything. Don’t get testy.”
“Right.”
Peter saw her as a housewife, mother, and etiquette teacher because that was all she’d let him see. How could she show more when she wasn’t sure of anything else?
“Lil, why don’t you fix me a plate and bring it to me in here. I want to watch the news.” Peter seemed suddenly drawn.
“But . . .”
“But what?” Peter smiled—he did that when he wanted to smooth things over. Perhaps he wasn’t in the mood for discussions. Perhaps he didn’t want to ruffle his wife’s feathers. “I’ll be careful. I won’t drop a morsel on your new sofa.”
“But I set the table.”
Peter scrunched up his nose and stared at Lillian as if she were speaking a foreign language. Pointless to argue.
“It’ll just take a minute.” She gritted her teeth so that he didn’t discern her growing agitation. Peter never recognized the effort she expended daily to keep him at ease.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said.
“Yes?” Lillian softened and sweetened her tone.
“Today’s the first day of school. The girls should be here, not out. I want to have family dinners on weeknights, like always. In the kitchen. The dining room is for company.”
Lillian’s insides tumbled off a cliff. Her effort had been for naught. Her eyes burned as she choked back tears.
“Call and tell the girls not to dawdle when the Golds get home,” Peter said. “And to make sure they wash off the dog stink.”
Once Lillian had set up Peter’s TV tray, adjusted the volume on the television, refilled his tonic water, and delivered his food plate, she returned to the kitchen and stared at the pots and pans crowding the sink. Had he even noticed that she wasn’t eating with him? No matter, she’d lost her appetite for pot roast—and for Peter. Maybe the work of scouring pots would rinse her mind. No, she’d either wash the pots later or soak them overnight and scrub them before Sunny arrived at ten tomorrow.
Peter thought Sunny arrived at nine every Monday, Thursday, and Friday.
Lillian found the secret especially sweet in the moment. Every week, she had three stolen morning hours alone, before Sunny arrived, and many hours to herself on other days. She would have liked more. She always wanted what she didn’t have.
Lillian threw on the beige cardigan hanging off the back of a kitchen chair, grabbed her pocketbook, and walked out the side door, closing it with a timid click.
The weather was chillier than she’d anticipated, but Lillian had to get out of there. Needed one cigarette to calm her. She willed her discontent away like puffs of smoke.
Peter’s indifference more than saddened Lillian. It also frustrated and angered her. Two unattractive emotions, her grandmother had often said.