“Your mother knows these things,” Peter said.
Pammie slumped with disappointment.
“May I be excused?” Penny asked. “I have math homework.”
“Me too.” Pammie’s voice betrayed her resignation. “Except it’s vocabulary.”
Peter pointed to the dirty dishes on the counter. “Put those dishes in the sink for your mother, and then yes, you may be excused.” He had taken her side in front of the girls again, but Lillian could tell he wasn’t happy with the late meal and the dramatic encounter. The girls scooted upstairs, and Peter padded to the den. She heard the click of the television and the newscaster’s voice.
The middle of the night brought a special silence, Lillian thought, as she watched Peter sleep soundly beside her in bed. She wondered if her tossing and turning would wake him. A well-behaved wife made sure her husband was rested in the morning, yet her turmoil wouldn’t allow her to relax.
Peter had rescued her like a knight in a shining Chevrolet. Rescued her from hovering grandparents in an Overbrook Park row house. From being the girl whose station in life would be defined by a crazy mother, making her less than a solid choice for marriage. He’d known about her mother and married Lillian anyway. The man was a mensch, when it came right down to it. But she had always felt that she owed him unalloyed loyalty because of that.
Without marriage, how would she have been seen by society? As a spinster. She could never have afforded the type of affluence and privilege she enjoyed now, even with a career. She would never have had her daughters.
As she watched Peter sleep, she was grateful he’d seen her as a Diamond in the rough. And, while he had rescued her, she had rescued him right back by becoming the perfect housewife, someone who impressed clients and colleagues. Who contributed to his success.
But her nagging thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep. She tiptoed downstairs. There was no harm in jotting down some of her ideas, was there?
Lillian padded to the dining room and pulled out her blue notebook. She set it on the table and flipped to the back, where she’d stashed blank paper and pencils. Maybe it wasn’t time yet to approach Peter—or anyone—with her new ideas on how to expand the etiquette classes, how to broaden women’s sense of self, but she could prepare. She could shape her ideas for when the time was right. After all, did she need his permission to head in a new direction with the classes? These women needed to know more than just how to be well-behaved.
Lillian wrote furiously. She started with her misconceptions about pregnancy and motherhood. Next, her ideas on the realities of marriage and men gushed out like clean water from a hydrant.
She stopped to read her words and a sigh coated her insides. Though the picture she painted was a dreary one, laden with loss and systemic apathy, the more she emptied her heart, the more it filled with hope. By sharing where she’d been complacent with herself, she could help her girls go right. Her daughters included. Their lives could be meaningful and informed. They would understand that they had choices.
She scribbled away, optimistic and inspired, lost in her new endeavor. When she registered the footsteps descending the stairs, she gasped. She gathered her papers and tucked them out of sight, then closed the notebook, feeling more like the cat that ate the canary than a housewife, awake too late.
“Lillian, it’s after midnight. What are you doing?” Peter stood at the edge of the room, where the foyer’s marble floor met the dining room carpet. Blue pajamas. No slippers, no robe. Lillian warmed at the thought he missed her, or worried about her.
“Just working on additions to the etiquette lessons for the girls.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Inspiration struck. I didn’t realize what time it was.”
He shook his head, clearly nonplussed. “Fine, just come to bed.”
Lillian stored her notebook in the buffet. “I’ve got some new ideas. It may take me some extra time to get this ready. A few weeks, probably.”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with anything we need, you can keep yourself busy however you like.”
However I like? Lillian smoldered. “It’s not a matter of keeping busy, Peter. I’m plenty busy.”
“What then, Lil? I’m tired.”
The middle of the night was as good a time as any to be honest. “I’m not very happy with myself.” She was careful not to place the blame on him.
“What?”
At first Lillian mistook his grimace as concern, then realized it might be disappointment. She should have kept her thoughts inside, but it was too late. “I don’t know. I just need more.”
Peter waved his arms in the air and spun in a circle, his sleepiness replaced by confusion. “More? Are you telling me this isn’t enough for you? What more could you possibly want? Tell me, Lillian. A new car? A pool? Don’t tell me this is about a dog.”
This had nothing to do with possessions—not appliances, trinkets, jewels, clothes, or cars.
“This is about your mother, isn’t it?”
The suggestion stunned her. It was unlike Peter to bring up her mother. He’d always been supportive in the past. Never threw her family history in her face like other men might.
“No. Not exactly. It’s about women.” Lillian had no idea that describing her feelings outside of her own head would be so difficult. Her words sounded so outlandish that they came across like a foreign language, even to her.
Peter sighed. “If you’re this unhappy, maybe you should see a psychiatrist, Lil. Ben Parker’s wife goes to one. Jerry Stern’s too. Gave them pills to feel normal. The fellas say they work.”
“What are you saying? That I’m . . .” Lillian felt liquid pooling in her eyes and she thrust her arm forward and pointed at him. “You take that back!”
“Then don’t be hysterical!”
“Peter! You promised you’d never use that word!” Tears streamed down Lillian’s face. He knew that word grieved Lillian as much today as it had when she was eleven, when her father had died. When her mother had gone to the hospital.
Peter raked his hand through his hair. “Damn it. I didn’t mean it, Lil. But really? This isn’t enough?”
Lillian didn’t want to hurt Peter; she did love this man. It wasn’t his fault she was—what was she besides lucky? Privileged? Blessed?
And discontented. The word unhappy stuck in her throat and tangled up her thoughts.
There must be something wrong with her—a woman with a life like hers had nothing to be unhappy about. Still, the ideas bounced around like pinballs in her brain.
“I’m just tired. Forget it.” And confused, she thought. Disillusioned. But it wasn’t because of Peter. He’d been a good husband, a good man, and she had blindsided him. In the middle of the night.
Peter reached for her hand. “I think you spend too much time and energy on those housewife lessons.”
“Maybe so,” she said as they walked upstairs. She noticed how solid her fingers felt when wrapped in his. She wasn’t ready to let them go.
Chapter 18
LILLIAN
Dreary weather was no excuse for a dreary disposition. She must not be moody about what she would teach the girls today. Lesson three should be clear-cut and precise. The financial futures of these girls and their families depended on their knowing how to contribute to their husbands’ successes.