wasn't their fault, it wasn't her fault. It wasn't even a matter of fault.
Marshall Taylor was crossing the road from the golf course to the parking lot. Big Marsh, with his golf cap sitting on top of his head, clicking across the asphalt in his golf shoes. Big Stoop.
Mickey was between her Grand Prix and the car parked next to it. He might not see her. She watched, holding the door handle. He would go by and it would be a lot easier, not having to think up things to say. But the new Mickey said, Why would you want to do that?
'Marshall?'
As he stopped and turned his head, she saw the instant dumb expression. Think fast, Marsh. The expression changing then: a squint, mouth open, desperately trying to find a pose and words to go with it.
'Mickey? Hey, is that you?' Stalling. His gaze shifted quickly over the rows of cars--no one around--and he pulled on the peak of the golf cap.
The hand reached out to her as he came in between the cars. 'My God, Mickey, how are you?'
'Do you really want to know?'
'I've been worried sick about you.' Frowning, perplexed, innocent. 'Mick, what happened?' 'Did you try to find out?' Mickey said.
'What do you mean, when I didn't hear anything? Of course I did, I called your house. I called ... other places. I've been looking all over for you.'
'Did you call the police?'
'It was the first thing in my mind. But then I thought, Wait a minute. If you're all right--see, I thought you called the police, or you ran out of the house to a neighbor's. So I got out of there. Then when I didn't hear anything I thought you'd probably gone to Florida to be with Bo, meet Frank, and I didn't want to turn in a false alarm and cause you any more additional trouble, if you know what I mean.'
'No, I don't,' Mickey said. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean anybody finding out about, well, you and I.'
'Marshall, there's a hole in the closet door. There's blood all over Frank's suits.'
'Jesus, I know--'
'How's your head?'
'I had to have twelve stitches.' He took his golf cap off and lowered his head to show her the strip of bandage where his hairline had been shaved back a couple of inches. He said, 'Maybe if we hurry up and get the door fixed--'
'What'd you tell Tyra, you were in an accident?' 'Yeah. How'd you know?'
'She says you love her new baby dolls.'
'Really, you see any way we can have that door fixed before he gets home? The suits, we can take 'em in for one-day service.'
'Marshall, where do you think I've been all week?'
'I don't know,' Marshall said. 'That's what I've been so worried about. What if I came over right now and got the suits? Except I'm meeting a guy from Diesel--' He was thoughtful. 'See if I can get a carpenter--' Then shook his head. 'No, I think you're gonna need a new door. Okay, I'll send somebody over to measure it, he'll take the door. That's better yet, then get the new one put in probably Monday or Tuesday. When's Frank get back?'
'I haven't heard,' Mickey said.
'If we can have it put in before--then it'll have to be painted, won't it? The suits're no problem, but the door--How about, he sees it's gone, tell him you ran into it with something?'
'The car,' Mickey said.
'I was thinking like the vacuum cleaner; you put a dent in it. Or you spilled some kind of chemical on it that had to be removed.'
'Martinis,' Mickey said.
'No, the door was warped and wouldn't close properly. So they had to take it. How does that sound?'
'It sounds great,' Mickey said. She opened the car door and got in. Marshall stooped, the peak of his golf cap touching the window, saying something. Mickey rolled the window down.
'What?'
'I said why don't you take care of the suits and I'll call the guy about the door?' Marshall looked at his wristwatch.
'Or why don't you and Frank handle it?' Mickey said. She started the car.
'Wait a minute--Frank?'
'It's his closet, Marshall, and you messed it up. I'd say whatever you want to do, it's up to you and Frank.' She drove off.
On the way home Mickey was thinking, If you lined them all up in their Saturday night summer outfits, how would you tell them apart?
Six days ago lying in bed she had tried to imagine who, of all the men at the club, she wouldn't mind having an affair with. And had decided-- none of them.
How about, which one could she be married to? Wake up and there you are, married fifteen years. And thought, What difference would it make? They're interchangeable. If you lined them up and tried to pick a winner, it would be very easy to end up with another Frank or a Marshall. One a crook, the other a tinhorn. Or you might get a drunk or a lunch-caller or a bore, or all three. And if that was cynical or smart-ass, tough. She could revise her thinking some other time.
So if she didn't fit in, if she was uncomfortable as she tried like hell to fit, and if she got tired listening and wasn't any good at thinking up small talk, why bother?
She wasn't going home mad. Nor was it an urge to find a hobby or do something meaningful. She didn't plan on going to Central Africa with the Peace Corps or even to the Inner City with the Junior League. She didn't know where she was going; though a few days at Gratiot Beach would be nice. She had the key. Look in her grandmother's room--where her grandmother had died two summers ago--and see if it did look like the bedroom in Richard's house. It would be good to get off by herself. Sit on the beach and watch the freighters and ore carriers go by, the way they used to watch the ships when she was little, looking through binoculars and seeing who could identify the flag or the company insignia on the stack.
Sit and not think for a few days. Read. She missed reading. Or try writing something. 'How I Was Kidnapped and Found Happiness' by Margaret Bradley Dawson. In the October Reader's Digest. Noodle and biscuit recipes for Family Circle. Or for Cosmopolitan, 'I Rapped With My Husband's Mistress.'
She wondered if there had been others before Melanie. She imagined Frank coming in with the towel, hair combed, teeth brushed, then the two of them in bed. She wondered what they said to each other in bed. She wondered what Melanie looked like; how old she was.
She remembered thinking, at Richard's house, that she didn't know her husband. But that was wrong. She had waited at least a dozen years for an individual to come out from beneath the Frank Dawson Big Dealer image. And what had finally come to light was essentially more of the same big-deal baloney, the self-importance, the trophy-winning (Melanie was a trophy), the serious business poses, the 'in' attire, everything but a pinky ring. Maybe in the Bahamas he wore a shark's tooth and Melanie played with it.
Fifteen years ago her mother had said simply, 'You're so lucky.' Her dad had said, 'That young man has a head on his shoulders.' Her mother had said, 'Oh, I hope, I hope--' He was nice looking; he was neat; he was a business major; number three man on the University of Michigan golf team; he was a Catholic. What else? He was a Young Republican. He belonged to the Jaycees, Rotary, Knights of Columbus. He read books on personal achievement in business, the stock market and real estate. He vowed his wife would never have to work. And so they had picked out their china and bought furniture (direct from the plant in Grand Rapids at a fifty per cent savings) because it was time to get married and everyone else was doing it.
Did she love him then? Yes. Or did she feel she should love him? Everyone probably had a few doubts, misgivings. The first few times he was away on business she missed him and said, Ah, good. Then what happened? Nothing. That was the trouble. What had she contributed to the marriage? Not much. Why not? Well, she had wanted to; but all Frank seemed to need was a good wife. And that wasn't being cynical or smart-ass. She should've known.
She should've said to her dad, 'For Christ sake, so he's good at business--' She should've known the moment she said to Frank, smiling a little, getting ready to giggle, 'My dad says you've got a head on your shoulders.' And
