The play, a musical hit of the previous season, was disappointing. In the train going home, after they had hashed it over for a few minutes, Walter put on his glasses and got out some paper work, and Joanna skimmed Time and then sat looking out the window and smoking, watching the darkness and the occasional lights riding through it.
Sylvia was right; photography was her work. To hell with the Stepford women. Except Bobbie, of course.
Both cars were at the station, so they had to ride home separately. Joanna went first in the station wagon and Walter followed her in the Toyota. The Center was empty and stage-setty under its three streetlights-yes, she would take pictures there, before the darkroom was finished-and there were headlights and lighted windows up at the Men's Association house, and a car waiting to pull out of its driveway.
Melinda Stavros was yawning but smiling, and Pete and Kim were in their beds sound asleep.
In the family room there were empty milk glasses and plates on the lamp table, and crumpled balls of white paper on the sofa and the floor before it, and an empty gingerale bottle on the floor among the balls of paper.
At least they don't pass it on to their daughters, Joanna thought.
THE THIRD TIME WALTER WENT to the Men's Association he called at about nine o'clock and told Joanna he was bringing home the New Projects Committee, to which he had been appointed the time before. Some construction work was being done at the house (she could hear the whine of machinery in the background) and they couldn't find a quiet place where they could sit and talk.
'Fine,' she said. 'I'm getting the rest of the junk out of the darkroom, so you can have the whole-'
'No, listen,' he said, 'stay upstairs with us and get into the conversation. A couple of them are die-hard men- only's; it won't do them any harm to hear a woman make intelligent comments.
I'm assuming you will.'
'Thanks. Won't they object?'
'It's our house.'
'Are you sure you're not looking for a waitress?'
He laughed. 'Oh God, there's no fooling her,' he said. 'Okay, you got me.
But an intelligent waitress, all right? Would you? It really might do some good.'
'Okay,' she said. 'Give me fifteen minutes and I'll even be an intelligent beautiful waitress; how's that for cooperation?'
'Fantastic. Unbelievable.'
THERE WERE FIVE OF THEM, and one, a cheery little red-faced man of about sixty, with toothpick-ends of waxed mustache, was Ike Mazzard, the magazine illustrator. Joanna, shaking his hand warmly, said, 'I'm not sure I like you; you blighted my adolescence with those dream girls of yours!' And he, chuckling, said, 'You must have matched up pretty well.'
'Would you like to bet on that?' she said.
The other four were all late-thirties or early-forties. The tall black-haired one, laxly arrogant, was Dale Coba, the president of the association. He smiled at her with green eyes that disparaged her, and said, 'Hello, Joanna, it's a pleasure.' One of the die-hard men-only's, she thought; women are to lay. His hand was smooth, without pressure.
The others were Anselm or Axhelm, Sundersen, Roddenberry. 'I met your wife,' she said to Sundersen, who was pale and paunchy, nervous-seeming.
'If you're the Sundersens across the way, that is.'
'You did'? We are, yes. We're the only ones in Stepford.'
'I invited her to a get-together, but she couldn't make it.'
'She's not very social.' Sundersen's eyes looked elsewhere, not at her.
'I'm sorry, I missed your first name,' she said.
'Herb,' he said, looking elsewhere.
She saw them all into the living room and went into the kitchen for ice and soda, and brought them to Walter at the bar cabinet. 'Intelligent?
Beautiful?' she said, and he grinned at her. She went back into the kitchen and filled bowls with potato chips and peanuts.
There were no objections from the circle of men when, holding her glass, she said 'May I?' and eased into the sofa-end Walter had saved for her. Ike Mazzard and Anselm-or-Axhelm rose, and the others made I'm- thinking- of-rising movements-except Dale Coba, who sat eating peanuts out of his fist, looking across the cocktail table at her with his disparaging green eyes.
They talked about the Christmas-Toys project and the Preserve-the-Landscape project. Roddenberry's name was Frank, and he had a pleasant pug-nosed blue-chinned face and a slight stutter; and Coba had a nickname-Diz, which hardly seemed to fit him. They talked about whether this year there shouldn't be Chanukah lights as well as a cr amp;che in the Center, now that there were a fair number of Jews in town. They talked about ideas for new projects.
'May I say something?' she said.
'Sure,' Frank Roddenberry and Herb Sundersen said.
Coba was lying back in his chair looking at the ceiling (disparagingly, no doubt), his hands behind his head, his legs extended.
'Do you think there might be a chance of setting up some evening lectures for adults?' she asked. 'Or parentand-teenager forums? In one of the school auditoriums?'
'On what sub, ject?' Frank Roddenberry asked.
'On any subject there's general interest in,' she said. 'The drug thing, which we're all concerned about but which the Chronicle seems to sweep under the rug; what rock music is all about-I don't know, anything that would get people out and listening and talking to each other.'
'That's interesting,' Claude Anselm-or-Axhelm said, leaning forward and crossing his legs, scratching at his temple. He was thin and blond; bright-eyed, restless.
'And maybe it would get the women out too,' she said. 'In case you don't know it, this town is a disaster area for baby-sitters.'
Everyone laughed, and she felt good and at ease. She offered other possible forum topics, and Walter added a few, and so did Herb Sundersen.
Other new-project ideas were brought up; she took part in the talk about them, and the men (except Coba, damn him) paid close attention to her-Ike Mazzard, Frank, Walter, Claude, even Herb looked right at her-and they nodded and agreed with her, or thoughtfully questioned her, and she felt very good indeed, meeting their questions with wit and good sense. Move over, Gloria Steinem!
She saw, to her surprise and embarrassment, that Ike Mazzard was sketching her. Sitting in his chair (next to still-watching-the-ceiling Dale Coba), he was pecking with a blue pen at a notebook on his dapper- striped knee, looking at her and looking at his pecking.
Ike Mazzard! Sketching her!
The men had fallen silent. They looked into their drinks, swirled their ice cubes.
'Hey,' she said, shifting uncomfortably and smiling, 'I'm no Ike Mazzard girl.'
'Every girl's an Ike Mazzard girl,' Mazzard said, and smiled at her and smiled at his pecking.
She looked to Walter; he smiled embarrassedly and shrugged.
She looked at Mazzard again, and-not moving her head -at the other men.
They looked at her and smiled, edgily. 'Well this is a conversation killer,' she said.
'Relax, you can move,' Mazzard said. He turned a page and pecked again.
Frank said, 'I don't think another b-baseball field is all that important.'
She heard Kim cry 'Mommy!' but Walter touched her arm, and putting his glass down, got up and excused himself past Claude.
The men talked about new projects again. She said a word or two, moving her head but aware all the time of Mazzard looking at her and pecking.
Try being Gloria Steinem when Ike Mazzard is drawing you! It was a bit show-offy of him; she wasn't any
