The Maples stories - By John Updike Page 0,40
sat up and pointed accusingly. ‘You’re that jerk’s red herring!’
‘I am not,’ Joan replied calmly. ‘Jerry and I talked a long time, but it was about you and Ruth.’
‘Oh. And what did you decide?’
‘That the two of you weren’t doing anything really.’
‘How nice.’ His relief blended with annoyance at her complacent underestimation.
‘If there were something going on,’ Joan continued, ‘you’d speak to each other at least once at a party, for appearances’ sake. As is, you just stare. The question is, are you working up to something? I think so, he doesn’t. He’s very sure of her.’
‘He would be. What a jerk.’
His tone, too vehement, seemed to offend her, in her queenly blue dress. ‘Let’s talk about me,’ Joan said. ‘I’m tired of talking about you.’
‘What about you? Are you fishing?’
‘Do I act it?’
He thought. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you’re a flirt, but not a fisherwoman.’
‘You don’t think I have the guts?’
‘You have the guts,’ he said, ‘but not the – the what? The edge. Every time you feel an edge working up, you hit yourself with another slug of brandy and dull it. Like now. This could be a pretty sexy talk; but by the time we get upstairs you’ll be dead. Hey. It just occurred to me why Jim left. It wasn’t my dancing with Marlene at all, nobody gives a damn who their wife dances with. It was your dancing so long with Jerry. Jim is your fish, and you teased him with your red herring.’
‘Don’t let my theory run away with you.’
‘It makes sense. You used to be Mack’s fish, and now you’re his red herring, while he makes up to Eleanor, or is Eleanor his red herring, and – did you notice how much time he spent talking to Linda Donnelson?’
Joan’s face froze, for the briefest moment: the way a gust of wind will suddenly flatten choppy water. ‘Linda? Don’t be silly. They were arguing about low-income housing.’
Why was she defensive? Had she gone back to Mack? Richard doubted this; their affair had cooled as soon as Mack got divorced. It was the mention of the Donnelsons. ‘For that matter,’ he ventured, ‘you don’t seem to think Sam is as boring as you used to.’
‘He is boring. I talked to him because I was the hostess and nobody else would.’
‘He does have a gorgeous body,’ Richard admitted, as if she had asserted this. ‘Once you get below his wooden head.’
‘Is it so wooden?’
‘I don’t know, is it? You’re the one who’s tapping it.’
‘I’m not tapping anything. I’m sitting here looking at you and thinking I don’t like you very much.’
‘That time Sam took us sailing,’ Richard went on, ‘I was struck by what a terrific muscular back he has with his shirt off. Why did he ask us sailing? He knows I have hydrophobia. Whereas you turned out to be a regular little salt, fluttering up there with the jib sheet. How is it, in a boat? Anything like a waterbed? God, sweetie, you have your nerve, bringing up the Donnelsons and telling me what innocent aqua pura they were. So Sam’s your fish. Landed or not. I still can’t figure out who your red herring is, you have so many.’
Her silence frightened him; he became again a little boy begging his mother to speak to him, to rescue him from drowning in the blood-deep currents of her moods, of her secrets. ‘Tell me some more,’ he begged Joan, ‘about why you don’t like me. It’s music to my ears.’
‘You’re cruel,’ she pronounced, the brandy glass resting in her hand like a symbolic orb of power, ‘and you’re greedy.’
‘Now tell me why you like me. Tell me why we shouldn’t get a divorce.’
‘I hate your ego,’ she said, ‘and our sex is lousy, but I’ve never been lonely with you. I’ve never for an instant felt alone when you were in the room.’ Tears made her blink, and close her mouth.
He blinked also, out of weariness. ‘Well that’s a pretty weak endorsement. It won’t sell much of the product in Peoria.’
‘Is that what we’re trying to do? Sell the product in Peoria?’
‘It sure as hell isn’t selling very well here. Except to red herrings and poor fish.’
His attack flustered her, routed her from her throne. ‘You shouldn’t get angry,’ she said, standing, ‘when I try to talk. It doesn’t happen that often.’ She began to collect glasses, and to carry them toward the kitchen.
‘Thank God for that. You’re appalling.’
‘What is it that offends you? That