If I had trusted my intuition, I would have said no. My father died in that curse-laden city when I was five. The subsequent scandal left my mother, Madeline, paralyzed with anguish. Madeline retreated to her bedroom and remained a recluse for weeks. Loretta, our housekeeper, took charge—staying with us both night and day.
“Is Mommy coming back?” I asked Loretta.
As much as I loved Madeline, having Loretta as a caretaker offered breathing space from an otherwise stifling environment. She cooked my favorite foods, let me pick what to wear and didn't make me practice ballet.
“Your mama needs alone time,” Loretta said as she knelt beside me. “But don't you worry. She'll be back.”
“Is she in her room because daddy went to heaven?”
She nodded and touched my cheek.
“Is she going to go to heaven soon?” As terrible as that would be, I did like Loretta.
“Oh, sugar, no.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said. “Can I have a cookie?”
When Madeline emerged from seclusion, she looked broken and afraid. She tore through closets and drawers, leaving piles of clothes in her wake. Sofa and chair cushions were shred, mattresses were slit open and Daddy's things were either donated or burned.
“Did he take it with him when he left?” she'd mumble to herself. “Did he?”
She charged through the house—searching, digging, ripping—and eventually replaced the pictures, the furniture, the rugs, the mirrors—just about everything.
Or was that memory just a dream? I asked Loretta a few years later. All she did was shake her head. “My goodness, child, who can remember that far back?”
Madeline revealed few details about Daddy, even fewer about his death. Consequently, I became an expert snoop. The information I gathered was a result of my tireless detective skills.
Tucked between mattress and box spring, Madeline had hidden a journal. She had written a single entry: Chicago lures sinners, exposes them and leaves them on the streets to die. Albert, what have you done to us?
I was too young to understand what she meant. I understand now.
For many years, Madeline warned me to avoid Chicago. “Evil prowls the streets. A demon will dig into your back and never let go.” I asked her to explain what she meant. Instead of an answer, she reprimanded me for analyzing 'every single thing.'
If Chicago was a vortex for evil or if its punishing nature cursed sinners—it didn't concern me. I wasn't ill fated. I had a good heart. A trip to Chicago, under the right circumstances, might be enjoyable.
This upcoming trip would not be pleasant. The looming social events—that's what had me unnerved. The wives will meet at the Chicago Club—a clever idea by the CEOs. Sam’s response? “Constance will be thrilled.” Knowing my anxiety issues, aware of my insecurities—without consulting me, Sam had said thrilled.
For three days, I said affirmations to bolster my determination: I will tell Sam that I'm not going to Chicago. I will stand up to Sam and tell him no. I repeated these declarations even though there was no question if I would accompany him.
Not only was Sam spoiled, he was relentless. If he wanted me to go, he'd nag me until I acquiesced. When it came to our relationship, Sam was the hawk and I, a single feather.
The brunch? Exactly as I’d imagined. Sparkling wives—laughing, smiling, chatting about their jobs, their children.
“Oh Constance,” Florence Tyler said with a big, fake smile. “You’re smart. You've waited to have children. I envy the free time you have.”
Wife of Mr. CEO. Was she mocking me? I had difficulty grasping the underlying sentiment when people spoke to me. According to Sam, I should watch their face and body language for nuances. Unfortunately, his suggestion was problematic. I didn't value my own interpretations—and always suspected the worst.
Florence reminded me of Madeline. She had the same condescending tone. Like Madeline, Florence said one thing, but meant another. She smiled as she spoke but the undercurrent in her voice, unmistakable.
“I spend time volunteering several days a week,” I blurted. “I care for three older women. Take them to the grocery store, help them with their errands. We play games, go to bingo...”
And I had...about six or seven years ago, a minor detail I chose to omit.
“I've always believed in the importance of contributing to my community.” I sounded like Ms. Ohio answering some idiotic question to win the crown.
“Oh really, Constance, that’s wonderful,” a blonde-haired woman with a bad face-lift replied. “How did you find these women? Through a volunteer center?”
“Through our synagogue,” I said, aware that a gaggle of non-Jews surrounded me.
“Through your synagogue? My, you don’t look Jewish,” Florence said, her anti-Semitism ringing loud and clear.
“No, but you certainly do,” I quipped. “Some people, you can just tell. My husband is Jewish and mentioned you were, as well.”
“I am not Jewish,” she said emphatically.
“Hmmm. Okay, sure.” I nodded my head and shot a quick she’s-a-liar wink to the rest of the table.
When I married Sam, I didn't convert to Judaism. I didn't need to—I was an honorary Jew. That's what Sam's mother said and she was an authority.
“I’m an attorney with Baker, Baker and Windham,” Florence announced, glaring at me. Did she expect me to oo and ah?
Florence had barely touched her food, although she had several mimosas under her belt. She wore a snappy attorney suit accessorized with her air of superiority. Like any of us cared what she did. I could have been a lawyer. I could have sat on the Supreme Court if I had wanted to.
“It's okay to be Jewish, most attorneys are," I whispered loud enough to be heard. Not a drinker, the half-glass of champagne I'd drunk had temporarily given me chutzpah.
Florence turned away, flashing pictures of children with five-foot front teeth. The nagging, the chauffeuring, the orthodontist bills—I could have had children if I’d wanted them. I’d made a choice. A deliberate choice.
As she bragged, I smiled and reached for more muffins. The strawberries were plump and ripe. The pancakes, yummy. Sam Jacobson’s wife was a peculiar woman with a hefty appetite—I’m certain that was the topic while I was in the restroom gasping for air.
After the brunch, we loaded onto tour buses and spent the day at the Field Museum of Natural History. We saw a film about the future National Hellenic Museum. Celebrating Greek history, culture and art from ancient times to today, the museum was to open late fall of 2011.
At the dinner party, Sam coerced me into singing a karaoke song. “Ben and Florence Tyler sang—and we will, too." Sam said, situating me center stage.
No question they watched with interest as Sam Jacobson and his wife sang, “Stop in the Name of Love.” Sam was Diana Ross on a bad day. I was his backup, The Supremes. With one step right and clap, one step left and clap—I shifted back and forth like an arthritic senior in a line dance.
At thirty-two, I was a casualty of my childhood. If I had more faith in myself, I would have belted out Madonna's “Like A Virgin,” solo—and stolen the show. Unfortunately, self-confidence was not my strong point.
During my formative years, it was imperative that Madeline's high-society friends accepted her as an equal. Because I was a reflection of her, as Madeline often said, it was her responsibility to select my clothes, my activities and my companions.
Sculpting me into a debutante was her ultimate goal. By age seven, I understood the social graces of the upper class. I spoke French fluently by eight. While other children played outside, I studied piano. As if I were a Barbie Doll, my mother created my thoughts and opinions.
Back in the hotel room and preparing for bed, Sam insisted we watch Criminal Minds. I tend to have realistic dreams and avoided stories about serial killers before sleep. Instead, I viewed gorgeous photographs in a newly purchased book on ancient Greece. Before long, I drifted into a dream...
***
...Wearing a tunic and an outer cloak, I sit in a small boat. The night air is unpleasantly cold. A rough, unkempt seaman holds his ferryman's pole. We float across the River Styx. A coin for passage leaks a metallic taste in my mouth.
The ferryman points to a castle in the far distance. “The king looks forward to your arrival.”
“Me? Why would the king be interested in me?”
The ferryman eyes me suspiciously. “Have you forgotten? The king is your Father.”
“I'm going to see Daddy?” I jump up and the boat rocks precariously. The coin falls from my mouth and vanishes in the murky river.
“Sit down or I throw you off.” The ferryman's voice is gruff.
Back on the bench, I say nothing.
“For the sake of your soul, do you have another coin? You must have the fare or I head for the riverbank.”
“Please, take me to the castle. I promise Daddy will pay once I arrive.”
“Not according to Madeline,” he says and rows the boat toward shore.
***
When the alarm blared, Sam was already on the floor. Three hundred sit-ups. One remark by Frank at the office—put on a couple of pounds, Sam?—and since then, Sam exercised daily.
Good for him. I stayed in bed reviewing yesterday's brunch. A lusterless rock wedged between diamonds, I'd sat at the table heaping whipped cream on muffins.
How many had I stuffed in my mouth? Three? Four? It was hazy. I fell into a trance when uncertain or ill at ease. The brunch, a perfect example.
Today was Thursday. The twenty-four-hour Road Runner Respective was on the Cartoons Channel back home and I was trapped in Chicago. The wives can meet at the club and Sam had said thrilled.
As usual, Sam's schedule trumped mine. Last month, without warning, he changed his office hours. Before the shift, Sam was out the door by seven and home by five-thirty. That schedule suited me—no interference with my daily agenda. As the front door closed, I'd pour a bowl of Frosted Flakes and started the day with cartoons.
Eight-fifteen. What kind of hour was that to leave for the office? It was a fiasco—setting the recorder like a common thief, using espionage to keep Sam from noticing the blaring red, record light.
“What are you recording this early in the morning?”
Oh yes, I could imagine that conversation. What could I have said? Magilla Gorilla?
As Sam did his sit-ups, I stepped over him in a blubbery heap.
“God damn it, Constance! Two hundred-one. Two hundred-two. Step back over me, you know I’m superstitious,” Sam snapped between huffs.
Stepping over Sam without stepping back meant he wouldn’t grow anymore. I discussed this with Sam’s mom, an expert on superstitions. She'd said it applied to children. Sam refused to take a chance—and for an adult, not to grow meant imminent death.
I waddled around him—yesterday’s whipped-cream jiggling in my thighs. Squish with one step. Squash with the next. And Sam—two hundred-eight, two hundred-nine—curled up and down on the hotel room floor.
The full-length mirror had no mercy. Was it a fat mirror or a thin mirror? At the Kenwood mall in Cincinnati, in fact in other malls as well, the best mirrors—the ones that made you look thin—were in Macy's. Women drove to Macy's just to make themselves feel better. No matter the distance, the Macy's mirror was worth the trip. This was not a Macy's mirror and I looked huge.
“Do I look fat?”
“Nope,” Sam huffed.
“I look like a 5-foot-5-inch sausage.”
Why was I distracted and unaware of the amount I stuffed into my mouth? I had asked Sam to check if there were any superstitions to control eating, but as far as he and his mother knew, there weren’t.
If I focused on my eating habits, self-hatred scratched at my psyche like a vampire outside a bedroom window. Hungry. Desperate. Awaiting the slightest breach. I used my ability to numb and an occasional Ativan or two to boost my resolve.
“A size eight isn’t fat,” Sam said. Breath. Huff. Breath. Huff. “You’ve got that body dysmorphia thing.”
“I do not! The size on the tag is a lie. Clothing companies play games. The more expensive an item is, the smaller the size. When women feel good about themselves, they buy more clothes. At Chanel, I wear an eight. At Target, a ten.” I turned for a side view of myself. A mistake. “Except, of course, Victoria’s Secret, where the more you spend, the bigger the boobs.”
“You look great,” he said, not hiding his irritation. Two hundred-thirty, thirty-one. But if you’re not happy with yourself, exercise more.”
“So you’re saying I’m fat! I knew it!”
In the mirror, I suddenly inflated to blimp size with my face stretched across the top.
I had a complicated relationship with mirrors. As much as I preferred not to see myself, I felt compelled to peek whenever I saw one. I'd see my reflection and disappointed, turn away. Nevertheless, I always checked just to be sure. I lost my best friend, Rose, to a mirror and maybe, one day, she'd return.
***
From the time we were married, Sam constantly jabbered about having babies. I tried to accommodate him—in my own way. One unfortunate miscarriage followed the next. Eventually, he stopped talking about it, which was fine with me. I easily tire of feigning emotions.
Sometimes a woman has no choice but to pretend. Pretend pregnancies. Pretend miscarriages. Pretend grief. Sam wanted babies. I didn’t.
Madeline convinced me that pregnancy was the first crack in the marital cement. “The huge belly, the scars,” she'd said. “I can only imagine if I had nursed you! Well, it's too much for most men to bear. Before long, a husband strays.”
I didn’t want to lose Sam. Having a fake miscarriage every so often kept our marriage balanced—made sense of our childlessness. It was the real pregnancy and the subsequent loss of the baby that tested our commitment.
Months after our loss, Sam took the initiative by showing concern for me. “You've become a loner,” he'd said one evening—interrupting our usual silence.
“Are you worried that I have an arsenal of guns, as well?”
“Ha, fucking, ha,” his slow clap had been deliberate. “You know what I'm saying. You need to get out. Try something new.”
“This is who I am now. I rather be at home. Why can't you just accept that?”
The one person who appreciated authenticity was Daddy and he was in heaven. “Burning in hell,” Madeline would argue. “He's in heaven,” I'd screamed when she wasn't around. “Asking God to rescue me.”
Sam’s mother had confided—although they made the best husbands, Jewish men had three flaws. They were bad handymen, good hypochondriacs, and hopelessly spoiled.
If I had trusted my intuition, I would have said no. My father died in that curse-laden city when I was five. The subsequent scandal left my mother, Madeline, paralyzed with anguish. Madeline retreated to her bedroom and remained a recluse for weeks. Loretta, our housekeeper, took charge—staying with us both night and day.
“Is mommy coming back?” I asked Loretta.
As much as I loved Madeline, having Loretta as a caretaker offered breathing space from an otherwise stifling environment. She cooked my favorite foods, let me pick what to wear and didn't make me practice ballet.
“Your mama needs alone time,” Loretta said as she knelt beside me. “But don't you worry. She'll be back.”
“Is she in her room because daddy went to heaven?”
She nodded and touched my cheek.
“Is she going to go to heaven soon?” As terrible as that would be, I did like Loretta.
“Oh, sugar, no.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said. “Can I have a cookie?”
When Madeline emerged from seclusion, she looked broken and afraid. She tore through closets and drawers, leaving piles of clothes in her wake. Sofa and chair cushions were shred, mattresses were slit open and Daddy's things were either donated or burned.
“Did he take it with him when he left?” she'd mumble to herself. “Did he?”
She charged through the house—searching, digging, ripping—and eventually replaced the pictures, the furniture, the rugs, the mirrors—just about everything.
Or was that memory just a dream? I asked Loretta a few years later. All she did was shake her head. “My goodness, child, who can remember that far back?”
