forgotten her old friends. So much has happened since I saw you last that I don’t know where to begin …
Better late than never!
Dear Iola,
Remember me? This letter certainly is late! I can’t believe we’re in Illinois! There is so much I have to tell you …
Linda let the paper and pen, and the Bible she was leaning on, slip down the side of the bed to the floor. She had started several letters to Iola during the trip, using the stationery Iola had given her, but she never finished writing any of them. She would fall asleep in the middle, or put the page aside to watch televisionwith Robin, or go out to supper and forget about it. The longer she put off writing, the more difficult a chore it seemed. Her adventures were getting too complicated to convey on a mere piece of paper. It made her tired just to think about it. Yet Linda often thought of Iola herself and how much she missed her, missed that ironic good humor, her special wisdom, and her tough and enduring attitude toward almost everything. Linda wished now that she could be something like that, too—sophisticated and worldly, if not world-weary. Iola could always make her laugh, could always make her see the funny side of even grim or embarrassing situations.
Once, when they’d gone together for lunch at the sandwich shop next door to the studio, they were invited to a Tupperware party, by Rosalie, the cashier. What she had said was, “I’m having a Tupperware party at my house Friday night. Are you girls into that stuff?”
Linda had been married only two weeks and was trying very hard to ease into domesticity. It wasn’t that simple. There was Robin, of course, acting sullen and hostile all the time. And Linda had not replaced any of the household items Wright had shared with Miriam, despite his encouragement to do so. Another woman’s touch and taste were everywhere, and Linda began to long for things of her own. Why not start with Tupperware, with those little plastic containers in which she could begin ordering the details of her new life? The party itself would be enjoyable, and she would be in the company she craved, those other wives who might take her in as a member of their secret society. “Yes,” she told Rosalie. “I’m definitely into it. And I’d love to go.”
Iola had glanced at Linda quizzically, and then she said, “Count me in, too. I’ll try anything once.”
Wright was pleased with her plans. “Spend as much as you like, honey,” he said. “And have a good time.” He was going to take Robin bowling, and he kissed Linda goodbye the way he always did, as if they might be separated for years.
Rosalie lived in an apartment house in Bayonne, and when Iola and Linda arrived, the other women, about a dozen of them, were already there. The Tupperware people, a man and his wife, had set up their samples on a bridge table in the living room, and covered them with a drop cloth. They were going to make a grand presentation, Linda realized, the way car manufacturers do with the new models each year. She thought it was a pretty silly and dramatic fuss over small kitchen goods, but she tried to withhold judgment and get into the proper spirit of things. Rosalie’s husband wasn’t home, but her two small children were there, running wildly through the house in their pajamas. Rosalie kept shouting, “Bedtime! Bedtime!” which only appeared to excite the children to a greater frenzy. Finally they were threatened and bribed into submission, and were sent off to bed. Rosalie put out some Cokes and beer and a bowl of onion dip surrounded by potato chips.
The Tupperware woman, Beverly, introduced herself and her husband, Al, who hobbled around with a serious limp. She explained that they had only recently gone into the house-party business, after Al suffered an on-the-job accident that left him permanently disabled. He had to leave construction work for good, just when their financial needs were at a peak. They had one child with
Better late than never!
Dear Iola,
Remember me? This letter certainly is late! I can’t believe we’re in Illinois! There is so much I have to tell you …
Linda let the paper and pen, and the Bible she was leaning on, slip down the side of the bed to the floor. She had started several letters to Iola during the trip, using the stationery Iola had given her, but she never finished writing any of them. She would fall asleep in the middle, or put the page aside to watch televisionwith Robin, or go out to supper and forget about it. The longer she put off writing, the more difficult a chore it seemed. Her adventures were getting too complicated to convey on a mere piece of paper. It made her tired just to think about it. Yet Linda often thought of Iola herself and how much she missed her, missed that ironic good humor, her special wisdom, and her tough and enduring attitude toward almost everything. Linda wished now that she could be something like that, too—sophisticated and worldly, if not world-weary. Iola could always make her laugh, could always make her see the funny side of even grim or embarrassing situations.
Once, when they’d gone together for lunch at the sandwich shop next door to the studio, they were invited to a Tupperware party, by Rosalie, the cashier. What she had said was, “I’m having a Tupperware party at my house Friday night. Are you girls into that stuff?”
Linda had been married only two weeks and was trying very hard to ease into domesticity. It wasn’t that simple. There was Robin, of course, acting sullen and hostile all the time. And Linda had not replaced any of the household items Wright had shared with Miriam, despite his encouragement to do so. Another woman’s touch and taste were everywhere, and Linda began to long for things of her own. Why not start with Tupperware, with those little plastic containers in which she could begin ordering the details of her new life? The party itself would be enjoyable, and she would be in the company she craved, those other wives who might take her in as a member of their secret society. “Yes,” she told Rosalie. “I’m definitely into it. And I’d love to go.”
Iola had glanced at Linda quizzically, and then she said, “Count me in, too. I’ll try anything once.”
Wright was pleased with her plans. “Spend as much as you like, honey,” he said. “And have a good time.” He was going to take Robin bowling, and he kissed Linda goodbye the way he always did, as if they might be separated for years.
Rosalie lived in an apartment house in Bayonne, and when Iola and Linda arrived, the other women, about a dozen of them, were already there. The Tupperware people, a man and his wife, had set up their samples on a bridge table in the living room, and covered them with a drop cloth. They were going to make a grand presentation, Linda realized, the way car manufacturers do with the new models each year. She thought it was a pretty silly and dramatic fuss over small kitchen goods, but she tried to withhold judgment and get into the proper spirit of things. Rosalie’s husband wasn’t home, but her two small children were there, running wildly through the house in their pajamas. Rosalie kept shouting, “Bedtime! Bedtime!” which only appeared to excite the children to a greater frenzy. Finally they were threatened and bribed into submission, and were sent off to bed. Rosalie put out some Cokes and beer and a bowl of onion dip surrounded by potato chips.
The Tupperware woman, Beverly, introduced herself and her husband, Al, who hobbled around with a serious limp. She explained that they had only recently gone into the house-party business, after Al suffered an on-the-job accident that left him permanently disabled. He had to leave construction work for good, just when their financial needs were at a peak. They had one child with
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