Menage by Alix Kates Shulman Page A

that his accomplishment was well beyond anything she could aspire to.
    At first she had been baffled, even secretly hurt, that he never, not once, inquired about her work, despite Mack’s embarrassing hints. But now she wondered if his disregard was perhaps a kindness, intended to spare her the humiliation of his judgment, rather than indifference or, worse, contempt. That talented subclass of women writers whose husbands and lovers were said to have sucked them dry or patronized them into madness—the Zeldas and Plaths and Rhyses—had no bearing on her case: Zoltan, though driving her to distraction, was not her lover, and her husband actively supported her writing. Didn’t Mack claim that it was for her sake he’d invited Zoltan to live with them, to be her literary mentor and companion? By now it was obvious that Zoltan had no such intentions, and she wished Mack would drop it.
    How confusing the whole question had become! Earning power aside, she’d never thought her work less valuable than Mack’s until Zoltan moved in.Her columns, besides shielding her from the dubious status of a privileged stay-at-home mom, at least helped the environment, which could hardly be said of most of Mack’s projects (don’t even mention the Porsche or the Piper). Yet with Zoltan writing upstairs, whatever pride she’d once taken in her work quickly disappeared. If he were suddenly to read something of hers, she’d be mortified. She was grateful for his apparent ignorance of the Internet, where her columns were posted for all to see.
    WHEN FRANÇOISE ANNOUNCED THAT she was returning to Belgium to help her mother care for her father, who had suddenly fallen gravely ill, Heather struggled to hide her relief. She had already decided to ease her out. Not that Zoltan had responded to Françoise’s delicate beauty or was even, as far as Heather knew, aware of it. His avoidance of the children entailed avoidance of Françoise. But Heather was aware of it—and wary. Graciously she promised to pay the girl’s airfare and wait a decent interval before replacing her, in case Françoise wanted to return. In fact, however, she had already decided that instead of hiring another mother’s helper, she would find an appropriateall-day program for the children, preferably one that offered a segment of French conversation. As it was, Carmela’s presence in the house three days a week was quite enough restriction on her freedom.
    AFTER THE PRESSURE OF life with Zoltan had been building up for several weeks, Heather decided to call up her old publishing buddy Barbara Rabin, the one friend who might understand what she was going through, and invite her and her husband, Abe (“Rabin” to their friends), to meet them for dinner in the city at their favorite Mexican restaurant from back in her working days. It would be the McKays’ first social outing since Zoltan’s arrival and might restore some much-needed reality.
    â€œI can’t wait to see you,” said Barbara. “I want to hear all about your houseguest. I’m halfway through
Fire Watch
. Wow!”
    â€œHe’s just impossible!” wailed Heather, surprising herself.
    â€œReally? How? Let me guess: he’s hitting on Françoise?”
    â€œDon’t be silly. He barely ever saw her since she was always with the children. Anyway, she’s gone back to Belgium.”
    â€œSmart move, Heather, what with Schwarzenegger and the rest of them.”
    â€œIt wasn’t my idea. Her father got sick.”
    â€œThen what’s the matter?” said Barbara. “Tell me.”
    She hardly knew where to begin. “First of all, he keeps us up till all hours, then he sleeps his mornings away while we wind up tortured by sleep deprivation. Sometimes I think he’s deliberately trying to drive me crazy.”
    To Barbara, who felt more than a touch of envy, Heather sounded less distressed