Wanda Fights Back
Jean Baur

I once dated a physicist--this was just after my one year in college and I was working in the registrar's office at another college putting registration cards in alphabetical order--and can you believe this guy has the nerve to call me all these years later and invite me to a romantic weekend in the Berkshires? I may look dumb but I could tell that some chick must have just dumped him so he goes pawing through his greasy address book and finds me under the W's for Willis and calls me up.

Jennifer, he says, since he doesn't know I've changed my name to Wanda.

Who? I say with my mouth full because something happens to me at night where no matter what I eat I end up hungry. So I'm trying to swallow a peanut butter and raisin sandwich and can't get my tongue off the roof my of mouth and there's this man's voice asking for Jennifer.

That's me, I say, gagging.

This is Philip. Do you remember me?

Philip, I think. Who the hell is Philip? And it's just like my old job of filing names--my brain is searching wildly for his card.

Nuk, I say, coaxing the peanut butter down my throat.

The physicist, he says. Remember we went out a while ago in Cambridge? I met you at that dance free thing?

Oh.

I was thinking about you, he says.

Like hell you were, I want to say. It took you years to figure out how to dial my number?

I am not going to make this easy for him. Not one bit.

How startling, I say, looking out the window at the leaves flying across my yard.

How you been? he asks, as if he really cares.

Couldn't be better.

I let a nice long silence travel between us.

Gosh, he says, I forgot how funny you are.

Yeah, I should tell him, I'm a laugh riot. Especially when it comes to men. You want to hear funny? Let's talk about what happened back then, Philip. Do you remember coming up to my apartment after our third or fourth date and you asked if you could spend the night and you held me close to you and I could see your intelligence shining out of you. I'll give you that--you are smart--and it turned me on. And you got talking about physics and I said I had no idea what physics were and you threw your cigarette box up in the air and showed me the different ways it could land and said that was physics.

I laughed.

Really, you insisted, here is matter, energy, motion and force.

Oh, good, I said, let's do physics together, and then you laughed and before long we were in my bed with close to nothing on. We both still wore our underpants because we weren't quite ready to be that vulnerable, and yet I knew our bodies would twist together and that last barrier would be lowered and that would be that.

You talked and I kissed you and you kissed me back but now that we were in bed you acted as if you were taking notes or involved in something that was a kind of obligation.

I said, What's the matter?

Nothing.

Oh, I said.

And then you had the nerve to fall asleep. And to top it off I only had a single bed and you were in most of it. My apartment was one room with a tiny alcove that served as a kitchen and a bathroom down the hall which I had to share with a fat lawyer and an elderly Italian man who liked to cook.

Tears slid down my face into my hair. What did I do to deserve this? I thought. Is there something weird or bad about me? Do I invite this kind of trouble? Is there a sign on me that says--If you're really screwed up and you can't make any kind of commitment and you're afraid of sex, this is the woman for you. File here.

It was a long night. Philip snored. At one point he threw his arm over me and mumbled. I threw it back. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I got up and made myself a cup of tea. I stood in the alcove and looked out the window at the street.

Jennifer? Jennifer, are you there? His voice is pulling me back into this conversation.

Yes, I'm here. But my name isn't Jennifer.

Do I have the wrong--

No, I'm the person you knew, but I changed my name.

Let me guess, he said.

No. You'll never guess. My name is Wanda.

It's going to be hard not to call you Jennifer, says Philip.

I don't think so, I said.

He ignored this, which seemed to me a highly unscientific thing to do.

You were so funny at that dance free thing where we met, he says. I walked into that dimly lit gym or whatever it was and the music's blasting and there you are on the floor lying on a big piece of brown paper and some guy is tracing your body with a marker. Hair and all.

I remember, I say.

And then you look up and I’m standing over you and you get up and we dance all over the room as if we were nymphs or something.

You never looked like a nymph, Philip. You can't dance.

Philip laughs. Don't be so hard on me. I tried.

Not hard enough.

Jen--I mean, Wanda--I know that was a long time ago. Can't you just visit me for a weekend and we can see the foliage and hike in the mountains and sit by the fire at night in my cabin? I've learned to cook and I'll make you crepes Suzette or French onion soup or whatever you like.

God, I think, this guy is pushing all my buttons. Did I tell him that I'm a total and complete foliage fanatic? And I love to walk and mountains make me skip like a goat and right now I'm starving and so tired of my own half-brained cooking, I could scream.

I'll have to think about it, I say.

Good. We'll have a nice time and I promise you I won't pressure you at all.

What am I doing? I think. Do I want to spend two nights in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a scientist who may have problems but who at least doesn’t wear a pocket protector or white socks with dark pants and who has the decency to be four inches taller than me and whose complexion is not that I-just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock variety?

So I'm to sit in the car with him and watch his legs as he drives and see his hands fondle the steering wheel and smell his flannel and blue jean smell and he's not going to pressure me?

I think we'd have more fun if you did, I say.

He bursts out laughing. Oh, Willis, he says, since he can't remember my new first name, you are too much.

The leaves look as if they are dancing back up the trees. My mind takes me from leaves to pumpkins.

After Philip goes, after that long night of sleeping together in the worst sense of the word, I don't know what to do with myself. It's Sunday, so I slip on an old pair of jeans and my favorite tie-dyed T-shirt and my ratty corduroy jacket and take a walk. I go to my favorite place, The Coffee, Tea, and Spice Shop and browse among the burlap bags of beans and the sharp, insistent aromas of tea.

Then I go back outside and take this street and that, half-hoping that I can get lost, and thinking that if I just pick the right street, I will find what I’m looking for. I admire the Victorian houses with their smug porches and look away as a family comes out their front door--so busy and complete they don't even see me.

I pass a small supermarket that has a display of chrysanthemums and Indian corn and pumpkins stacked on bales of hay. Nice, I think. I touch the pumpkins. I like their twisted stems, their dried up umbilical cords. They are cold. I pick a cute little fat one that doesn't even have one flat side. I take it inside and find the evaporated milk and a box of brown sugar.

All the way home I think of the pie I am going to make and how its smell will fill my small apartment and maybe I'll put on my record of Bach's St. Matthew Passion while I'm cooking and I'll change my sheets so that there is no trace of Philip left.

Small things can be surprising. My little pumpkin yields more pulp than I need, so I double my recipe and make two pies instead of one. I even make my own pie crusts using lard and very cold water. I pinch the edges to make them look wavy and fancy. Cinnamon and clove fill my kitchen--that and the smell of pumpkin puree sweetened with brown sugar. I fit both pies in my tiny oven, heap the dirty blender and bowls in the sink, and make myself a cup of tea.

Then I realize I have a problem. What will I do with two pies? My freezer is so small that it only has room for one ice cube tray. Well, I tell the empty room, I will just have to give one away.

Philip has not stopped talking. I am holding onto the telephone thinking how weird it is that this man's voice is in my ear. Where does it go then? Is it like food, does it get digested and stored somewhere? I didn't remember that Philip was this talkative. He must be nervous.

You sound like a salesman, I say.

Oh, no. I just do research. That and a bit of teaching.

Must be nice, I say.

It's okay.

So, you finished your degree?

Yup. Ph.D.

Well, I say.

How about you?

How about me what?

Did you get your degree?

No, I say. I worked.

That's fine, he says, as if proving to me that he has an open mind.

I might go back, I add, lying.

I'm sure it would be easy for you now.

It would be different, I say.

My oldest cat, Stringbean, who knows me best, is rubbing against my legs.

Hey, boy, I murmur.

What? says Philip.

Just talking to my cat.

You have a cat?

Three.

God.

That's not so many.

Don't they stink up your apartment?

No. I live in a house. My own house. And they're outside during the day. Where do you live, Philip?

Same old place.

God, I think, is that possible? I remember going there after a date. Philip took me to a cheap Indian restaurant and I wrapped myself around his arm as we walked out into the sharp November air. I didn't want anything else. Just being full of curry and attached to his arm made me completely happy.

Let's go up to my place for a nightcap, you said, and I followed, chatting about my boss and how uptight she was.

We walk up a dark wooden staircase in a house that has been divided into apartments. You unlock the door and I walk in and trip over your bicycle.

God!

Sorry, Jennifer. I forgot to warn you.

You turn on a few lights. Want a drink? I've got some Tia Maria.

Okay, I say, having no idea what it is.

There are Indian bedspreads everywhere--on the couch, draped over an armchair, on the mattress which is of course on the floor. I can't remember now why we were so opposed to beds in the late sixties. I guess we thought we were making a profound political statement by camping out.

I start to sneeze. I take a sip of the Tia Maria which you have poured into a jelly glass and let its sweet coffee taste burn the itching out of my throat.

Do you have a Kleenex? I ask.

Sorry.

I go to your bathroom which has cracked blue tiles and hair everywhere and grab a handful of toilet paper. The roll sits on the floor so I shake it to get the dust off.

Are you allergic to something? you ask.

Dust.

I sit back down beside you on the sagging couch. I can see myself in here with a vacuum cleaner and a hot bucket of Spic 'n Span. There’s a dead snake plant in the corner. The strange thing is that all this mess and dirt doesn't make me dislike Philip. His apartment proves he needs a woman. Maybe the next time I come here I'll bring him a big bouquet of flowers--something bright and dramatic like gladiolus or lilies.

I forgot to mention that there were books everywhere--unfriendly books with dull covers and fat spines and unpronounceable titles.

I wonder now if his cabin in the Berkshires has the same look. You still into Indian bedspreads? I ask.

What?

Remember, you used to have Indian bedspreads everywhere?

Oh, yeah. Well, I still have some. But not in the cabin. I bought it furnished.

Nice, I think. It's probably your basic brown and orange cabin decor with plastic plates in the kitchen and fake wood paneling everywhere.

I hear something in Philip's voice that wasn't there before. He’s wary. He is unsure. It's been a long time.

So I say that. I say, It's been a long time.

Yes, he says, it has.

Why aren't you married? I ask.

I don't--I'm just not, that's all. What about you?

When will I ever get smart enough to remember that if I ask that question, I will have to answer it myself?

Me? Oh, I don't know. Lots of reasons.

I want to add--because I've never met a guy who is half as nice as one of my cats--but I know if I say it Philip will think I'm bitter. And I’m not. Angry, yes. Bitter, no.

So, listen, Wanda (he says my name like it's pretend or something) will you think about it?

That's what I'm afraid of--thinking about it. (I don't say that, I just think it.) I want to be the kind of woman who says--No, Philip, I won't. What didn't work out years ago is not going to work out now. Thanks for calling. Bye.

But I don't say that. I feel the hard lump of peanut butter in my stomach and say, Okay.

He gives me his number and tells me that he'll call me over the weekend.

I hang up and lie down on the floor.

Jeze, Stringbean, I say. He curls up on my stomach and tries to lick my chin. As much as I love cats, I don't like my face licked. And his breath smells of tuna and wet fur.

What am I going to do?

The empty room has no answer. Stringbean washes his own face.

Would you like me to tell you what I did with the extra pie? I ask Stringbean.

He winks which I believe means yes.

Well, they came out perfectly--you know, they wiggled when I shook them but were firm and custardy and had a nice little brown crust. So I let them cool and I clean up the kitchen and I think of taking another walk but really don't want to. Then I decide that I should mop my kitchen floor because it’s sticky, so I put on my rubber gloves and grab my bucket and go down the hall to the bathroom because it's a lot easier to get hot water out of the tub than out of my tiny sink.

I walk back to my apartment being careful not to slosh hot water on my legs and noticing how worn the maroon-flowered carpeting is in the hall, when I hear something like a moan coming from Frank the old Italian's apartment. Room, I should say.

I stop. Nothing. Then another little moan. He is dying, I think. Or maybe he fell and hit his head. I rush into my room and put the bucket down. I tear off my rubber gloves. My heart is pounding. I can't call the landlord because he doesn't live in the house and anyway he's useless. He's got this moral thing and warns all his tenants that we had better not drink or fornicate or even have the opposite sex in our rooms. We all ignore him.

All right, I tell my little room. I'll knock on his door. But I feel naked standing there in the dingy hall so I rush back into my room and grab my extra pie. That's it. I'll give the pie to Frank. I owe him a favor anyway because he gave me a broccoli and garlic sandwich just after I moved in.

I knock.

Now I know he isn't dead. There is a scurrying sound and thumping and his loud voice shouting, Jus a minute. I comin.

It's me, Frank, I say. Jennifer.

I wait. The pie settles in my hand.

He opens the door two inches. He grins at the pie.

For-a me? He asks.

I notice that one of his front teeth is missing. Then I nearly drop the pie because a woman starts screaming and thrusts her pinched-up face in the door.

Frank grabs her and pulls her back.

She slaps him across the face, yelling at him in Italian.

He yells back.

Oh, God, I say. Sorry, Frank. I just thought--

He pushes the woman so that she falls on his bed. Then he runs to the door, takes the pie, and says, We talk-a later.

Fine, I say, racing for my own room before this creature with black hair and long red nails can get me. I bolt my door.

It dawns on me that she thinks I'm doing it with Frank and this makes me smile for the first time all day. I decide not to turn on any music so I can enjoy the company of their screaming and pounding.

Then I remember the one thing Frank taught me to say in Italian: La bella luna stanotte lucica come l'argento ed io brucio ardente con amore per voi, Signore.

I say it once in my normal voice, then I say it louder. Then I shout it like I'm some kind of lunatic. It means: The beautiful moon shines like silver tonight and I burn with love for you, sir.

It is quiet now--the ominous quiet of the moment before a landslide--and then I hear glass breaking and the witch flying out the door.

Now I have really done it. I wait and there’s a timid knock on my door.

Who is it? I ask.

Frank. Mr. Frank, he says.

I open my door. His face is burning red.

Oh, I say. I'm so sorry. I didn't know.

Frank looks at me in my little room and bursts out laughing.

Guess what-a she think?

I know, I say, laughing too.

Now, he says, we sit-a down. Eat pie, yes?

Yes, I say, following him into his room.

He heats up some leftover coffee and explains that that was his wife, his ex-wife. She very jealous, he says. He compliments me on the pie and asks for the recipe. When I leave he says my Italian--my one line of Italian--is very good.

Comes in handy, I say, and he pats me on the shoulder, grinning.

My room is different now. I lock the door but I can hear Frank humming as he cleans up the broken dishes. We are friends.

Stringbean gets up and arches his back.

Sorry if I bored you, I say, pushing him off me. I stand up and he gives me that where's-my-treat look.

Okay, I say, and pour him a dish of milk.

I clean up my dinner dishes, enjoying the space and solidness of my kitchen. I can feel my whole house around me, the rooms waiting for me, the yard and trees snuggled close. I iron a blouse for work and rinse out my stockings. I think about going outside to look at the moon but go upstairs, change and get into bed with the book I'm reading instead.

This is what I do almost every night--read until the words start slipping off the page. Then I find my bookmark, close the book and turn off the light. The cats settle around me.

Goodnight, house, I whisper. Goodnight, Wanda, I add, pulling the blankets up around my neck.

But tonight it's as if I've had ten cups of coffee. I’m flying. I try to remember Philip's face, his dark hair, his open squarish face. Manly. Brown eyes. Silky hair.

His voice returns from wherever it went when it got into my body and I hear him saying, I was thinking about you.

Why? Why was he thinking about me? Why did he have to do this? Why couldn't he either have made love to me and stayed with me all those years ago, or just erased me from his book? But why this journey to the past? This memory trip?

Here's the worst part. He has invaded my space. My cozy house, my nest, is changed. His voice, his insinuations, have raied a doubt. They insist that this is not enough--that I must somehow have him or some other man to be happy.

Shit! I tell the dark room.

I turn on the light.

Now, you may not know this about me but I’m a very logical person. So I stagger downstairs, find a legal pad and a pencil, get myself a glass of milk and return to bed. It's 12:30. I draw a line down the middle of the page. Here's what I write:

Reasons to Go/Reasons to Say No
I sit for a while thinking about this, chewing on the end of the pencil. I notice that these two headings rhyme. Umm, I say. The cats open their squinty eyes and look at me. Okay, here goes.

Reasons to Go Reasons to Say No
-Philip is cute -Philip hasn't changed
-the foliage and food -where can this relationship go?
-could be friends -he'll pull the same old trick and refuse to get it up
-status at work -it can be lonelier to be with someone than to be alone

This is not working. One side of the list seems to cancel out the other. I’m getting nowhere.

Okay, Wanda, I think. How would you feel if you go? Excited. Nervous. A little apprehensive. But it would be good for you to get out of your routine. Right? I can't make myself answer. So I try the opposite question. How would you feel if you said no? The room is waiting for my answer. The bed is an island of light--a tiny planet in a galaxy of darkness.

Well, I whisper, I would feel sad because I'd be missing an opportunity. But I'd feel strong because I wouldn't be acting like some desperate spinster. And I guess I would be saying that this life--my life here with the cats and my work and my friends and my garden should not be taken lightly.

And yes, I'd be saying to Philip--you can't just call up out of the blue and expect me to fling the door open wide. No, you can't. You can't at all. If you really want me--if I am the one--if I’m the one to bring bright bunches of flowers into your dust-filled life, then you've got to work for it. Yes. You've got to call and write and woo me. You've got to go out of your way to find out what I need. I'm not being selfish, Philip, because I would love to be the one to take your pocket protectors off your shirts if you wear them now and wash and iron your clothes and be there for you after a long day at the lab. And I know you could learn to love cats. Well, at least put up with them. But it's not free. I'm not free or something you can pick up and throw down at will.

God, Wanda, I say. My face is wet with tears. Where the hell did all that come from?

ust me, that I fly out of bed, grab my slippers and robe, run downstairs and go out into my front yard. There is a sliver of a moon and the big dipper and tons of stars. I throw my head back, my arms open wide, and I dance free.