YOUNG SHELEIGH, THE summer help in the office down to Ayre’s, had taken to giving me advice. A year of “Women’s Studies” at the university and she figured she knew it all, I guess. That was the new thing then, “women’s liberation,” and I was curious about it. So I let her preach away.
“You need to get out more, Georgina,” she pronounced over lunch one Friday when I’d had a hell of a week. “Let your husband look after the kids. It’s your life, Georgina. Women have to get hold of power.”
I knew there was truth to what she was saying but I put her off.
“Power? I just want to get hold of some sleep!”
She unwrapped her health food sandwich—all sprouts and seeds. “Really, Georgina, my girlfriends and I are determined to take charge of our own lives.”
I was intrigued by Sheleigh’s hippie-commune life, another planet from mine, in council housing on Barter’s Hill. Listening to her stories was pure entertainment for me. She shared a house with a bunch of hairy, half-washed students. They were crammed in there. Even the couch was rented out. And in the middle of all the ruckus and nightly partying, there were house rules about “equality.”
“I know why you’re so ground down, Georgina—you do all the housework and your husband goes scot-free. At our place, the boys have got to toe the line,” she said, with a toss of her bossy little head. “Us girls are not picking up after them.”
Lunch with Sheleigh in the windowless little staffroom had become a daily, eye-opening event for me. Some of her “women’s lib” talk was shockin’ beyond.
“Women wear themselves out trying to please men”—her voice got shrill when she said that word. “We should please ourselves. I don’t have sex unless I really want it.”
“Me neither,” I mumbled, nearly choking on my egg sandwich.
My instinct with Sheleigh was motherly, but she kept putting me on her level, woman-to-woman, despite the fact that I was ten years older and had tons of raw experience with men. For sure I wasn’t about to open up to her about what was going on in my marriage. I just kept skimming over the surface.
“Oh, Art thinks he’s the king in the sex department, but I got news for him,” I joked.
In those days, I was always joking around like that. Making out everything was okay with Art and me. But, in reality, we were just scraping by—on more levels than one. Art had a job in night security at the Lock-Up in the Courthouse but the salary was miserable. That’s why I had to get out and work—on the phones, in the office down to Ayre’s. What with the job, the two kids screaming when I got home, and Art out drinking (and probably carousing) whenever he got a chance, it was getting harder and harder to keep a brave face.
And who’d have thought that a young thing like Sheleigh would be the one to see through me?
Things were getting worse at home. Art was drinking more heavily. Then, one night when he was at work, my sister Janice came over to “talk” to me. It was ugly news: she knew for sure that Art had a girl on the go—a waitress from the Candlelight restaurant, a little duckie, as they say, barely out of school. I knew Art had his dalliances, but I took the news hard—it wasn’t that I was jealous of some little thing who’d be foolish enough to go out with Art, but just that it was one more piece of injustice in the hell that was my marriage. The next day, I went to work with makeup caked over the dark circles under my eyes.
Sheleigh leaned across the lunch table. “The makeup’s not doing the job, Georgina. You look terrible. Is something wrong?”
“Oh, I was up with my little one all night,” I answered as lightly as I could. “He’s got that cold that’s going around.”
She gave me her woman-to-woman look. “Come on now, Georgina. Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
I burst into tears. Told her she didn’t know how lucky she was. Fussing over every little dropped stitch in her life. All that fancy talk she got on with. What a luxury!
Once I got going, I opened up full throttle.
“I’ve had a hard life, you know. Me and my sisters and brothers were dragged up by our mother. I thought when I got married I’d leave that all behind and make a nice home. I’ve been doing me best to be a good housekeeper. But it turns out I’m just stuck in prison with my kids and husband. Last night I found out that Art’s cheating on me. And this is not the first time.”
Sheleigh look shocked. For her, this was completely outrageous: A wife should simply not put up with such a thing from her husband.
I tried to explain, smooth things over: “Art’s flirtations don’t really matter to me. See, you don’t stay ‘in love’ after you get married—there’s kids to raise and other stuff to get on with. We’ll be fine, we’re just going through tough times.” And I finished off with a lie. “I’m sure Art will see sense and stop his wandering.”
That was a big slice of reality I was giving her. She was dumbfounded for a minute. But she rallied. “Listen, Georgina. I think you should join my CR group. It’s a bunch of women who have frank discussions and help each other out.”
I laughed as I wiped my tears. “What the hell is CR?”
“Consciousness raising. You share your feelings about your life, face up to how oppressed you are. It’s liberating.”
“Oh yeah, that’s just what I need. Sharing my secrets with a bunch of girls I don’t even know—what is it you call yourselves… feminists?” I pulled myself together.
“Never mind, my dear. I’m just havin’ a bad day. And don’t you breathe a word to anyone about what I told you. Art and I will work it out.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, sloughing me off. I could see she wanted to get back to that CR business. “Come on, now, Georgie. You’ve got to join the group. Learn about sisterhood and standing up for yourself. Why don’t you come to this week’s Friday meeting?”
It was good timing. Art had bullied his way into going off fishing that weekend. And I was ripe for something. The new little girlfriend was kind of a last straw.
On Friday at suppertime, Sheleigh turned up at our place, with a friend to babysit my youngsters. “Now get your duds on and let’s go to the CR.”
I took my apron off and changed, half excited and half scared to death.
Art would kill me if he knew what I was up to, I thought.
Then off I trotted behind Sheleigh. She had quite the stride in her ugly walking shoes. I had trouble keeping up—dressed as I was in my high heels that I wore on the few occasions I managed to get “out” anywhere.
“High heels are another whole issue,” she threw back at me over her shoulder. “But that’s for later.”
The meeting was held in the living room of a little rented bungalow on Mayor Avenue. A student kind of a place, with sheets for curtains, almost no furniture, dirty cushions scattered around the floor, and the sickly sweet smell of incense in the air.
So this is how that crowd lives, I thought.
The other women were already sitting in a circle, some on the cushions and some on the few chairs. They were chatting and laughing, sharing their stories. I heard a snippet of one as I entered.
“He already had an erection but I…”
I froze in my tracks.
“Come on in and meet the others,” said a kind of plumpish den mother with long hair down to her waist. She was wearing a “granny” dress and looked for the world like that rock star on TV—the one they call Mama Cass, who screams and writhes around when she sings.
I was surprised to see that the women weren’t all young university types like Sheleigh. Two of them were older than me—one was kind of puckered looking, in a navy blue suit, like she’d just come from her job at the bank.
“This is my Aunt Marilyn,” said Sheleigh. “It’s her first night here, too.”
What’s she doing here? I thought.
“How do you do,” she said formally.
“I’m grand, I s’pose,” I replied, aware of the fact that I sounded like I was from Rabbittown.
Penny, the other older woman in the room, was wrinkly and grey-haired but decked out in those hippie clothes from the new little shops on Duckworth Street—embroidered shirt, long earrings, long skirt.
Mutton dressed as lamb, I thought. What the hell is she doing here?
The rest of the group were cut from the same cloth as Sheleigh. Intense little faces, lithe bodies, small breasts free of bras, nipples showing through T-shirts.
The Mama Cass look-alike, who’d apparently shed her real name and was now known as Jade, lit a stick of incense, then sat on a cushion and crossed her legs.
“Thanks for coming, everybody,” she said in a sugary voice. “Let’s begin by holding hands and saying a sisterhood poem.”
Hold hands with a woman? I was mortified. And, to boot, I was perched on one of the chairs alongside crusty old Aunt Marilyn. Her hand was bony and cold and all the way through the prayer (surviving the hurricanes of life, in sisterhood we…) I was worried she’d notice my rough palms—housemaid’s skin from washing diapers.
“Now then,” said Mama Jade, swaying her long hair. “We have a list of questions. Each one of us gets to answer, then we have general discussion.” She opened a copy of Ms. Magazine to a marked page and read: “How do you deal with sharing household chores with your male partner?”
Aunt Marilyn the banker jumped in. “Jeffry never came into the kitchen or cleaned the house. That was my domain. Now I suppose, since he’s living with that young thing, he’s probably changed his ways and helping out.” She looked like she was sucking a lemon. “I know for damn sure, I’m glad I’ve just got myself to clean up after. Like they say, It’ll have to be some man to be better than no man.”
“I think it’s time we stopped making the kitchen a female fortress,” said Alison, with the halo of curly blond hair. I recognized her from the news on TV. She led the protests against women being “sexually harassed” by their bosses. Brave girl, I’d thought. I should be marching with her. My boss in the office touched me sometimes, little flicks on my back around to the side of my tits. But I never did anything about it. What was the use? That stuff is as old as the hills. Who’s ever going to stop it?
Next up was the over-aged hippy, Penny. Now this one had it all sorted out. Her husband was a retired accountant and stayed home doing housework while she went out golfing in the summer and curling in the winter. No doubt, she was the toast of the town.
“Fred peels the potatoes and shines the brass,” she said, her earrings dangling. “Then he goes over the whole place with the carpet sweeper. By the time I get home for supper everything is spic and span. I discovered women’s lib a long time ago. That’s why I came to this group, to see if you girls had anything new to offer. So far, I think I could teach you a lesson or two.”
Well, la de da, I thought.
Another skinny little one called Polly piped up with a long diatribe—like a set piece you’d recite in a school play. She and her live-in, “Carlo,” (she’d somehow found an Italian in St. John’s) had drawn up a plan to share housework. Complete equality. They had a monthly roster posted with a magnet on the fridge.
“And this Carlo pulls his weight?” asked the bitter Aunt Marilyn. “Actually does the chores?”
Polly went all noble and temple-like. “Well, I have to be very patient. Carlo was spoiled by his Italian mother. Never had to lift a finger. He’s a hopeless cook and he’s after burning the bottom out of most of our pots. And today he was supposed to sweep up, but when I came home he explained he couldn’t find the broom. I didn’t get mad at him—we looked for the broom together.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She didn’t know where the broom was?
Sheleigh nodded in my direction. My turn had come.
“Art’s got one of them mothers, too. Tended on him hand and foot. I shudders when I thinks of her. Mrs. Perfect Housekeeper. When we got married she gave me the recipes for Art’s favourite dishes. But when I try to make them dishes, Art complains they’re not as good as his mother’s. Art don’t do nothing around the house. To be honest with you, I can’t be bothered getting him to help. Like they says, you might as well get the cat to do it. He only does it wrong and I have to take over. What’s the use?”
Sheleigh got preachy about how unfair my life was, working all day, looking after the kids and, on top of that, doing all the housework. “Why don’t you get Art to do one chore and report back to us next time how it went? You have to begin somewhere.”
I didn’t answer, just got a knot in my stomach at the thought of it.
Ethel, a tall lanky girl with shiny black eyes—Sheleigh had told me she was an ex-nun—made a confession that she was letting herself be a doormat with her fella, a “medieval scholar,” she called him.
“Jonathan’s got his head in the stratosphere all the time. It’s hard to nudge him towards the dishes.”
She looked tense, poor thing. How could she take a few dishes so seriously?
She finished off with a sigh. “I should confront him about the dishes. I feel guilty for being so weak.”
“Women and guilt is a whole other question,” said Mama Jade, hauling herself up from her cushion. “I think it’s time for a little drink.”
Then we stopped the discussion and they broke open the bottles of wine. We all stood in the kitchen. It was pretty sticky in there. Even I could see that the counters were bawling out for a good swipe.
The girls were all friendly but I felt uncomfortable about being the only one who didn’t seem to be on the right page about housework, and I even had CR homework to do. So I had too much to drink and got overly talkative and ended up telling stories about Art.
“On payday, when he gets drunk, I take his keys and lock him in the house while I bring the kids over to his mother’s. Me and the kids go down the street and he calls out the window after me, like a youngster, ‘Georgie, let me out!’ And the neighbours can hear him. ‘Got him barred in again,’ they say, ‘Proper thing.’”
The girls were having a grand time because I can spin a yarn and wine makes me funny as hell, if I do say so myself. And, let’s face it, that crowd needed a little loosening up.
“Art would kill me if he heard me talking like this,” I kept saying. “He’d kill me!”
And they’d all go off into gales of laugher.
I guess I was enjoying the shock value and the attention they were giving me. But all the while I was joking, it was hurting me like knife pain. Art and his drinking and all the work I had to do to keep me and the kids going was pressing me down real bad. But I kept on making a joke of it.
“Art wouldn’t know a broom from his arse—let alone a carpet sweeper—but he knows his way around the sheets, if you know what I mean.”
The second that came out of my mouth, I hated myself for saying it.
“My Fred is a whiz with the carpet sweeper,” said perfect Penny. She had a little buzz on, the wine had warmed her up. “But he’s useless in the sheets.”
I was getting uncomfortable with the sheets thing. “Oh, don’t get me wrong! Art’s no Romeo,” I said, with a forced laugh.
Penny caught my eye for a minute, as if she knew the ugliness behind my joking.
On the way home, everything I’d said about Art came rushing over me. Why did I have to open my big mouth like that?
“I can’t come back to the CR, Sheleigh. They’re nice enough but this is not my crowd. And how am I going to do that homework—get Art to help out?”
“Come on, Georgina, give it a go.” She was playing the adult with me again. “You can do it!”
At the next meeting, I was first on the carpet. The girls were eager to know if I managed to get Art to pick up a dishtowel. I started out apologetic, running off at the mouth about how the playoffs were on and I couldn’t pry Art away from the TV, let alone get him to do housework, and how Art’s mother was coming for supper last night and there I was again, slavin’ away, youngsters crawling around my legs, rushing to get the food together to please her.
Mama Jade picked up the Ms. Magazine and showed the group an article about competitive mothers-in-law who know nothing about sisterhood and sharing.
“Competitive,” I said, laughing. “Art’s mother’d rather skin ya than share—especially her precious son.
“Anyway, last night, the homework for you girls was on my mind as I took the lemon fluff pudding out of the oven. Art was at the table having a beer. His team had won and he was in a good mood, in the happy drunk phase. So I sweet talked him. ‘Listen darlin’, I still got to do the salads and set the table. Why don’t you whip that cream for me?’ He balked at first but then got up and put my apron on, turning it all into a big spoof, making outrageous poufy poses. I set him up with the beaters and a chilled bowl and he started in.
“‘Is that enough?’ he kept shouting over the whirl of the beaters.
“‘Keep going until it’s stiff,’ I called from the other room.
“‘That sounds good,’ he joked.
“A few minutes later he came over and showed me the bowl—he’d beaten the cream into butter. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I got more cream in the fridge. I’ll whip it.’ And I did.”
“That was a mistake, Georgina. You should have made him do it,” said Sheleigh, quoting from her book of rules, “Men make a mess of things so you won’t ask for help again. I’ve seen that trick.”
“You missed an opportunity to stand your ground,” added Polly, ever so righteous.
I didn’t know what to say. Just shrugged my shoulders. I felt like a youngster in school—the nuns rapping me on the knuckles for getting me sums wrong.
Mama Jade picked up her list of questions.
Thank God I’m off the hot seat, I thought.
“Are you free to express yourself sexually or does your partner dominate?” she said, point blank.
I let out a spontaneous hoot. Then put my hand over my mouth. I’d vowed to keep a lid on it at tonight’s meeting.
Polly went first. She and Carlo had perfect equality in bed. He was all into women’s sexual expression, vaginal orgasm, clitorises, etc.
I blushed, felt the heat rise in my cheeks.
Blessed Virgin, what am I going to say when my turn comes? I can’t go talking about clitorises and Art...
Ethel, the ex-nun, looking mousy and pained, admitted that she was “still mixed up about sex.” Jonathan has to help her along—and he’s “not all that sexy, really.”
Sheleigh got right to the point, as usual. She used to “fake orgasms” to please her boyfriend. But not anymore. And she felt so much better about herself.
“Jeffry was in and out quick,” said Aunt Marilyn. “I hardly had time to get going. I s’pose that new young thing makes him linger. The thought of it makes me sick, to be honest with you.”
My turn came. Here I was with my load of truth again. I was nervous, my throat was tight and I had to keep clearing it. But I said my piece.
“Fake orgasm? That’s the least of my worries. I’m just desperate to keep Art away from me. The last thing I need is another youngster coming along. We’re Catholic, see, and not allowed to use the Pill. He comes home from night shift at six in the morning and crawls into bed, waking me up from my precious sleep, tormenting me for ‘a little nooky’ before he drops off. ‘Give it up Art,’ I says, ‘I don’t want to get pregnant again.’ But he keeps at me till he gets his way.”
“You can’t go on like this,” said Penny, like she was in charge of me.
Then all hell broke loose with the advice. How there’s a clinic where they give out the Pill, no questions asked. How even Catholic women can get it.
“I’d be afraid to be seen goin’ into one of those places,” I said.
“I volunteer there,” said Ethel. “Lots of Catholic women come in.”
“Well, I’m not lots of Catholic women.”
“I’ll go with you,” said earnest young Alison.
“Yeah, Georgina,” chimed in Mama Jade, “go with her. You don’t have to have more kids if you don’t want to.”
They were ganging up on me. The story of my life—people shovin’ me around. I’d had enough.
“I’m not going to no clinic,” I said, plain as I could.
Still determined to take me over, Penny said she’d make an appointment for me with a Protestant doctor who’d put me on the Pill, no questions asked.
I was terrified of the blasphemy, as if the priest was in the room, listening.
“Protestant doctor! I can’t be doin’ that. I’ve seen Dr. Dougherty all my life.”
I was getting shaky.
Penny came over and sat by me. She put her arm around my shoulder. I wriggled on the hard chair while she went on and on about Catholic doctors just wanting women to keep popping out youngsters. And how the times were changing and I had to get with it.
The younger ones were all waving their heads in agreement.
They’re all on the Pill, I thought. Little over-sexed duckies, probably at it every night.
Then Sheleigh did the hell and all.
“I know you asked me not to mention this, Georgie, but don’t you think it’s time to liberate yourself and face up to the truth about Art, especially his cheating? Why don’t you let the others know how bad it is. You shouldn’t have to put up with that. It’s disgusting how your husband…”
I jumped up.
“Is that what you call sisterhood, tellin’ stories out of school? And what the hell do you know about youngsters and husbands and being Catholic?”
I shouted at the top of my lungs, “None of ye know nothing!”
I went to the door. Penny came right after me, patting my arm and telling me I was right to be upset, that they’d been too hard on me and she’d give me a ride home.
In the car, I was puffing and blowing and fiddling with my purse.
We reached my house.
“Thanks for the ride. I never should have gone there.”
Penny put her hand on my twitchy fingers.
“Yes, you should have. Every woman has a right to share her story.”
My stomach was heaving.
I can’t stand any more of this CR talk, I thought.
I got home to an empty house. The kids were at my mother-in-law’s for the weekend and Art was God knows where. Probably with that girl. I sat at the kitchen table. What a state I was in. Crying down tears like a baby. Retching from the gut.
Sheleigh’s right. Why am I hiding the truth about Art?
I went back to the argument we’d had earlier. “Where do you think you’re going?” he’d said. “Pawning the kids off on Mom again. I heard you say something about a ‘women’s group’ to your sister. Is that what you’re up to? What do that bunch of bitches be talking about?”
I pictured him, batting his eyelashes like he does when he’s nervous. He’s not all that stupid, I thought. He knows something’s brewing with me.
The phone rang. It was Penny, checking to see if I was okay.
I cried into the phone. “It’s true, he runs around with other women. The only way out is to leave him. I knows that.”
“Listen, Georgina. I left my first husband. It’s not easy to untangle a marriage. I’m here if you need me.”
“That’s all right,” I blurted, afraid of her Protestant remedies. “I can manage.”
I hung up.
Art came home, in his cups, feeling amorous. “Let’s go to bed,” he said, grabbing hold of me.
I pushed him away. He came in on me, opening the buttons on my blouse. “What’s wrong with you. Come on to bed, we got no kids to bother us.”
I got away from him. Then I steeled myself, stood on my two feet and said it.
“Art, I’m leaving you.” I can still hear how my voice wobbled.
He looked at me in utter surprise. “Ah! Come on, Georgie. Don’t go getting like that.”
I did up the buttons on my blouse. “I can’t stand it anymore. I’m finished with ya, Art. I knows about all those young girls you chase after.”
At first, he pleaded and begged. “I don’t mean to be cheating on ya, Georgie. It’s just a bit of fun.” Tears shot into his eyes. “I promise I’ll be faithful from now on.” The pleading went on for a while. “And I’m going to cut down on the drinking. I swear that’s the end of it. I’m going be with you and you only. I’ll never cheat on you again.”
I let him finish, then stood my ground. “Yes, you will. You can’t help yourself. It’s all over, Art. I’m getting out.”
This time, he heard the finality in my voice. He was stunned for a second, but then the rage rose up in him. He banged the wall with his fist. “No you’re not. You are not going anywhere. No way! Them bitches got ya all churned up.”
His eyelashes were batting like crazy. “I’m barrin’ ya in the house until you change your mind.”
He locked the door, took my keys, and ripped the phone off the wall. After all the times I’d barred him in, he had me good and locked down.
Sit it out, I thought. He’ll fall asleep and I’ll escape.
He slept on the couch, snoring and snorting. I tried to get the key out of his pocket but he woke up. “You’re not going nowhere. You’re my wife, get it?”
The siege lasted until Sunday morning. Finally, while he was sleeping off the beer he’d drunk on Saturday night, I opened the bathroom window a crack and called out to one of the neighbours. “Call the police. Art got me locked in here against my will. He’s drunk and I’m scared.”
The police banged on the door. The loudest bang I’ve ever heard.
“OPEN UP! POLICE!”
Art woke up and shot me a look of pure hatred. It’s funny, but, at that moment, I felt sorry for him.
In came the officers. Two of them, big and burly, in their RNC uniforms with all the paraphernalia hanging off them.
“What’s goin’ on Art, b’y?” said one of them clapping Art on the back. “Having trouble with the wife?”
I might have known. Working down at the Lock-Up, Art knew all the officers.
The policeman looked at me. “Are you sure you need us here, my love?”
I’d had all weekend to get my mind good and clear. “I want to press charges,” I said, “for forced confinement, or whatever you call it.”
A year later, legally separated, I made a return visit to the CR group. After all, they were the ones who got me going.
I sat on that same hard chair and told them my tale—the doubts, the costs, the hurt. No more hiding the truth behind my pathetic jokes.
“It’s been a rough year but Art and I are out of our misery.”
The girls were glowing with amazement. My little hard-liner friend, Sheleigh, who I hadn’t seen since she finished her job at Ayre’s in the fall, stood up and paid tribute to me. “We were wrong to gang up on you. You’re not supposed to do that in a CR group. But look at you now. You’re the one who really turned herself around.”
“We’re still working away at our issues,” said Mama Jade, picking up her Ms. Magazine.
Oh, no! I thought, they’re going to start in with those questions.
Mama Jade read from her list: “Can men be feminists or do they always ultimately play the man’s game?”
“I wouldn’t trust a man who says he’s a feminist,” said Aunt Marilyn, still sucking the lemon. “They just can’t help being what they are.”
“My Fred’s a feminist,” said Penny, as self-satisfied as ever. “He’d never try to override me.”
God help poor long-suffering Fred! I thought.
“I have my ups and downs with Carlo,” said the ever- patient Polly, “He does his best but he is Italian. He can be really macho. I’m trying to get him to join a men’s CR but he won’t hear of it.”
I let out one of my hoots. “Men’s CR. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that one. What do they talk about? Car engines?”
The joke fell into dead air. I glanced around the circle. They all had that intense look, revving up for discussion.
“Well, good luck to you trying to make men into feminists! It’s hard enough being one yourself!” I stood up.
“Now come on, girls. I came here to celebrate. Let’s go into the kitchen and open the wine. And I’ll tell you about my new man. Carpet sweeper and all.”