Part III
Finally, Mrs. Smith turns to Mrs. Goldberg, who has been playing with one of her bare earlobes. “And you, Mrs. Goldberg? Do you have anything to share with us today?” The ladies of First Avenue all turn towards the couch, where Mrs. Goldberg sits with her knees tucked together. There is an awkward silence.
“Go ahead, Mrs. Goldberg. Tell us something you’ve done,” urges Mrs. Jones, shifting her legs back and forth.
“Something shameful,” emphasizes Mrs. Johnson, who has begun to sweat.
Mrs. Goldberg looks at each of the ladies one by one before proceeding. “Well, I did do something this week I’m not quite so proud of.”
“Please tell us, Mrs. Goldberg,” Mrs. Brown exclaims, tracing her exposed collarbone. “Something terrible.” The other women look on at Mrs. Goldberg with large, open-mouthed smiles on their faces, ready for whatever appalling anecdote she might have to share.
“Well,” Mrs. Goldberg starts. “Greg and I have been… Well, we’ve been struggling financially, with the kids’ extra tutoring sessions and the fact that sales just haven’t been as good as they used to be at his insurance firm. Plus, there’s our water bills, which seem to be increasing exponentially, and the second car just broke down, can you believe that? Anyways, money has been tight, so last week I decided enough was enough, and… I applied for a job!”
Mrs. Goldberg looks at the other women expectantly, waiting on the chorus of laughter that normally follows these kinds of statements. Instead, she sees Mrs. Brown recoil from beside her, and the room grows uncomfortably stiff.
Mrs. Goldberg swallows before clearing her throat. “Ladies?” she asks. “Is there something wrong?”
Mrs. Miller looks at her in disgust. “How… decent of you, Mrs. Goldberg.”
“Yes,” agrees Mrs. Johnson with a tone of disappointment. “How truly… proper.”
The other guests refrain from responding, looking to Mrs. Smith for guidance.
“Mrs. Smith?” asks Mrs. Goldberg. “Did I do something wrong?”
Mrs. Smith says nothing. She moves to take Mrs. Goldberg’s hand, standing her up from the couch and leading her out of the room. Mrs. Goldberg throws a worried glance behind her shoulder, though each of the ladies avoid her gaze by pretending to be bemused with something other than her. Mrs. Goldberg tries to stop Mrs. Smith from leading her away, but her host’s authoritative direction is difficult to combat.
“Wait!” she cries as she is led down the corridor. “I don’t understand. Isn’t what I’ve done shameful? I do feel ashamed. Doesn’t it make you feel so good, that I feel so bad?”
Mrs. Smith remains silent as she opens the front door, gently guiding Mrs. Goldberg onto the porch. “Mrs. Smith,” Mrs. Goldberg protests. “Please, help me understand. What have I done wrong?”
Mrs. Smith closes the screen door between them as Mrs. Goldberg maintains an expression of desperation. “You haven’t done anything wrong, dear,” she says.
“I still don’t see—”
“—you haven’t done anything wrong, dear,” Mrs. Smith repeats, “and that’s just not very satisfying. You see that, don’t you?”
With this, she closes and locks the large oak door in Mrs. Goldberg’s face. She continues to stand on Mrs. Smith’s porch, left with the sweet smell of cultured hydrangeas and fresh-cut grass. Behind her, she can hear bicycle bells ring from the sidewalk and birds chirping from the awning above. It is then that she realizes she has forgotten to collect her casserole dish.
She decides she does not need it.
Graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
