What's Up, Pussycats?

By Marcia Mitchell

Involved in this rambunctious romp into the worlds of sex research, publishing, and equal opportunities for successful women are an unfaithful husband, a devastatingly handsome FBI agent, a nerdish millionaire, a gifted 12-year-old going on forty, and a wacky government administrator with vengeance in his heart. Leading this cast of colorful characters are two enterprising women who find themselves in serious professional and financial straits. Determining that the path to fame and fortune is publication of a best-selling book on the sexual behavior of women in management, they plan to pick up where Kinsey (and those to follow) left off. The niceties of literary integrity are pushed aside in hurry-up plans for a fake sex survey, a research project that culminates in a controversial, nationwide conversation about sex in the workplace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcia Mitchell
• Release date: Oct 28, 2014

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

When it began, sometime before noon, the feeling was an uneasy, undefined apprehension that something was not quite right—a disturbing, vague sense of foreboding which, she kept telling herself, meant absolutely nothing. Now, by three o’clock in the afternoon, the feeling had evolved from something-isn’t-quite-right to something-is-definitely-wrong.

Not the children. Cissy, her three-year-old, was napping peacefully upstairs. Billy, the seven-year-old, had returned from school fifteen minutes ago with all of his various appendages attached and in working order. And Barbara, gifted, twelve, and impossible, had been home all day with a miserable cold and an equally miserable pre-pubescent disposition.

Warren, her beloved husband? Hardly. He was returning today, after nearly half a year in Denver, where he had been the lead defense attorney in a federal anti-trust case against one of the firm’s major corporate clients. It had been difficult during the months when he was home only on weekends and holidays. But the trial was over, and he had won. No, not Warren.

Suddenly, and for no reason at all, she began to wonder if perhaps something were wrong with her parents. They weren’t getting any younger, and this feeling had to come from somewhere. From Oregon? She hurried into the kitchen and dialed her mother. At precisely three-fifteen.

What’s wrong? Her mother’s voice was anxious. Something’s wrong. You never call in the daytime. And I can tell it in your voice. I’ve always been able to tell. Since you were little.

In my voice? All I said was, ‘Hello, Mother.’

I can tell, Susan. Is it the children? Warren?

Susan groaned. "Nothing’s wrong. The children are fine, except Barbara has a nasty cold. And Warren’s just come home. The Denver case is finally over. They won. So you see? Everything’s just dandy. Really."

Why had she called her mother? The world’s premiere worrier. The alarmist of all time. I just felt like chatting at the moment, that’s all.

You’re not pregnant, are you?

I am not pregnant. I promise, Mother, it’s nothing. I’ll call you later. About eight. Or maybe over the weekend. Give Daddy a hug.

What was the matter with her, for pity sake? Why was her skin crawling, her nerve ends poking out through her skin, her mid-section so queasy?

She went up to her bathroom, ran hot water into the tub, turned on the Jacuzzi, and tossed her clothes on top of the wicker hamper. Barbara followed her mother upstairs, watched her for a moment, then threw herself on her parents’ bed, the current Gifted Reader’s assignment, Ivanhoe, in one hand, a box of tissue in the other. Whatcha gonna do, Mom? she called.

I’m going to race Billy’s tropical fish across the tub.

"Aw, come on. You’re gonna take a bath. God, Mother!"

Barbara! I’m warning you. Don’t be profane!

Settling into warm, sweet-smelling effervescence, she felt the tension leaving through her fingertips. Susan moved her body so that one of the big jets in back hit her critical relaxing spot, then tried to maneuver both thighs in front of side jets, having read somewhere that hot water turbulence helped break down cellulite. She was perfectly positioned when the telephone on her bedside table rang.

Blast! Barbara, get that, please, she called. And, after another two rings, Barbara! For heaven’s sake, get the phone! Her daughter groped in the general direction of the telephone, eyes never leaving the classic Scott romance.

Jeeze, what a book. They should make a movie. Barbara finally rolled over and picked up the telephone. Clay residence, she said politely.

Let me speak to your mother, her father said.

Fine, thank you, and how are you?

Don’t be sarcastic, Barbara. Give me your mother.

She’s in the tub. Hold on, Daddy, here she comes.

Wrapped in a white terry bath sheet, Susan took the telephone. They did, she said to Barbara. With Elizabeth Taylor and Joan Fontaine.

What about Elizabeth Taylor? Warren asked. She’s long gone.

I was talking to Barbara. I think in the end she.…

Don’t tell me the ending! Barbara screamed.

What’s going on? Warren wondered.

Nothing, Darling. She hesitated, then, I don’t know why you didn’t let me meet you at the airport.

Too complicated with the kids and all. Anyway, I’d like for us to have dinner at the Wayfarer. Can you get a sitter? For seven? I can be finished here by about six-thirty.

Wonderful! I’m sure I can get Betsy. If not, I’ll try her sister. She’s home from college.

Not Betsy, Barbara complained. She scratches a lot. She’s got allergies.

There was silence on the line for a moment before Warren asked, Can you meet me at the restaurant?

Of course, but I can drive in to get you. No need to take a cab.

Actually, someone here is going that way, so I’ll just hitch a ride. Meet you there. Seven, he repeated.

See, she told herself as she slipped back into the tub, see where this foolish anxiety gets you? Nervous all day, a day which should have been lovely because of Warren’s return, ruined for no reason. What a stupid waste of angst!

Who were the men? Barbara asked, poking her head around the door.

What men?

With Elizabeth Taylor and what’s-her-name.

Susan thought a moment. Robert Taylor. He was gorgeous. They don’t make them like him anymore—except maybe George Clooney. And, I think, George Saunders was in the film. Yes, Taylor and Saunders. Actors you wouldn’t know, of course.

They shoulda had Brad Pitt, Barbara announced and disappeared.

When it was time to dress for dinner, Susan chose a clingy dress in pale blue, a present from Warren for her last birthday. The thirty-sixth. What fun they had that evening; what fun they almost always had together. Almost, because lately, with the strain of the Washington-Denver commute, Warren frequently seemed tired and preoccupied on the weekends. Tonight, however, would be like the old days, she told her reflection in the mirror. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was loose and full, the way Warren liked it. Nice tan for early in the summer, she observed. Susan liked herself in tan, regardless of her mother’s assurance that she would be dead before forty, a tragic victim of sunshine and melanoma.

Warren was waiting for her in the bar. She always experienced a bit of a buzz when she saw him like that, looking deliciously handsome in his tall, firm frame, a slight smile playing at his nice mouth, and a steady, admiring gaze watching her approach. This time, the buzz was anticipatory; it came before she looked at his face, and disappeared as her eyes moved up his body to his somber expression. The worry, drowned in the Jacuzzi, was at once resuscitated and back in her veins. Something was wrong.

They had a drink at the bar and then went to their table, making small talk. I’ll bet, she suddenly thought, the firm wants to move us to Denver. That must be it! Poor Warren—he loves being in Washington. We’d both hate to move, but I doubt if he’s in a position to refuse.

There was nothing to do but wait for him to tell her about it in his own time. He chose dessert as the time.

Susan, I love you. You know that don’t you?

She reached across the table and took his hand. Of course I do. And whatever’s wrong, we’ll handle it together. I love you, too, you know.

He cleared his throat. "I repeat, Susan, that I love you. The problem is that I am in love with someone else."

She quit breathing.

I’m sorry, he added. So very sorry.

Susan Clay said nothing. She sat there, frozen, totally numb and disbelieving; then, after studying his face, believing, and gradually experiencing pain—real, physical pain—in her chest. Finally, she asked him, How serious is it?

Very. I honestly think the only answer is divorce. Without looking at her, he continued hurriedly, words tumbling over each other.

Look, I know what a shock this has to be for you, but try to believe that I don’t want to hurt you. It makes me physically ill to do this. But I have to, Susan, because there’s just no other way. He cleared his throat again, then rushed on.

Try, just try, to look at the positive side. You’re a beautiful, talented woman who will do all right. And you’ve got wonderful friends, Myrna especially, who can help you though this, and terrific parents who love you. Who knows? Maybe now you’ll write a best seller. Do the book you’ve always wanted to do. You used to say you’d love to be alone on a desert island and just write.

She shook her head. No! I didn’t mean it! Not literally! Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Warren, this is crazy! You’re my life—you, and the children."

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, neon-lit, flashing for attention. How did they move from his affair, his suggestion of divorce, to her wanting to be on a desert island? As if he were doing this for her! Was all of this her fault? No matter, whatever the cause, whatever the reason, it simply could not happen. She would not let it happen.

Look Warren, her voice desperate now, a lot of men go through something like this. Give yourself time. And me—what did I do wrong? What didn’t I do? God, I thought we had a perfect relationship! We don’t fight, we have good sex, we have fun. And oh, my God, we have three children. She was trying to hang on, struggling to keep control. "Please, Warren, please. Just give it some time." She was begging, pleading, and unashamed.

Embarrassed, hurting, Warren said softly, "Susan, Dear Susan, I know it’s tough. It’s killing me, too…."

That’s because it’s all wrong! I can’t believe you’re saying these things! Not you. Not us. Be careful, she was telling herself. She wanted to be furious, to yell at him, to strike out, but she did not. She was terrified of losing him, of having their lives changed by a silly affair. Wives can forgive, can’t they? And maybe forget after awhile? Didn’t this happen to a lot of married couples?

But it’s not wrong, Warren insisted. I’ve already thought about everything you’re thinking right now, like giving it more time. I honestly, and he looked away, "honestly have never felt like this before. Nothing’s ever been so right as this feeling."

"Right? Right?"

Listen, I know what this is doing to you, but I wouldn’t be saying this tonight if I thought there was the slightest chance for our marriage, given what’s happened. It breaks my heart, when I think of you and the kids, but….

Then put a stop to it, for God’s sake! she snapped. You can’t just think of yourself! Her hands, clenched into fists, flew open and the control she had held so tightly was gone. Who is she? How old is she? What does she do, the bitch?

Stop it, Susan! It’s not her fault.

I’ll give you that one. It’s your fault. Now, answer my questions! I have a right to know.

There was a lengthy, painful silence. Neither of them moved. At last, Warren said, slowly and distinctly, Her name is Madison Willard, she’s twenty-three, and she’s been working on the Senate Finance Committee.

Twenty-three! You’ve got to be kidding! This is too typical, Warren, can’t you see that? Too typical! This happens to men all the time! Don’t tell me, let me guess—she’s blond and has big tits. Right?

His face was a dark red. You’re being coarse. I see no point in continuing this line of conversation.

Their waiter arrived and was greeted by menacing glares from both sides of the table. Without asking, he filled their coffee cups and moved away.

Look, Warren suggested, let’s try to calm down and be as reasonable and kind as possible under the circumstances. There are things we have to talk about.

You announce your intention to destroy my life and mess up our kids’ lives, and you want me to be gracious? Come on! For two or three minutes, a lifetime at least, they sat across from each other, eyes downcast, saying nothing. Finally, Susan asked, May I have answers to a few more relevant questions?

I guess.

I assume this is a bona fide affair. That is, that you are sleeping with this child?

"Watch it! I won’t discuss anything if you continue this way!"

All right. I’m sorry. Let me rephrase my question. Are you sleeping with this woman?

His eyes dropped. Yes, of course I am.

How long has it been going on?

About six months, I guess.

Six months!

Susan fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief, and, of course, couldn’t find one. There was a lipsticked tissue, and she grabbed it, all the better for shredding.

Where her voice croaked, and she repeated, where ...does she live?

In Denver, for the moment. But she’s moving back here.

Denver! So that’s why you didn’t want me to come and visit while you were there!

Not exactly. He hesitated. Look, Susan, I’m not certain all of this is productive—I mean, digging into the details. Can’t we just leave it at my wanting a divorce because I want to be with someone else?

No, we cannot, she raged. I’ve got to know these things, or I’ll go crazy trying to find out.

All right, he sighed. I met her here, on the Hill. Neither of us was out looking for anything. It just happened.

It always does, doesn’t it? God, what a line.

He leaned forward, red-faced again. You wanna hear or don’t you? If you do….

All right! Do you think this is easy?

I know it isn’t, he conceded. Okay, I met her on the Hill. We kept, you know, running into each other, and before we knew it, we were involved. I….

You hauled her off to Denver with you! I wondered why you took that case, with all those months of preparation, with so much time away from home. She glared, eyes drilling into his. Your work’s always been here, even though the firm’s headquartered in Denver.

He didn’t respond.

Oh, yes, Mr. Lawyer, she hissed, you took the case so you could go to Denver and get away from home while you decided what you wanted, right? You could sleep with Miss Big Tits all week in Denver, and come home on the weekend and sleep with the little woman, then compare performances. My, oh my! Just like the Redskins’ training camp—who’s going to win the tight-end slot and who’s going on waivers, right? Of course I’m right.

Warren Clay was clearly shocked. His lovely wife speaking so coarsely? But he said nothing in response as Susan pushed back her chair and stood up.

I would suppose the pal with whom you hitched a ride tonight will be picking you up as well. I also suppose you aren’t coming home tonight. Am I correct?

There was no answer, and she left.

CHAPTER 2

Myrna Mittenburg sat staring icily at the chief, her nails tapping nervously on the conference table in front of her. For his part, Dr. Alonzo Frank would not be stared down. He simply avoided looking at Myrna, his tiny frog eyes darting from one side of the room to the other, from the papers in front of him to his budget officer beside him, all the while his pudgy little hands making lumpy church steeples, one after the other.

Harrumph, he said.

Do I understand correctly, Dr. Frank, that you and Mr. Overton here have decided to drop the reconstruction project entirely? Not just scale down next quarter’s research? I can’t believe it! This makes absolutely no sense!

"My dear Doctor Mittenburg, Frank began in his usual pompous way, let’s be reasonable, shall we? This new kind of breast reconstruction is in its infancy in terms of associated behavioral research. It’s new, new, new compared with almost anything else, isn’t it? You’re talking about procedures that are being done in, let’s see, he said, shuffling papers, Atlanta, almost exclusively. This isn’t what you’d call exactly widespread—a new approach to using a woman’s behind to build her bust. To concern ourselves with the psychological impact of the technology at this stage is premature. The project can wait. It’s that simple. And we have before us, as Mr. Overton has explained countless times, the need to cut our budget by eighteen percent. Eighteen!"

Eighteen point five, Chief, Overton added helpfully.

Myrna’s eyes moved from corpulent Frank to gaunt Overton, taking in the top half of his emaciated frame, the hawk face, the cold grey eyes behind thick eyeglasses. She glared. Unlike Frank, he met her ocular confrontation eyeball to eyeball. The bastard.

Look, Dr. Frank, surely there’s somewhere else this budget cut can be accommodated. I will admit you’re correct about the newness of this kind of surgery, but we cannot afford to minimize the effect of its existence on the mental health of women around the country. Around the world! Careful, she told herself. Keep cool, don’t sound desperate.

"My dear Doctor Mittenburg, do you realize that every one of our behavioral science researchers would respond in exactly the same way? Each and every one of you would say, ‘Cut someone else’s project. Mine is more important.’ Right, Overton?"

Overton’s head bobbed in agreement, which was his standard reaction to whenever the boss asked, Right, Overton? That the boss may or may not be right was immaterial.

Myrna got to her feet and walked to the window. For once, she was not moved by the beauty of nighttime in the nation’s capital city—her favorite time, her favorite place. But she stood there, as if entranced by the view, using those moments to gain control of herself. Trashing an entire year’s work, which the institute owned, of course, was inevitable, given the system and Alonzo Frank, in whose hand all of the aces were held—in this case, held inside fleshy finger-churches. There was nowhere to go, and no one to fight. Capitulation—how utterly galling! Myrna turned away from the window and went back to her chair, revealing nothing in her expression.

Soooo, Dr. Frank, tell me—to what project will I be assigned? What do you have in mind for me?

The silence was profound. Finally, another harrumph, and Frank responded, Nothing.

Sonofabitch! Dr. Myrna Mittenburg, behavioral scientist honored last year for her study of yet another generation of women suffering from the imposter syndrome—Myrna, the subject of a recent article on successful young women in science, author of numerous articles in the most prestigious journals in her field—was being fired. But wait! Could they do this! Legally?

Gentlemen, she smiled, you seem to be somewhat premature with your arbitrary axe. As a federal employee, I have certain protections against….

As soon as she said the words, she knew. They would not have gone this far in their evil-doings without having found a way.

Tell her, Overton. Explain.

Overton sucked in his breath and puffed out his skinny chest. Page Three of the RIF, that is the Reduction in Force Memorandum, a copy of which I have right here, lists thirteen criteria for Riffing. Now, you get so many points, as I am sure you know, for being a veteran, more for being a disabled veteran, also for being a federal employee for specific periods of time, and so on. Your points, or lack thereof, definitely make you Riffable. Further, you can be a Bumpee, but not a Bumpor. This means that someone with more points than you….

She already was out of her chair and heading for the door. Whirling, she asked, Tell me, Dr. Frank, is your golfing buddy, Dr. William Williams, going to lose his project on the sex life of certain African monkeys? No? I can see by your face he is not. When she reached the door she turned again, and said, I warn you, my father is not going to like this. Whoosh. Myrna was out the door and slammed it shut behind her.

They sat stunned for a moment. Then, Very unprofessional behavior, Overton observed.

Damn! Frank exclaimed, who the hell is her father?

I have no idea.

"Could he be in Congress? Maybe on our appropriations committee? He must be somebody for her to have said that! Find out! Find out who the crap Myrna Mittenburg’s father is!"

Overton thought a minute. Don’t panic. We know he’s not in the Congress. There’s no Mittenburg in the Senate or the House. Suddenly startled by a new thought, he clapped a hand to his pale forehead. Wait! Her name could be different from his! You never know about women these days. Panic was now beginning to nibble at Overton. Maybe we ought to think about putting the project back in, and taking something else out. I don’t mean Bill’s monkeys, he hastened to assure the boss, but there is some fat remaining here, Chief. He tapped the thick spiral-bound agency budget before him.

Dr. Frank’s doctorate was in education, not in the sciences. His appointment was a recent political plum given for reasons unknown, except perhaps to cut the heart out of some of the institute’s programs, a surgical procedure better left to a non-scientist. There were mutterings up and down the corridors about babies and bath water, but no one knew exactly what to do short of going to Congress, and nobody was ready to take that risk. You never knew whether your contact had more clout than your opponent’s. And Frank had to have support from somewhere. The somewhere was rumored to be as high as the vice president.

I’m not giving in to that bitch. Find out who her father is!

Wait a minute, Chief. Overton pulled Dr. Myrna Mittenburg’s departmental dossier from a stack of folders in front of him. Her personnel form indicated that her parents were Dr. and Mrs. Karl Mittenburg, who lived in London.

Relax, he said. How much influence can a doctor living in London have on us?

I don’t know, Overton, and that’s what I want you to find out. This is no dumb broad we’re dealing with. She had to have some reason for saying what she did. Go to the FBI.

Overton did not want to go to the FBI. Not that he had anything to hide, but who wanted to get into bed with that lot? And once you called attention to yourself, you just never knew. He began to whine.

Chief, let’s try something else. Look, it says here to call her brother, Dr. James Mittenburg in Philadelphia, in case of emergency. I’ll find out through him about the father.

Shit! exploded Frank. Does the whole damned family have a doctorate? Maybe they got a group rate from Harvard?

As she stomped away from the slammed door, Myrna said aloud, Now why in hell did I say that about my father? But she knew. All of her life she had had an absolute need to please him and to make him proud of her. He was a successful heart surgeon. He was never fired. No, he was solicited to leave Long Island and practice with world-famous surgeons in London. Her brother, her brilliant brother, Jimmy the dentist, was never fired. And here she was, over-achieving, summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa—fired, and by bastards at that.

There was no point in trying to go back to her office, where she often spent her evenings when her boyfriend, Hayes, was out of town. Tonight, she would go home and be alone and think. Tomorrow, first thing, she would call Susan, best friend, always-together Susan, who led a dull and ordinary life in one of Washington’s better suburbs, whose marriage was beautiful, who always could be counted on to be cheerful and supportive. Susan, who was having a romantic little dinner this very minute with her husband at the Wayfarer in Alexandria. And who wouldn’t mind having a Martini first thing the morning after total disaster.

CHAPTER 3

Very early on, God created Barney’s Barbecue Pit and placed it in a pine-guarded, lush green meadow decorated every spring and summer with glorious