Necessary Lies by Diane Chamberlain

what bothers me,” he said. “If you really want to work, I’d rather you found something … I don’t know. This is just the wrong job for my wife.” He set down the food, whatever it was. “It would be one thing if you were a teacher or a librarian like your mother. You’d still be helping people, if that’s what matters to you.”
    I swallowed another bite of shrimp. “I’ve always wanted to do this, ” I said.
    “You won’t have to work with any colored people, will you?” he asked. “They have colored social workers for that, right?”
    We had one lie between us already: the pills, buried deep beneath my lingerie in the bungalow’s bedroom dresser. I’d gotten them from Gloria’s doctor, who promised me I’d be protected from pregnancy by my wedding night.
    “I’ll have some Negro clients, yes,” I said.
    “That’s just … not right.”
    “Oh why not, for heaven’s sake? They need help, too.”
    “They should have their own social worker.”
    “I don’t have a problem with it.”
    “That left-wing church you grew up in put ideas in your head,” he said. “I’m glad our kids won’t be growing up there.”
    I bit my tongue, not wanting to argue, and we ate in silence for a while. Finally, Robert took a sip of his wine and let out a sigh. “What am I supposed to tell my friends?” he asked, setting his glass down.
    “About me working?” I asked, confused.
    “None of their wives work. They’ll think I’m not making enough money.”
    “Tell them I’m obstinate and you love me so you’re letting me do this.” I tried to sound lighthearted and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
    “I’ll tell them you’re involved in charitable work. That’s really what it is, except you’ll get paid.” He laughed. “Not that a hundred and eighty-five dollars a month should really count as a salary.”
    That stung. “It’s a lot to me,” I said.
    He caught my hand on the table. “Sorry,” he said. “Really. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that you worry me sometimes.”
    “I’m sure they won’t send me anyplace dangerous.”
    “I’m not talking about the job.” He lowered my hand to his lap and held it there in both of his. “Look, darling,” he said. “I love you just the way you are, you know that, right? Stubborn and full of spunk. Right?”
    “I’m not stubborn.”
    He laughed. “Yes you are. You just admitted you’re obstinate. That’s all right. I love you, but you’re my wife now and you need to temper it outside the four walls of our house.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I want people to like you, Jane. That’s all. It’s important for my career that we fit in.”
    “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
    “I want you to be yourself, but just … tame it down a little. Don’t talk politics like you did on the catamaran today. Definitely don’t talk about supporting Kennedy, for heaven’s sake. Especially not at the club.”
    “But I do.”
    “Oh come on, Jane. Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “Well, I do. He cares about the little people.”
    “At whose expense?” he snapped, letting go of my hand and sitting back in the chair. “This is what I mean about you being stubborn. You say things like this just to shake me up.”
    “I honestly think he’s the better choice.”
    He sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
    “I won’t talk about it in front of your friends, if it bothers you that much.” I already felt shy around his fellow physicians who looked at me as if I were a kid. We usually saw them at the country club, where no matter how many years passed with me as Robert’s wife, I’d never feel as though I belonged and I was certain everyone knew it. The wives had been welcoming at first, but when they realized I was not like them—not their age or their social class—they lost interest in me. Robert said it was me. I didn’t try to fit in, and maybe he was right. Now, with him telling me not to talk about my