“Look at that sky,” he said. “Worth every penny it cost us.”
The day was vivid and gem-edged, a signal of autumn.
Joanna looked after her, and into the cart of another woman going slowly past her. My God, she thought, they even fill their carts neatly! She looked into her own: a jumble of boxes and cans and jars. A guilty impulse to put it in order prodded her; but I’m damned if I will! she thought, and grabbed a box from the shelf—Ivory Snow—and tossed it in. Didn’t even need the damn stuff!
That’s what she was, Joanna felt suddenly. That’s what they all were, all the Stepford wives: actresses in commercials, pleased with detergents and floor wax, with cleansers, shampoos, and deodorants. Pretty actresses, big in the bosom but small in the talent, playing suburban housewives unconvincingly, too nicey-nice to be real.
They never stop, these Stepford wives. They something something all their lives. Work like robots. Yes, that would fit. They work like robots all their lives.
I’m not crazy, she thought. I’m not crazy.