Spin

by Peter Zheutlin

  I decided to tell Susie first, perhaps because I knew she would support me and bolster me if any self-doubt started to materialize. She would also, I was sure, offer good counsel on how I should address the news with Grandpa and Bennett. Susie was just a few years older than me, but unmarried, unusual for a woman of the time approaching her late twenties. There were rumors about that maybe Susie preferred the company of women, but we were extraordinarily discreet, and no one, to my knowledge, suspected the love between us.

  When we weren’t in each other’s company, Susie and I communicated mostly by letter or note, either sent by messenger (many neighborhood children would run notes to and fro for a penny apiece) or dropped in person at each other’s door as we went about our daily chores. Only the wealthy and prominent had telephones—Colonel Pope had one in his office—and since few had phones, there were few people one could call. The next morning I would send a note to Susie proposing we meet for tea the next Thursday, two days hence, one of my regular workdays. Until then, I would keep the adventure on which I was about to embark close to the vest.

  At home that night, the familiar routine unfolded: I fed Grandpa and the children and put the little ones to bed as Grandpa snoozed in his armchair, his prayer book open and upside down on his chest yet again.

  * * *

  Susie’s return note said she would, as always, be waiting eagerly for my visit. She would expect me Thursday at eleven o’clock. It was a rendezvous I was looking forward to—I always looked forward to being with Susie—but I was also dreading telling her we would soon be separated.

  We first met in school as teenagers. Not all young girls went to school, but we both came from Jewish families that revered education above all else. I was about thirteen then, she about sixteen. Our flirtation began shortly thereafter, but it remained no more than that until shortly after Grandpa and I were married. Susie feared the marriage would be the end of our friendship, that I would have no time for friends, especially when I told her, just two months after our marriage, that I was pregnant. But the opposite happened. I felt trapped by circumstances immediately and sought comfort in Susie’s company and then her arms. Only in her arms did I feel understood. Only she seemed to grasp that there was more to being a woman than housework and child-rearing and tending to an emotionally distant husband. If anyone would understand the extreme nature of the rebellion I was now planning, it was Susie.

  It was now the second week of May, May 10 to be exact. I remember it well. Springtime in Boston, though it often seemed grudging, was always my favorite season of year. After months of bitter winds and snow that often made trudging even short distances an ordeal, May always brought nature forth in all its glory. The trees began dressing themselves in green, the forsythia exploded in a sea of yellow, and the daffodils and tulips made their most dramatic stand. The Boston Public Garden was the first botanical garden in the country and nearly sixty years old in 1894, and there was no place more magnificent to be on a mild day in May than there.

  When I arrived at Susie’s that morning she had, as usual, prepared tea and scones, but I implored her to walk with me to the Garden.

  “There may not be a lovelier day for it!” I said.

  “But I’ve made tea,” she replied, her eyes asking me to sit down.

  “I know. Let it sit. Come. I have something to discuss with you.”

  “Annie Kopchovksy. You are nothing if not persistent,” said Susie. “Resistance is futile. Let me get an umbrella. The sun is strong.”

  You could not have distinguished us from the many hundreds of women who had chosen this morning to exhale after the long winter by walking along the graceful paths that curved around the lagoon and under the massive oaks and willows that adorned the Garden. We all dressed alike: long skirts down to our ankles, black shoes laced to where they met the hem of our skirts, white blouses with leg-o’-mutton billowy sleeves tapered at the elbow and buttoned at the collar (we called them shirtwaists then) and worn under waistcoats and jackets (we called them bodices) tailored narrow through the midsection. Oh, and a proper brimmed hat, too, adorned with a ribbon or feather of some sort. Like much else, women’s fashion, too, was changing in the 1890s. Gone were the restrictive corsets and fussy ornaments and bustles that made our rumps look absurdly large. I didn’t know it then, but in the months ahead my own style of dress would undergo even more radical changes as I sought a costume more conducive to life on a bicycle, changes that were emblematic of the larger transformation that was afoot in women’s lives, changes of which I was but dimly aware. But on this morning I gave my clothes not a second thought. I wore the same uniform whenever I was about in public, and it was no different than that of anyone else. Conformity in all things was expected of women.

  Susie and I had walked these paths many times before. It was not uncommon for women to walk arm in arm while enjoying a stroll, and on this morning that’s what we did.

  “Susie,” I said, “I think you are going to be deeply disappointed with what I have to say. It hurts me to tell you what I have to tell you.”

  She looked concerned but not alarmed. And then I told her the story pretty much as I have told it to you thus far, about Alonzo and Colonel Pope and my decision to leave a few weeks hence to go ’round the world by wheel. By the time I had finished we had walked to the far corner of the Garden, near Boylston Street. A few people strolled by in the distance, but we had some privacy under the blooming willows. Susie turned and faced me and took both my hands in hers.

  “Annie,” she said with sympathy, “you know I adore you and I will miss you terribly. But this is your destiny! You will make a great success of it!” And then she did something we never dared do in public: she pulled me toward her and kissed me firmly on the mouth. For a few moments we stood there and embraced. As she released me she looked me directly in the eyes and asked, “Have you told Max yet? This will not go down well, I suspect.”

  “I haven’t,” I answered, glancing at the tops of my shoes. “But truthfully I am more concerned about telling Bennett. He and Baila will have to bear the burden of the children, and I know he will think it is all madness. Sheer madness. I will tell him first and then Max. I just have to find the right time, though there won’t be a right time.”

  “You will have to be ready for many slings and arrows,” Susie said, shifting the conversation a bit. “This is a radical thing for a woman to do, especially one with young children.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding gently. “But I will endure it. What I cannot endure are more years of this tiresome routine. It is not the life I was meant to live.”

  Susie knew me and understood me better than anyone and may have been the only person in the world who could have talked me out of my plan. Far from doing so, she was my biggest champion, and she never wavered, not in her desire for my happiness nor her confidence that I would make a success of the journey ahead.

  As we walked back toward Beacon Hill, Susie peppered me with questions, about my direction of travel, how I would learn to ride a bicycle, my plans for earning money en route—countless questions that I hadn’t even asked myself, let alone begun to answer.

  By the time we had returned to Susie’s door there was no time for tea. We’d been walking for close to three hours.

  “I have to hurry,” I pleaded. “I have to shop for dinner and get home to Max and the children. But let’s do this again next week. Your questions are helpful to me. There is so much to think about and so much to be done.”

  Susie’s eyes darted left and right, and when she was sure it was safe to do so, she kissed me once again on the mouth, took my hands, and looked directly into my eyes.

  “I do love you so, Annie. There is surely no woman in the world quite like you.”

  “I will miss you dearly,” I replied, thinking ahead. “But I promise to come back. I do hope you will be waiting for me.”

  “Of that there is no doubt, my dear. Go on. I will be all right.” A tear ran down Susie’s cheek.
I knew I was breaking her heart, and it pained me, but sometimes for a woman to be who she is meant to be hearts must be broken.

  * * *

  Two days after my walk with Susie, tragedy befell our family. My brother Jake, “my twin,” just seventeen years old, died of pneumonia. Though later in life I often said he was my twin—I even told my own adult children that—he was not, as I have told you. We were born five years apart. Nor did he get drunk and freeze to death after arguing with our father, as I also said. Father died in 1887, when Jake was only ten. And who freezes to death in mid-May? I can’t tell you why I told those stories except that I always had an aversion to the ordinary if I could conjure the extraordinary. What can I say? I took a certain mischievous pleasure in spinning tall tales. It was just my nature.

  * * *

  A couple of weeks after we buried dear Jacob, still grieving, I decided I would speak with my brother first and then Grandpa. Even Jake’s untimely death could not stop me from going. I had been handed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I was not about to let it slip away. My younger sister Rosa took Jake’s death the hardest, for they were close in age and were each other’s best friend and constant companion. Rosa, already battling the obesity and melancholy that continued to the day she died in 1945, would take my leaving doubly hard, just one more responsibility I was about to dump into my brother Bennett’s lap.

  I knew Bennett would be angry, but I also knew he and Baila would, when push came to shove, take care of the children. They would feel they had no choice. They would do their best in abnormal circumstances to provide normalcy in the children’s lives. Grandpa would be stoic; if he ever felt anger, he never showed it. He was a man for whom the disappointments and setbacks in life were expected and accepted with unnerving quietude. Though he could not have predicted the form my rebellion would take, I knew he would not be surprised that I was prepared to upend our lives in dramatic fashion. I suspect his only question was not whether such upheaval was in the offing, but when.

  My brother, like many young professional men on the rise, was a serious fellow. He wore pince-nez spectacles and sported a handlebar moustache that was very much the fashion in those days. Our older sister Sarah was in Maine, and so Bennett, especially after the death of our parents, had become the paternal figure in our family, and he felt a deep sense of responsibility to me and Jake and Rosa. His wife Baila was a kind and gentle woman who loved my children as her own. Indeed, given the hours she cared for them during my working days, I can say that she was a far more maternal presence in their lives than I was, but that is not saying much. Not that I was as aware of it then as I am now, but given my detachment from them I was able to convince myself that my extended absence would do the children no harm and might even do them some good, for Bennett and Baila were far better with children than Grandpa and me.

  My brother Bennett.

  Bennett worked on the business side for the Boston Herald Traveler newspaper, overseeing revenues from subscriptions and advertising, and often arrived home to the apartment below ours after the dinner hour. He worked too hard, I thought, but he was determined to escape the limited circumstances we faced as a family of immigrants who had arrived in Boston in 1875. Our father Levi worked as a real estate agent until he became infirm in his early sixties. Our mother Basha took in piecework, but money was always tight.

  About a week after my walk with Susie, I slid a sealed envelope with a note for Bennett under the door of their apartment: “Dearest Brother,” it read, “I have something of import to discuss with you that requires privacy. Have you an hour to spare on the weekend? Perhaps we can walk together by the river. Anna.”

  At first Bennett seemed absolutely stunned as we walked along the banks of the Charles. I could see it in his eyes and the way his body stiffened when I told him of my plans, which included foisting much responsibility for the children onto him and Baila. For a good five minutes the silence between us seemed to portend a volcanic eruption from my brother, who stared intently at the ground as we walked. When it came, the eruption was as controlled as the man himself. He spoke firmly and with authority, but he never raised his voice.

  “Anna, the stain on the honor of this family, which is sure to come from this if you follow through, will be deep and dark,” he said, choosing his words with care. “But it pales in comparison to the pain you will be inflicting on your own children and on Rosa. With Jacob gone, she needs you more than ever. How could you? What are you thinking? This ill-conceived lark will cause terrible damage to all those closest to you.”

  I could hardly tell him that the person closest to me in the world, Susie, had already blessed this “lark.”

  “I know you too well to think the forbidding of it would be of any consequence,” Bennett continued. “But I implore you to consider the harm to be caused by this selfish, self-destructive, outlandish plan of yours. It is shameful.”

  “Dear Brother, I mean no offense when I tell you that I do not expect you to understand what has led me to this decision,” I said, trying to sound as gentle as possible. “We are, all of us, living lives that have been scripted for us by the expectations of others, of our larger society. You can see for yourself the general state of agitation among women who are pushing for greater autonomy and equality. But I am not interested in politics. I am not marching or protesting or gathering petitions. I am not trying to prove a point. But I need to take control of my own life and take my destiny into my own hands. I can no longer live as I have and expect that happiness will find me. I have to take the reins, or the handlebars, and steer myself into the future, not be steered by the expectations of others. And I stand to return with a substantial sum in my pocket, enough to provide for the family for years to come.”

  I am sure Bennett could hardly believe his ears, for such talk was barely comprehensible to a man of the 1890s.

  “And Max?” asked Bennett. “He doesn’t know yet, does he? He would have said something to me, I am sure. How can you do this to him? He has been a good husband to you. He will be bereft.”

  “I will tell him soon,” I replied. Bennett looked at me as if he were a stern father.

  “You will be abandoning your husband and children, but Baila and I will not abandon them, as I suspect you know.”

  “I do. And I know the burden I am placing on you and Baila. You’ve every right to be angry. But please know I am grateful.” Bennett smirked.

  “Right now your gratitude is hard to accept, Sister. What I’d be grateful for is your coming to your senses.”

  “There is little chance of that, Brother,” I answered, hoping to elicit at least a smile if not a small laugh. Bennett’s demeanor didn’t change. “Besides, you and Baila are far better equipped than I to give the children the love they deserve. I see it in the way you love your own children and mine. It may seem selfish, but I may be doing the children a favor.”

  “And what do you know of bicycle riding?” Bennett asked. “I’ve never seen you with a bicycle.”

  “I commence riding lessons next week. It doesn’t look terribly difficult. Millions of people are doing it.”

  “You may be back sooner than you think,” Bennett said. “After two or three days, you may find the comforts of home are superior to the rigors of the road. And you’ll have made a fool of yourself in the process.”

  “Then you have little to worry about,” I answered. My tone turned slightly defiant. Until now I was deferential to my older brother, because I knew the magnitude of what I was asking of him. But the suggestion that I might not finish what I started hit a tender spot. No one, not even my dear brother, should question my determination to make a success of this highly unusual venture. Nothing quite got my back up like someone telling me I couldn’t do something.

  “Please, Brother, one favor,” I continued. “I need to be the one to tell Max. I know you will talk with Baila, but give me a few days, please.”

  “It is not for me to tell a man that his wife is about to abandon
him and their three small children,” answered Bennett, driving home once more how appalling he found the entire business.

  We walked home in silence. I knew Bennett was already resigning himself to whatever the weeks and months ahead would bring. Stubborn could have been my middle name.

  * * *

  Two nights later I decided I could wait no longer to talk with Grandpa. I was dreading it, not because I knew I was in for an argument or a fight, but precisely because I knew I wasn’t. The man, rest his soul, was terribly passive. Not even passive-aggressive, just passive. His lack of passion for anything but his beloved Torah, his complete lack of risibility, made for a very boring marriage. Here I was, full of vinegar, and he couldn’t muster a pinch of salt. I knew he would be terribly distressed and unhappy, maybe somewhere deep inside quite angry, but it would barely register. And when I spoke to him late that evening, after the children had been put to bed, he didn’t disappoint. The shock, once he realized I was serious, registered in his eyes but not in his voice. All he said, really, was, “You are meshuga, but we will survive.” And then he walked away and into the bedroom, reinforcing, unintentionally, of course, precisely what was wrong with our marriage from my point of view. I wanted excitement, spark, an occasional battle of wills… a pulse!