It took a moment for this news to register. “George and I are moving where?” I asked.
“To Old Greenwich, Connecticut. You mean, he hasn’t yet told you . . . ?”
“Considering that he only informed you of our news last night . . .”
“Of course, of course. The poor boy’s had so much on his mind. Anyway, when he did tell us your wonderful news yesterday evening, Mr. Grey gave him the most marvelous surprise. As our wedding gift to you both, we’re letting you have a little house we bought as an investment a year or so ago in Old Greenwich. Do understand—it’s hardly a mansion. But it’s the perfect starter house for a young family. And it’s only five minutes’ walk to the railway station, so it will be very handy for George’s commute to Manhattan. Do you know Old Greenwich? Very sweet little town . . . and right near Long Island Sound, so it will be perfect for . . .”
Drowning myself.
“. . . outings with other young mothers. After the baby arrives I’m sure you’ll find so much to do up there. Coffee mornings. Church socials. Charity yard sales. The PTA . . .”
As I listened to her delineate, with relish, my prosaic future, all I could think was: this is a master class in how to twist the knife.
I finally interrupted her.
“Why can’t we live in George’s apartment for a while?”
“That dreadful place? I wouldn’t allow it, Sara.”
It wasn’t that dreadful: a serviced one-bedroom flat in a residential hotel, the Mayflower, on 61st Street and Central Park West.
“We could always find a bigger place in the city,” I said.
“The city is no place to raise children.”
“But the baby’s not due for around seven months. I don’t want to be commuting back and forth to Connecticut to my job . . .”
“Your job?” she said, sounding amused. “What job?”
“My job at Saturday/Sunday, of course.”
“Oh, that job. You’ll be resigning at the end of next week.”
“No I won’t.”
“Of course you will. Because a week later you will be married. And married women do not work.”
“I was planning to be the exception.”
“Sorry, dear. It cannot be. Anyway, given your condition, you’d have to give up work in a few months. It’s the way motherhood works.”
I tried to remain rational, reasoned, in control.
“Say I refused? Say I simply walked out of this hotel right now and didn’t go through with any of this?”
“I have already outlined the consequences to you. I do believe in individual free will—so, as far as I’m concerned, you may do whatever you want to do. Sadly, the outcome of such a decision may not be to your liking—as raising a child on your own without a job or a decent place to live may be a little difficult. But we would never dream of stopping you . . .”
My eyes began to water. I felt tears cascading down my face. “Why are you doing this?” I whispered.
Mrs. Grey looked at me, baffled. “Doing what, dear?”
“Ruining my life.”
“Ruining your life? Please spare me the cheap melodrama, Sara. I certainly didn’t force you to get pregnant, now did I?”
I said nothing.
“Anyway, if I was in your position, I would be positively delighted with the way everything’s been arranged. After all, it’s not many girls who get given a house in a desirable suburb as a wedding gift.”
A final tight smile. I stared down at the table. There was a lengthy silence.
“Cat got your tongue, dear? Or have you simply seen the logic of my arguments?”
My gaze remained fixed on the table.
“Splendid,” she finally said. “Our plans will proceed as agreed. Oh . . . and look who’s here to see us. What marvelous timing the boy has.”
I looked up. George was standing at the entrance of the Palm Court, hesitantly awaiting the wave of his mother’s hand that would beckon him to the table. No doubt, she had given him an appointed time at which to arrive at the Plaza. Just as she had told him last night exactly how she was going to stage-manage our life from this day forward. Because, in the world according to Mrs. Grey, this was the price one paid for transgressing her sense of order and decorum and social standing.
Mrs. Grey used her right index finger to beckon George forward. He approached our table shyly, like a schoolboy being called into the principal’s office.
“Hi there,” he said, trying to sound cheery. “Everyone happy?”
He glanced at me and saw that I had been crying. Immediately, he tensed. His mother said, “Sara and I have been discussing future plans, and we’re in agreement on everything.”
I said nothing. I continued to stare at the tabletop. Her voice became testy. “Aren’t we, dear?”
I didn’t raise my gaze, but I did say, “Yes. Everything is fine.”
“And we now understand each other, don’t we?”
I nodded.
“So you see, George—everything is working out splendidly . . . as I told you it would. As I’m sure you well know, Sara—the poor boy is a bit of a worrier. Aren’t you, George?”
“I guess so,” he said nervously. Sitting down next to me, he tried to take my hand. But I pulled it away before he clutched it. Mrs. Grey caught sight of this little drama and smiled.
“I think I’ll go powder my nose, and let you lovebirds have a moment or two alone.”
As soon as she was out of earshot, George said, “Darling, don’t be upset . . .”
“I didn’t realize I was marrying your mother.”
“You’re not.”
“Oh yes I am . . . as it seems that she is calling all the shots here.”
“After the wedding, we can block her right out of our lives . . .”
“After the wedding we will be living in Old Greenwich, Connecticut. How nice of you to discuss this little change of address with me . . .”
“The offer of the house only came last night.”
“So you naturally decided to accept it without consulting me.”
“I meant to call you at work this morning.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I was tied up in meetings.”
“Liar. You were afraid what my reaction might be.”
He lowered his head. “Yes. I was afraid how you might react. But, look, the house in Old Greenwich was just a really generous offer from my parents. We don’t have to accept it.”
I stared at him with utter contempt. “Yes we do,” I said, “and you know it.”
A pause. He squirmed in his chair. And finally said, “You’ll really like Old Greenwich.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” I said.
“And if you don’t like it . . .”
“Then what?”
“Then . . .” He squirmed again. “I promise you, it will all work out. Let’s just get through the wedding . . .”
“And then—let me guess—you’re going to tell her to stay out of our lives forever?”
Another uncomfortable pause. “I’ll try,” he said, his voice a near whisper. He then made a loud coughing noise to indicate that his mother was returning. When she approached our table, George instantly stood up and held her chair. After she sat down, she nodded to indicate that he could be seated. Then she turned her gaze to me.
“So,” she asked, “did you have a nice chat about things?”
Had I been the fearless sort, I would have stood up and walked out of the Plaza, and accepted my fate. But to do that, in 1947, would have meant taking the most enormous personal gamble. And yes, as much as I loathed her, Mrs. Grey was right about one thing: deciding to be a single mother would have meant instant unemployment, instant social ostracization. Back then, only widows and abandoned women were allowed to be single mothers. To decide to have a child outside of wedlock—or, worse yet, to reject an offer of marriage by the child’s father—would have been considered, at best, deeply reprehensible; at worst, deranged. And
I didn’t possess the don’t give a damn mentality needed to buck conventionality. I longed to have Eric’s seditious streak, but knew I couldn’t pull it off. Like it or not, I was a small-c conservative. My parents may have despaired at my minor acts of rebellion—like moving to Manhattan after college. But they instilled in me such a fear of authority—and such deeply engrained notions of respectability—that I felt unable to do the impossible, awkward thing: telling George Grey and his godawful parent to go to hell.
I certainly wasn’t going to tell Eric about my conversation with Mrs. Grey (or the way I was being railroaded into a life in Old Greenwich, Connecticut), because I knew he would have gone berserk. At best, I would have to listen to his very impassioned, very persuasive arguments, pleading with me to bail out of this future domestic nightmare while there was still a chance. At worst, he would have done something melodramatic . . . like spiriting me out of the country to Paris or Mexico City until the baby was born.
But my mind was made up. I was going to marry George. I was going to move to the Connecticut suburbs. I was going to have the child. I had landed myself in this mess. I was going to accept my fate. Because I deserved my fate.
I also began to rationalize like crazy. All right, George was dwarfed by his mother—but once we were married, I would be able to gradually excise her from our lives. All right, I would hate leaving New York—but maybe Old Greenwich would give me the peace and quiet I needed to try writing again. All right, my husband-to-be was the emotional equivalent of vanilla ice cream—but hadn’t I vowed never to fall victim to wayward passion again? Hadn’t I vowed to avoid another . . .
Jack.
Jack. Jack. Damn you, Jack. That night—that one absurd night—led me right into the dull, worthy arms of George Grey.
In the two weeks running up to the wedding, I assented to everything. I let Mrs. Grey make all the arrangements for the ceremony and the party. I let her book me a rushed appointment at a dressmaker, who whipped up a standard-issue white wedding dress for $85 (“Of course we wouldn’t dream of letting you pay, dear,” Mrs. Grey said at the fitting). I let her choose the order of the service, the menu at the reception, the centerpiece on the cake. I accompanied George by train to Old Greenwich to inspect our new house. It was a small two-story Cape Codder, located on a road called Park Avenue, within a five-minute walk from the railway station. Park Avenue was very leafy, very residential. Each house had a substantial front yard, with a very green lawn. They were all immaculately manicured. Just as all the houses showed no signs of wear and tear: no peeling paint, or decrepit roofs, or smudged windows. From my first stroll down Park Avenue, I knew immediately that this was a community which did not tolerate such sins against the body politic as unmowed grass or badly graveled driveways.
The houses along Park Avenue were New England in character—testaments to Poe-style Gothic rubbing shoulders with white clapboard, and Federalist red brick. Ours was one of the smallest properties, with low ceilings and small, cramped rooms. They were papered in discreet floral prints or tiny red-and-blue checks—the sort of old American patterns that put me in mind of the inside of a Whitman’s chocolate box. The furniture was spartan in character and size—cramped, narrow sofas; hard wooden armchairs, a pair of narrow single beds in the master bedroom. There was a plain wooden table in the other bedroom with a bentwood chair.
“This will be the perfect place to write your novel,” George said, trying to sound cheerful.
“So where will the baby sleep?” I asked quietly.
“In our room for the first few months. Anyway, we should look on this place as nothing more than a starter house. Once we have a couple of kids, we’ll definitely need . . .”
I cut him off.
“One child at a time, okay?”
“Fine, fine,” he said, sounding anxious at my testy tone. “I didn’t mean to be pushing things . . .”
“I know you didn’t.”
I moved back down the corridor to the master bedroom, and sat on one of the single beds. The mattress felt like a concrete slab. George sat down beside me. He took my hand.
“We can get a proper double bed if you like.”
I shrugged.
“And anything you want to do to this place is fine by me.”
How about burning it to the ground, darling?
“It’ll be fine,” I said, my voice toneless.
“Of course it will. And we’ll be happy here, right?”
I nodded.
“And I know you’re going to grow to love it here. Heck, Old Greenwich is a great place to raise a family.”
Heck. I was marrying a man who used the word heck.
But I still didn’t attempt to bail out of the wedding. Instead, I calmly upended my life. I handed in my resignation at Saturday/Sunday. I informed my landlord that I would be vacating my apartment. As I had rented it furnished, there was little to pack up. Just some books, my Victrola and my collection of records, a few family photos, three suitcases’ worth of clothing, my typewriter. Looking at my small pile of possessions made me think, I travel light.
Finally, three days before the ceremony, I conjured up the nerve to tell Eric about my impending move to Old Greenwich. My delay in informing him of this news was a strategic one—as I knew he would become vehement as soon as he heard.
Which, of course, he did.
“Have they railroaded you into this move?” he asked angrily, pacing my packed-up apartment.
“George’s parents simply offered us this charming little house as a wedding gift, and I thought: why not?”
“That’s all there was to it?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me with deep skepticism. “You—the most die hard New Yorker imaginable—simply decided to close down your existence in Manhattan and move to goddamn Old Greenwich just because Georgie-Boy’s parents gave you a house? I don’t believe it.”
“I thought it was time for a change,” I said, trying to sound calm. “And I am looking forward to the peace and quiet.”
“Oh please, S—cut the serenity crap. You don’t want to be in Connecticut. I know that. You know that.”
“It’s a gamble, but it could turn out wonderfully.”
“I said it once. I said it before. You can walk away now, and I will support you in every way I can.”
I touched my stomach. “I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“You do. You just don’t see it.”
“Believe me, I see it. But I just can’t make that leap of imagination. I have to do what’s expected of me.”
“Even if it ruins your life?”
I bit hard on my lip and turned away, my eyes hot with tears.
“Please stop,” I said.
He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. For the first time ever, I shrugged him off.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not as sorry as me.”
“We all ruin our lives in some way, I guess . . .”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. It’s supposed to make me feel better.”
I managed a laugh. “You’re right,” I finally said. “In some way or another, we all mess things up. Only some of us do it more comprehensively than others.”
To Eric’s infinite credit, he never again reproached me about marrying George and moving to Connecticut. Three days after that difficult conversation in my apartment, he put on his only suit, a clean white shirt, and (for him) a subdued tie, and walked me down the aisle at the Marble Collegiate Church. George was in an ill-fitting cutaway (with a high-collar shirt) that accented his schoolboy chubbiness. The minister was a bored man with thinning hair and bad dandruff. He read the service in a reedy monotone, and at speed. From start to finish, the entire ceremony took fifteen minutes. As there were only twelve invited guests, the church seemed very cavernous—our vows echoing through the rows of empty pews. It was very lonely indeed.
The reception afterward was also a rushed affa
ir. It was held in a private dining room at the Plaza. Mr. and Mrs. Grey weren’t exactly the most welcoming of hosts. They didn’t try to make conversation with Eric, or with my friends from Saturday/Sunday. George’s chums from the bank were also exceptionally stiff. Before the dinner, they huddled together in a corner, talking quietly among themselves, occasionally emitting a sharp communal snigger of laughter. I was certain they were articulating what everyone at this joyless event was thinking, so this is what’s known as a shotgun marriage.
Only, of course, this being a WASP shotgun marriage, everyone was carrying on as if it was a perfectly straightforward event.
There was a sit-down meal. There was a toast from Mr. Grey. Like everything else that day, it was emotionless and brisk: “Please raise your glasses to welcome Sara to our family. We hope that she and George will be happy.”
That was it. George’s toast was almost as phlegmatic: “I just want to say that I am the luckiest man in the world, and I know that Sara and I will make a great team. And I want you all to know that we’re operating an open-door policy in Old Greenwich—so we’re going to expect lots of visitors real soon.”
I glanced across the table and saw my brother roll his eyes. Then he realized that I saw him being caustic, and he gave me a guilty smile. That one small private moment aside, he really had been a model of tact and diplomacy all afternoon. Even though he looked utterly respectable in his black suit, Mr. and Mrs. Grey still eyed him with anxious distaste—as if he was some sort of strange left-wing alien, about to jump on a table and hector us with passages from Das Kapital. At the reception, however, he made a point of chatting with my parents-in-law, and even managed to wangle a small laugh or two from them. This was an astonishing phenomenon—discovering that the Greys had a sense of humor—and I cornered Eric as he crossed the room en route to the bar for fresh drinks, whispering:
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 23
