“What do you mean by that?”
I was reluctant to delve into the things that were nagging me about my life—not just because I was certain that they seemed so banal and housewifey compared to the “forces of revolutionary change” that Toby was dealing with, but also because it seemed strange (not to mention a little shabby) to be talking about how trapped I felt while holding my son in my arms.
But I still said, “What I mean is that I know it’s ‘bourgeois conventions’ that are keeping me in my place and stopping me from doing anything special. But I’m helplessly tied to those conventions. Because the idea of doing something really radical—like walking out on my husband and son—is simply impossible.”
“Hey, not everyone can play Trotsky,” he said. “And breaking social convention, especially when there is a kid involved, isn’t easy. But you can make little acts of protest against all the day-to-day stuff you have to put up with.”
“Like what?”
He smiled at me. “Like anything that goes against the marital contract, or what is expected of you, or how you’re supposed to behave.”
A long silence.
“I don’t think I could do that.”
“Do what?”
“Do what you are suggesting.”
“I’m suggesting nothing. I’m just saying that your husband probably doesn’t realize what a lucky guy he is . . . and what a remarkable person you are.”
“That’s flattery.”
“Maybe, but it’s also accurate.”
“What makes me remarkable?”
“The way you see things . . . and the fact that you’re beautiful.”
“Now you really are talking shit.”
“Have you always suffered from such a poor self-image?”
“Yeah—and I haven’t blushed like this since . . .”
“Last night.”
I said nothing. I just felt myself blushing some more.
“Let’s get off this subject,” I said.
“Good timing, since we’ve also got to get off this lake.”
He picked up the paddle, sat up straight in the stern, and began the half-hour paddle back toward the shoreline—the sun just beginning its slow descent toward dusk. We said little on the way back, though the thought did strike me that no one had ever called me remarkable before. I kept mulling over what he said to me about marriage:
Breaking social convention, especially when there is a kid involved, isn’t easy. But you can make little acts of protest against all the day-to-day stuff you have to put up with . . .
But the one little act of protest that I could make struck me as an enormous step—and a frontier I could not cross without suffering calamitous guilt.
We reached the shore, we returned the canoe, we loaded ourselves back into the car. Toby drove again—as Jeffrey had woken up and was demanding nourishment. So I sat in the back with him, feeding him from the bottle I had brought along.
“Doesn’t he mind that it’s cold?” Toby asked.
“When you’re hungry, you’re hungry. Anyway, how do you—the great I’ll never have children guy—know all about cold bottles of formula?”
“I used to feed my two nieces when they were babies.”
“Ever change a diaper?”
“I don’t do diapers—as my sister well knew.”
“Is she your only sister?”
“She was my only sibling.”
“Was?”
“She died a few years ago.”
“Oh God, that’s terrible.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “it was.”
“Had she been ill or something?”
“Something,” he said in a way that hinted he didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
Darkness was falling when we reached Pelham. Toby parked the car outside of the doctor’s office. Inside, I could see Nurse Bass doing some paperwork at the reception desk. She looked out as the car pulled up—and I watched her watching us, taking in the detail that Toby was behind the wheel, that he was helping me bring in Jeff, and that we had evidently been somewhere together for the afternoon. I waved to her and flashed her a big false smile. She immediately looked away, glancing down at the pile of papers on her desk.
Upstairs, I changed and fed Jeffrey, then put him in his playpen. Toby rolled up his sleeves and began to chop garlic.
“Anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“Yeah, get lost for a while and let me get on with the cooking.”
“You sure about that?”
“Like totally sure.”
“Mind if I take a bath, then?”
“Why would I mind? And if Junior here starts acting up, I’ll just give him a glass of Chianti to keep him quiet. Okay?”
I couldn’t remember the last time somebody cooked for me, or when I had the luxury of soaking in a very hot tub for over an hour. Even at night, when Dan was home and Jeff was asleep, the idea of a really long bath always seemed an overindulgence—and Dan was always good at reminding me (mildly, of course) of all the domestic stuff that still needed to be done. But now I was determined to lie there without interruption until Jeff needed me or Toby told me dinner was ready . . . though I did keep the door ajar, just in case my houseguest could not handle my son’s occasional obstreperousness.
But, from what I could hear through the door, Toby and Jeff got on just fine—and around an hour into my lengthy soak, the chef announced that dinner would be ready in about twenty minutes. So I hauled myself out of the bath, toweled myself down, put on a robe, and dashed into the bedroom. I went into the closet and chose a long flowery skirt and a white gauze shirt that I had always liked but rarely wore.
“You look beautiful,” Toby said as I came into the living room.
“Oh please . . .” I said.
“Why do you blush when I say that?”
“Because (a) I’m not used to it, and (b) you’re not my husband.”
“But (c) it’s just a comment . . . and (d) it should be taken as such. Cool?”
“Cool.”
“Glass of wine?”
“Sure, but let me call Dan first.”
I sat down on the sofa, picked up the phone, and dialed Glens Falls. Dan answered on the third ring. He sounded close to despair.
“I got a phone call around seven this morning, saying they thought he was going . . . so I rushed down there. But by the time I got to his bedside, he’d rallied again. The doctor told me he’s never seen anyone like Dad—he’s exactly like a prizefighter who’s about to be called out and always seems to rally on the ninth count. He just doesn’t want to let go—and who can blame him? Though, if I stay here much longer, it’s me they’ll be carrying out feetfirst.”
“Then come home,” I said tersely, even though it was the last thing I wanted right now.
“That’s exactly what I’m planning to do in two or three days. How’s things?”
I gave him a pretty anodyne synopsis of the day’s events, leaving out the canoe ride on Sebago Lake, but mentioning that our “houseguest” was still here.
“Is he okay?” Dan asked, sounding not terribly interested.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Sorry if I sound a little out of it. I am. Got to go. Kiss Jeff for me. Tell him his daddy misses him.”
And with a fast good night, he was off the phone. I hung up the receiver, reached for my cigarettes, lit one up. I felt suddenly edgy.
“Everything okay?” Toby asked, handing me a glass of wine.
“Yeah, fine . . .” I said, taking a big gulp of wine and another drag off my cigarette. “Well, no, actually, things are not fine.”
“Is it all to do with his dad?”
“And other stuff. But to tell the truth, that dinner smells too damn good to spoil it with other stuff.”
He topped up my glass. “Then let’s eat,” he said.
I brought Jeff back to his crib, but he resisted all my efforts to settle him down and began to cry when I walked back into the
living room.
“Great,” I said. “Just great.”
“He obviously doesn’t want to leave you alone with me.”
“Or maybe he wants another glass of wine.”
“Bring him in—and I promise you that our conversation will so bore him, he’ll be asleep in fifteen minutes.”
I did as ordered, lifting Jeff out of his crib and balancing him on my knee as we ate. The food was sensational. Rigatoni con salsiccia—a round pasta baked with Italian sausage, a homemade tomato sauce, and a thin crust of Parmesan cheese—was the best Italian dish I’d ever eaten. The garlic bread was perfect—Toby didn’t just use fresh garlic and oregano, but had also managed to obtain proper Italian bread. And halfway through the meal, Jeff did tire of all this grown-up chat and passed out.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked as Toby opened the second bottle of wine.
“Prison.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, I was in jail twice.”
“For how long?”
“Around two nights in both instances—and I was let off without charges. The feds really don’t like wasting their time prosecuting civil disobedience. But the truth is: I learned how to cook Italian courtesy of a woman named Francesca, whom I met at Columbia.”
“Was she Italian-American or Italian-Italian?”
“Italian-Italian. A Milanese—and her parents were good Gucci Communists, which meant that their daughter had read her Marcuse and her Che Guevara, but also knew how to dress and how to make a great rigatoni con salsiccia.”
“So we’re eating her recipe?”
“Indeed we are.”
“And this Italian Communist was, no doubt, beautiful and very worldly?”
A smile. “Yes, on both counts. And you’re jealous.”
“Because I wish I was beautiful and worldly.”
“What did I say at the lake?”
“You were just making me feel good.”
“I was telling the truth.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“Your husband has done a real number on you, hasn’t he?”
“Not totally.”
“Your mom as well?”
“She’s a rather critical woman.”
“A ballbuster . . . something your father confided to me several times. And I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up with a dad who was so much in the public eye and so sought after.”
“Especially by available women.”
“And what’s such a big deal about that?”
“No big deal.”
“You don’t really believe that. You hate the fact that your dad slept around. Although you’d never have the courage to cheat on your husband.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it’s written all over you,” he said, smiling.
Silence. I reached for my cigarettes, lit one up, and asked, “Can I have another glass of wine, please?”
He refilled my glass.
“Did I speak a little too bluntly?” he said. “Did I tell it like it is?”
“You don’t really care if you did, do you?”
“Who likes hearing the truth?”
“I don’t need to hear what I already know.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You really do think I’m a hick.”
“No, you think you’re a hick. I think . . . well, you remind me a lot of my sister, Ellen.”
“What happened to her?”
“Ellen was a very decent woman. Perhaps too decent. Always trying to please everyone, always putting others first, always downplaying her own needs and ambitions. An incredibly bright woman—magna cum laude from Oberlin—who got trapped in a dead-end marriage with an accountant. Within four years, she’d had three kids and felt totally hemmed in—her husband, Mel, turned into one of those schmucks who think a woman’s place is at the stove. But instead of doing the difficult, dangerous thing and breaking free, she felt duty-bound to tough out the marriage. Little by little, she slid into a major depression. Mel—a real Mr. Understanding—kept taunting her about ‘being such a downer.’ He actually threatened to have her institutionalized if she didn’t snap out of it. She told me this three days before her car went off the road in a remote spot up the Lake Erie coast. She’d plowed right into a tree. And as she wasn’t wearing a seat belt—”
He broke off for a moment, staring into his glass of wine.
“The cops found a note in her very neat handwriting on the dashboard: Sorry I had to do this—but my head just hurts all the time, and it’s hard living with a hurt head.”
Another pause. Then, “A month after Ellen’s suicide, I got arrested for tossing back a police tear gas grenade during the Chicago convention riots. Two months after that, I was back at Columbia, spearheading the siege of the administration building. And yeah, my sister’s death and those other events are completely interrelated. What happened to her completely radicalized me—made me want to lash out at every conformist asshole in this country. That’s the thing about America—if we don’t knuckle down and accept our roles, society crushes us. That’s what people like me and your dad are really fighting against. Ellen tried to break free. Ellen was destroyed. And that’s your fate if you don’t . . .”
His hand slid across the table and his fingers laced through mine. “If I don’t what?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
He tightened his grip on my fingers.
“If you don’t break free,” he said.
“I don’t know how to break free.”
“It’s easy,” he said. “You just . . .”
That’s when he kissed me, his mouth covering mine. I didn’t resist. On the contrary, I’d been so desperate to kiss him for the past day that I was all over him in a moment. We slid off our chairs and onto the nearby couch. He was now on top of me. I opened my legs and pushed myself up against him, his penis hard within his jeans. He began to pull my skirt up. I dug my nails into his back, my tongue down his throat. And then . . .
Then . . . Jeffrey started to cry.
At first I tried to ignore his whimpers. But as they escalated into a full-scale roar, I froze.
“Oh, great,” Toby said, rolling off me.
“Sorry,” I said, then jumped up, pulled down my skirt, and raced into the bedroom. Jeff calmed down once I picked him up. I cuddled him against me and slipped the pacifier back into his mouth. I sat down on our bed, rocking my son, my head spinning, an ever-creeping guilt seizing me. As I pulled Jeffrey closer against me, I felt something close to horror.
“You okay in there?” Toby called from the next room.
“Yeah, fine,” I said. “Just give me a moment.”
Once I was certain Jeff was on the verge of nodding off again, I gently put him back in his crib, covered him with his little blanket, and stared down at him, gripping the side of his crib for support.
I can’t do this . . . I just can’t do this.
The door opened. Toby came in, a glass of wine in each hand.
“Thought you could use this,” he whispered, handing me one.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting it. He leaned over and kissed me. I sort of responded, but he could immediately sense my reserve.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Good,” he said, kissing my neck. But I hunched my shoulders against him and said, “Not here.”
We went back out into the living room. As soon as he closed the bedroom door behind us, his hands were all over me again. This time, though, I gently pushed him away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I just can’t.”
“The kid?”
“That and—”
I broke off, walking to the other end of the room, looking out the window.
“Bourgeois guilt?” he asked.
“Thanks for that,” I said, not turning around.
“Hey,” he said, coming over and putting his arms around me, “can�
�t you take a seriously bad joke?”
I turned and faced him. “I want to, but—”
He kissed me.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said.
“I—”
Another kiss.
“No one will know,” he said.
“I’ll know.”
Another kiss.
“So?”
“I’ll have to live with—”
Another kiss.
“Guilt is for nuns,” he said.
I laughed. And kissed him. And said, “Then I’m a Mother Superior.”
He laughed. And kissed me. And said, “You are beautiful.”
“Stop.”
“You are beautiful.”
Another kiss.
“Not now,” I said.
Another kiss.
“Then when?” he asked. “When?”
When? The question that had been plaguing me all my life. Paris when? New York when? Career when? Independence when? And, as always, I had a ready-made, play-it-safe answer: not now. He was right. When? When? When would I ever take a chance?
Another kiss.
You are beautiful.
When had Dan last said that to me?
Another kiss—and I felt his hand reaching down, pulling up the back of my skirt again.
“Not here,” I whispered, suddenly remembering that we were kissing by a window.
“Don’t worry,” he said, reaching over to pull down the blind. “It’s night. The place is deserted.”
I glanced out the window as the blind came down and thought I saw someone standing in the shadows looking up at us.
“Who’s that?” I hissed.
Toby stopped lowering the blind and peered out the window.
“You’re seeing ghosts,” he said.
“You sure?”
The blind closed behind him. He gathered me up in his arms.
“There is nothing to worry about,” he said.
Another kiss. And another kiss. And another kiss.
I took him by the hand. I led him to the bedroom. Jeff was fast asleep. I turned toward Toby and pulled us both down onto the bed. Telling myself, Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.
EIGHT
WE MADE LOVE twice that night. By the time Toby fell asleep, it was nearly three in the morning. I was still wide awake—spent, depleted, expended, played out, but wired. Because my son was sleeping just three feet away from the bed where such unbridled ardor had taken place . . . the bed I had only ever shared with Dan until tonight.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 127
