by Judy Blume
“Okay,” Sara said. “Not as skinny as Mom.”
“You like her . . . she’s nice to you?”
“She’s okay.”
“You didn’t bring a picture of her?” Grandma asked.
“No.” Why should she have brought a picture of Margo? Who cared what Margo looked like anyway? It was just a passing fancy. That’s what her mother told her. Sara really liked that expression—a passing fancy. It was just a convenient place for Daddy to live while he wrote his book. So why were her grandparents making such a big thing out of it? Unless they knew something she didn’t. Oh, she hated grownups and all their secrets!
It was the same at Grandma Goldy’s and Uncle Morris’s the next week. They wanted to hear all about her Thanksgiving trip to Minneapolis. She didn’t tell them anything except that Minneapolis had been so cold her lips had been blue the whole time. And she told them that Lewis was seventeen years older than her mother. But they already knew.
Sara did not want to spend her vacation answering questions about her parents. She wanted to swim and play with the other kids who were down visiting their grandparents. If they were going to talk at all then Sara wanted to talk about her life. And she wanted them to tell her what a wonderful kid she was and how they hoped her parents appreciated her and that if ever her parents weren’t paying enough attention to her she could fly right back to Florida.
“You’re getting little bosoms,” Grandma Goldy said, the first time Sara put on her one-piece Speedo. “Pretty soon you’ll have all the boys after you, just like your mother.”
Sara wanted to shout that she was nothing like her mother. And that the boys weren’t even interested in her. They all liked Ellen Anders, who was always in trouble in school and who took Quaaludes every weekend.
24
B.B. FELT WONDERFULLY REMOVED IN MAUI, with just the sun and the sea and Lewis, adoring her, making her feel young and beautiful, making her feel that her whole life was ahead of her. She remembered Andrew once saying, Fuck responsibilities! Well, maybe that’s exactly what she would do.
She’d been proud of herself at the airport. She had really been in control. The night before she had phoned Andrew, had shouted at him.
“What do you want?” he’d asked.
She’d thought about saying, I want you back, but that was too demeaning and she wasn’t even sure it was true, so she’d said, “I want you out of my life. I want you off my turf. Sara is mine.”
“She’s ours,” he’d answered.
“No, not here. Here she belongs to me.” Then she had slammed down the receiver.
She phoned their house at odd hours, when she thought they might be talking about her or making love. She hated the idea of them in bed together, snuggled close, Margo’s head on his chest. She hated the idea of him telling Margo stories about their marriage, sharing the most intimate details of their lives. Sometimes she would phone in the middle of the night, then hang up. She didn’t want to phone. She didn’t want to show them that she cared, that knowing they were together hurt, but she couldn’t stop herself. If only he would go away. If Margo loved him so much let her go with him. Love . . . the idea of it made her laugh.
She and Lewis made love every afternoon. Sometimes she would keep her eyes open and stare at the lovely designs on the ceiling of their villa. Sometimes she would become confused and think that Lewis was her father. There was something about his hands, something so familiar. She came close to calling him Daddy several times, but caught herself in time. Lewis was older than her father had been when he had died. She couldn’t remember exactly how old her father had been then. She could remember only that her mother had told her he had died in some girl’s bed. Some girl with red hair. Poor and Irish. But maybe her mother had made that up because her mother had been having an affair with Uncle Morris, hadn’t she? She remembered her father accusing her mother of doing it with her own sister’s husband. But none of it mattered. Because Daddy had loved her best. She had been his darling, his Francie. And now Lewis loved her the same way.
One afternoon, after making love, B.B. said, “I never tell anybody anything . . . you know that? I’m a very secretive person.”
“You’re the most together person I’ve ever known,” Lewis said.
“You think so?” B.B. asked.
“I know so,” Lewis said.
“I have a cloud that sometimes forms around my head, making everything fuzzy.”
“You should see an ophthalmologist when you get back. Sounds like you need glasses.” He kissed her fingers then, one by one.
B.B. laughed, could not stop laughing. She laughed until her body ached. Lewis didn’t know. Lewis had no idea. And she was not going to spoil it by telling him about herself, by taking the chance that if he knew what she was really like he would stop loving her.
“I may never leave here,” she said one day, as she oiled her legs.
“B.B., darling, if that’s what you want I can make arrangements. Let’s look for a place, a glass house on the ocean. What do you say?”
“Oh, Lewis, would you honestly do anything to please me?”
“Yes,” he said seriously, sitting on the edge of her lounge chair. “Yes, I would.”
“There’s so much about me you don’t know.”
“If you want me to know, you’ll tell me. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter.”
She had not yet told him about Bobby.
She wondered if she could spend the rest of her life pretending. Pretending to be happy. Pretending to be the most together person he had ever known. It was so hard to pretend. It took up almost all of her energy. Sometimes she felt so tired from pretending that she just wanted to let go, to slip away quietly, to let the warm ocean water cover her and carry her away.
“Marry me,” Lewis said. “Marry me right now.”
25
ANDREW SAT ON THE DECK of Bethany’s condominium peering through a pair of binoculars that he had found in the kitchen cupboard. Margo assumed he was watching the parade of long, graceful sailboats leaving the marina. She lay back on a chaise, letting the sun warm her. No more serious sunbathing for her, though. She had more than enough lines around her eyes and mouth from years of careless sunning, when the most important goal of the summer was to have a good tan. She tried to warn Michelle to use a sun block routinely, especially in Colorado, where the high altitude made you even more vulnerable, but Michelle wouldn’t listen. Michelle didn’t believe she’d ever be forty.
“Have a look,” Andrew said, passing Margo the binoculars. “It’s tits and ass from here to Venice Beach.”
Margo held the binoculars to her eyes. God, he was right. The beach was filling up with bodies—long, lean, gorgeous bodies—tanned, oiled, and wearing the skimpiest bikinis she had ever seen. She handed the binoculars back to Andrew without commenting.
“Put on your suit, Margarita,” he said, “and let’s hit the beach.”
She went upstairs to the bedroom and got into her bathing suit, a black strapless one-piece with a diagonal pink stripe. As she appraised herself in the full-length mirror waves of insecurity washed over her. How could she possibly compete with all those leggy young things on the beach, their long hair flying in the breeze? Andrew was such an attractive man and his slim athletic body was very appealing. He would attract all those young girls on the beach, all those girls who wanted older men, so they could pretend they were fucking their daddies.
It’s not how you look, dummy, she said to her reflection, It’s what’s inside that counts.
Bullshit. It’s how you look, nothing more, nothing less.
But looks don’t last.
Exactly. And you’re a good example of that, aren’t you? Look at the flab on the inside of your thighs.
Come on, I’m not flabby. Fo
r forty I’m in great shape.
Oh, sure. But if you really worked at it, if you ran, say, four or five miles a day, if you followed a strict macrobiotic diet, if you plunged your face into a basin of ice water three times a day like Paul Newman . . .
It’s best not to think about aging. It’s best to just accept it. Besides, it’s not as if he’s never seen my body . . .
But he’s never seen it in a bathing suit, never compared it to a beachful of gorgeous California girls.
“Margo,” Andrew called. “What are you doing?”
“Coming . . .”
Look, Margo said, trying to convince herself, European women wear the tiniest bikinis no matter how old they are, no matter what their bodies look like, and they exude a kind of sexiness that women here aren’t expected to have after a certain age. It’s all in how you see yourself, in how you move.
“Margarita . . .” Andrew called again.
“Here I am,” she said, running down the stairs. She had pulled a t-shirt on over her bathing suit. She was furious at herself for feeling insecure.
They walked along the ocean’s edge, holding hands. When they got down to the Venice Pier, they sat on the beach, watching a family with three children. The young mother, pregnant again, the father, building sand castles with the smallest. Suddenly it occurred to Margo that she and Andrew had never discussed the possibility of having children together.
“Have you ever thought about having more kids?” Margo asked tentatively. She picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers.
“I used to think I’d marry again and have more kids, but not anymore. You can’t replace a child you’ve lost. And anyway, I don’t want to go through it all over again. I’m glad your kids are older. That makes it easier.” He paused. “You don’t want more, do you?”
“No.” She leaned over and kissed him. “It would have been nice to have a baby with you though.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” Margo choked up and turned away.
“What is it?” Andrew asked.
“I don’t know,” she managed to say. “Just the idea that we always have our kids with the wrong person.”
“Not always.”
“A lot of the time.”
“It works out okay in the long run.”
“Now you sound like me,” Margo said. She bit on her lip to keep from crying.
“Too many people have the mistaken idea that when they love someone they’ll make a baby that will be just like that person . . . and it’s not true.”
Margo looked away.
“Do you want another baby, Margo . . . is that it?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to start all over again either, especially now, especially knowing what I know about raising kids. I’m just being sentimental, that’s all, wishing we had met in college, married young, had our kids together.”
“We still would have had a lot to get through, and who’s to say we would have come through it together?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Margo said. “But look at my parents . . . fifty years and they still love each other. Not just a comfortable kind of love, but in love. I just wish we had met sooner so we could have had a chance at that.”
“You want fifty years together?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You’ve got them.”
MARGO FELT NERVOUS AND UPSET dressing for the anniversary party. She popped two Rolaids into her mouth, hoping they would ease her queasiness.
“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked. He had already finished dressing and was relaxing on the bed, watching her. He liked to watch her get dressed, he said. He liked the way she used her lipstick, then blotted almost all of it off, sliding a layer of clear gloss over it, making her mouth slick and inviting.
Margo crossed the room and sat beside Andrew. She touched his cheek, then his hair. “Look,” she said, “this might be too much for you. It’s not just a question of meeting my parents and my sisters. It’s everyone all at once . . . aunts, uncles, cousins, old family friends . . . people I haven’t seen in years, people I haven’t seen since my own wedding. Are you sure you want to expose yourself to that?”
“It’s probably easier to do it all at once,” he said.
“You’re brave,” she told him. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t opt to stay here and read a book.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Andrew asked.
She stood up, smoothed out her long skirt, and looked out the bedroom window. The sun was beginning to set over the ocean, turning the sky pink and the water golden. “They can ask you when we’re getting married,” she said, turning to face him.
“I’ll tell them we haven’t picked the date,” he said easily. He got off the bed, came over to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her ear. “Would you?” he asked. “Would you get married again?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Would you?”
“Maybe . . . if the right person came along.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said. And then he kissed her mouth and she kissed him back and they both looked at the bed, rumpled and inviting, but knew that there was not time now. That they would have to wait.
26
AT THE ANNIVERSARY PARTY Michelle sat at a little table by the side of the pool, watching Grandma and Grandpa dance. Grandma was wearing white chiffon and she looked like she was floating. You’d never know she’d had cancer, Michelle thought, sipping some kind of fruit punch with rum. You’d never know that she’d had both her breasts removed. God, what an idea. Michelle was still waiting for hers to grow. She was almost seventeen and her breasts were still the same size as when she was thirteen.
There weren’t any movie stars at the party. Just a lot of family and friends who had flown in from all over the place and who did a My, haven’t you grown since the last time I saw you number on Michelle and Stuart and the cousins.
Margo and Andrew were slow dancing, their bodies pressed very close. Every now and then Andrew kissed Margo near her ear and she looked up at him and smiled. Michelle finished the rum punch.
Aunt Joell, who had just turned thirty, was dancing with her boyfriend, Stan, who was divorced and had three kids. Aunt Joell ran this big travel agency in New York and said she was never going to have kids because they ruined your life. Imagine talking that way about having kids! How would she know? Did Michelle and Stuart look like they were ruining Margo’s life? Not at all. On the contrary, Margo was very glad she had them. Otherwise she would be lonely and depressed. It was going to be very hard on Margo when both she and Stuart went off to college. Michelle wanted to have a child some day. But she wasn’t sure she’d get married, unless there was some guarantee that her marriage would turn out like Grandma Belle’s and Grandpa Abe’s. That would be different.
The music stopped, then started again. Andrew walked across the dance floor and stopped at Michelle’s table.
“How’s it going . . . are you having a good time?”
“Yeah . . . sure.”
“Want to dance?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to do these dances.”
“I saw you dancing with your grandfather. You looked like you were doing fine.”
“That was different.”
“Come on, Michelle, live a little.”
“Well . . .”
He took her hands and practically pulled her to her feet, then out to the dance floor, which was a patio covered by a striped tent. He didn’t try to hold her close or anything, but he looked directly into her eyes and smiled. “You look very pretty tonight,” he said.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
&n
bsp; “Well, I tried, for Grandma and Grandpa. Gemini let me borrow all this jewelry.” Michelle did think she looked kind of exotic. She had outlined her eyes with a silver green pencil and she was wearing a gauzy blouse with a Navajo sash tied around her waist.
“You look exotic,” Andrew said. “You have good cheekbones, like your mother.”
Michelle felt funny dancing with her mother’s boyfriend. She had read an article about stepfathers putting the make on young girls at home. So as soon as the music stopped she ran for the house.
“Wait a minute . . .” Andrew called, coming after her.
She stopped outside the French doors.
“Look, Michelle . . . there’s something I want to say to you . . .” he began.
She hoped he was not going to embarrass her. She fiddled with her Navajo sash, pretending that it was not tied properly.
“Michelle . . .” he said, “I know you weren’t happy when I moved in . . . and I don’t blame you . . . but I hope in time you’ll accept me . . .”
He paused, as if he expected her to say something, but she didn’t.
“I’m not going to try to be your father,” he continued. “You already have a father. I know that. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d like to be friends.”
“I’ve got to go in now,” she said and she opened the French doors and stepped inside.
Later, Grandma put on the gold tap shoes that Grandpa had given to her for their golden wedding anniversary and she did a number to “You Are My Lucky Star,” with double pullbacks and everything. Then they opened their gifts. The best one was the quilt that Margo had made. Grandma cried when she read the card, especially the part about the quilt being called Circles of Love. So did Margo. Even Andrew had tears in his eyes. And Michelle felt this gigantic lump in her throat and wanted everyone to love each other as much as they did then . . . forever.
