Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen

by Alix Kates Shulman

  We speeded along in silence, cutting a wake of white through the barely plowed roads. I tried to remember the condition of my underclothes as outside, sunlight glinted off icicles.

  An enchanted region. If the Hudson River was the moat, somewhere lay a castle. Up past the shimmering Tappan Zee Bridge, at last, I spotted the redwood motel suspended on top of a mountain.

  “There?” I asked.

  “There.”

  “With Manhattan full of hotels, you pick a motel up some icy mountain,” I teased.

  “You could walk out of a Manhattan hotel,” said Will, leaning over to kiss me.

  Our tires spun as we climbed toward the craggy top where a dragon waited to be slain.

  In the dining room facing across a chasm into distant snowy woods, we ate our lunch. Rather, we faked lunch. For even after two fast martinis to steady our knees we were too nervous to try the impressive shrimp salads the waiter placed before us.

  “I can’t,” I said, looking at it regretfully.

  “I can’t either,” said Will.

  He signed the bill with a room number ascertained in advance, and wrote in a tip. The waiter smiled. Will held my arm as we proceeded slowly down the corridor with admirable restraint to our room.

  I was wearing a perfectly simple black wool dress that zipped up the back, and my hair was pinned in a sort of bun. In those waning years of the fifties long loose hair was a secret to be revealed only in the bedroom. With such ceremony as Rapunzel might have shown, I drew the pins slowly out of my hair and shook it loose over my shoulders while Will bolted the door. Then I stepped down out of my shoes.

  “My love,” he breathed, taking an awkward step toward the center where I stepped to meet him. No witch intruded. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed my eyes and mouth with princely grace.

  The largest wall of the room was a picture window. Outside, snow was falling heavily. It would feel strange to make love in the bright light before the open woods; nevertheless, retrieving both my hands, I lifted my long hair off my neck and presented Willy Burke with the zipper.

  I had always considered independence and commitment mutually exclusive options. I had gone for independence in marrying, but now I was ready to reconsider. With Frank and without him, my independence had proved illusory, not to mention boring; in fact, I suspected I was already suffering from emotional rickets.

  Could it be that I’d been living by a mistaken premise? An excluded middle? Was it possible that the poets, and not the philosophers after all, had the right of it? I had sought ten good reasons to marry and ten again to leave; but maybe one compelling reason was enough. My husband’s profession had made little difference to me. Maybe commitment would make more.

  Now, if Willy Burke were as devoted as he claimed (“All I want, Sasha, is to make you happy”), there was still time to switch my bet. It would take a large risk and an act of faith, but theoretically, at least, it could be done. Four years to thirty, the game wasn’t over yet.

  Weeks before the first buds of spring Willy and I moved into a tiny two-room Village sublet on Perry Street. Paying my last respects to independence, I insisted we split the rent (too high for me to manage alone), but in everything else we attempted to become what Willy called “one person.”

  “Reading! With me home? Close that book!” said Willy, bursting in on me with an armful of quivering sticks.

  “What are those?”

  “Quince.” Aping the prophets, he announced they would spring to life before my eyes if I only had faith.

  “Those sticks?”

  “Buds, flowers, fragrance, seed—just wait.”

  “Like us,” I laughed, closing forever my book.

  “Like us.”

  It was a risky business, this commitment. People had been known to die of it. There was always the chance that Willy, invariably late, would wind up a no-show; the possibility that after I had given up my apartment, my salary, my swagger, my cool, my wicked eye, he would turn out his pockets with a sheepish smile, head for the door, and leave me with nothing but dregs of wine and ashes of roses pressed between the pages of some abandoned book.

  But I determined to risk it. I had scoffed at romance through the entire five years of my first marriage, resisting all pressure to adjust. And what had it got me? Sneers and lies. Now, I was starting from scratch, five years behind everyone else, without even Roxanne’s resources to live alone. If there was to be a second time, it had to be radically different. If Will was the man, and his style Romance, well, it would be a refreshing change from the indifference I was accustomed to. Between the champagne cocktails and the flowers, there might at least be some fun in it.

  My dearest darling Sasha,

  Your father and I were stunned to learn you are getting a divorce. Even before I opened your letter something told me it was going to be bad news. What can I say, except to tell you how much we love you and how truly sorry we are?

  From the time you entered your teens I have worried about how you would manage. You had a difficult and painful adolescence, always full of surprises. But I never for one instant lost faith in you. Even in the worst moments I believed that if we just gave you your rein and loved you, eventually you would justify our trust and settle down. You were always such a fine, clever, and basically considerate child with all the potential of a devoted wife and mother, capable of making someone truly happy. Though I was surprised when you chose to marry Frank (at last I can say he never seemed to me really worthy of you), still I trusted your good judgment.

  And now it’s to end in divorce. I constantly ask myself: where did I go wrong in raising you? What did I do to make you wind up unhappy? Lord knows I tried my best to be a good mother.

  If we had been a little wiser, maybe we would have known how the wind was blowing. When you wrote you were going off to Spain without Frank, I said to Abe, this is not right, though I would never have dreamed of saying it to you. (Maybe I should have.) If you had only had children, this tragedy might have been averted. Without a sense of purpose and responsibility even the cleverest woman is bound to be unfulfilled. Dearest, there is nothing that cements a marriage like children. In fact, when we offered to help pay for your psychiatrist, it was in hopes that you would come to want a family. But it was not to be.

  Well, what’s past is past. I am sure you will marry again and make a wise choice. You are fortunate to be young enough for a second chance. (I know a young man right now—the son of an acquaintance of mine who lives in New Jersey—who would probably be delighted to meet a girl like you. Let me know when I may send block2 your address.)

  Now to other news. I am happy to write that your brother Ben has just opened a new branch of his store, this time in Medina, Ohio. That makes it a real chain, and of course, we are terribly proud of him. With Marnie pregnant again (and little Michael ready for school—can you believe time goes so fast?) it is almost too much good news at once. It would be awfully nice if you could find the time to drop Ben a note of congratulations. He has always been so fond of you. After all, you are only a year apart in age. Even now he seems as much concerned about you as we are.

  Your father wants to add a few words, so I’ll close now,

  With all my love,

  Mother

  Dear Sasha,

  As a lawyer I think your announced decision to let Frank sue you for divorce is hasty, if not downright foolish, and I urge you to reconsider. For the time being you must be very careful with whom you are seen in public and where, for until you are legally separated or finally divorced, your husband still has rights. Even though you and Frank are living apart, your character can be damaged and your settlement jeopardized if you are indiscreet. It may not, as you claim, matter to you now, but it does matter to the world. For this and other reasons, it will matter to you eventually, whether you recognize it or not. Better for you to divorce him. Think it over.

  We would be very happy if you decided to come back to Baybury. Your room is still here, and it is s
uch a long time since we’ve seen you. We always miss our little girl, but especially now. We are frankly uneasy thinking of a beautiful girl like you living alone in New York City.

  Let us know what you decide.

  Love,

  Dad

  Another letter to hide, another piece of me to lock in a drawer for solitary contemplation—perhaps in the nightmare hour each evening between the time I arrived home from work and the time Willy, armed with flowers and excuses, appeared for dinner.

  W.B.’s Favorite Veal Scallops Marsala

  Marinate wafer-thin slices of veal in marsala, garlic, pepper. Precook mushrooms in butter; season. Sauté veal in butter; add mushrooms, basil, strained marinade. Just before serving, squeeze in juice of one lemon, sprinkle with parsley. Serve with noodles.

  Hollandaise Sauce for Asparagus

  Melt one stick butter. In blender put three egg yolks, two tablespoons lemon juice, salt and pepper. Cover and blend for an instant. Turn to low speed, uncover and gradually add hot butter. Yield: three servings.

  We went at our thing with a vengeance, prepared to turn inside out to change. Loyalty was our credo. Not content to stand bare before one another like ordinary lovers, we stripped off secrets, then skin, as though we hoped by mingling our innermost nerves to become one flesh. Each observation one of us made became the other’s illuminating insight; each casual metaphor became the other’s poem. Believing words could bind, we found it impossible to give promises enough.

  “Promise me we’ll never spend a night apart.”

  “I promise. Swear you’ll never glance at another man.”

  “I swear.”

  By Schubert and candlelight we drank perfectly chilled white wine, dipping artichoke leaves into a single bowl of melted butter, then slipping them into one another’s mouths. We drank café filtre out of our own tiny porcelain cups, bought for Valentine’s Day. By shamelessly juggling history we discerned that despite a world of striking differences, we had in fact been born for each other, all it took was faith.

  “Always,” we whispered, and “forever.” Until midnight or so, when Will turned me on my side, set the alarm clock for more love in the morning, and tucking his knees behind mine to make us like a pair of spoons stacked in a drawer, snuggled us off to sleep.

  The ride from the new Cleveland airport where Ben picked me up in his Bonneville sedan through the periphery of town was jarringly disconcerting. So much new. “But where’s Clark’s? Is that another Halle’s?” I asked. Ben, proudly proprietary and with no sense of loss, pointed out now a new shopping center, now abandoned corners. The broad, once deserted Route Eighty, where we had had our “chicken” races in high school in souped-up Fords and where the boys had driven us to neck, was now lined with neon drive-ins, car lots lighted like Christmas trees, glass motels. Ben too—bigger, flashier.

  Once we ascended the hill into Baybury Heights, however, everything was magically the same, as if some fairy had cast a spell. Pungent autumn leaves raked into piles on tree lawns, rock gardens separating driveways from next-door lawns, basket hoops on garages with nets torn from overuse, folded evening papers carelessly tossed on welcome mats by some ambitious new version of Ben—all preserved. I held my breath so as not to disturb it.

  “Before I drop you off, Sash,” said Ben, lowering his voice conspiratorially and slowing the car as we turned onto Auburn Hill, where I had been pantsed, “there are a couple of things I think you ought to be aware of. The folks are really very upset about this divorce, more than they’ll show. Mother’s done a lot of crying. I’d appreciate it if you try and act normal. For their sakes.”

  “Normal! You’re kidding, Ben. This is 1958—millions of people get divorced. It’s not an abnormal thing to do nowadays!”

  “Calm down, will you? I’m not saying you’re abnormal, honey. Personally I couldn’t care less. I happen to think getting divorced may be the smartest thing you ever did, though it’s none of my business. Myself, I never thought Frank had the balls, if you’ll excuse my language, to handle you, and personally, I don’t see any reason for a couple to stay together if they don’t have kids. For my money, you can live any way you damn please, you can be a prostitute if you like, it’s your own business. But the folks are kind of old-fashioned, that’s all. Let’s face it, this is a conservative town. I’m not saying you’re abnormal. I’m just saying, try to stay off the subjects that might upset them, that’s all. ’Cause they’re understandably a little shaky about you. Living alone in New York and all.”

  “I told you, I’m not living alone.”

  “Listen, Sasha, it’s your first visit back in what? Five years? So why not try to make it nice for the folks? I mean, you don’t have to mention the guy you’re living with.”

  I held my tongue. In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. Ben looked at his watch.

  “If you can manage till after dinner when I bring over Mamie and the kids, I’ll take your bag in then. I promised to see a salesman at the Baybury store and I’m already late.”

  Why argue about who carries the bags? Why disturb the universe?

  “Sure, Ben. See you later. Sorry I held you up.”

  “It doesn’t matter, hon,” Ben laughed. “This time I’m the customer, and the customer’s always right.”

  I stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk. So many more cracks to avoid treading on than I remembered. So few unmarred surfaces. Slowly I walk up the front path through the red Baybury leaves. They rustle like music, smell like incense. It is almost twilight. Mother will be in the kitchen whipping cream for Ben’s hot chocolate, expecting him to return any moment, cold and ravenous, from his paper route. Then she will go upstairs to “freshen up” for Daddy while Ben and I stretch out on the floor before the radio with our secret decoders ready for action. Exactly on time, he’ll come in, puffing a bit from the hill and after a little tease present Chiclets to me and Ben. He’ll brush my hair out of my eyes and tousle Ben’s as we—whispering, “Shhh!”—move in closer to the radio. “Now what do I smell for dinner?” he’ll say sniffing at the air playfully. If it’s before six, he’ll get no players, but if it’s six or after, Ben and I will throw him off the track with transparent subterfuge. “I sure hope it’s not liver!” Finally he’ll settle down in “his” chair, open the evening paper Ben ceremoniously presents to him, and send us off with a kindly, “Okay kids, I’m going to look over the paper now. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

  I push the bell. Chimes ring in the hallway. I feel a chill run through me, knowing how warm and light it will be indoors. Tonight someone has already taken in the evening paper. The porch light goes on over my head. They have heard me. The same chimes, the same light they had installed in 1938 to replace the ones that had been ripped out by the vacating occupants. “Why’d they want to do that? What good could it do?” my father had asked sadly, discovering every window in the house broken and every light fixture demolished on the eve of our moving in. “Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?”—shaking his head. Who? I had wondered. Why?

  The house, like all the houses in the neighborhood, had been a Depression bargain, bought cheaply from a bank that had foreclosed on some unfortunate’s mortgage. We were lucky to be able to buy it, my father said. But like every Depression treat—even the ice cream cones with double cups, four scoops, and chocolate sprinkles, all for a nickel—our luck was someone else’s loss, our treat someone else’s hunger. And even the miraculous hummingbird in the hollyhocks behind the house—at whose expense did she come to us? What would I have to pay?

  Footsteps, and now the door. My face, still tanned from the summer, feels split like the sidewalk. I pray she will know me, even as for an instant she looks and hesitates.

  “Sasha! Darling Sasha! Come in! Abe—where are you? It’s our Sasha!”

  In a rush of joy she hugs my shoulders and kisses me, cheek at a time, then both together, demolishing time and distance. “Abe! Abe! Come
down!” And to me: “Come inside. Give me your coat. Let me look at you.”

  There she stands, gentle, aging, still beautiful. How strange that I should have to bend down to kiss her. “But didn’t you expect me?” I ask. “It was Ben who dropped me off.”

  “Yes, I knew you were coming. But expecting you isn’t having you. Oh, Sasha, I’m so happy you came. You look so lovely, so sophisticated. Why, you’re skinny as a reed, and I’ve put on all this weight.” She touches her hand to her generous bosom in a gesture of hopeless apology.

  What can I say? If the sample of my urine Willy took to the lab after dropping me at the airport stimulates a frog, this talk is all gross irony.

  “It’s the dress, maybe, mother. I always weigh the same.”

  But at once I realize my skinniness is there only as an ideal, and quickly I take my cue. “You look beautiful to me, Mom, you don’t look heavy at all. You still glow, you never change.” We reserve this kindness for each other, and partly out of sympathy, partly out of love, we almost believe in it.

  “She’s right, you know,” says my father coming in and throwing one arm lovingly around each of us. “You really are quite as beautiful as you ever were; you look like a girl.”

  My mother and I both smile awkwardly, looking away, not quite sure which of us he is complimenting, not quite wishing to know.

  “Still negative? Are they sure? Shit, Willy! Then why haven’t I got my period?”

  “I can’t exactly say, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

  Maybe a mustache again or the clap? Oh no! Must my body pay every time I fall in love?

  “You can go to your doctor and find out as soon as you come back to New York. I’d have thought you’d be glad it isn’t positive.”

  “If it were positive, at least I’d know what to do about it. I’m so sick of this! There is never a time when someone I know isn’t suffering over a fucking missed period! It’s disgusting! Anyway, I don’t even have a doctor.”