by Joseph Glenn
“Most of the men she dated had no such disposition, and found her likelihood to have such children to be a shortcoming. They felt she was, as you said, untouchable, something less than a complete woman. Even the occasional fellow who was also at risk for having gay kids was inclined to stay away, because the likelihood of having a gay kid is even greater when both parents are ‘predisposed’. And my mother’s experiences with the few men she knew of such genetic material wanted wives with no such shortcoming—to minimize the possibility of creating gay kids.”
“Ours became a caste society,” Meredith offered. “A man or woman who was marked—tainted by their genetic makeup—became an outcast.”
“She was damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. Tell a man on the first date and there would be no second date. Wait until the eighth or ninth date and be accused of fraud, deceit, and for wasting the honest man’s time. And in my mother’s case, this was true even of the men she met who didn’t even want children. She was still seen by them as deficient, less than whole. Even now, as a woman in her late forties, meeting men as old or older than she is, when there is no issue of procreating, it’s still seen as a mark against her. The bluntest of the gentlemen point out, ‘what if people should find out?’”
“Has she…” Meredith began, but struggled for the right words.
“Been fixed?” Ansel asked, literally saying the words she had rejected as too crass. “Oh, yes. She was—as many women of her generation chose to be, and almost all women of the subsequent generations have chosen to be. She was sterilized a few years ago, when she was forty-five. She had reached the stage when she was certain she no longer wanted more children. But that wasn’t relevant: she was still premenopausal. That was around the time it became mandatory to undergo the testing. Regardless of marital status or whether you had kids. Prior to that, they only required it of women if they were expecting, or of either gender applying for a marriage license. At the time, all women with such a genetic code under the age of fifty were pressured to go the extra step of sterilization. So were men of that predisposition. There’s some irony in that; my mother’s only kid—me—is straight. Even in this increasingly anti-gay world we live in, what’s her crime?”
“I remember,” Meredith told him. “It had an immediate impact on the number of people getting married. You couldn’t escape the headlines or head shaking.”
“Right, because millions of people didn’t want to find out. So for years they opted out of marriage, just to avoid the test.”
“And the religious right went berserk. ‘We’re going to hell; our society is doomed. Too many young people don’t value the sanctity of marriage.’ It was very threatening to some people, the possibility that the world they knew would change. They prophesized about a loveless, rootless society in which no one married. I think that’s why they decided to test everyone. Once they did, tons of couples started marrying again.”
“And many broke up when one or both turned out to have the genetic markings,” Ansel pointed out. “We’re talking about straight people who might have gay kids. But the ‘undesirables’ were weeded out. It was like a natural, or do I mean an unnatural, selection thing.”
“Your mother is still here at the park?”
“Absolutely.” He stretched out on the couch, his feet closest to Meredith, so they remained face-to-face. “She’s waiting for her early retirement, possibly five or six years from now.”
“And then what?” she asked, registering no reaction to his familiarity.
“She talks about getting away, possibly leaving the country. People aren’t so judgmental or bent out of shape on this subject outside the U.S.”
“She should go to Paris.”
He chuckled at this. He folded his hands behind his head. Meredith felt more as if she were his guest than he was hers. She was pleased to see him so much at ease. She found it comfortable, perfectly natural, to have such an esoteric conversation with him. Whether or not it was his intent, he had broken through her guard. It was necessary to remind herself that no matter how forthcoming the handsome young stranger was, she was not here to reveal her own secrets.
“Should she, Marie Antoinette?” he asked with a laugh. “Can’t figure out why that never occurred to her. If she had the money and spoke the language maybe that would be an option. She talks a lot about Canada.”
Canada, Meredith thought. The Promised Land, or so it seemed to many. And from this very spot where they were talking it was just a matter of miles away. Strange that someone free to go there whenever she pleased, as Ansel’s mother was, had not already ventured across the border. She was as trapped by the park as its detainees.
“And what about you?” Meredith asked. “How long will you stay here?”
“I’ve made no plans. I’m only twenty-eight. I suppose I’ll put in my time here. The pay is decent. I’ve got the standard government benefits. I’m not crazy about putting in twenty-five years here, but I don’t know what else I should be doing.”
Meredith had heard this before. Fifteen years before. Tyler had made an almost identical observation. Despite her best efforts to get him to leave, he insisted he would not be bullied or badgered into an expatriate lifestyle. “I don’t know where I belong if not here.” He had also said: “The fight is here. I’m not running away from it. I need to be a witness to all of it.” She had not liked the argument when her son made it, and she was no less pleased to hear this level of complacency from Ansel. There were plenty of other things he could be doing with his life. She cleared her throat and made an effort to sound somber: “A friend of mine, a new friend, my best friend, told me, quite recently, ‘don’t just let life happen to you.’ He was right. Because it will do just that if you let it.”
“I know,” he told her. “I just haven’t figured out what would suit me better than this. This is okay for now. But I suppose that will always be true. This life—and by that I mean this work, this company town—is good enough that there’s never a moment when I say ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m done.’ There’s a safety in inertia. It’s a life that doesn’t offer much in the way of stimulation or challenge, but it doesn’t place any great demands on me either. I lack the motivation to make changes.”
“It is a life without epiphanies,” she said, paraphrasing his observation. “But that in itself is reason enough to get out. Life is supposed to be full of great revelations, of life-changing events that alter your perspective and challenge your beliefs.”
“I understand what you’re saying. The life of the worker bee at the parks is one of great monotony. Nothing motivates you to improve; nothing inspires you to better yourself. There may be very few highs, but there are even fewer lows. And it’s easy to get sucked into this place, this mindset. After you’ve been here a few years, you come to realize that you’re no longer fit for anything else. You say to yourself, ‘It is what it is,’ and look elsewhere—outside your work—for meaning. Your best bet for advancement, for ‘bettering yourself,’ is to pursue opportunities within the park system. I haven’t done that; I’m not ready to invest that much of myself.”
She studied the man. His flat summation of his circumstances cut against his earlier impression as a somewhat dynamic individual. She tried to find the spark he had lost. She hunted the surface of the dark face, for Ansel was a very dark African American, and lingered over the proud, wide nose and impossibly white teeth. But it was the solid, young-man jaw line that held greatest fascination for her. It lacked any of the puffy jowls or soft, blurred edges of an older man. Men are so crisp and straight-edged at this age, she observed. As her gaze finally travelled to his eyes, she realized he was watching her as she made this assessment of him. He smiled curiously at her. Was it possible he did not understand how handsome he was? If so, this made him even more appealing.
He maintained his smile as he turned his head slightly, all the while keeping his look fixed on her. He was giving her a sideways glance, one, she feared, was loaded with i
nnuendo.
Good God, now she had done it. “Excuse me,” she said with embarrassment.
“No apology required,” Ansel answered in a reassuring tone.
He stood and stepped to her chair. Meredith instinctively straightened up in her chair.
“Is it alright if I sit here?” he asked, but immediately perched himself on the armrest before she could reply.
Meredith retained her composure. A coy, “what’s on your mind?” demeanor had never suited her, and it certainly seemed out of place now. Still, she was disoriented by his attention, and was unable to shake her sense that she had to assume some role. Some time had passed since such a young and good looking man had expressed his interest so openly. His attention was all the more flattering because he did not seem particularly impressed by her celebrity status. His candor during their conversation told her he was quite comfortable with her. Nevertheless, he was not even half her age. It was too heady. Still, she refused to play the naïve coquette. His sudden proximity demanded some action from her. Whatever response she was going to make, the time to do it was now. He continued to smile at her, wordlessly, as though waiting for an answer. Her ultimate debate was whether to go with her instincts and enjoy his company or remember her job here as a filmmaker, a professional on the clock every minute. A tryst with a local park worker could undermine the no-nonsense, business-minded character she had assumed since she had stood outside the gates of the park that morning.
“How strong must my will power be?” she asked herself. When was the last time a man wanted her for herself?
When he turned the palm of his hand up in his lap, she placed hers on top of it. Human desire had won out. But even before the clothes came off, she had the necessary moments, a matter of split seconds, to rationalize that this was an honest man who could be counted on to be discreet. She did not get the impression that she was just a conquest to him, a future story for his friends. Not once had he mentioned her career. There had been no reference to her old sitcom, a guest appearance on a talk show, the wretched bikini poster that sold in the millions. He was either unfamiliar with the specifics of her fame, or, as she originally suspected, did not care about them. Here, she assured herself, was a man who would not think he was going to bed with Lucy the Leprechaun, and who would later be disappointed to wake up next to Meredith St. Claire. He was more sensitive than that she believed. His was a gentle soul. That was always the case of men who respected their mothers—as he so clearly did.
Twice during the night he had to get up to check-in. He spoke to a nameless supervisor through his walkie-talkie; her room, like all of the resident units, had no telephone. On each occasion, he explained that Ms. St. Claire was “wired,” unable to sleep, and (with her coaching) concerned about the morning’s shoot. She preferred to have company until she felt tired; she was, after all, still living on Pacific Time. The supervisor okayed his plan to stay in her room in a voice void of emotion and, as far as Meredith could glean, without suspicion.
“We don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” Ansel pointed out to her when he returned to bed. “Why should we feel like teenagers sneaking off for a quickie? It’s not like we’re doing it in the basement after the grown-ups have gone to sleep. We’re not breaking any laws. We’re certainly not hurting anyone.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “But if anyone should find out…”
“Who?” he asked so incredulously she felt a wave of relief overcome her. “Who will find out? And so what if anyone does? Are we not adults able to consent to this? I’ll confess I’ve never done anything like this on the job—I suppose I am shirking my responsibilities, but no one is going to know that. I’ve been instructed to keep make sure you’re comfortable…You are, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” she readily agreed, rolling onto her back and pulling the sheet up to her collar. “I can’t remember when I was this comfortable before.”
“Really?” he asked, as he reached over to her then lifted himself up on top of her. “Because I think I can do more for you.” Ah, the insatiability of a twenty-eight-year-old, she thought. And what a surprise to find that his enthusiasm and utter lack of concern about consequences could assuage some of her reservations.
Nevertheless, it felt like they were getting away with something; it was deliciously naughty, and everything she believed sex should be.
Chapter Six
Meredith’s impressions of the central cafeteria were unchanged from those she had formed fifteen years earlier. Nothing about the furniture (long white collapsible tables), art (murals depicting scenes of the park grounds—all seen to better advantage by looking out the windows), or even the paint on the walls and pillars hinted at updating. The central cafeteria differed from the Grand Dining Hall in a few significant respects. While the Grand Dining Hall (once) had plush carpeting and solid wood tables and upholstered chairs, the cafeteria was tiled; its seating accommodations were appropriate to the casual (hurried) dining. Twenty percent of the park’s population took their meals at this cafeteria. The floor had the space and approximate dimensions of a football field. Row upon row of tables and benches stretched from wall to wall. Each row had a letter, and each row was divided into numbered sections. The tables were of the high school dining variety; the benches were connected to them, and the whole easily folded in half and rolled away on attached wheels. The vast cafeteria reminded her of photographs she had seen of the great commissaries the big movie studios had in the early to middle part of the previous century. It was bigger than an airplane hangar. Had it been more crowded, conversations from the one thousand plus tables would have produced a roar incompatible with sound recording. As it was, the two or three hundred occupied tables emitted a volume requiring Austin Green to get on an antiquated public address system every ten minutes to remind the breakfast diners to “hold it down.”
Meredith, Tyler, Carl, and a collection of “lucky residents chosen at random” stood in one of the cafeteria lines where Austin gave them final instructions. To Meredith he suggested, “Why don’t you find someone to hold your bag and other stuff; you don’t want to juggle all that with the tray.”
Meredith nodded her acquiescence, then singled out Alex, the intern, to hold her purse and the legal pad with her notes and questions. There was no need to encumber Bill when the intern was on hand, able to fulfill every menial task that occurred to her.
The collection of ten was told to assemble at the hall at five-thirty this morning. Any of the later breakfast seatings were too crowded and, it was reasoned, it would be impossible to record conversation over the din.
Meredith required a minimum of forty-five minutes to obtain her fresh, natural, camera-ready look. When she had awoken that morning at four-thirty, her overnight guest tried to pull her back into bed. “Again?” she asked, flattered but preoccupied with the day before her. Her early morning shoot precluded anything more than a moment in his arms. “You’d better get out of here,” she told him. “I’ve got a chipper—read: very observant—intern calling for me. Until tonight then?”
Ansel had quickly departed and it took no more than a few seconds to arrange her rooms to hide any trace of his extended visit. The most important thing was straightening out the bedding on his side. When Alex and Bill presented themselves at her door at five-twenty, she was fussing with the clasp of her necklace, but was otherwise ready to go. “I’m just not a morning person,” she apologized as the three made their way to the waiting sedan. She made a mental note that Alex failed to assure her that she looked good. How far did the kid think he was going to get in this business without paying the most recognized of dues? That Bill made no comment on her appearance was of less concern. He was no more of a morning person than she was. His manner was fuzzy and vague, and he seemed to have some difficulty keeping his right eye open.
Chuck Makepeace had suggested filming the breakfast scene at four-thirty, an hour prior to the cafeterias opening, and then editing in clips of the full hall from a later b
reakfast service.
Meredith nixed this idea as “too fake,” again incurring his displeasure at being vetoed, although she wondered why she cared enough about the final product to bother expressing an opinion. She reasoned that she needed to appear invested in the project. Bill had questioned her motivation in demanding the later breakfast. “Don’t make waves,” he warned her. He ought to appreciate her intervention now, she thought, as it had given him an extra hour of sleep.
Now at the counter with the two camera operators on the job, Meredith made her selections. She noted that there were few choices to be made, but this did speed up the process at least. She settled for eggs, sausage patties, and toast.
The man in front of her in line, a member of her group whom she had not yet met, commented, apparently to the world at large, as a large bowl of yellow mush was passed across the counter over the sneeze guard, to him: “Oh, apple slush—again; what a shock.” Meredith smiled at this; the camera and microphone captured it, and in a scene Austin would probably want to keep. Meredith hurried to her seat before something more in keeping with the producers’ vision could be filmed.
Meredith and the party took their places at one of the bench tables. Tyler and Carl sat on either side of her, but Austin objected to this. “Let’s surround Merry with some people she hasn’t spoken to yet,” he said.
After some shifting and reorganizing, Meredith was flanked by two women, a couple, Alice and Rochelle, both in their late forties Meredith estimated. She was introduced to them and the three men across from her: Ron, Jeffrey and Phil. The latter was the gentleman who was nonplused to receive apple slush. He was an attractive man of about thirty, and Meredith noted that he was quick with questions. A fan, she surmised. She fielded inquiries about her career, her involvement with this television special, and the inevitable questions about Pots of Luck. It was a somewhat inane conversation, but it helped break the ice. The women, neither apparently great fans, listened politely.
