by Renée Rosen
“I’m not ready to go home yet,” I said after he paid the bill. “We should go dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s early.”
“It’s not early. It’s late.” He glanced at his wristwatch and turned it my way. “It’s after midnight.”
“It’s a Friday night. Just one dance. Please?”
He looked at me with those eyes and I knew I had him. I could have told him I wanted to go canoeing and he would have said yes.
Half an hour later we were uptown at the Aragon Ballroom. GORDON JENKINS & HIS ORCHESTRA was on the marquee, and people lined the sidewalks of Lawrence Avenue and Broadway. It was a perfect summer evening with just enough of a breeze to keep it comfortable. Everyone was dressed for a night on the town, the younger girls in poodle skirts and the older ones in halter-style cocktail dresses that flared at their hips. The fellas wore their best drainpipe trousers and winklepickers. Despite the heat, a few of them were doing their best Brando, wearing rolled blue jeans and leather jackets that would most likely get them turned away at the door.
I loved the Aragon. Walking into the ballroom was like stepping into an elegant city with a sparkling starlit sky on the ceiling. Couples twirled to the big-band sounds, and when they began to play My Foolish Heart, Jack reached out his hand.
“This is our song.”
“Is it?” I placed my hand in his. “I didn’t know we had a song.”
“Well, we do now.”
He pulled me onto the dance floor, and he smelled of cigarettes and Vitalis. It had been a long time since I’d been held, and I’d forgotten how much the body needs to be touched. I liked the feel of his shoulders, strong and sturdy. When he drew me close, I dared to rest my head on his collarbone.
And that was how it started.
Chapter 12
• • •
We’d been seeing each other only a few weeks, but by the end of July I knew Jack Casey was the kind of guy I could get serious with. And that terrified me. I was fighting it even as I kissed him. Even as I ran my fingers through his hair and along the muscles in his back, I pushed against the feelings welling up inside. I wasn’t ready. He’d come along too soon, or at the wrong time—I wasn’t sure which. And yet I couldn’t resist him. I loved the way he laughed and how his smile was just off-center, with those imperfect front teeth, a flaw that somehow made him all the more handsome to me.
The other thing that frightened me about Jack was that I’d come to depend on him. The last male I’d depended on had been my brother, and when he died, I was lost. Helpless. It took nearly a year for me to figure out how to be on my own. If something happened to Jack, I wasn’t sure I could endure that lesson again.
But still I didn’t want to let him go, because the truth was he made life better for me. Easier, too. It was the silliest things that melted my heart. Like how he drove me places and carried bags, or pulled out chairs and opened doors. He stroked my hair in a way that no one else ever had and liked to tuck a strand behind my ear. And he listened. He listened when I complained about the guys in the city room and commiserated with me when it was needed. It was even Jack who found me an apartment. A friend of a friend knew someone who was moving out of a cheap, safe building in Lincoln Park. It was a walk-up above a Polish bakery on Clark Street. Nothing fancy, but it was mine.
My mother came with me the day I signed the lease, and by the time she made it to the third-floor landing, she was panting. “No elevator, huh?” She wrinkled her nose at the yeast smells wafting up from the bakery. The neighbor across the way had a baby carriage parked outside the door. I noticed a couple cans of Campbell’s soup tucked inside, resting on a pink blanket.
My apartment was small but cheery with a stream of sunlight coming in from the windows. The wallpaper in the bedroom had been hung upside down, the flowers and butterflies all pointing toward the floor, but I didn’t care. My mother noticed that the hot and cold knobs in the bathroom were reversed and that the tub was on a slant going the wrong way.
“The water won’t drain out.”
“So I’ll get a squeegee.”
“You’re going to squeegee your tub?” She smiled and went back into the kitchen. “Oh, the things the young will do to get away from their parents.”
“I’m not trying to get away from you,” I said.
My mother opened one of the cupboards and looked at the empty shelves. “Of course you are, but I’m glad. I think it’s good for you. You have a boyfriend now, and you’re entitled to your privacy. Not that you and Jack couldn’t do whatever you wanted to back at the house. You know me. I wouldn’t object. You’re a grown woman, after all.”
“So you’re really okay with me moving out? I thought you’d try to fight me on it.”
“Nah. Not me.” She closed the cupboard and leaned against the counter. “I remember I wanted to get my own place down in the Village, but Grandpa wouldn’t let me. He was afraid I’d get myself into all kinds of trouble. And that was before I’d even met your father. No, I’m all for you moving out. Not that I won’t miss you. Heaven knows I will miss you dearly. I don’t know what your father and I will do in that big house without you.”
“I doubt Dad will even notice that I’m gone.”
“Don’t say that. Why would you say a thing like that?”
“Because it’s true. He hardly ever talks to me.”
“You know how your father is. He’s not a talker. Not even with me.”
“He used to be. Before Eliot died we used to talk all the time. About everything.” I hadn’t planned on going down this path, but now that I’d taken the first step, I kept on. “We used to be so close, and now—now he just hides in his office and ignores me.”
My mother pushed away from the counter and went into the main room. “You know what I was thinking?” she said, keeping her back toward me. “Remember that table down in the basement? The one with the glass top? That would be just perfect right over here. What do you think?”
“I don’t want to talk about a table.”
She looked at me from over her shoulder, her eyes narrow and turning glassy. “You won’t change him. He’s been broken, don’t you know that?”
I did know that. I knew it because I had been broken, too. We all had.
That conversation with my mother stayed with me throughout the day and infuriated me. It wasn’t that I was angry with her or even with my father. I didn’t know the person I was mad at, because he was a faceless coward who had never come forward. But out there somewhere was a stranger who had taken my brother from my parents and my parents from me.
That night I lay in bed, trying to imagine this villain. What did he look like? How old or young was he? Had I ever passed him on the street? What was he doing right at that very moment? Had he ever confessed to anyone? Did he have nightmares like I did? I hoped that he was rotting from the inside out, his guilt eating him alive.
• • •
About a week later, on a drizzly summer day, Jack helped me pack up the last of my things, including the Emerson television set that I’d saved up for. It was too heavy for me to lift, so I waited for Jack to move it. The two of us took turns carrying the other boxes to his car parked out front at the curb.
I’d just dropped off a carton of books and was coming up the front steps for the next load when I heard my father say, “What are you doing with that?”
Jack was on the porch, backing out the front door. At my father’s words, he stopped, his shoulders up, frozen in place. I knew what he was holding.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said, coming onto the front porch. “I’m taking that with me.”
“The typewriter? What do you need with the typewriter?” My father had a drink in his hand. Bourbon. I could smell it from across the porch, lingering in the damp open air. “You already have a typewriter.”
“Not an electric one. And he always said I could have it.”
“What else have you picked through and taken?
”
I held my tongue, reminding myself that he’d been drinking and that it was best to let it go. I brushed past him, about to head back inside for the next load, but he grabbed my arm.
“I asked you a question. What else have you taken? Like a little thief, you go in snooping around and taking things that aren’t yours. Never were yours.”
I twisted out of his grip. “Go ahead, take it out on me. Call me whatever names you want. It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to bring him back.”
My father raised his hands, shook his head and turned his back to me.
“Sure—that’s right, walk away. You know, it happened to all of us. Not just to you.”
My father turned back around, his eyes focused on me for the first time. “You want to move out—so hurry up already and move out. But you leave that goddamn typewriter here.” My father went back inside the house and slammed the front door.
I wanted to run after him, but my feet wouldn’t move. Didn’t he know how hard I was trying? Didn’t he know that I was exhausted and scared and that he was part of the reason why I pushed myself like I did? Didn’t he understand me at all?
Jack was still holding the typewriter, a bewildered look on his face. “So is this going with us or what?”
“No.” I shook my head and told him to take the typewriter back upstairs to the spare bedroom. I no longer wanted it.
“So what was all that about with your dad?” Jack asked, as we carried the last two boxes out to the car. It had started to rain harder, and the sidewalk was slick and shiny with plastered leaves that had fallen. We were dripping all over the place as he put the car in gear and we eased away from the curb.
I lit a cigarette and cracked the little triangular vent window.
“Well?” He turned and looked at me. “What just happened there?” We were stopped at a red light. The radio was playing Ain’t That a Shame. I drew down hard on my cigarette. He turned and looked at me.
“It’s about my brother, okay?” There. I’d said it. It was out in the open.
“I didn’t know you had a brother. How come you’ve never mentioned him before?” The light changed. The car behind us honked. “Jordan? How come you never told me about him?”
The air inside the car shifted. The windshield fogged up. “He’s dead. He died. He was killed.” I took a final drag off my cigarette and shoved it out the window.
Jack pulled over to the side of the road and turned to look at me. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean, you couldn’t? What happened to him? How’d he die? My God, I don’t even know his name.”
“It’s Eliot. It was Eliot.”
“And how did he die?”
I looked out the fogged-up window and reached for another cigarette.
“Jordan, tell me.”
“I can’t—I can’t go into it right now.”
He smacked the top of the steering wheel. “Jesus, when are you going to let me in? When are you going to trust me?”
“This has nothing to do with you. This isn’t about not trusting you. This is about me. About my family.”
We both went silent. Jack pulled back into traffic and the only sound was that of the tires rolling over the wet pavement. I was watching the raindrops collecting on the windshield when I finally spoke. “It was a hit-and-run, okay?”
“Jesus. Jordan, I’m sorry. Did they catch the guy?”
“No.”
“Jesus,” he said again.
My vision blurred as I watched the wipers clear away the rain, wanting them to clear away the past, too.
“I wish you would have told me about your brother. How could you keep something like that inside and not tell me?”
“Because, goddammit, I come from a family where we don’t talk about it.” I hadn’t meant to snap at him, but I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t keep from doing it again. “Don’t you get it? We don’t talk about him.” I was glaring at him, fighting to choke back the tears. “My mother was a poet before Eliot died and now she won’t write because she’s afraid of what’s going to come out. And my father—all he does is write. But neither one of them—none of us—talk about it.”
• • •
After Jack and I arrived at my new place, at least the two of us had started talking again. And the rain had stopped, but it was muggy inside and out. Opening windows did little to circulate the moist air, and I couldn’t remember where I’d packed the fan.
Together we emptied out the car and Jack helped me sort through boxes, hang pictures and rearrange the bed and dresser so there was room to open the closet door. When we finally got the furniture in position, it was late, and we took a break, moved out to the living room and opened a bottle of wine. I settled in on the couch while he plugged in the television set and adjusted the rabbit ears so we could watch Steve Allen.
“Not a bad picture,” he said, coming back to the couch.
I glanced over at him. The blue light coming off the TV danced across his cheek and forehead. His skin looked smooth, his jaw square and strong. I found him especially handsome that night. I studied his profile, gazing into the dark tunnel of his eardrum, wondering what was going on inside that head of his. He must have sensed my staring, because he turned and faced me, locking eyes with me.
“What?” I brought my fingers to my mouth.
He smiled and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but, well, I’ve never known a girl like you before. You’re different from the other women.”
“Different? How so?”
“C’mon, don’t you know?”
I shook my head. I honestly didn’t.
“You’re strong. And smart. And you’re beautiful. And, selfishly, I think you’re good for me.”
I stared into my hands resting in my lap, fingers tangled together. Though I loved hearing every word, his confession made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to anyone, let alone a man, being so effusive. I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.
“You don’t have to say anything. But I want you to know that I think I’m falling for you.”
My eyes stayed fixed upon my hands. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I was stunned.
“No,” he said, catching himself. “I don’t think I am. I know I am. I love you, Jordan. I do.”
I finally gazed at him and he gave me that imperfect smile. I wanted to say, I love you, too, but the words wouldn’t come. Here was a man who listened to me, who put me in the center of his universe, who made me the priority of his days. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made me feel so special. He filled me with raw emotion that rushed to the surface, pushing, pushing, pushing, wanting to get out. And if I did let these feelings out, what then? Would he leave me? Would he go and die on me? Would he take his love away? It frightened me that a man I’d known for only two months had twisted up my thoughts like this. When I wasn’t looking, he had come into my world and stirred things up. I stared into his eyes, wanting to tell him all this, but all I could do was lean forward and kiss him while the I love you, toos piled up inside my head.
We didn’t speak about love again that night, but about a week later, on a balmy July evening, Jack came by my place with a bouquet of roses. I was touched by the gesture, but I was ever practical, and as I arranged them in a vase, all I could think was that in a few days the water would turn and start to stink. Jack was the romantic, not me. But he was also a handyman, and he changed a lightbulb that had burned out in my closet. Instead of replacing it, I’d worked around the problem, learning by touch alone to find exactly what article of clothing I was looking for in the dark.
As I set the roses on the table I watched him reach into the refrigerator for a bottle of milk. He unscrewed the cap, smelled it, scrunched up his face and, without saying a word, poured it down the drain. The milk was spoiled, but the moment, it was sweet. I can’t
tell you what that did to me. Such a simple act. Some women might have been offended by it. But not me. Instead, an overwhelming feeling of being cared for bubbled up inside me.
“I love you,” I said, going to his side, kissing him deeply on the mouth as I reached for his belt buckle.
“Whoa.” He placed his hands on mine.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I want to. I’m ready.” I kissed him again, deeper, tugged on his belt, harder. I wanted to show him how much I cared. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not a virgin.”
He looked shocked. And disappointed. How could I explain that that’s what happens when your mother sends you to college with a fistful of rubbers and tells you to go experience life. “It’s not like I was loose or anything,” I said. “There was only one man. He was my—”
“Jesus, Jordan.” He dragged his hands through his hair, stopping when they reached the top of his head, and blew out a deep breath. “Did he love you? Did he want to marry you?”
“Don’t you want to know if I loved him?”
He released his hands and let them drop to his sides. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I did. I did love him. I wasn’t in love with him and he wasn’t in love with me. But in his own way, he loved me. So yes, in answer to your question, there was love there.”
Jack shifted away from me and shook his head. “I can’t—I don’t want to hear any more about this.”
I went silent and thought about the other man. He was older than me, nearly old enough to be my father. He was my journalism professor. It had started out innocently enough, with me staying behind after class to discuss his lecture or ask about something. That progressed to coffee, which progressed to drinks, which led to his apartment. I had no illusions about a mad love affair or a future we might have together. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into and that it would be over when I graduated.
He said I was very mature for my age, but that’s what happens when you’re forced to grow up on the spot. When your parents are so distraught that you have to deal with the police, when you end up making the funeral arrangements, choosing the casket and selecting the cemetery plot that wasn’t supposed to be needed for another fifty or sixty years.
