The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  And then later, much later, they went to dinner. Because, in each other’s arms on the couch in Reuben’s study, the only urgency was to go upstairs, to go to his bed, to rediscover what they had known before. But now there was no cloud shadowing Reuben’s thoughts when he lay with Sara, no uncertainties trailing his words. When they held each other, their clear horizons merged and they went toward them with equal freedom and certainty and hope.

  “Today my life has changed,” Sara murmured to Reuben, and he responded, “Today our lives have changed.”

  So how could it be, after such a pledge, that she gazed at him as they lingered over coffee and cognac long past midnight, and had the thought, as sudden and swift as a bird darting into a tree and scattering leaves, that she was not sure?

  But of course there was a reason: he came to her unencumbered, while she brought a family, the demands of growing children who needed an astonishing amount of attention and nurturing. She recalled thinking, after they had separated, that she had no time for Reuben, that it was a good thing they weren’t together. Perhaps she had been right.

  She watched as his gaze settled with mild interest on two couples at a nearby table lazily arguing over who would pay the check. Did she really want to attach her life to his? Alter in ways she could not foresee the life she had worked so hard to create? She had learned to balance a house, three children, a job, and her own friends; she could predict most of her days and know she could handle the crises that turned others upside down. How much unpredictability would she take on with Reuben? How much of what she had would she lose? (Or gain, don’t forget that.) It had been years since anyone told her what to do or what not to do; years since anyone opposed her decisions or even suggested alternatives. She was used to making decisions alone and carrying them out alone. She had come to take that for granted.

  Reuben turned back to her and met her gaze, and smiled.

  She smiled and held out her hand on the table, and he took it, and she thought, Take it for granted? Why would I want to keep taking it for granted? The truth is, I get tired of being good and sensible and upright; I want the option of lying down on the job, knowing someone is there to keep things going until I’m back on my feet. Why would I want to make decisions alone for the rest of my life? Just to know that I can do it? I know it. I’ve proved it. It’s time to prove that I can love someone enough to share my life.

  That I love Reuben enough to share my life.

  “Such a somber look in your eyes,” Reuben said. “Can you share it?”

  And, though instinct tugged at her not to tell him, not to leap into confidences quite so quickly, she told him. (Because isn’t that exactly what he did for so long? Kept his confidences to himself? Shut me out because he wasn’t ready to be open with me?) And it was all right, because he understood, and when they left the restaurant their arms were around each other, and when they walked through his front door they were a couple coming home together, climbing the stairway to the second floor together, and going to bed together, to awake to tomorrow, to all the tomorrows, together. Yes, Sara thought as she fell asleep, yes, we will.

  And, “Yes,” Reuben murmured early in the morning when Sara sat up beside him.

  He was not awake: he had spoken that one word in a flicker of coming to the surface before sinking again into sleep. He slept neatly, on his back, arms at his sides, hands lightly clasped at his waist, and did not shift or turn all night. Sara, a restless sleeper, felt unruly beside him. She sat now, looking down at him as the sun rose in a translucent sky and light filled the room. Through the tall windows, she saw the vista of skyscrapers she had imagined the night before, sharply defined, washed clean by the rain. Everything was fresh and new, and she was happy and wanted the day to begin.

  She leaned down and kissed Reuben and he opened his eyes, wide-awake. “Good morning. You’re very lovely this morning.”

  “Only a lover could say that.” She kissed him again. “You have a meeting at nine o’clock.”

  “I do, damn it. I just want to be with you.”

  “Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?”

  He laughed. “All of the above.” He glanced out the window. “Would you like to walk this morning? My meeting is at City Hall and there’s a little breakfast place close by, on Barclay Street. It’s a long walk.”

  “I like long walks. And we have time; it’s early.” She kissed him again and slid from the bed, liking it that he was watching her as she walked, naked, across the bedroom to the bathroom on the left (“Yours,” Reuben had said simply), where she had put her cosmetics bag the night before. She found his bedroom to be as anonymous as his living room, but the bed was wide and comfortable, which was all, for the moment, they wanted from that room.

  The walk to Barclay Street was longer than Sara had anticipated, but she was exhilarated by the matched rhythm of their stride, unimpeded, at that early hour, by other pedestrians. They traversed quiet neighborhoods where an occasional early riser emerged to take in newspapers or walk a dog; shop owners revealed the merchandise in their windows as they clatteringly raised protective steel blinds; and other owners set out foods, furniture, books, and clothing in cunningly attractive arrangements for the day’s trade. Hand in hand, Reuben and Sara walked briskly, and talked—there was so much to talk about—and breathed deeply of the sharp, almost spicy early-morning air, its grime and traffic fumes sluiced away by the night’s downpour.

  They walked for more than an hour, to Peg’s Place, small, bright, bustling; loud with declamations on politics, the weather, Little League and taxes, fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg, coffee and pancakes. They sat at the counter until a table became free and they moved to it, carrying their plates and mugs. “A do-it-yourself place,” Reuben said. “I like it,” Sara replied, and they smiled at each other across the small Formica table because they were together and glowing from their brisk walk, the French toast and marmalade were delicious, the coffee perfect, and everything was wonderful.

  “What would you like to do this afternoon?” Reuben asked. “I would have liked to take you to my parents, but they won’t be back from Italy for a month. We’ll come back then. Meanwhile, I have a listing of museum shows, or there are galleries I think you’d like, whatever you choose.”

  “Carrano Village,” Sara said. “Do we have time?”

  “Plenty of time. Thank you.” He was grateful, and humbled, too, to discover, even now, when he had proven his success many times, how much he still needed someone (someone he cared about) to show interest in his work. But who doesn’t need that? All of us need propping up, to keep believing we’re worthwhile not only on the public stage, but in our personal lives as well. And what better reason for marriage? His thoughts lurched slightly. As long as marriage works. “We’ll drive to New Jersey, as soon as I’m finished here,” he said, “and go from Carrano to the airport. Our plane isn’t until six-thirty; we’ll even have time for a late lunch.”

  He finished his coffee. “Time to go. I’d rather stay with you and drink endless cups of coffee.”

  “I’ll walk with you; I’ve never been to City Hall. And I’ll explore the neighborhood.”

  “We’ll get a map at City Hall. Do you have your cell phone? I’ll call you when my meetings end.”

  He called twice, once “because I wanted to hear your voice,” the second time to say he would be late. “Everything is taking longer than I expected; can you wait an hour or so?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On a bench in Battery Park.”

  “Looking at the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Yes, and it’s so amazing. I’ve seen thousands of pictures of it, all my life, but now, suddenly, it’s here, in front of me, larger than I expected, and far more powerful than I ever imagined. I have to bring Doug and Carrie and Abby here; I want them to experience this.”

  “We’ll bring them here together, and give them the three-star tour of the city. I have to go; I’ll call soon.
”

  Sara sat quietly, gazing across the water at the gleaming statue, its torch held high against the dense blue sky, all the promise of this new land, whether fulfilled or pending, symbolized in that raised arm and pure white form leading ships into the harbor. The sun was warm on her face, the air soft, families and couples and school classes chattered all about her. She was happy to be alone. A tourist in New York, she thought, as she had the day before, exploring Greenwich Village. How pleasant to be a tourist, anywhere. We’ll bring them here together, and give them the three-star tour of the city. A lovely thought, but, still, now and then, how satisfying to be alone, to think without having to speak, to absorb sights and sounds without having to verbalize them, and share.

  Still, it was satisfying and wonderful to share the rest of the day with Reuben. (And thank goodness for that, she thought wryly.) They walked through Carrano Village East, and Sara was impressed (and thank goodness for that, too, she thought). It was far more attractive than she had feared (thinking of developments with rows of houses facing each other across rows of streets like faintly antagonistic teams of twins, scattered sterile play lots and dusty softball fields); in fact, it looked exactly as Reuben had described what Carrano Village West would be: clusters of individualized widely spaced ranch and two-story houses, expansive green space, dusty playing fields (but it is September, she thought, suddenly loyal), and a school, recreation building, and double row of shops designed in a generic Early American style. Firmly grounded in the rural New Jersey landscape, the village was warm and inviting, a place where one could imagine settling, raising children, making friends.

  “Less than a family, more than a town,” she murmured.

  “Thank you,” he said, grateful again. “That’s always the goal.”

  “Is Isaiah here?” she asked as they walked back to the car. “I’d like to meet him.”

  “Not this week; he’s fishing in Canada. His passion, after building towns for young families. He’ll be in Chicago later this month; shall we take him to dinner?”

  Sara glanced at him and saw his surprise at how quickly and easily we had become part of his vocabulary.

  “Yes,” she said simply. His vocabulary shifts were ahead of her, since we in her lexicon included three children and a mother, but leave it alone, she thought. One of these days they’d talk about her family, and it had to be soon, but not now, when they were talking about work he loved and places he was transforming. They would be transforming each other’s life, she thought, so let them discuss it in Chicago, their home for a long time to come.

  They stopped for coffee at a small restaurant near Princeton, and Sara called home. “Everything’s okay,” Abby said. “You don’t have to keep calling, you know. Everything’s the same every time you call.”

  “I like to know that,” Sara replied. “Did you have a good day at school?”

  “It was fine. Well, Carrie’s in some kind of state, maybe her day wasn’t so great, she’s upstairs in her room, but she’ll be fine, she always recovers from these dramatic moments.”

  “Does she want to talk to me?”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to anybody. She’s okay, just…you know, being Carrie.”

  “Is Mack there?”

  “I don’t know. We just got home, just before you called. It’s pretty quiet; he’s probably gone somewhere. You’ll be here by nine, right?”

  “Probably before that. There’s food in the freezer; did you find it?”

  “Of course we did; we’re fine, Sara.”

  Sara laughed as she clicked off the phone. “The only thing I have to worry about is not being missed.”

  “I have a feeling they’re not letting on—”

  Reuben’s phone rang. He listened for a long moment. “This is not good,” he told Sara. “New York and New Jersey airports are shut down, the word is ‘temporarily.’ Evidently someone thinks there’s a security problem. Possible security problem.”

  “But we haven’t heard a word about it.”

  “We haven’t been listening to the radio.”

  “But no one’s mentioned it.”

  “Maybe rural New Jersey is the last to hear. Anyway, we don’t know how long this will last; I’d better call Isaiah. We can use his plane.”

  “Isn’t he in Canada, fishing?”

  “Damn it, he is. And he took his plane.”

  “I’ll call the children,” Sara said after a moment. “I wish I could give them a time we’ll get there.”

  “We’ll keep checking the airports. Meanwhile, shall we go home?”

  “Home—?”

  He smiled ruefully. “This home. We seem to have three at the moment. Two of them we can’t get to.”

  “Yes, why not? I can’t imagine sitting in the airport for hours.”

  Reuben drove, and once again Sara made a phone call. “Closed!” Abby exclaimed. “How can they do that? Just shut them down? What about all the people who have tickets?”

  “It seems they’ll all have to wait, as we do.”

  “How long?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.”

  Reuben put his hand on hers. “We’ll charter a plane if it doesn’t get cleared up soon. Abby shouldn’t worry.”

  “Did you hear that, Abby?” Sara asked.

  “Sure. Does he hear everything we say?”

  “If I have the speaker on. Do you mind?”

  There was a pause. “I guess not.” Another pause. “I guess a train is too slow, right?”

  “A train wouldn’t get us there tonight. But I told you, we’ll charter a plane if we have to.”

  “What if you can’t? What if there aren’t any planes?”

  “Then we’ll fly back tomorrow. Would you mind that terribly?”

  “Of course not. I keep telling you we’re fine. But what if the airports aren’t open tomorrow?”

  “Then we’ll drive.” Sara looked at Reuben, who nodded.

  “How long would that take?”

  “I’m not sure; I’ve never done it. If we leave early in the morning, we should be there by dinnertime. But if you want us to drive now, we can do that.”

  “No, it’s okay. Forget it; you can come later tonight. Or tomorrow. Whatever. We’ll be fine. Can we go out to dinner?”

  “Of course. You don’t want to eat at home?” Of course they didn’t, Sara thought. Much more fun to go out. “Use your credit card; I’ll pay you back.”

  “Is it okay if we go to O’Fame? Doug likes the pizza.”

  “You all like the pizza. It’s fine; have a good time. Ask Carrie to come to the phone.”

  Sara heard Abby call—“Sara wants to talk to you!”—heard her put down the phone and call again at the foot of the stairs, and come back. “She’s sulking. We could call you later.”

  “Yes, call me anytime. And I’ll let you know what’s happening here.”

  Hanging up, Sara turned to Reuben. He had turned down the volume on the radio, and she said, “Has anyone said anything about planes flying later tonight?”

  “Not yet. It sounds as if everything’s all right at home.”

  She nodded. “They’re really wonderful; they don’t cling, but I think you were right when you said they probably weren’t letting on that they wanted me home.” She thought for a moment. “I should be there. Can we charter a plane?”

  “I’ll try. It occurs to me that if the airports are closed, even private planes can’t take off.” He made the call while Sara listened to the radio. “No,” he said at last. “Nothing’s moving. We can drive; we can lease a car and leave anytime.”

  “But if the airports open sometime tonight, we’d be there sooner.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s wait awhile.”

  They were quiet, listening again to the radio. “Shall we go out for dinner?” Reuben asked.

  “Oh, we’ve done so much today…and we’re waiting to hear… could we make something at home?”


  “A very good idea.”

  Stopping and starting in the gridlock that stretched for blocks at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, it struck Reuben as surprising and anomalous that at this moment, when it seemed he had no control over any of his movements—planes grounded, Isaiah in Canada, traffic grid-locked, all his schedules knocked out the window—he felt more powerful than ever in his own life. An odd disconnect, he reflected, between a private life, where, most of the time, we manage to shape our days and years, and the larger world around us, where a governmental decision or something as seemingly innocuous as too many drivers in too many cars can exert enough power to disrupt our plans and force us into different channels. Neither the government nor any of these other drivers set out to stymie us; they don’t give a damn about us. But, still, we’re powerless to alter the situations they cause.

  Except, he added, changing lanes, though he knew that, at best, it might gain him half a minute, we will get home at some point—this home, the homes in Chicago—and meanwhile, here is Sara, beside me: reason enough to feel powerful.

  They made dinner together. Reuben cooked trout and Sara made salad and wild rice, and they carried everything to Reuben’s study, where he called the airline once again, reaching only a recording. Another kind of loss of control; a small detail that turns out to be one of the most enraging in modern society. He opened a Meursault, and they sat quietly, watching the sky turn translucent, metallic gray deepening to fiery orange and magenta, yellow and red streaks edged in pale green. But quickly, too quickly, the flaming colors faded to silver gray and then, as if reluctantly, to the attenuated black stretching to infinity above the orange-red nimbus that hovers over great cities at night. “If we have to stay another night,” Reuben said, “would you be worried?”