I had my own hidden pictures, but I didn’t think she’d be interested in them, and she wouldn’t have approved of my sympathy for our children’s union. The leavings of dinner added further disorder to the scene. There were red-wine stains on the pale yellow tablecloth. I had to remember to tell Sara that a handful of salt or a few spills of white wine would get rid of them. The candles she’d cleverly set into balls of Play-Doh had melted down to waxy puddles, and the dessert plates were smeared with dirty-looking chocolate. Her parents stayed only long enough to register their distress, without saying anything directly about it. They merely asked polite, deadly questions: “Does your … uh … group have many engagements? Have you met your neighbors?”—even as a woman screamed close by, probably because she was being murdered, and the bass of someone’s stereo thumped mercilessly overhead. I bet they’d have plenty to say about this news.
“I want to have the baby,” Sara said.
It was what high-school girls, some of them as newly pubescent as pregnant, sometimes told Katherine. She didn’t argue with them, only patiently explained their options. Of course, Sara wasn’t a high-school girl. She was almost twenty-one, and had finished two years at Fairleigh Dickinson before she met Jason.
“I know it isn’t practical or anything,” she said. “And we didn’t plan for this to happen. But it did, and now I’m … I’m like in love.”
“How do you feel?” I asked. “Physically, I mean. What did the doctor say?”
“Oh, that I’m healthy,” she said, with a dismissive gesture. “You know, I feel fine.”
I’d thrown up all the time in the early days of my own pregnancies, but I knew exactly what she meant—that extraordinary sense of well-being, of containing a splendid secret.
“I know,” I said.
“Except,” she said, her eyes clouding up again. “Except about Jason.”
“Maybe it’s only the shock,” I said, with my first grudging loyalty to my son in all this. Poor Jason—with everything he’d learned about it in school and at home, the connection between all that glorious sex and this unhappy consequence must have still been a blow to him. And they were too poor, and probably too immature, to raise a child.
“He’s gotten over that,” Sara said. “He just doesn’t want it.”
Howard hadn’t wanted him, either, in the beginning. Was this the sins of the fathers, etc.? “He might change his mind,” I said. “Or you might.”
“I won’t,” Sara said resolutely, and I suddenly understood that this was my grandchild we’d been discussing with such practical detachment. It might have pink hair or play the drums. It could look something like me! And it was already a contender for every human pleasure and sorrow. Sara blew her nose. “I don’t even know why I came here, Mrs. Flax,” she said.
“I do,” I told her. “You knew I’d be on your side.”
“I don’t want there to be sides,” she said.
“We’ll talk to Jason,” I promised. “Wait and see, he’ll end up being delighted.” Liar, liar! Pants on fire!
I paid thirty dollars for a cab to take her back to the Bronx. The minute Howard walked in the door, I broke the news to him. He stared at me so long I thought he hadn’t understood a word I’d said. Then he said, “Jesus. That poor kid.”
Who did he mean? Jason? Sara? The baby? “Who’s a poor kid?” I said.
“What is she going to do?” he asked. Almost an echo of what he’d asked me twenty-five years ago.
“You know,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Sara wants to have the baby, and we have to help her. We have to do something about Jason.”
“I guess it’s too late to ground him,” Howard said.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing, Howard. But it happens to be our own grandchild we’re talking about.”
“I just can’t get used to it, that’s all,” he said. “Jesus, they’re not even married.”
“What difference does that make?” I asked.
“No difference, I guess.”
“Jason has to act responsibly,” I said. “I want you to talk to him, Howard.”
“All right, I will,” he said. A few moments later he said, almost to himself, “What will I say?”
“God, Howard, what do you think you should say?”
“He’ll have to get a regular job,” Howard said, gloomily. “They’ll have to live someplace normal and safe.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “You can tell him we’ll help them get settled. He’s probably terrified right now. You know Jason.”
“I thought I did. What the hell were they thinking of?”
“They weren’t thinking. Anyway, look who’s talking,” I said.
“Things were different then,” Howard said. “We didn’t major in sex education. And contraceptives weren’t out there on the drugstore shelf right next to the toothpaste. Are you sure she won’t have an abortion?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. I was becoming angry, and I felt heavyhearted, as if it were me who was pregnant again, and Howard who was denying his duty.
“Why are you getting so upset?”
“Because you’re acting like a fascist.”
“A fascist! What’s that supposed to mean? And make up your mind, Paulie, will you—didn’t you march against the Right-to-Lifers a couple of weeks ago?”
“Of course I did,” I said. “I’m pro-choice, remember? And Sara chooses to have the baby.”
“What about Jason’s choice?” Howard said.
I hated him then, even as I conceded his point. Woman’s body, but man’s seed—they did have a say in it. There’d been almost as many men as women, on both sides of the issue, the day we paraded in Northport. “We’re in this together!” Howard had insisted when I was alone in my labor. And in Ann’s room the other night, when I decided to stay with him, he’d spoken about Jason’s birth with what seemed like reverence. “Just talk to him,” I said, my old refrain.
That was Friday. I remember because I was very late for work at the library and agreed to make it up the following week. Bernie Rusten was going through microfilms of the Times when I got there, and although I’d promised myself to be discreet after my last outburst, I sat down next to him and said, “Guess what? I’m going to be a grandmother!”
“Hey, good for you,” he said. “Congratulations. Is it your daughter?”
“No,” I said. “My son. Against his better judgment, I’m afraid.”
“How long have they been married?” he asked.
“They’re not,” I said. “Howard’s going to knock some sense into him, though.”
“Your husband must be much better, then.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“And you’re happy?”
What a question. “It’s complicated,” I said, my old standby for evasion.
“I’ve been reading some poetry,” he said, “on your recommendation.”
“Who?”
“Let’s see … Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon. And Rupert Brooke.”
“The war poets. Well, do they help explain history?”
“I don’t know, they seem as bewildered as I am. But they give it immediacy. And they break your heart.”
“What more can you ask?” I said. “But you ought to broaden your horizons.” I recommended Williams to him, and Dickinson, and Elizabeth Bishop. He wished me luck and I went back to work.
The following Friday, I had another unexpected visitor. I was vacuuming the bedroom rug when I realized the doorbell was ringing persistently. That doesn’t happen very often in the suburbs. When we lived in Queens, people sometimes rang the bells in the outer lobby at random, just to gain entry to the building, and kids pressed all of them for fun when they had nothing else to do. Out here, an occasional salesman or a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses would stop by, and that was about it.
I turned the vacuum off and looked through the window. I couldn’t see who was on the front step from there, but a red Mazd
a was parked at the curb. Probably not Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Who is it?” I yelled. A woman’s voice answered, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I opened the door. She was a stranger, a freckled redhead in a flashy jumpsuit and spike-heeled pumps. I’d never worn a jumpsuit myself. My figure was too full, and they seemed like so much trouble—you’d practically have to get undressed every time you went to the bathroom. I wondered what she was selling.
“Hello?” I said.
She looked me over, cocking her head and squinting, as if I were trying to sell her something. “You’re Paulie,” she said, “aren’t you. My name is Janine.”
12
I DID’T GET AROUND to talking to Jason right away, in spite of Paulie’s nagging. This routine began sometime in his teens, when he turned into a stranger she couldn’t reach, a puzzle she couldn’t solve. When Jason was little, Paulie had never urged me to straighten him out, no matter how obnoxious he got. In fact, she’d come to his defense when I got angry about something—his disgusting table manners, or because he was acting fresh, or goofing off in school. She never threatened him with that old saw of my mother’s, “Wait until your father comes home.” Whenever I did come home, and Ann reported Jason’s latest crime, Paulie would stop me before I could say anything to him. She always reminded me that he’d had a “bad start” in life. It was an umbrella expression that covered everything from his long-corrected strabismus, to his reading disability, to my initial reluctance to marry her.
She let him get away with a lot in those days, although she was often critical of Ann, whose worst sin was making her brother look bad. We were divided early on into two odd couples, two clearly defined teams. Paulie tried to offset things by forcing Jason and me into all sorts of father-and-son activities. We ended up on camping trips that neither of us enjoyed. I’d find myself lying awake in a stifling pup tent, next to Jason, who scratched at his hundreds of mosquito bites and ground his teeth in fitful sleep. I would wonder how the hell I’d gotten there, and I didn’t mean the campgrounds at Wildwood or Hither Hills, but there in my very life.
Later, when Jason discovered music, things changed for the better between us. At last I had something to offer him that he actually wanted. We’d jam together, driving Paulie and Ann out of the house and closer to one another, too. He was very talented, a natural, and for the first time in his life he was interested in something, and willing to work hard at it. For the first time I didn’t lose my temper trying to teach him something; I didn’t even really mind that he was the better musician.
Music was still the strongest bond we had, maybe the only one, and now Paulie was setting me against him. “Talk to him,” she’d said, but she meant for me to talk at him, to tell him what to do, what his moral and legal obligations were to Sara. And I was supposed to say that we’d assist them, financially and otherwise, until they could stand on their own feet.
We’d never lied to the children about the dates of our marriage and Jason’s birth, and I guessed Paulie expected me to remind him that he’d come into being himself because I’d accepted responsibility for him. But I didn’t think that was much of an argument. Jason tended to be a moody kid—maybe he wished he’d never been born, especially now. And, anyway, some maverick part of me wanted to tell him to run for it.
I finally got around to calling him about a week after Paulie began working on me to do it. I told him I was coming into town to buy some outboard gear, and that I’d meet him for lunch afterward at a Chinese restaurant on upper Broadway. Jason must have been suspicious, although he didn’t seem to know about Sara’s visit to Paulie. He showed up fifteen or twenty minutes late, looking rumpled and handsome. When he sat down, there was a rustle of attention among the women at the next table that he acknowledged with a flicker of his hooded eyes. “What’s up, Dad?” he said, by way of greeting.
I wouldn’t let him take the lead. “What took you so long?” I said. “Do you want a bottle of Kirin?”
We drank the beer, and ordered too much food. When the moo shu pork and the fried noodles arrived, he said, “Are you sure you’re allowed to eat this stuff?”
There was more concern in his voice than curiosity. I remembered wanting to slug him for deliberately burping at the dinner table, for the mocking bark of a laugh that used to be his response to everything I said. “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “Let’s get some chopsticks. Do you want another beer?”
An hour or so later we were still sitting there, bloated and sleepy. Jason was tapping out a polyrhythm on the table with his chopsticks—four against three, no less. We’d talked mostly about music during lunch, about the new sounds that were developing, and the new techniques for recording it. He had some cockeyed, impractical ideas, but I liked the way they excited him, the way they pulled him out of himself. I almost forgot my mission or any animosity I’d ever felt toward him. “Let’s take a walk, Jase,” I said.
I stopped and bought a couple of cigars, and then we went to one of those benches on the center island of Broadway and sat down among the old ladies, the bums, and the pigeons. He declined a cigar, and when I lit up, he said, “I thought you’re not supposed to smoke.”
“That’s cigarettes,” I said. “I’m not inhaling this.” Right after I said it, I sucked in a lungful. I almost choked to death, but it felt great, anyway—the rush of nicotine, the pleasure of the cigar in my hand. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and very warm for late September. Cars whizzed by, the pigeons pecked near our shoes—Paulie’s crazy, filthy city. Jason leaned back and closed his eyes, turning his face up to catch the sun. I hated to spoil the lazy peace between us, but there was no sense in putting it off any longer. I took another puff, and as the smoke curled out, I said, “I hear Sara’s pregnant.”
The bench shook a little as he sat forward. “Did she tell you?” he demanded.
“Hey,” I said. “That’s her privilege, you know. This isn’t Annie, snitching on you for some misdemeanor.”
“It’s between us,” he said. “It’s between me and Sara.”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand that. Your mother and I only want to help out if we can. We want to help you do the right thing.” Pat O’Brien encouraging Jimmy Cagney to go straight. But didn’t he always end up in the chair?
Jason rubbed his eyes, hard, as if he wanted to wipe out some terrible vision. “Maybe we could use some cash,” he said. “You know, like a loan.”
“How much?”
“Two, three hundred,” he said.
“For an abortion?” I asked.
He hesitated for a beat before he said, “Yes.”
“When did Sara change her mind?” I said.
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Relax,” I said. “She told Mom she wanted to have the baby.”
“Then let her have it,” he said.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. She’s not in this alone.”
“Maybe she will be if she goes through with it.”
“That’s really great, Jason. Your mother is going to be very proud of you.”
“Dad, listen,” he said. “It was a mistake—neither of us planned on this happening. Why do I have to pay for it the rest of my life?”
“Jase, you were a mistake, too, once upon a time, remember?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I ruined your life.”
“What are you talking about? Does my life look ruined to you? As soon as your mother and I got married, I was crazy about the idea of a baby. I was even crazy about the baby … that was you.”
“Then how come you split when we lived in Queens?”
Jesus. “It’s complicated … I lost my head for a while. But I came back, didn’t I?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t want to be tied down like you, and end up with a heart attack. I don’t want to give up my music.”
So that was how he saw me—somebody hog-tied and helpless, ready to be kayoed by a heart attack. It was hard keeping my voice
level and reasonable. “Who said anything about giving up your music? I told you we’re going to help you. But a little responsibility will be good for your soul.”
“I feel as if I haven’t even lived yet,” Jason said.
“You’ll probably always feel that way,” I told him. “It’s the curse of mankind.”
“Oh, shit,” he said under his breath.
I pretended not to hear him. “So, is it a deal, my man?” I said.
He mumbled something, or made a grunting sound, so I slapped him five on his limp hand, and then I hugged him, awkwardly.
Mission impossible—accomplished! Then why did I feel let down instead of triumphant? Because of the way Jason had described me, maybe, or because I might have just betrayed him. Driving over the Triborough Bridge later, I kept thinking that Paulie would make me feel better. Her relief about Jason and Sara would rub off on me, and she would be sweetly grateful for a long time. I’d gone off my diet at lunch, but she’d get me back on the right track again—one lousy meal never hurt anybody.
It was only four o’clock, but the traffic was building up. Construction, accidents, breakdowns. And it was Friday, when all the lemmings headed for the sea. I thought of the poor suckers who crawled back and forth in the rush hour every day of their lives. At least I’d never had to do that. I had my little garden, the shade of maple trees I’d planted myself. And my work was still music, even if I didn’t play much anymore. I’d be able to show Jason that there were loopholes in the life sentence. As I drove, I remembered being stuck in heavy traffic another time, years ago, on my way to a club date in Jersey. It was summer and there were a few cars on the shoulder of the parkway, their hoods up and their radiators smoking. And then I saw this tall, thin black guy standing alone next to his car, playing the trumpet. I don’t even think his car was in trouble. He’d probably just pulled out of that mess onto the grassy shoulder and started to play. He was in rolled-up shirtsleeves, I remember, his eyes closed and his foot tapping in time to the music. The traffic slowed even more, because of the rubbernecking, like at an accident. My windows were rolled down, and as I went by him I heard the honeyed wail of his horn over all the noisy engines and exhausts. I decided to tell Jason about that next time, too, although I wasn’t exactly sure why.
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