by Jean Stone
Susan pulled a black MIA/POW T-shirt over her head. The worst thing she had done in her life was marry the man her parents had picked. Lawrence Brosky. Up-and-coming genius of the garment industry. Her father’s protégé. The best thing she’d done was pack up her four-year-old son and leave him. Now Lawrence was settled with a nice Jewish girl who worshiped him, and they had two short, plump, dark-haired, dark-eyed spoiled daughters. But for some reason, Mark worshiped his father.
She returned her attention to the tabloid and pretended to be fascinated by its contents. There had been few men in Susan’s life. Bert Hayden was a good friend—a good friend who often made overtures at becoming something more. They slept together occasionally, but for Susan the act was nothing more than a safe way of satisfying her hormones. There simply were no sparks. As for Lawrence, the only thing that had excited Susan about him when they met was that her parents adored him. She had succumbed to their dream for her and had actually believed that one day she would love him. Susan stared at the newspaper without seeing the pages. Back then she’d thought she had owed it to her parents to marry Lawrence—owed it to them after David. Her eyes were drawn once again to the photo of Ted Kennedy. Forget about his life, she thought, what about mine? Would my life have been happy if Bobby Kennedy were still alive? Was it possible that a lone assassin’s bullet had reshaped even her own life? She lowered her eyes to the ground. Hardly a day passed when Susan did not think of David, of what they had shared, of all she had walked away from. Ted Kennedy had been young then, in 1968. Young, and full of promise. Susan and David had been young as well. Young, and full of hope.
She tossed down the tabloid.
“I’m getting out of the sun,” she announced. “I have enough wrinkles.”
“We’re having nice chopped liver for lunch,” Freida said, as she stretched out her paste-colored feet and wiggled her Worth Avenue-pedicured toes. “To help us get into a celebration mood.”
“I’m not hungry.” Susan heaved herself off the chaise. The thought of seeing Lawrence always made her lose her appetite.
“We couldn’t have asked for a better year to have our labor contracts come up for renewal,” Lawrence boasted as he dipped an enormous chunk of challah in honey, took a huge bite, then sucked his fingers.
Susan clenched her hand around her wineglass. Just get me through the evening, God, she thought. Just get me through the evening without killing him.
“How come, Dad?” Mark asked.
“Recession. People were scared out of their wits to lose their jobs.” He reached across the table for the platter of chicken. “They’d have agreed to anything.”
Susan’s father had told her that the negotiations, such as they were, had ended last month. When she’d asked how they had turned out, he’d merely said, “Successful.” Lawrence’s bragging suggested they had been better than that. Better for him, anyway.
Susan steadied her eyes on her ex-husband. “Exactly what did they agree to?” she asked.
At the end of the table Joseph cleared his throat. “Details, details,” he said. “There’s no need to talk business tonight!” He tried to sound cheerful.
“I’m interested, Dad,” she said without taking her eyes off Lawrence. “The plant is my son’s future.”
“Yeah, come on, Dad,” Mark urged. “Fill us in.”
Susan saw Lawrence glance at her father. Oh, boy, she thought. This must be good. So good, they both know how I’ll react.
“They settled on a two-percent raise. Every year for the next three years,” Lawrence said.
“How generous,” Susan said.
“And we only laid off fifteen hundred workers. It could have been worse. We could be GM.”
“People don’t need to trade in cars every year. But they need to buy clothes. Warm clothes, in winter.”
“Let’s not turn this into a discussion about the homeless, Susan,” he seethed. “I’m sure it disappoints you enough, just knowing that the recession wasn’t my fault.”
Freida coughed.
Joseph took a big gulp of wine.
Susan quietly tapped her foot on the cool tile floor.
“Look,” Lawrence continued, “we don’t know what’s coming. With your pal Clinton in office, anything can happen.”
“Bill Clinton is not my pal. He is our president.”
Lawrence snorted.
Susan stared at the contents of the pink Zinfandel. Why the hell do they call this “white”? she wondered. “What about benefits? Benefits to those lucky souls still in your employ.”
“Our people have benefits.”
“Do they have any more?”
“Like what?”
“Like day care, for instance. It’s already a law in some states. Any company employing more than some minimum number of workers has to have day care on-site.”
“New Yorkers don’t need perks,” Lawrence grumbled. “They’re tougher than the rest of the country.”
Susan began to boil. “What about health insurance?”
Lawrence gave a sardonic smile. “Well, yes, that is one area where we had to make some adjustments.”
“To whose advantage?”
“Everyone’s.”
Freida drummed her fingers on the Formica table. “I’m sure it is, Lawrence.”
“In what way, exactly?” Susan pressed on. She wondered what the workers had to give up in order to keep their tedious, demanding jobs.
“They agreed to pick up half the cost.”
Susan wanted to throw her wineglass in his face. “Half? You’re making them pay half their medical coverage?”
Lawrence shrugged. “Costs have become prohibitive. Until this country figures out once and for all what we’re going to do about health care, everyone has to pay their fair share.”
Susan picked up her fork and stabbed an olive. “And how much is their ‘fair share’?”
“The average married worker’s insurance is almost six hundred a month.”
“So they pay three. God, Lawrence, that’s seventy-five dollars a week!”
Lawrence shrugged again and looked at Mark. “Pass the salt, please.”
“I remember when Joseph didn’t bring home that much money in a week,” Freida said.
“What about HMOs?” Susan asked.
“They’ve got the option.”
“At what cost?”
“God, Susan, I don’t remember exactly. Half. Maybe less. But not everyone wants to go to a clinic.”
“HMOs aren’t clinics,” she said.
“Look, don’t blame me. This is America. I never did figure out why you didn’t become a socialist and get it over with.”
Joseph cleared his throat. “Lawrence may be right to keep the reins tight,” he said. “It’s the only way to keep profitability up.”
Susan felt her stomach begin to churn.
“Mom and I went to an AIDS rally,” Mark said.
“Mark …” Susan warned.
The room grew quiet. Susan felt everyone’s eyes on her. So far, this evening was going along pretty much as Susan had expected.
“It was cool,” Mark added.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t sound like dinner conversation,” Freida said.
Lawrence raised his eyebrows. “Maybe it should be. I’d like to know what escapades my late wife is exposing my son to now.”
His late wife. Why the hell did he always call her that? Susan ignored it and answered, “I’m not exposing your son to anything horrible, Lawrence. We had gone to the Boston Museum for the day. There was a rally on the common. We took part. That’s all.”
“That’s all? My son spent the day surrounded by faggots and dykes, and you say ‘that’s all’?” His face reddened. He shook his head, his jowls swayed back and forth. “Is that what comes next? You try to turn my son into a faggot?”
Susan pushed back her chair and threw her linen napkin on the table. “I’m going to go pack,” she said. “As usual, Lawrence, it was wonderful see
ing you again.”
Susan unlocked the back door, and Mark pushed ahead of her into the kitchen, his duffel bag nearly knocking her down.
“Watch what you’re doing,” Susan snapped.
“I’ll be in my room,” he said, and bounded up the stairs of the small cottage.
He’d barely spoken to her on the flight home. He’d said he was tired, but Susan knew better. She knew he was angry with her for being what he thought was cruel to Lawrence last night. It was hard enough to be a kid from a broken home, Susan thought. It must be even tougher when the parents couldn’t get along.
She sighed and dragged her suitcase across the uneven tiled floor. A cup of tea. That was what she needed. She filled the kettle and put it on the old black stove, then went to check her answering machine.
In the darkness of the small living room Susan could see the red light flashing. She opened the drapes, letting in the dusk of the early September evening, while she counted the number of flashes. One, two, three, four. Four messages. Not too hot for having been away two weeks. “Says a lot about your social life,” Susan said aloud.
From overhead she heard the boom of the latest rock CD. She had no idea who the group was; she’d lost track of them. She went to the answering machine.
“Susan, this is Doris Hayward at the library. The Chaucer critique you asked for is in.”
Good, Susan thought. Maybe I’ll start off World Lit with Chaucer this year. Something different.
Beep.
“This is the attendance officer at Clarksbury Regional High School,” a nasal voice declared. “I have a note here saying that Mark Brosky won’t be starting classes until Friday the seventeenth. Is this true?” There was a short shuffle of papers. “He will need to pick up his schedule in the office when he arrives. Otherwise …”—the voice paused again in confusion—“he won’t know where he’s supposed to go.”
No kidding, Susan thought. Long live the bureaucracy.
Beep.
“Hi, Susan, it’s me.” Bert Hayden. “Hope you had a good time, and that you’re back safe and everything. I was wondering if we’ll be able to get together before crazy classes start Monday. If you’re listening to this when you get in, then I guess it’s Thursday night. Call me if it’s not too late, okay? Or I’ll try you tomorrow.” She stretched out her legs. She was too tired to see Bert tonight. It was only seven o’clock, but traveling always exhausted her.
Beep.
“Susan? Is this Susan Levin? Well [long pause], I hope I have the right place. Your mother gave me the phone number. I talked with her today, I guess she lives in Florida? Anyway, Susan, this is Jessica Bates. You may not remember me.” Susan didn’t. “Jess Bates. From Larchwood Hall.” Susan stopped stretching. She stared at the little black machine. It kept talking. “I know, this is a surprise, right? I’m calling because I’d like to talk with you. Your Mom told me where you live, and that you’d be home tonight.” Jess Bates. Larchwood Hall. Sweat formed over Susan’s lip. The tape kept turning. “I’d like to drive up and see you …”
The machine clicked off. End of message time. End of messages. In the kitchen the teakettle began to whistle.
Susan couldn’t move. She stared at the mute answering machine. Jess Bates? Why in hell was she calling Susan? And what, in God’s name, was the rest of her message, cut short by the $49.95 mail-order, deluxe-model, answer-phone system?
Susan wrapped her arms around her stomach and hugged herself tightly. Jess Bates. Larchwood Hall. Jess had been the quiet one, the rich one. The very rich one. Jess had been the one they could hear crying in the middle of the night.…
Why in hell was she calling Susan? That was the past. That was over. It was more than another time, it was another life. Susan felt her breath quicken. It was youth. The time when she believed that such a thing as happiness really existed. The time when it had. With David. Susan closed her eyes and felt the swell of two decades of tears.
David. Nineteen sixty-eight. Vietnam. Sit-ins. Psychedelic and leather and Students for a Democratic Society. A string of images unlocked in her mind, like frames of celluloid, poised, ready to be projected, eager to return Susan to a time when life was lived for consciousness-raising and peace-making. Dylan. Hashish. Janis Joplin and the draft. The assassination of a second Kennedy. Then the dreams came tumbling down. The tabloid photo of Ted Kennedy crept eerily into her mind. Then it vanished, replaced by only one thought:
David.
She opened her eyes. Why in hell was Jess Bates calling her? Susan pushed back the memories, grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers for Palm Beach.
“Hello?”
God, why did her mother always sound so synthetic?
“Mother, it’s me.”
“Oh, Susan, well, I’m glad you made it home safely. How was your flight? I really wish you’d let your father pay for first-class tickets.…”
“No, Mother. The flight was fine.”
“But your legs are too long for those dreadful coach seats.…”
“Mother,” Susan cut her off. “Mother, did someone call for me there today?”
“What? Oh, yes. Wouldn’t you know, it wasn’t a man.”
“Mother, what did she say?”
“Why?”
“Did she tell you her name?”
“Yes. I didn’t write it down, though. A friend of yours from college.” Thank God. Jess had had the sense not to tell the truth. “I gave her your number. Shouldn’t I have?”
“No, no. I mean, yes, that was fine. But,” Susan stumbled, looking for a way to probe deeper without getting her mother off on one of her tangents, “my answering machine cut off the message. Did she leave her number with you? I’d like to call her back.”
“No. She didn’t leave a number, no.”
Susan thought fast. “Did she say where she was calling from?”
“Well, no. Well, I don’t know. I don’t remember. What difference does it make? If it was all that important, she’ll call you back.”
Not if she thinks I got the message, Susan thought. She stared back at the answering machine, as though it would provide her with a clue. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Mother. Well, good night. Mark and I had a nice vacation.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something else?”
“Oh. Yes. Tell Daddy I said thanks too.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Susan fidgeted with the phone cord. Now what, she thought.
“What is it, Mother?”
“You forgot to say ‘Happy New Year.’ ”
“Oh. Yes. Happy New Year to you too.” She hung up before her mother could say anything else.
“Mom!”
Susan looked up at Mark, standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Jeez, Mom, didn’t you hear the kettle whistling? I heard it all the way upstairs.”
“I’m surprised you can hear anything over your own racket,” Susan said, and hauled herself off the couch to make her tea.
She hadn’t seen Bert since summer school had ended three weeks ago. She hadn’t felt any burning desire to see him before she and Mark had left for Florida; in fact, she had almost dreaded starting another semester with Bert following close on her heels. But now Susan lumbered across campus in the darkness toward Bert’s apartment with an urgent need to be with him, to be with her friend. And he was her friend, first and foremost. Bert would understand. Bert would help her figure out what to do.
He opened the door for her and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“Welcome home,” he said.
“Thanks.” Susan noted the smell of marijuana on his breath. “Did you while away the hours of my vacation stoned?”
Bert smiled. It wasn’t a handsome face, but it was warm, comfortable. Bert was a giver both of his time and his feelings.
“I think it had something to do with Gardiner.”
Gardiner was Bert’s history-professor colleague who was competing with him for the department chair, a position Bert deserve
d.
“What happened?” Susan asked, trying hard to be interested.
“He won.”
“Oh, Bert. I’m sorry.”
Bert shrugged. “It was probably because of my beard,” he half joked. “You know these conservative New Englanders.”
Susan tugged the short-cropped graying curls around his chin. “I think it’s a lovely beard,” she said.
He motioned for Susan to sit down. She automatically shoved aside stacks of papers that were scattered across the overstuffed couch. To her, Bert’s messy apartment always had a welcoming feel.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Please. Make it a large glass.”
“The bitch of the whole thing,” Bert called back to her from his galley kitchen, “is that now Gardiner’s my boss. Ice?”
“Sure. And bring a joint with you.”
“Don’t have much left.”
She heard the tinkle of ice.
“Don’t need much. Bring it anyway.” Leftover hippie, Lawrence liked to call her. So what? she thought. So what if she and Bert shared an occasional joint? Until she’d met Bert, it had been several years since Susan had smoked pot. After she’d left Lawrence, she suddenly had no need for the chemical mellowness, but before that, she had smoked with gusto. Pot and cigarettes. She’d started in college, with David. In many ways, she thought now, her life had started, and ended, with David.
Bert returned to the living room, handed her a glass, and tossed a thin joint onto the end table. She looked at it. The paper was wrinkled, the ends twisted tight. Exactly the way David had rolled them. She took a long drink of her wine and picked up the joint. Bert leaned over and lit it, then settled onto the floor in front of her.
“So what’s up? I didn’t expect to see you tonight. How’d things go at Joe and Freida’s?”
Susan took a deep drag and laughed, smoke spewing from her lungs. Bert had a way of making her laugh. “Will you stop calling my father ‘Joe’? That sounds so weird. No one ever calls him ‘Joe.’ It’s Joseph.”
“Whatever. How bad was it?”
Susan took another drag. Her mouth shriveled with dryness. Her head spun. “It was … tolerable. About what I expected.” She listened to the hollow sound of her voice as she held in the sweet smoke, letting the calmness begin to creep in.
