“But after marriage sex becomes routine, and sleeping with other guys problematic. So I might as well enjoy it now, because that’s not all I’m after in a husband. I’m not marrying some boy just because I like him inside me. I want a husband who’s also a man.” Glancing at Whitney, Clarice’s eyes glinted with humor. “And please don’t be shocked. These days shock is unbecoming unless you’re our mothers.”
“I’m not shocked,” Whitney rejoined crisply. “I just don’t want to be shocking.”
Clarice gave a twitch of her tan, graceful shoulders. “In your position, I’d feel the same. I just hope you don’t get restless, that’s all. Imagining things isn’t the same as doing them.”
Whitney waded in up to her knees. “So maybe I’m just unimaginative,” she said over her shoulder.
“You? I doubt it. So maybe having sex with Peter and imagining Paul Newman will work just fine.” Clarice stepped, beside her. “So how is it with Peter? You never really say.”
Whitney smiled a little. “Would you settle for ‘sweet’?”
“‘Sweet’? That’s lovely. But does the earth move? Or is it more like a mudslide?”
Folding her arms, Whitney replied with mock dignity, “I have nothing more to say, Miss Barkley. You’ll have to rely on your own lurid fantasies.”
To her surprise, Clarice did not respond in kind. Instead, she turned toward the sound, watching a sailboat in the distance. More seriously, she said, “I’m being kind of a pill, aren’t I? Maybe I envy you a little.”
“Why should you?”
Still watching the water, Clarice spoke more softly. “Your life is settled, all laid out in front of you. You have someone you love, who loves you. You don’t have to wonder who he’ll be, or if that man will want you, or how the two of you will live.”
In faint surprise, Whitney studied Clarice’s flawless profile. It was she who had always admired her friend’s serene blond looks, her self-containment, her matchless ability to charm and engage others—especially men. “You can have your pick of guys,” Whitney assured her. “All you have to do is choose.”
“I suppose,” Clarice replied in a distant tone. “But how will I know that he’s the right one?”
Once again, Whitney felt her own good fortune. She, and not Clarice, was the one Peter Brooks had chosen.
Two
For the rest of her life, Whitney felt certain, she would recall the moment perfectly, and everything that followed.
They were in his dorm room at Dartmouth. It was a chill winter evening; snowflakes on the window melted into dots that blurred the darkness outside. Naked, she pulled the wool blanket up to her chin, watching Peter undress.
The weekend had followed the usual pattern. Like other women’s colleges, Wheaton was a suitcase school: girls left for the weekend, or endured the consolation prize—a steak dinner on Saturday night—which exposed their datelessness. Boys seldom came to Wheaton: they were not allowed in the dorm rooms, and were less adaptable than women when it came to making conversation and fitting in with friends. Besides, alcohol was forbidden—this was a school for women, after all. Better to go where the guys were.
Whitney’s suitemate, Payton Clarke, had their ticket to freedom—a car. So Whitney, Payton, and two other friends wrote their destination in the sign-out book and headed for Dartmouth, hopeful that, if delayed by love or folly past the Sunday evening deadline, they could sneak back through the windows of co-conspirators. Leaving the snow-covered campus, the girls had felt the elation of escape; Payton turned on the radio, and they began singing along with Aretha, the Beatles, or even dumb stuff like “Kind of a Drag” by the Buckinghams, which Jill’s terrible voice made even funnier. They shared a prized invitation—Dartmouth Winter Carnival.
Not that these weekends were always a bargain. Nor was this one: as Whitney had anticipated, the huge bonfire that marked the weekend was followed by binge drinking at Peter’s fraternity, during which several otherwise acceptable males devolved into buffoons with the wits of Neanderthals, an orgy of crudity which, for one guy, was capped by public retching. While Peter remained himself throughout, Whitney was happy to retreat to his room. Closing the door behind them, he left a tie on the doorknob to indicate the presence of a woman, assuring them an hour alone.
Though he undressed in front of her, a lingering modesty kept Peter from looking into her eyes; she could watch him unembarrassed, feeling a kind of wonder at their intimacy. His body was strong, yet lean, as if there were barely enough skin to cover his muscled frame. His blond curls were charmingly unruly, his blue eyes a window to what she knew to be an open heart, his smooth features engagingly complicated by a nose broken playing lacrosse. He was a boy other girls stared at. And now—at least for this time—Peter belonged to her.
She had met him the year before on a blind date. Though assured that Peter was “a doll,” Whitney had approached the weekend with trepidation. He might not find her attractive; the doll might become a nightmare. In her parents’ mind, attracting some Ivy League guy was a ticket to security. But in reality, you were stranded for the weekend, and guys at men’s schools often treated women horribly—turning callous and trying to push them into sex. Among Whitney’s friends it was known that a classmate had been raped at Princeton, triggering a nervous breakdown. This faceless Peter Brooks could become her enemy.
Whitney was nervous all the way to Dartmouth. When Peter called at the boarding house, she still felt queasy. But though he was as tall and handsome as described, instead of conceit there was a sweetness in his face. He did not seem disappointed that she was not prettier or slimmer. “I’m Peter Brooks,” he said, and his easy manner and obvious sobriety filled Whitney with relief.
Throughout the weekend, he was attentive and thoughtful, always asking after her needs, what she might want to do. Though at first they struggled for conversation, his good nature made it easier, and gradually she felt comfortable with him. He took her to dinner and parties, including a smoke-filled bash where some of his fraternity brothers got stupefyingly drunk. But he kept his own drinking under control, and Whitney never felt abandoned. Though it was clear that Peter was a guy the other guys admired, he did not seem to notice. It was one of his friends, not Peter himself, who mentioned that he was a lacrosse star.
He was anyone’s dream date, she realized by Sunday. So when he kissed her on the cheek, then asked if she would come back next weekend, Whitney was more than flattered. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’d like that.”
Now, head on his down pillow, Whitney smiled up at him. “You’re beautiful.”
Gently, he pulled down the comforter to look at her. “So are you.”
Before, she would have been embarrassed. Peter was the only boy she had allowed to see her like this, and she vividly recalled her shame when, at Wheaton, the freshmen were marched to the gym and photographed nude to diagnose defects in their posture. Whitney’s “defects” were round hips and full breasts, but she was mortified by rumors that guys from Dartmouth had stolen her class’s pictures, imagining herself pinned to a corkboard while leering drunkards gave her a “D.” When she had confessed this, Peter had assured her that the story was a myth. “If I’d seen your picture,” he said lightly, “I’d have cut my classes and taken the bus to Wheaton.”
Thinking of this, Whitney beckoned to him. “Come here,” she said. “Before my nipples get cold.”
Kneeling at the end of the bed, Peter kissed her stomach and breasts as he lay across her, kissing her deeply, lingeringly, before he slipped his finger inside her. “Yes,” she murmured.
He filled her, moving gently at first, and then she felt the urgency in the thrust of his thighs and hips. Shutting her eyes, tried to focus on her own pleasure, urging the inside of her to tighten and find release. She was almost there when Peter cried out, and she knew that it was done.
Whitney let her body go slack. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Though she had heard stories about boys who used their tongues, s
he could not yet bring herself to mention this. Instead, she focused on the familiar softness in his face, the warmth of knowing that her body had the power to do this.
Suddenly, he looked at her with new intentness. “Close your eyes, Whit.” Complying, Whitney felt him stir, thought she heard the whisper of a drawer opening. Then she felt his lips light and playful, brushing her stomach. Her skin tingled—perhaps, this time, he would please her as she imagined.
Then Peter flicked his bedside lamp on. “You can open your eyes now.”
Something small and light was resting on her stomach. She saw him smiling, then followed his gaze. A diamond ring circled her navel. To her startled eyes it looked perfect—not large or showy, but beautifully shaped, its facets sparkling.
“It’s my grandmother’s,” he said. “Mom wanted you to have it. But you have to say you’ll marry me.”
Stupefied, Whitney found herself grinning until she thought she could never stop. “Are you kidding me?” she finally blurted. “I love you, and I’d love to marry you.”
Hurriedly, she put on the ring, stretching out her fingers for him to see. Suddenly they were hugging, rolling on the bed, laughing with the sheer joy of having each other. “Mrs. Peter Brooks,” he murmured.
“Whitney Brooks,” she amended. “I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad.”
“Actually, I have. Your dad, anyhow.”
For an instant, Whitney felt obscurely cheated; her father had participated in this moment before she had, a partnership of males. Just as quickly she reproved herself. Peter’s father was dead; Charles Dane had lost any hope of a son after his wife’s struggles in bearing Whitney. Yet her father had never betrayed any disappointment that she was not the boy he’d wanted, and it was obvious that he had liked her new guy at once. She was glad to have brought him Peter Brooks.
“How did you tell him?” she asked.
Peter grinned. “I met him for lunch at the Athletic Club over Christmas break. Then I asked him for your hand—and the rest of you, of course—just like a proper suitor should. I’m afraid I was pretty nervous. But he was so happy we killed a bottle of champagne.”
Whitney imagined her father and his almost-son, enveloped in celebratory warmth. “But did he say anything, or did you just start drinking?”
“Actually, he told me that I was the son he’d never had. And that he’d done pretty well with who you’d dragged through the door.” He hesitated, becoming serious. “He also said there was a job at the firm, if I wanted it.”
Struggling to imagine Peter on Wall Street, Whitney was surprised, then not. “What did you say?”
“That I’d talk to you.” He looked at her searchingly. “But really, it’s a great opportunity. Your dad wouldn’t ask if he didn’t think I could do it.”
Despite his confident tone, Whitney saw the uncertainty in his eyes, which she understood and shared. Though seldom harsh, Charles Dane judged younger men with a jeweler’s eye—his approval once withdrawn was difficult to regain. Peter had gone through school being good at things—sailing, lacrosse, making friends, leading his teams to victory—without a clear vision of life after college. Though he applied himself to school with diligent effort, Whitney, a far better writer, had edited his papers. And the life both had led, she understood, might not breed her father’s relentless drive.
“I’m sure you could do it,” she temporized. “If that’s what you wanted.”
Peter seemed to sense her ambivalence. “But if I worked with your dad, would you be happy?”
He needed her approval, Whitney understood. “Of course,” she assured him, and curled back into his arms. “So when should we get married?”
As if feeling a chill the room, he pulled the blanket back over them both. “Pretty soon, I guess.” He hesitated. “Like it or not, there’s the draft to worry about.”
Whitney felt a pall taint her happiness. The draft was a specter at Wheaton; it posed no danger to women. But President Johnson had ended grad school deferments—the draft calls were getting bigger, casting a shadow on their brothers and boyfriends. Whatever she thought of the war, Whitney felt it coming toward them.
“What can we do?” she asked.
“I don’t really know. I’ve known guys who starved themselves, or said they were queer, or found some doctor to lie for them. One guy got deferred for acne—first time I ever wanted pimples. But I’m healthy as a horse, and I’m certainly not queer . . .”
“I’m glad of that.”
He gave a perfunctory smile. “Anyhow, I talked to a draft counselor—a professor at school. Unless I go into the ministry—fat chance, huh—my best shot is the National Guard. Otherwise, I’m drafted.”
“I don’t want that,” Whitney said, and then a simple truth struck her. “Do you know anyone who’s actually gone to Vietnam?”
“No one yet. But pretty soon we will. Unless there’s another baby boom. You still get a deferment for that.”
It took a moment for Whitney to fathom his meaning. “Are you saying we should have a baby?”
He shook his head, less in demurral than confusion. “Seems early, doesn’t it. But I know you want kids.”
They had talked about this in a casual sort of way, safely distant and abstract. Now it felt like a fist in Whitney’s stomach. “I’m only twenty-one, Peter. This is all so new.”
Peter took her hand. “I know. It’s a lot for both of us. So first things first, okay? We can pick a date and think about kids later.” He paused, then asked hastily, “How about this summer?”
“I’m going to Europe with Clarice, remember? We’ve been planning it since boarding school.”
Thinking, Peter frowned. “Maybe your mom can put it together.”
Whitney regarded him with fond exasperation. “You really are a guy, you know. You’ve got no clue at all what a wedding involves. Besides, it’s my one and only wedding day.”
“I get that, sweetheart. Honestly.”
“I don’t think so,” she objected. “Your job is to show up and be handsome. Mine is to be frenzied from this moment until Dad gives me away, not to mention keeping my mother at bay. A wedding this summer will be like mapping out D-Day with Anne Dane hovering over my shoulder, issuing imperatives in that anxious tone of voice. And you’ll be AWOL.”
Peter bit his lip, failing to repress a smile. “Maybe September?” he ventured in his most contrite tone of voice.
Whitney considered this. “At least I’d have the summer,” she said at length. “But what do I tell Clarice?” Feeling his glum silence, she answered her own question. “Of course, she’d be my Maid of Honor, and I’d try to spend time with her this summer. If she’s still speaking to me, that is.”
“Are you kidding, Whitney? She’ll be thrilled.”
“To miss the French Riviera? I doubt it. But she’s always been a loyal friend.”
Peter looked relieved. “Then it’s September?”
For a moment, Whitney felt less like a newly minted bride-to-be than a wife, making practical decisions while mediating between the needs of those she loved. But the world outside this room had stopped indulging her fantasies about a perfect wedding, or even a last chance to savor freedom with her closest friend. “My parents will be thrilled,” she told Peter. “And September on Martha’s Vineyard is always beautiful.”
Three
As Whitney and Clarice waded through the surf, the air became damper, the sunlight hazy. Over the water a stray shower fell from a windblown smudge of darkness amidst the filtered rays. Clarice gazed out at this with a mild distaste.
“To think,” she remarked, “that this could have been the Mediterranean.”
Whitney felt a wave of disappointment at their aborted plans. Turning from the water, she sat on a rock with room enough for her friend, feet resting on sand dampened by a receding tide. “What could I do? I didn’t want to risk losing him before our life had even started. Starting a family, if that’s what it takes, seems better than having no family a
t all.”
Perching beside her, Clarice inquired, “Isn’t that a tad melodramatic? He hasn’t even got his draft notice yet. He’s a long way from Vietnam.”
“We can think that now. But once he’s classified 1-A, the odds get a whole lot shorter.” Whitney hesitated before giving voice to her fears. “I know he’d be brave and capable. But that’s just it—I can see him doing something reckless to save somebody else.”
“So maybe they’ll stop the war?”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Whitney asked more sharply than she intended. “Nixon and Humphrey support it, more or less. McCarthy can’t beat Humphrey, so that leaves Bobby Kennedy. The dirty secret I’m keeping from Dad is that I’m hoping Bobby wins today in California.”
“My dad hates the Kennedys,” Clarice said flatly. “He says their father was a bootlegger and a crook.” She shrugged. “It’s a class thing, I’m sure—Irish Catholics and all that. You know how they are in Boston.”
“Blacks love Kennedy,” Whitney replied firmly. “Chicanos, too. You can see them on TV mobbing his car, like he’s all they’ve got left.” She turned to Clarice. “Remember when they assassinated Martin Luther King?”
“I remember how upset people were at Wellesley. Most of them, anyhow.”
The remark was not unkind, just dispassionate, as though Clarice were an anthropologist. But for Whitney the memory was piercing—girls crowded around the TV in Meadows South; black faces shouting or sobbing; newsmen barking updates that changed nothing. Whitney imagined the young black boy she was tutoring in Roxbury, and feared she would never see him again. “Who could black people believe in, I kept thinking. But there weren’t many black girls at Wheaton, and I didn’t know them well enough to talk about it.”
Clarice glanced at her curiously. “So what got you into tutoring?”
“A suitemate talked me into going to an elementary school in Roxbury, so they assigned me a kid once a week.” Remembering him, Whitney grew pensive. “James was nine years old and little, with this coiled hair and bright eyes. He loved to learn, and I didn’t want to see those eyes go blank. So I kept showing up.”
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