For Nina, Henry, and Jesse
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Author’s Note
Olive Grossman
Life—make no mistake—is not a story. Naturally, I could think of parts of my life as stories if I reordered and changed them, putting more stress here, less there. But I’d be distorting them. Paying close attention to my own history, I’ve learned, leads to trouble, confusion, and anxiety. I will never write a memoir.
Without having planned to, though, I often catch myself determining exactly when something that happened to people I know—or even to me—began, the moment after which it would have required cop cars and handcuffs to keep particular people from catching sight of one another and getting ideas, when a word came out of a mouth that eventually led to all the good stuff and all the misery. A story I did not seek but have found myself silently recounting—in the shower, on a walk—began, I think, on a Wednesday morning in late February, a few years ago. My husband, Joshua Griffin—called Griff—strode into our bedroom, dressed for work—I was naked—and asked to borrow Bright Morning of Pain, Valerie Benevento’s famous novel about love and politics in the Vietnam era.
I was reaching toward my underwear drawer. “I thought you left,” I said, straightening up. He had said goodbye as I proceeded toward the shower. Griff is the principal of a small, innovative high school that serves troubled kids. That morning the principal wore a tie over his white shirt and a brown cardigan with cables, knitted not by me but by our daughter Annie.
“You never wanted to read it before,” I said, about the book he’d asked for, “and that’s probably a good thing.”
He was smiling a little, I suppose at the joke of catching me naked or at my being characteristically ready to argue, even in the nude. Or just at the sight of his woman. I am tall with big hips, a belly, and fairly big breasts, and Griff has always made it clear that he likes my body: I suppose that was partly why I fell in love with him all those years ago. He is sinewy but narrower than I am and only slightly taller, a dark-skinned black man with well-defined features.
“Why?” I said, because he was just standing there waiting. “There’s no reason, at this point.”
The book had come out decades earlier, and Griff emphatically didn’t read it, but he certainly knew about it, then and later. We had separated for a time, and this book had been one of our problems. Val Benevento and I were high school friends, and the book mattered to me—it was painful but important. For Griff, who knew what it was about, it would also have been painful to read, so he avoided it. By the time we’d come back together, the book was no longer on my mind or, I suppose, his.
Until now. I’d been asked—and instantly agreed—to write a long essay about Bright Morning of Pain for a magazine, in conjunction with forthcoming new paperback and e-book editions with a readers’ guide. The night before, when I’d told him about the assignment, Griff had little to say—but he’d thought it over.
I hooked my bra. I put on my panties and a shirt while he watched.
“I was up at three,” he said. Griff didn’t generally wake in the night unless something was wrong at school, at which point he paced, checking the lead stories in the Times on his phone, turning the TV on and off, picking up books and leaving them in unlikely places. “I should have read it long ago.”
“You won’t like it,” I said.
“All these years, I’ve never read it! I ought to read it.” His voice became higher. Griff’s persuasive voice—his friendly-principal-who-nonetheless-stands-for-no-nonsense voice—went up and down, up and down. “Come on, Ollie. I’ll give it back on Friday.”
I was leaving for two days, going to a conference in Boston. I earn my living as an editor at a small press near New Haven—where we live—that specializes in books about handicrafts, but years ago, I wrote a biography of Edith Wharton. Since then, my work—not always paid—has included the writing of essays and two obscurely published books, also about writers. The conference was on Edith Wharton; I was going to moderate a panel.
“This way,” he said, “when you write the essay, I’ll know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ll tell me why I’m wrong? It’s not due for months, and it won’t be out for a year.”
Bright Morning of Pain would bring up questions we didn’t need to revisit, certainly not as I started thinking and writing about the book. Also, Griff would hate it. He’d claim he had wasted his time, and then tell me I was wasting my time and why, and once his ideas penetrated my thoughts, I’d be unable to think at all.
“I won’t care in a year,” he said. “I care now.”
“I don’t believe you.” I put on my pants.
“I know,” he said. “It’s inconsistent.”
My train was imminent.
Apparently, Griff had forgotten his desperate need for a novel while we ate breakfast but had recalled it on his way out. Then, being himself, he couldn’t wait. He’s a fast reader, but two days for a whole book, given everything else he was doing, seemed unlikely.
However, I wouldn’t be thinking about the book or my essay while I was away, and probably not for weeks after that. Now that he’d gotten the desire into his head, maybe it would be preferable to hear Griff’s inevitably idiosyncratic opinion—and explosive personal reaction—soon, and try to forget it by the time I started writing. He’d nag until I gave it to him.
Also, borrowing the book—asking to borrow it—was, for Griff, an act of love. I associated impetuosity with the good times in our marriage. When life was bad—or even just adequate; most often life was just adequate—his gestures in my direction were self-conscious, and he rarely inquired about my concerns. During the time we’d lived apart, we each had a couple of embarrassing affairs, but mostly during those years we both replaced spouse with work. Our daughters were young, and we alternated weeks with them. The weeks I had neither husband nor children to distract me, I lived in a writing blur. I’d come home from my job and write all evening, drinking wine and snacking on crackers and cheese, finally stopping late to eat oatmeal or soup. Griff was a high school history teacher then, and he could always find more papers to grade, projects to invent, extracurricular activities to supervise. After he moved back home, it was simplest for either of us, when the other was difficult, to separate in the same house by working.
Forgetting to mention the book before my shower was more characteristic of Griff than waking at night to think of it or bursting into the bedroom to request it, but those unpredictable moments, his wide-awake face turned in my direction, were something to hold on to. However hard I worked when Griff and I were at odds, I did better work, smarter work, when we were getting along, when his wit and good mind made the rooms I passed through quiver with energy and with the surprise that comes when someone else’s unexpected thoughts intersect with your own.
Griff would read the book, he’d be upset—even angry—but maybe it was finally time. Maybe, once Griff read it and we lived through that, life in this house would be friendlier for it. Griff usually reads books about history, religion, education, and race; rarely fiction. He is a passionate thinker who needs books but not works of the imagination. Griff is the son and grandson of clergymen: the successive pastors of one of the oldest and most dignified black churches in New Haven, men who looked and sounded like what they were. He has his father’s and grandfather’s shrewdness, civic presence, and unaba
shed interest in life’s large questions, without their faith.
For years his family was nicer to me than to him because at least I had a religion. Two of his female cousins are ministers, and most of his relatives are churchgoers. I’m Jewish, if only intermittently and selectively observant, but after we married, they sent me greeting cards on Jewish holidays and later encouraged me to take the girls to services. Our daughter Martha insisted on a Bat Mitzvah; Annie, three years later, decided against it, at the exhausted end of a long afternoon full of hugs and tears during which her grandmother—Griff’s mother, not mine—tried to talk her into it.
I was flattered by Griff’s sudden interest in Val Benevento’s book, even his sudden need for me after we said goodbye. Maybe because of the time when we didn’t live together, nakedness before my man still felt slightly thrilling. Sometimes our resumed marriage, even decades after we’d returned to it, was a return to the uncertainty of courtship, if not quite to the period when we staggered from a political protest to whichever of our apartments was closer and slept in a single bed.
What I’m saying is that Griff’s need for the book was sexy. It was also something else, though Griff wasn’t talking about Val Benevento’s book that morning as anything more than a book that mattered to me. Griff too had a connection with this book. Some men would have seized it the day it was published, read it, dismissed or condemned it, or become briefly famous discussing their connection to it. Another sort of man would be more comfortable pretending it didn’t matter and could be left unread, and Griff was one of those. This was different—and despite my nervousness, I was curious. Barefoot, I crossed the hall into my study and took my copy of Bright Morning of Pain from the shelf: the hardcover first edition, with its familiar green-and-gold matte dust jacket (green tree, gold lettering, against a blue sky). The paper had soft, frayed edges and a row of tiny parallel tears at top and bottom that looked familiar. I had marked it up—both years earlier when I first wrote about it and later, when I wrote about it again. The older marks were in ink, the newer ones in pencil.
“Thank you, Ollie,” Griff said. My name is Olive. Well, Olivia, but I’ve called myself Olive since high school. His voice was husky, almost sentimental. We kissed, he departed, and I finished dressing and drove to the train station.
I always write about women novelists. I like finding a story in the life, and I feel superior, knowing something about a woman that she may not have known about herself. I also feel guilty for invading her privacy and relieved that she can’t reciprocate: she can’t examine my life. And so it makes me uncomfortable to write down this story, in which I am a character—the story that began the day Griff walked into our bedroom demanding my old friend’s book.
Unless it didn’t. Unless it began the day Valerie Benevento sat down with a ream of paper and an Olivetti in the late seventies. But the truth is, that wasn’t the beginning either. The story begins in the Brooklyn high school I went to in the mid-sixties. And when I think of high school, I think first not of Val but of Helen Weinstein, a short, thin girl with untidy light brown hair. You may recognize her name, but if you do, you’re not thinking of the girl I mean—and I don’t mean two women shared that name.
I met Helen when she sat next to me in biology class sophomore year. We dissected a frog. “What if we had to choose one of our relatives to dissect?” Helen said as we worked, looking not at me but at the frog, snipping out its heart, which was still beating, and picking it apart from the rest of the stunned little animal splayed on a board.
“I couldn’t choose,” I said, though inwardly I—horrified—was already choosing.
“You’d rather dissect your grandmother, selected by someone else, than choose to dissect her?”
“Oh, not my grandmother.”
“But she’s old, right? Isn’t it better to choose someone who’s had a life already?”
“Stop it!” I said. I was enthralled.
Soon, Helen and I were spending afternoons together, taking extended walks from our school into a cold wind (could there always have been a cold wind?) in a direction that led neither to her house nor mine. When I spoke of a feeling I had, one that annoyed or baffled my parents, Helen would say, “Exactly.” We parted late on those afternoons, tightening our scarves around our necks and walking home separately on darkening streets. Can the wind have blown at both faces not only on our long walks together but on the subsequent walks to our houses? The sixties was a tempestuous era. Wind blew all the time from all directions.
Helen loved analyzing our friends and relatives, but after devising extreme punishments for those who had treated us unjustly, she insisted that we think again. Had she misinterpreted her mother? Was it unfair of me to feel slighted by a classmate’s remark? In Helen I had a confessor, an exacting mentor ten months younger than I.
I don’t know how she came to think this way. Neither of us had much religious training. Her parents and brother were easygoing, unschooled. They were large, loose, and vague while she was small and exact. Her hair was kinky, and she had strong, active hands with prominent knuckles. She was short, but her hands might have belonged to someone tall and rangy.
Helen’s parents spoke in simple sentences, but her pronouncements were complex, delivered with emphasis. Her father had a shabby grocery store, and the family lived upstairs. I went to Helen’s house only once after school, and she chose a snack from the store: a can containing a loaf of date nut bread and a package of cream cheese. She brought them up to her room, and we spread cream cheese on round slices. I had never eaten such a thing and took many slices, but Helen nibbled. In the next room, her brother was playing the Beatles’s album Help!, but Helen shrugged when I mentioned it.
Valerie Benevento was a blond, vigorous girl with big breasts, a confident laugh, and bouncing, well-washed hair. Somebody told me she rolled it at night around frozen orange juice containers. I met her in Latin class, where we were rivals for top marks.
“What’s your name again? Olive?” Val said as we left the classroom one afternoon.
I started to say I was Olivia but then said yes. I had decided at that instant to be Olive: firm, green—the olives we had at home were green, with pimentos—bitter.
“See ya,” she said, and was gone.
Talking to Val, when we did talk, was like being with someone from a different culture whose unfamiliar assumptions are so self-evident to the holder that it’s impossible to make clear that one doesn’t share them. Val was a Catholic from an Italian family, but it wasn’t religion or ethnicity that made us different.
At times I felt vaguely dissatisfied with myself for spending time with her, as if doing so were frivolous. The day she first spoke to me, I didn’t tell Helen, but I suggested that Helen might like to call me Olive, and she said, “Don’t be silly.” I agree, it was silly, and my parents—when I began to insist that my name was Olive—scoffed. But except on my driver’s license and passport, I’ve been Olive from then on. Never to Helen.
Near the start of our junior year, signs announcing an after-school literary club appeared on bulletin boards. I proposed that we attend the meeting. Helen and I both wrote poetry. We read aloud from books of poems we bought in Greenwich Village. We had shown our poems to no one but each other, and if asked, we would have denied we wrote them.
“Those girls don’t like me,” Helen said.
“What girls?”
“Valerie Benevento and those irritatingly perfect seniors she spends time with.” She named two girls I had never heard of. “They all write,” she said. “Plays, novels. They think poems are what kids write on Mother’s Day.”
“How do you know?” Val was surely not a writer. Writers did not have beautifully waved hair or sweaters that showed off their breasts. They were sloppy like me, but thinner. Or they looked like Helen, whose stiff, oversize clothes in dull colors were made by her mother and were too big and too young for her.
“I see them around,” Helen said. “They don’t deign to k
now me.”
Still, we went to the meeting. Helen was right—Val attended with two other girls who looked like cheerleaders. “Hi, Olive,” Val said when we came in, and Helen made a sharp sound.
I had thought of writing as a highly significant secret that nobody would admit to it except in circumstances of intimacy and trust. Meetings of a literary club would consist of shy discussions of Emily Dickinson—and maybe, thrillingly, eventually, our own poems. But one of Val’s senior friends called the group to order as if it were an actual organization, and somebody proposed that we start a magazine to publish our own and other students’ writing—as if the school were full of writing. These big, bonny girls talked about writing as if it were a friendly sport involving balls and shouting. When the meeting ended, we had officers. Val was treasurer. She said she’d ask the principal for money to print the magazine, and she’d work out assignments for selling ads.
“You’re friends with her?” Helen said when we’d made our way out into the wind. It was almost dark.
“You mean Valerie?”
“Of course Valerie. What do you want to know her for?”
“I don’t know her.”
“But she called you Olive.” I told her what had happened, months earlier.
Helen said, “You could have just said she got your name wrong. You made much of her little mistake, Olivia; you know you did—you made much.”
Then we both laughed, and for a few weeks I’d tease her, saying, “Wait—am I making much?” Now I said, “But how do you even know her?”
“I’ve known her for years,” she said. She paused, then said in a low voice, “Her sister was my babysitter.” She tugged at her jacket, as if the thought of having needed a babysitter—of not being independent—made clothing tight. We were standing on a street corner, the wind blowing as usual, and I was freezing. I said I had to go, then leaned in and kissed her cheek, and she flicked a cold fingertip over my face—an odd gesture; it hurt a little.
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