by Denise Dietz
“Ten months?”
“No, Papa, weeks.”
“You’ll have an abortion as soon as I can arrange it.”
“Are you insane? You’ve always wanted a grandson.”
“I’ll find a good doctor and—”
“Papa, I’m going to marry Joey. Kill my b-baby? You’ll have to kill me, first.”
“You cannot marry Joseph Weiss, Anissa. He’s your brother.”
“What did you say?”
“Joseph is your half-brother, close enough. That’s why you must agree to this operation.”
“My brother? But . . . but that’s impossible.”
“Grow up, daughter. Must I explain how one conceives a child?”
Why was Eisenhower grinning like a dirty old man with a naked mistress hidden inside his rotunda? Anissa wanted to turn Ike’s picture so that he faced the wall. Instead, she stared at her father, focusing on the brownish-gray mustache he called a soup-strainer. Then, clearing her throat, she said, “Does Joey know? What a stupid question. Of course he doesn’t know. How could he not know?”
“She was well paid, his mother. Joseph was told his father died in Germany, an American soldier. I decided to put my son through school. It was a mistake, bringing him here, but I wanted to see . . . I never thought . . . it was a big mistake.”
“Please don’t tell him, Papa. He’d be so hurt. He doesn’t even suspect.” She felt her eyes widen. “Mama’s illness. Is that the reason? Did she find out?”
“No.” Jacob chomped on his dead cigar. At the same time, he reached for a box of matches. “My father fought for Hitler, died for Hitler. My mother did things to survive, and I was born fifteen months after my father died.”
Papa’s a bastard, Anissa thought. No wonder he wanted a legitimate son so badly. And now, a legitimate grandson. Stern-whatever, not Stern-Weiss, which would be Stern-Stern. Oh, God!
“I don’t blame my mother,” Jacob continued. “Sometimes you have to weather the storm, no matter what it might cost. The ends justify the means.”
Anissa blinked her tears away. “Did you love Joe’s mother?”
“I suppose I did. But I couldn’t marry her.”
“Why? Because she was Jewish?”
“No. Because she didn’t have any money. Politics require lots of money.”
“Joe must never find out. You should see his mother’s grave. All he talks about is making her proud of him. You must never tell him, Papa.”
“Then you will forget this plan to marry?”
“No.” Anissa dabbed at her tears with the back of her hand. “We can still be married. After all, he’s only my half brother. You just said the ends justify the means. I’ll have my tubes tied when I get the abortion.”
Jacob jumped up, overturning his chair. “You will not have your tubes tied. If you are foolish enough to attempt it, I will tell Joseph that he is my son.”
Stupid, thought Anissa. Tubes tied. What a stupid thing to say.
“I will describe every moment I spent with his mother, in detail. Then I will remove him from my house.”
We should have eloped last night.
“If you run away together,” Jacob continued, reading her mind, “I’ll hire a private eye.” Rising, he walked around the desk and extended his arms. “You’re so white, daughter. Are you going to faint?”
“Don’t touch me. And don’t call me daughter.”
“But you are my daughter. Because you are, and because I care for you, I will make the arrangements for your future.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll find you a husband. Once you’re married, Joseph will leave you alone. You will honor your marriage vows. You could not have lived all those years with Theresa and learned deceit. You’ll be wed after the abortion, but we need to find someone who will keep the abortion secret. Mein Gott! I loaned Dr. Dietrich the funds for his medical center. Did you know that?”
I know what a thirsty flower feels like.
Maybe Joey’s love was stronger than mere illegitimacy, stronger than their half-brother, half-sister relationship. If only Bobby Hoffman had told the truth about switching babies. Anissa remembered how she’d felt when Bobby insisted he was Jacob’s son and she was Susan’s bastard.
Joey might be consolatory today, next month, next year. He might even forgive his mother’s sin. But eventually he’d grow to hate Anissa because she had caused his hurt and because she was Jacob’s legitimate child. Child. Children. What about children? She and Joey could adopt. But wouldn’t Joey, like Jacob, desperately desire a legitimate heir?
It was hopeless, a Tennessee Williams script.
Jacob re-lit his cigar. Mesmerized by the flaming match, Anissa remembered last night, when she had felt like a firefly trapped inside a fist.
“Do you promise to obey me, daughter? Do I have your word?”
“Yes, Senator.”
* * * * *
Reject. Rejection. Screw rejoice!
Anissa planned her confrontation carefully. Waiting for Joe to join her in the library courtyard, she pretended the situation was a Biblical play titled “The Denouncement of Joseph.”
Clouds had dimmed the day, so she wore a red University of Wisconsin sweatshirt whose black badger eyed her breasts. Beneath a short plaid skirt she wore knee-socks and sneakers. She had plaited her hair in two braids, then wound them on top of her head like a crown; a regal Christian image.
She had even blocked the play in her head—Joey sitting at her feet, a subject playing homage to his sovereign.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t studied her secret script. Sliding his body close to hers on the bench, he said, “It’s about to rain. Let’s scurry to the Rathskeller for coffee.” His eyes probed her face. “Anissa, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve made a decision and I don’t think you’ll like it.”
She had already written the play, figured out which lines would occur, memorized her responses. Act one, scene one followed her script, with a few inconsequential adlibs. Anissa said she was marrying Karl Dietrich Jr. because Jacob didn’t approve of Joe, at least not for a husband. Yes, she had told Jacob last week, following Streetcar’s opening night, and the Senator had threatened to cancel all financial support, probably because Joe was poor and Jewish.
Anissa kept her shoulders straight and her head high, made it sound as if she would miss Jacob’s department store generosity, for example her pretty clothes. Then there was her new Mustang convertible—damn, she’d hate to lose that. She cued Joe but cut his lines when he replied. She never stepped out of character and she could see that he believed her dialogue.
Act one, scene two, Joey threw her a zinger.
“What about the baby, Anissa?”
“Baby?”
“I’m not dense, or blind, and I can count. You haven’t had your period since February. I’ve noticed a look in your eyes and I’ve seen you stroke your stomach when you thought I wasn’t watching.”
She pressed her hands against her flat belly. Her mind raced, revising the script, forming a desperate lie. Dear God, help me. I’ve got to give the best performance of my life.
“There is no baby,” she said.
“What did you do? Oh my God! You had an abortion.” Anguish clouded his blue eyes. “We could have made it without your father, angel. Did you think I’d be upset? You know me better than that. I must have done something to make you lose your trust.” Gathering her into his arms, he massaged the rigid muscles in her neck and shoulders.
She pulled away. “I had to have an abortion,” she said, her voice sincere, bitter. “I had no choice.”
“Why? Was there something wrong with the baby?”
“Yes. It wasn’t your child.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve been together since Christmas. There’s no one else. There couldn’t be.”
“Yes, there is. Was. Remember the week you and Jacob went to Chicago for that Deutsch staff meeting? The stock thing?”
“March,” Joe said, “around St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Susan had Bobby over for dinner and I drove him home. His car wasn’t working. Isn’t that fuh-funny? He fixes cars for a living and his wasn’t working.”
“Very funny.”
“We stopped for some drinks. Piña coladas with little umbrellas. I got sloshed. The umbrellas were so cute and they served the drinks in co-coconut shells.”
“Go on.”
“Bobby started to m-make love and I had never had sex with anyone but you and I was curious and I . . . I . . . it was only that one night.”
“How was he?”
“What?”
“Am I speaking a foreign language? Read my lips. How was he?”
She winced. “He was okay.”
“Did you do all the things we do together? Or did you just let him have his way with you?”
“I . . . we . . .”
“You said you were sloshed. He took advantage of that. You couldn’t fight back and I wasn’t there this time to stop—”
“Together. We did it together.”
“Shut up!” Joe jumped to his feet and clenched his fists. “I’ll have a talk with that stupid shit. Bobby’s face will look like a strawberry piña colada when I’m finished.”
“Typical. Beating up a man to protect your honor.”
“Why are you protecting him? Bobby did something, threatened you. He must have.”
“No, Joey. I wanted it. Remember Christmas Eve when you said I was reacting to my mother’s soap operas? Bobby believed every word, especially the wet and thumpy part. It was me. I got down on my knees and—”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Blinded by tears, Joe staggered to the bench, bent his head, and covered his face with his hands. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this.” Tightening his fingers again, he pounded on the bench slats.
Anissa flinched.
“It might have been my child,” Joe said. “If it was only that one night with Bobby, it probably was mine. Did you think Bobby would brag about it? I wouldn’t have believed him.”
I have to tell the truth. She pictured Joey kneeling beside his mother’s grave. “Mom would have adored you, angel,” he had said. “We’ll name one of our babies after her, okay?”
I have to tell the truth. Dizzy from indecision, she heard Aunt Theresa quoting from the New Testament, something about how a fool, when he holds his peace, is counted wise.
I can’t tell the truth.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m engaged to Karl.”
“He plans to become a doctor like his father, doesn’t he? Second generation butcher of babies. Are you going to cheat on Karl, too?”
“Not if he keeps me satisfied,” she said, wanting to end her painful play. No applause for this performance.
“You remind me of your father, Anissa. He had quite a reputation. They called him Senator Stud.”
It began to rain. Anissa felt as though God held a piña colada umbrella over her head. She patted her crown of wet, regal braids. “Jacob says I’m a chip off the old block,” she said, remembering her father’s backstage compliment.
“Go to hell, angel.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her reply lost in a sudden burst of thunder. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Oh, Joey, my love, my only love, the devil can’t compare to Papa.”
It was the last time Anissa ever called her father Papa.
* * * * *
The lounge on State Street was filled to bursting with students. Some celebrated the end of finals while others avoided studying for tomorrow’s exams. Joe focused on a Budweiser clock. Tick-tock. Clip-clop. Chip-block. What the hell were the Budweiser horses called?
Tick. Tock. Clop. Chip. Anissa was a chip off the old block.
“You okay, Weiss?” asked a pre-law buddy.
“Bet your fuckin’ A.”
It’s almost over, thought Joe. He wondered if Anissa expected him to attend her wedding farce. Strange how Jacob didn’t object when Joe gave some lame excuse about exam fatigue. Anissa’s confession outside the library was strange, too. She wouldn’t sleep with Bobby Hoffman and she didn’t care that much about money.
Something else was very strange, almost bizarre. In that whole discussion she never once said Papa. She sounded as if she hated him and called him Jacob or Senator. The Senator doesn’t approve, Joey. The Senator will cancel my allowance. Jacob wants me to marry Karl.
Joe shook his head. Christ, I’m drunk. Can’t think straight. Maybe she did call him Papa. No, she didn’t.
Gulping down a full stein of beer, he added the empty mug to the others lined up along the table’s edge, then swallowed a shot of whiskey.
“It’s almost over,” he said.
“What’s almost over, Weiss?” asked his pre-law buddy. “School? Exams?”
“The contest, you asshole. Place your bets. Bet your fuckin’ A.”
Nickels, dimes, quarters and dollar bills rained down upon the table. Across from Joe, an overweight student named Howard finished his eighth mug of beer, although most of it trickled from the corners of his mouth, toward his double chin. Howard stared hypnotically at his shot glass; they’d added the whiskey after mug number five. “Chugalug,” he finally mumbled.
“Chugalug,” several voices chanted. The contest had attracted a large crowd. One woman—had Joe brought her?—rubbed her pointy breasts against his shoulder. Her sweater was so tight, he could see the outline of her bra. Christ, she was drunk too. He couldn’t remember her name.
“Your turn to chug, darlin’,” she said with a pretty pout. “Then maybe we can leave. I don’t want to spend all night in this crummy joint.”
“Objection sustained. Chugalug.” Joe downed his mug of dark brew and swallowed his shot of whiskey.
“Chuggy-lug,” mumbled Howard. He lifted his mug, gulped half, belched it all up, then slid from his chair to the floor. He started spouting beer, like a whale. His face turned as green as the Jolly Green Giant. In another moment, less than a moment, he’d puke. Six students carried him toward the restrooms.
Joe remembered. The girl with the pointy breasts was Sharon—Sharon The Homecoming Queen. She hailed from Georgia, belonged to Sigma Delta Tau sorority, and was engaged to a Harvard Med student. Queen Sharon had bumped into Joe, agreed to help him celebrate finals, but warned him that she was “savin’ it for the weddin’ night.” Now Joe watched her drink her own gin and tonic, then Howard’s neglected shot. Scrambling up onto the table, she tugged at her sweater. “Itchy,” she said.
“Take it off, take it off,” chanted the crowd.
Queen Sharon shed her sweater, reached for her bra, and pitched forward, straight into the arms of an All-American tight end. Black and beautiful, he wore a gray sweatshirt with sawed-off sleeves.
“On Wisconsin,” he sang, hefting her across one broad shoulder and staggering toward the exit. “A touchdown sure this time.”
Queen Sharon’s legs dangled down his chest like a turkey’s wishbone. Her skirt had hiked all the way up and the jock was fondling the crotch of her silk panties. She looked as if she was about to orgasm. Eyes shut, she chugged like the little engine who could, but her face was almost as green as Howard’s, and Joe didn’t hold out much hope for the back of the jock’s sweatshirt.
Neither did anybody else. People scurried out of the way, aware that projectile vomiting wasn’t uncommon—especially among sorority girls.
Joe wondered if he should object. After all, he had brought Sharon to this “crummy joint.”
Objection overruled. God, he was such a bastard. He tried to focus on the Bud horse-clock. Numbers solidified. “Ish over,” he slurred. “I made it.”
“You sure did, pal,” said Joe’s pre-law buddy. “We just won fifty bucks.”
“Sharon?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“The moon? The pavement? Who cares?”
“I should ’scort her home.”
&nbs
p; “Why? You couldn’t get it up.”
“No, no, she’s engaged to a doctor.” Joe glanced at the clock again. “Wrong. She’s married. Oh, God! Anisssaaa.”
“C’mon, numb-nuts, I’ll ’scort you home.”
“Shit, man, I can drive.”
“You can’t even walk, you asshole.”
* * * * *
Anissa made all the correct responses at her wedding. Karl was the one who stammered. He even forgot to lift her veil after the minister’s kiss-the-bride.
Through the wispy shroud that covered her face, Karl’s breath tasted like cherry Lifesavers. Anissa endured the sloppy kiss. She would be a good wife but she’d never give Jacob his grandson. On her way to the church she’d picked up a full wheel of birth control pills.
Dry-eyed, she clutched Karl’s sweaty hand and walked back down the aisle. Jacob had given her away, but now she belonged to him completely.
Last week, after Joey had abruptly raced from the courtyard, the curtain of rain had continued descending on her original one-act drama, mingling with the tears on her face. She hadn’t cried since.
I’ll never cry again, never feel anything again. Tears don’t wash away sorrow. They just make your eyes puffy.
During the reception, Anissa drank champagne, hoping it would blur the evening. Instead, it gave her a throbbing headache.
The moon was full when she and Karl finally left, escorted to her dark green Mustang by the cheering guests. While Anissa drove toward the small house that Jacob had leased for the “happy couple,” tin cans played a discordant tune. She turned on the radio, hoping to drown out the sound. The radio played Harry Nilsson’s “Without You.” She turned it off.
She parked, navigated three porch steps, and hesitated at the doorway, wondering if Karl planned to carry her across the threshold. But he brushed past her and disappeared into the bathroom. When he sauntered out, he had put on white pajamas with red hearts and chubby-winged Cupids. Anissa shook the rice from her long hair. Karl probably couldn’t lift her anyway. He was exactly her height and looked like the Cupids on his pajamas, minus their wings. During football season he wore a fuzzy badger costume and led the cheering squad.
“Hey, get ready Mrs. Dietrich,” he said. “Why are you just standing there? Hey, if you need to use the can, I’m finished. If it smells, light a match. Hey, do you want a drink first? There’s champagne. Damn, I left the bottle in the car. Hey, do you want me to fetch it?”
