Our Father

by Marilyn French

  She was abnormal.

  For months she hid her feelings in a tight withdrawal from girls, palling around with the guys in her class, who could not hurt her because she didn’t care about them. She copied them—walked like them, talked like them, cursed like them, showed the same bravado. They had accepted her, seemed to like her, until one evening, hanging out on a street corner with the guys, one of them—Nino—had challenged her, accusing her of not being much of a girl, poking her shoulder, trying to pin her against a telephone pole, to kiss her. She had punched him out—he was only a skinny kid and wasn’t expecting that—and stalked off. After that, she determined to live without friends of either sex.

  Still, she continued to maintain her masculine posture, and oddly enough, it attracted a number of girls. She became popular, to her own astonishment, sought after; girls were chasing her! And eventually, she began to respond to them with more than grunts, let her face show something more than bland indifference. She began to make friends. The girls adored her: they accepted her as different from them, as the tough girl, one who could defend them, who was unintimidated by boys. But she never kissed a girl, never held a hand or caressed a head. Until she was nineteen, a freshman at BU, and met Susan at a BU party. Susan was older, a psychiatrist who taught part-time at the university but had her own practice. Ronnie was in her course, Intro to Psychology. Susan was grown up: she wore her black hair smoothed back in a knot and dark suits, and she looked at Ronnie with hungry eyes as the girl paraded her boyish ways before her. Amused, delighted, and admiring, Susan invited Ronnie to her apartment for drinks.

  What a place! Ronnie had never seen such a place, all chrome and glass and slate, with windows facing the Charles, paintings on the walls (all very modern, Ronnie didn’t care for them), a stereo and a huge record collection. She put on some music she said was Mahler, and she made Ronnie sit on the couch next to her and she gave her brandy in a big wide-bowled glass like those Ronnie had seen Stephen hand around to guests. And she asked her how the music made her feel, which was hard to express, it was at once so silly and so dramatic and made her think of death, and then she took her hand, and pressed against Ronnie, leaning her back against the couch, and kissed her so so delicately. Ronnie, having crushed her longings for years, was overwhelmed, responded with fervor, and soon was in Susan’s huge bed, lying on satin sheets. Satin sheets!

  Susan loved Ronnie’s boyishness. She insisted that Ronnie move in with her and gave her a closet and dresser of her own. She had Ronnie drive her car, an antique MG, when they went out in it, and she handed Ronnie her credit card to pay for dinner when they ate in restaurants. And they ate in nice restaurants, places Ronnie had never expected to see the insides of. It was a luxurious life, but Susan liked Ronnie to hurt her in sex, which Ronnie did not enjoy. And there could be no deviation from their roles. Ronnie was the male, Susan the female.

  Ronnie began to feel uncomfortable, and the night Susan demanded she handcuff her to the bed and spank her, Ronnie rebelled.

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  Susan went white with fury. “Who do you think you are, you little spic! I picked you up off the streets, I support you, keep you in luxury! You do what I want or you get out! Just get out!”

  Ronnie packed her few belongings, managed to catch the last T and walked the long blocks to Rosa’s at one in the morning, banged on the door asking for a bed.

  Still, somehow, her role was set by then. Ronnie was the girl who could change a tire, fix the toaster, who could lift and carry heavy weights, drive the car like a pro, and who never cried, nor showed ever any ache or need for tenderness. She was tough. She could give love but did not need to receive it. Stroking Sarah’s back when Sarah was upset had caught at her heart, but when Sarah put her arms around her, tried to console her after she heard the news about her mother, her back and neck stayed stiff, her voice taut. She pulled away, insisting, “I’m okay, it’s okay.”

  Always insisting on giving sexual pleasure first, and then sometimes refusing to receive it. “Seeing you enjoy yourself is enough for me.” The crushed look on Lilah’s face. Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t want to share her new salary with Ronnie that had drawn Lilah away from her: receiving is giving and she had refused to receive, refused to give Lilah the pleasure of pleasuring her, of consoling her, of touching the tenderness hidden beneath all her layers of armor.

  How do I know that now?

  Momma had been able to love a man she knew was in some sense her enemy, a man who refused to acknowledge her child, his child, who kept her a servant, whose money she took and hid, refusing to spend it on anything that would increase her attractiveness to him. He must have known that, must have seen the rebellion in her. But maybe not. She always wore a uniform when the family was in residence. She wore those cotton housedresses only when they were away. She dressed up for Mass on Sunday, he might have seen her then in one of her rayon things, dresses bought for a few dollars in Filene’s basement. And when she took her rare trip to Boston to see her old friends and—although Ronnie did not know it at the time—Rosa.

  She stopped to consider this for the first time, the way Momma—once she had heard from Ronnie and knew where she was—had respected her abandonment by leaving her alone, but had visited Rosa from time to time to find out how she was, what she was doing, to make sure she was all right. How did Momma learn such delicacy, how did she know how to juggle things in herself to keep them in balance?

  A little awed by her mother’s approach to life, she sat feeling her mind gaping open. Then the phone rang again, and she cursed: here she’d built the fire, but was having to leave it every minute. It was Mary, her voice as tense and hollow as Elizabeth’s, but far more enthusiastic. Things were fine, wonderful really, she had been able to pay some bills and hire a real maid again, she’d bought some new clothes, she’d been lunching out, going to the theatre. It was wonderful. But—and then she grew tentative—she missed Ronnie, missed the others, and didn’t, really didn’t want to spend Christmas at Martin’s. How would it be if she came up there? Maybe they could even put up a tree together, something she’d never herself personally done, but look, she’d learned to make tea and French toast and even coffee, hadn’t she, she’d almost learned to drive, so Ronnie could teach her how to put up a tree.

  They all assume I know, Ronnie thought, amused. Actually, I do: every Christmas at Rosa’s, it was a major celebration, the putting up of the tree.

  “Elizabeth’s coming too,” Ronnie said.

  “Lizzie’s coming?” she cried, and sounded near tears. “Oh wonderful! Wonderful!” Her voice was thick. “When?”

  “Saturday. I don’t know what time.”

  “All right, I’ll call her and find out, so I can get a shuttle that arrives around the same time. That way, it won’t be a problem for Aldo.”

  Mary, worrying about troubling a servant?

  “Have you heard from Alex?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “No. Well, she has a family. Actually, Ronnie, I thought I’d invite Marie-Laure too. She hates to go to Martin’s as much as I do, and she was going to a friend’s house—but maybe she’ll come with me instead.”

  Is she asking my permission? She owns the fucking house.

  “Sure,” she said unenthusiastically. Probably a spoiled-brat snob who would complain about everything. Well, she’d better not think she could treat Ronnie like a servant, that was all.

  Mary’s voice was high and gay. “Wonderful! I’ll be in touch then. Soon. Good to talk to you, Ron!”

  She was still somewhat in shock from this phone call when the phone rang again. It was Alex, sounding a little wistful.

  “How have you been, Ronnie? How’s your dissertation going?” She sounded as if she really cared. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Yes, everything’s fine here. It’s the first night of Hanukkah tonight, so we’re having sort of a party. My in-laws are here and David’s uncle and aunt and cousins. But I keep thinking a
bout you—all of you.”

  “So are the others, it seems. Elizabeth and Mary just called. They’re coming up here for Christmas.”

  “THEY ARE?” Silence. Then a mournful, “Oh, I wish I could be there.”

  “Why don’t you come?”

  “Oh, I wish I could. Christmas is the last day of Hanukkah. Well, maybe I can. It’s the last day, after all. We don’t celebrate Christmas, David doesn’t approve of it, even though I think the kids would like to celebrate both … but why not? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to spend Christmas with my sisters? I’m coming. I may not be able to come until the last minute, probably not until Christmas Eve, but I’m coming, tell them I’ll be there. With bells on! I’ve missed you all so!”

  Ronnie could not resist revealing her curiosity. “How have things been at home?”

  Alex was silent for a long moment. “Hard,” she said finally. “But not cruel. David is really … he’s a dear man and he understands more than I thought he would. My mother … well, it’s been hard for her. And the kids don’t understand at all. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. I’m so happy I’m coming!”

  Ronnie set the phone down with an amazed smile on her face. All of them, all of them, it mattered to all of them. This had nothing to do with money. This was love.

  Love!

  Presents would be required, and for once she had enough money to buy them, decent presents, presents chosen for people, forgetting price. So on Friday, she asked Aldo for a lift to the station and took the Boston train—it was easier to travel by train than to worry about parking a desirable car that was not her own in the car-theft capital of the world. She got off in Cambridge, walking from Porter Square to Harvard Square, where she wandered from shop to shop, knowing exactly what she wanted for her sisters, feeling she knew exactly what would please them. Then she took the T to Boston and shopped in the department stores for more practical gifts for Rosa, Enriqué, and the kids. She had everything wrapped in gaudy paper. She had called Rosa the night before to make sure the family would be home this evening, and Rosa had ordered her to come to dinner. It was after five when, laden with parcels, she took the T to Somerville, where they lived now. Following Rosa’s directions, she walked the long blocks lined with wooden three-deckers. Theirs was on a quiet street with some trees remaining on it and a patch of garden in front. Someone had taken the trouble to plant some roses and chrysanthemums in it, and although everything was brown and dead now, it looked like a garden, not a waste patch like some of the others. Much better than the last place they lived, she thought.

  The Torres family had the first floor, and Rosa flung open the door at Ronnie’s ring, threw her arms around her neck, talking, crying, almost screaming as she drew her in, and there were Enriqué, Téo, Lidia, and Joey, all waiting in the kitchen, leaping up, beaming, all talking at once, their arms open to her, to little Ronnie, their little love, their sister, the little hurt bird who had healed in their nest.

  Wine was poured, even Téo had some, he was sixteen now, a man, and Lidia was allowed to mix some with sparkling water, and Joey had a Coke, and she asked news and they asked news and everyone listened to what the others said. Ronnie was careful not to mention Tina, and Rosa only mentioned Raoul once, tears starting in her eyes immediately she did, but she brushed them away and went on talking. They were fine, they were good: they owned this house! All of it! It was theirs! It was hard keeping it, good tenants were not always to be found, but they had both upper floors rented to dependable people now, that made things easier. Enriqué worked hard keeping it in good condition, he had painted the house, mended the roof, he had even planted a garden in front and next spring he was going to put one in back.

  “Me too, Papa, right?” Téo interrupted.

  “And me too,” Lidia yelled. “I want to plant tomatoes.”

  “Sí, we will have tomatoes and corn and beans, and whatever you want, my children,” Enriqué said expansively.

  Ronnie noted that although it was a Friday evening, he was home. His belly was smaller than it had been, he looked fit. Rosa must have won her battle with him. Ronnie gazed at the small woman with the dark circles under her eyes, a face that had worn hard folds of worry years ago. It was fuller now, less tense; she looked almost serene.

  Rosa had a real job now, sewing in a sweatshop, hard work but it paid better than doing piecework at home, and Téo had a job after school at the supermarket and earned his own spending money, and Lidia took care of Joey after school—for which her mother (unbelievably in this family) paid her! And on weekends, she baby-sat for the college professors who lived down the block. She was saving money, so was Téo.

  “They both go to college,” Rosa announced in a truculent voice, allowing no contradiction.

  Remembering Téo’s poor grades, his difficulty learning to read, Ronnie wanted to ask more but didn’t dare. Their failure with their two elder children was a scar across both Rosa and Enriqué, one that had hardened in such a way as to make further such failures unthinkable. Not to be allowed. Certainly not to be spoken of.

  Every family has its silences, she thought. Silences form over scars. Even I and I’m not even a family. For she told them nothing about Stephen, nothing about her sisters. She said that since Noradia died, she had been working as a caretaker at the Lincoln house in order to work on her dissertation, that she was well into it, thought it would take her six months, then she would leave.

  “He die, you momma’s bossman,” Rosa said. “I see on TV Big funeral, the president come, Nixon come, the Bush, all important Anglo men.”

  “Yes,” Ronnie breathed.

  “Right after you momma,” she added shrewdly.

  Could Noradia have told her?

  “Yes.”

  “Ronnie don’t care about that old man,” Enriqué said heartily, pouring more wine into her glass. “He was nothing to her!”

  But Rosa was looking at her curiously.

  “Right,” Ronnie said, raising her glass to her lips to drink. Rosa was still looking at her. She made her voice strong, light, gay. “But you know what my momma did?—all those years she worked there, she saved all her money, she put it in the bank. For me! So when I finish my thesis and get a job, I have enough money for a car, to get an apartment, to get settled in life!”

  Rosa leapt up, threw her arms around Ronnie. “You momma, she was good woman! More! She was a saint! A saint!” she yelled at Ronnie ferociously. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “I know she was,” Ronnie laughed, embracing Rosa back, hugging her hard enough to satisfy her, so that she could sit down again sighing, wiping her eyes, smiling broadly at Ronnie.

  “You not know how good she was, you run away from home, from her. She say she understand, she never blame you even though a year you not tell her where you are. I kill you for that if you mine! She come here and sit with me while I work, make me coffee, she want to know you okay. Years and years she did that. A saint!”

  Enriqué was uncomfortable with such talk. “How about dinner, huh, Rosa? You get the girl here to starve her? When we eat?”

  Rosa stood up, Lidia too: the bustle of food preparation began, and the moment passed. The woman and the girl set out the richly flavored food—a loin of pork roasted overnight with rice and tomatoes and green peppers and onions and black beans, served with bananas, and for dessert, a gooey cream cake. The family ate with gusto, the children eager to get on with what they knew was coming, the opening of the presents Ronnie had brought. In the noisy joyful business (“How did you know I loved red?” “Oh, just the kind of shirt I love, Ronnie!” “Oh, Ronnie,” Rosa blushed, holding the pink satin nightgown up to her face, “I have always wanted …”), the opening of another bottle of wine, the moment did not return. But happy as the evening was, warm and embracing, as Ronnie walked back to the T after ten, down past the quiet fronts of the clapboard houses, her steps soundless in her rubber-soled shoes, she felt she could never go back.

  Can’t come her
e again. At least not when she’s alone. She’s too curious. Did Momma get that look on her face when she mentioned him? She probably didn’t ask Momma, but she wondered. How could I tell her? Momma and him, what he did to me? She’d blame Momma, she wouldn’t understand how she loved him, she’d think Momma sacrificed me to him. The way I felt for a long time. She won’t give it up, I can see it in her face, she won’t back off, she’s determined to find out what happened now that Momma’s dead, he’s dead.

  Good-bye Rosa. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

  Oh, don’t be so dramatic, for god’s sake. You can visit them on holidays, birthdays, when the whole family is around. In time she’ll accept that you’re simply not going to talk about it. You don’t have to cut people off. She keeps Tina in her life no matter what Enriqué says, and he knows it. While we did the dishes, I whispered in her ear, “How’s Tina?” and she shrugged, “The same, she make lots of money but she look bad. I think maybe she have AIDS.” Her eyes filled with tears, I held her, but then Enriqué yelled in asking where Téo had gone, and we broke apart, finished our work. She negotiates silences. I can too.

  Ronnie was still laden with packages—her presents from Rosa and Enriqué, her presents for her sisters, and some special items bought with great trepidation that afternoon to surprise them. She smiled imagining their reactions. But she was tired, the packages were heavy, and she still had a long trip ahead of her. Wish Aldo had been waiting just outside the door of Rosa’s house.

  Spoiled brat you’ve turned into, she thought, trudging on.

  She spent Saturday morning out in the woods examining trees, trying to decide whether they should cut one of their own or buy one in town. She hated to part with a young pine, and she studied them all carefully. Each one seemed to have some special quality that deserved to be retained, and she gave up. Let them decide, she thought, walking back to the house. And decide they did. They arrived late, around four, long after she expected them, but the car was laden down. They’d stopped in town and purchased a tree, a stand, and Christmas lights. The car also bore their suitcases, their bags of gifts, Mary’s two fur coats, Elizabeth’s portable computer. They were as excited and almost as talkative as the Torres family, embracing her, laughing, talking at once.