by Marge Piercy
THE VIEWING on Friday was weird. Her grandfather was wearing a navy suit and a crisp shirt, instead of his usual costume of overalls, a woodsman’s buffalo plaid shirt and the muffler he wore knotted around his turkey neck except in the heat of summer. There was a steady line of people along the coffin saying the requisite things to the family. She was part of the receiving line. So was Karen, looking pale. Her reddish hair was streaked with grey and she had grown plump in the facility. She had always been a horsewoman and an athlete, playing tennis, golf, squash, anything she could excel at. Melissa was struck by a strong resemblance between Billy and Aunt Karen she had never recognized. It was not just that they both had that reddish blond hair that had skipped Melissa and Rich. They were—at least Karen had been—of the same full-bodied highly colored beauty, so different from Rosemary and Merilee. Melissa was glad to see her aunt, who was far less conventional than the rest of the family. She had never married. She had gone out for sports as was expected but too seriously. At one time she had been a professional tennis player, until an injury put a stop to her career. She had given tennis lessons for years, and Melissa played as well as she did because of her aunt.
It had been a wonderful treat to visit Karen alone, as she was allowed to do when she was eleven, taking the train to New York, where Karen was living in Chelsea. They went to Staten Island on the ferry and Radio City Music Hall and the Bronx Zoo and the Museum of Natural History, with its dinosaurs. She had even told herself a tale in which her aunt formally adopted her. It would be just the two of them having adventures, riding horses, taking planes, going to movies and musicals and amusement parks where Karen always hit the target and won the big fuzzy blue bear for her. They were both the third child in their generations.
How often had she thought of Karen since the sanitarium? She had seen her briefly two years before at Grandpa Dickinson’s seventy-fifth birthday, but Karen had only been let out for the day, and there had been little opportunity to talk. Since then, her own fraught social life or lack of it had filled Melissa’s consciousness. She tried to maneuver closer to Karen in the receiving line. Finally she got Merilee to change places with her so she stood next to their aunt. “It’s great to see you.”
“It’s great to be seen. I’m waiting to find out what happens.”
“Can I come up to your room afterward?” Melissa whispered.
Karen nodded slightly and extended her hand to the next well-wisher. The line was mostly local people, but Vermont officials had shown up in honor of the Senator. Some were Democrats, but Melissa had figured out years before all politicians belonged to the same club. They had more in common with each other than with their constituents; the higher up they were, the truer that was.
Afterward, her parents invited the Republican officials back to the house for drinks, the combination of Washington and local gossip and intense partisan political discussion Dick thrived on. Merilee was studying in the kitchen. Billy had disappeared. Melissa crept off to Karen’s room. “Wasn’t this Grandpa’s room?” It was actually the biggest bedroom in the house, looking toward the mountains in the daytime. Like the rest of the house, it was cold and a little damp.
“Right. I don’t know if it’s to placate me, or if no one else wanted to sleep in his bed.”
“Karen, what happened to you? Did you like collapse or go on a bender and wake up like in Mexico sleeping with a toad?”
“How old are you now, Lissa?”
“Nineteen.”
“Do you have a lover?”
Melissa paused, but she had always trusted Karen. She nodded. “But nobody, nobody in the family knows about him.”
“Why? Is he Black or Jewish or something?”
“Both.”
“Oh my god, you’ve hit the jackpot. But he is a guy?”
“Yeah. He has a motorcycle. He goes to Wesleyan with me.”
Karen was sprawled in the bed in pajamas and an old woolen robe Melissa was sure had belonged to Grandpa. “Keep it to yourself as long as you can. They don’t react well to unusual choices. Mine wasn’t a guy at all.”
“It was a woman?”
“Much of one.” Karen blew out a perfect smoke ring. “Eve was not only a lesbian but a leftie and that did it. Dick got my dad to commit me to Mountain View Rehabilitation Center, a facility for misfits from wealthy families.”
“That’s horrible. Couldn’t you get a lawyer?”
“If I didn’t agree, they were going to get Eve. With a little help from your friendly FBI and state police, the IRS, you can get almost anyone for something. So I took the rest cure. I thought they’d let me out in six months, but they just parked me and forgot to open the gate. But I’m out now and I’m not, not, not going back. Ever!”
“You need a good lawyer. My boyfriend’s father is a famous lawyer in Philadelphia.”
“I might take you up on that.” Karen yawned. “Now it’s way past my bedtime, although it’s going to be weird trying to sleep without the nurse handing out the go-to-sleep-little-sheep tabs. I’ve been so overmedicated, it will be a year before the shit leaves my system…. You’re looking good, Lissa. You look human, unlike most of the rest of this bunch of cannibals.”
They had burned part of Karen away, Melissa could tell, but there was still enough left so she hoped that her aunt could manage to stay free. She would be an ally. She always had been.
The funeral was interminable. Dick was handsome in a finely tailored black suit he had worn at important funerals in Pennsylvania. Dick never put on a pound, any more than Rosemary did. She stood tiny but regal, resplendent in a long black dress, and everyone gazed at them. Dick gave a moving eulogy to his father that Rosemary had written that morning on her laptop in the kitchen. Melissa found it hard to believe that her mother had really liked Grandpa, because he certainly had been nasty to her for the first ten years of her marriage. He pretended he couldn’t remember Rosemary’s name, addressing her as Mary Rose, Rosalie, Rosamund. He’d introduce his son to local people and pointedly refuse to introduce the wife. But Rosemary believed in breeding, in blood, in all the things that Grandpa too believed in. He was a man prone to dismissing most ethnic groups as the scum of the earth. She had heard Grandpa use the phrase fifty times. Finally after Rosemary had produced a governor out of his son, he must have forgiven her the undistinguished Baptist family from Youngstown, Ohio, and considered her an honorary member of WASP nobility. Rosemary had never been less than respectful and affectionate with him. He was the patriarch, and Rosemary believed in the natural superiority of men. That had nothing to do with intelligence or ability, except for the ability to rule.
Dick liked his father well enough, but Melissa would never have described them as close. She doubted they had ever had a personal conversation except for perhaps the time when Dick announced he was marrying Rosemary and Grandpa exploded in contempt. Yet they seemed to think each other fine. Many times, she had tried to imagine what went on inside Grandpa: all she could come up with was a large cold empty room with a clock on the wall ticking furiously and a calendar on one white wall with a picture of a cow.
Sunday Grandpa’s lawyer called them all into the parlor for a reading of Grandpa’s will. “To my beloved son Richard Tertius, of whose career I am rightfully satisfied, I hereby bequeath all my personal papers, the family photos including the historical treasures of our legacy, the silver that I received from my own father, any of my personal items he may desire and my horse Legerdemain, as every gentleman should possess a horse. I also bequeath to him the pair of dueling pistols I inherited from my own father, which belonged to my Great-grandfather Lucas Dickinson. Also my silver duck-headed cane. I leave him the contents of my checking account at First National Bank of Montpelier so he may act as executor and carry out the provisions of this will.
“To my beloved grandson Richard IV, I bequeath the sword our Great-great-grandfather wore as an officer in the Union army, along with a copy of the book he wrote about his exploits. I also bequeath to hi
m the pastel of our Great-great-grandmother Malvina, who was a cousin to Robert E. Lee.
“To my granddaughters and younger grandson, they may select something from the house that pleases them, providing that it is not an item desired by their father or needed by the owner of the house.
“To my daughter, Karen Bernice, I bequeath the house and land, the cows and my gelding Lancelot and the mare Guinevere. I ask that she spare the cows the butcher’s block and keep them in good health on the land until they may die a natural death. I also leave her the contents of my savings account at First National Bank of Montpelier, so she may be able to pay the expenses of the farm until she is self-sufficient again. I also leave her my stocks, of which my lawyer has a list. They should provide some income. All of the bequeathals to my daughter, Karen, are provisional upon her promise never to see Eve Kalman again so long as she may live.”
“Well, that’s easy,” Karen said dryly. “Eve died piloting her plane three years ago. You all wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.”
Afterward, the family went out to Sunday dinner without Karen or the local people. Karen was busy trying to inventory the house and go over the books. Merilee had left early, to be back for her makeup exam. “Well, I’m a bit surprised,” Dick said, sipping a predinner martini. “The old man had a soft spot for Karen.”
“What would we do with the farm, besides sell it? I doubt it’s worth much. I did hope he’d leave us the stock,” Rosemary said.
“He had to provide for Karen. He’d taken her out of circulation for five years,” Rich said. “That or we’d have to pay for Mountain View. I for one would really object to that.”
“But really, to leave Rich a rusty old sword and an ill-painted portrait,” Laura said. “What could he be thinking of? Personally I wonder if we couldn’t have redone the place into a nice summer home.”
Rosemary shot Laura a warning look. “Rich can’t spend summers in Vermont, Laura. Be sensible. He has a lot of preparation. I’m sure Karen would be pleased to have you come up occasionally once your child is born.”
Melissa had picked out a doorstop in the shape of a horse, coveted since she was little. Karen gave her a gold locket she said had been her own mother’s, with a dried flower inside. That was more than Melissa had expected from her grandfather, but she could tell, as she looked around the table, that everyone else was tasting a sour disappointment. “What are you going to do with your horse?” she asked her father. Maybe he’d give the horse to her, and she could stable it near Wesleyan. Did Blake ride? She’d ask him. She saw herself riding weekends.
“Still little Miss Muffet, worried about horses and spiders and everything living.” He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, giving her the full benefit of his radiant smile, eyes locked with hers. “We’ll leave him here, in his home. Don’t worry about the cows or horses. Karen is sentimental about animals too. They’ll be fine. You’re a sweetheart to care. I remember when you wanted to be a veterinarian. And you loved that spaniel, didn’t you?”
“Good idea,” Rosemary said. “Karen can feed the horse. After all, she got the stocks. I’m told that in the checking account there is only twenty-two hundred. There has to be more in the savings. He was a frugal man.”
Rich and Laura planned to depart from the restaurant and drop her at Wesleyan. Tonight she would sleep in her own bunk, instead of that drafty room in the creaky cold house in a bed that sagged like a hammock. She would see Blake. She would see Emily and Fern, whom she vaguely remembered had wanted to talk to her about something. She would be back in her own life again.
• CHAPTER THIRTEEN •
Melissa was sitting curled in Blake’s arm on his bed.
“So you told your aunt about me?” He sounded pleased.
“I thought she was the least likely to go ripshit. She’s very accepting, and besides, I just learned she had a lesbian affair with another woman who may have been a Communist.”
“Most lesbian affairs are with women, babes.” He tousled her hair. “Let’s go see her one of these weekends. It sounds as if she could use the help.”
“Really? Would you do that?”
“Providing nobody announces an exam for Monday or a paper due, we could get out of here on a Friday afternoon. Weather permitting, because I want to take my bike out for a good long run.”
“Blake, that would make me really happy. She’s always been my favorite aunt, but I hadn’t seen her for years!”
“Didn’t you ever go visit her?”
She shrugged. “It all sounded so depressing. I thought maybe she’d blown it.”
“Still, you should have investigated for yourself.” He looked disappointed in her. “Taking your family’s word for it was the lazy way. You let her down.”
That evening she got an e-mail from Phil, Blake’s nerdy friend, reminding her that she was going to work with him on some research. She had hoped he and Blake had forgotten. He offered her a grid of possible times to get together, so that she couldn’t just fuzz out. Phil was going to teach her the rudiments of researching someone—in this case, most likely her father. She felt a little clammy when she thought of actually going through with what she had promised. She knew it was the correct thing for her to do, but she couldn’t quite believe that emotionally. It felt sleazy. But it wasn’t real. She had to keep that in mind. Investigating her father was just a time waster, and she would turn it to advantage by using it to help her father change into someone with more conscience, more empathy, more soul. That was her duty. It was her way to make an impact on her family and win her father back. Even Blake could not guess how much she wanted her father’s attention, her father’s approval. All this investigative stuff was just fodder for her plan.
Blake was so pleased when she told him she had an appointment with Phil that she couldn’t allow him to know how little she wanted to go through with it. She would learn what Phil could teach her; after all, they were just kids, just students, so it was all pretend anyhow. Roger Lippett had tried for years to smear her father and never succeeded, so why did she imagine some computer nerd could possibly damage him? This way she could keep an eye on Phil.
Phil was engaged in amassing long lists of contributors to Dick’s campaigns and to organizations supporting him—the Clean Government Forum, Taxpayers’ Rights for Dickinson, a host of others. Some names she could identify, but he wanted more than descriptions. They were looking for interlocking directorates of corporations and institutions to identify the interests of the men—and it was eighty percent men—who had given and given again, whose pockets were deep for Dick. They were looking for men with positions in institutions or corporations or large holdings in them, in the library and on the computer searching databases, annual reports, Who’s Who, stock market reports. Progress was slow. It was more boring than she had anticipated, but she would keep at it, since it meant something to Blake. Most Saturday afternoons for the next month she would give Phil a couple of hours, identifying the interests of big contributors. It was boring and disappointing. What in this could possibly help her reach her father, communicate with him? Hey, Dad, guess what, I noticed that GE and Du Pont gave you a lot of money, huh? Way to start a great conversation.
With all that was going on with her family and with Blake, Melissa forgot that Fern had said she wanted to talk with her. It wasn’t until Fern had been giving her reproachful looks for days that finally Melissa remembered. “You wanted to talk with me? I’ve been trying to be less of a slob.”
“I feel like I have to talk about this. Because maybe you won’t want to room with me?”
“Did I do something?”
“Oh, no.” Melissa kept thinking Fern was going to slide off her bed and land on the floor, she held herself so bolt upright on the extreme edge. “It’s me. Not you. I mean I think it’s me.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s what I think I am.”
“Fern, you’re making me feel really really dense. Like a raving idiot.
What are you talking about?”
“I think I might be a lesbian…”
“Oh.” Melissa sat upright herself. “Do you mean—like you’re attracted to me?”
“God, no. I’m attracted to a woman on my soccer team. It’s always in sports. Like you look at each other’s bodies and she’s so buff and fine.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“I haven’t had the nerve. I could screw everything up for myself.” Fern wrung her hands, twisting, miserable. “And I don’t know how to be a lesbian. I’ve never known any, I mean that I knew for sure. I don’t have a clue how you meet women and what you say…”
“I’m no expert, but Open House has parties. I think you should go.” It was one of the houses that, after freshman year, students could go and live in, in this case to identify as gay or lesbian. There were houses for African-American students, students who were into politics, into service, into the arts, whatever.
“I’ve been nervous about that. I mean, I was afraid I would be just too naïve and clumsy and make a fool of myself.”
“I mean, if I was gay, I’d think that was cute—like you were innocent and I’d want to show you. Don’t you think that might happen?”
“You don’t want to move out because I told you this?”
Melissa shook her head. She was not about to say it, but the first thing that had gone through her head was that Fern wouldn’t be interested in Blake then, since they were not infrequently thrown together. “It’s cool. I hope you can get more comfortable with yourself. I think this is a great place to come out. Really! Besides, my favorite aunt is gay.”
When she told Emily—Fern had sworn her to secrecy, but she never felt that included Emily—Em said, “You know, I kind of wondered. She never seems to look at hot guys or want to go to parties or mixers or anything.”
“I just thought she was shy.”
