“Most nineteen-year-old girls don’t want nice, safe boys their mothers would love.”
“Maybe so.”
I knew that Sarah was right, but we shared the impulse to court other families as if we were hoping to be adopted by them. Both of us, in our own ways, had spent our lives looking for substitute families. In high school, Sarah had put a great deal of energy into being popular—it was her ticket out of our apartment and into the houses and lives of the many wealthy families in our town. Virtually every weekend she slept over at a friend’s house, sleeping in their clean, comfortable homes, swimming in their pools, eating their expensive food. Of course she knew her friends’ families had their own problems—divorces, bankruptcies, wayward children—but any family seemed like a reprieve from our own.
“Jane was too beautiful for me anyway. Girls that beautiful don’t want to go out with boys who are just average looking.”
Sarah pursed her lips, as if she wanted to disagree with me but knew I was right and was perhaps relieved that I was being realistic.
“If you’re average looking, then what am I?”
“Prettier than me.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said, laughing.
“Do you think I’m too needy?” I asked her.
“Everyone is needy.”
“As needy as Mom?”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Seth. No one is as needy as Mom.”
We laughed, but of course we were both terrified by the possibility that one day we might be as needy as our mother.
“God, I’m really dreading going to Abe Zelman’s tomorrow,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because his son, Aaron, is going to be there. Mom once tried to set me up with him, and I told her I wasn’t interested, but she gave him my phone number anyway. When he called me up, I lied and told him that I had a boyfriend.”
“What did he say?”
“He was actually very nice. He apologized and said that his father and my mother probably misunderstood each other. I said, ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ He laughed and said, ‘Probably not.’”
“So don’t go,” I said. “I’m the one who has to go, not you.”
“No, I have to go,” she said. “When I told Mom I wasn’t going, she began crying, telling me that I needed to do this for her, that Abe really wanted me to meet Aaron, and that she would be so embarrassed if I didn’t go because of all the free legal help that Abe had given her.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Forget about it.”
“Look . . . Sarah . . . about what Mom said in the car the other day.”
“What? About my being a virgin? I don’t care.”
“Neither do I. I guess that’s all I’m trying to say.”
We sipped our brandy, looked at each other, then away. I was actually surprised that she was still a virgin. I knew she’d had lots of boyfriends and had presumed she had slept with some of them.
“How did she know anyway?” I asked.
“How does she know anything? She asked me.”
“You told her?”
Sarah yawned. “Sometimes it’s just easier that way.”
WE SET OUT FOR EAST HAMPTON after lunch the next day, July 4. Seamus had left for Israel the day before. After we crossed the George Washington Bridge, Ruth told us that she had some news: Abe was pursuing a suit against our father to change the terms of the thirteen-year-old divorce agreement.
“Mom,” Sarah said, “we got what we wanted. He paid Seth’s tuition. I don’t see the point in being vengeful.”
“Oh, and he wasn’t being vengeful when he refused to pay Seth’s tuition?”
“Maybe he was,” Sarah answered. “But we still need to have a relationship with him. How can we do that if you’re suing him?”
“Say, look here,” Ruth said, “I’m doing this for the two of you.”
“Mom,” I chimed in, “can’t you at least be honest and admit you’re doing this for yourself? Suing Dad is just a way for you to get your jollies.”
Ruth lit a cigarette. “Fine, then why don’t you go live with your father for the summer?” she replied, exhaling smoke in my direction. “I’m sure he’d be happy to have you sit around all day and drink.”
I turned around and looked at Ruth. “Mom, can you tell me, on your word of honor, as God is your witness, that in the past two weeks you have not used the phrase ‘I have that bastard by the balls’ or some variation thereof?” She didn’t answer. “See,” I continued, “this is about your interest in my father’s balls. Nothing more.”
Since returning home from Chicago, I had felt ill in the heart over demolishing my relationship with my father—and all because I couldn’t bring myself to apologize to Hortense. After years of indifference, he had finally begun paying attention to me during my senior year of high school. When I was writing “Two by Two,” I had called him for help with some of the scientific details I was using in the story. Of course he had been happy to discuss science with me. I sent him a copy of the story after I won the Scholastic Award. He wrote back a letter that began: “EXTRAORDINARY!” Despite his lobbying so intensely for Rutgers, he was actually very proud when I was admitted to a prestigious university, and I could sense he regarded me differently afterward. I sent him copies of the papers I wrote for my classes with the high grades and the professors’ comments on them, and he wrote back with his own comments and questions about the essays. During the winter quarter, he had come out to Chicago to give a lecture at the medical school, and the two of us went out to dinner at Morton’s. Sitting among the businessmen, enveloped in the manly scents of cigars and charred beef, sharing an expensive bottle of wine, we had talked for hours, mainly about my studies and the books he was reading. I realized that my father hadn’t paid attention to me until I was well credentialed, but I excused it by rationalizing that he simply wasn’t interested in children, and now that I was on my way to becoming an accomplished adult, he could appreciate and love me as his son. After dinner, we went to see Ryan O’Neal in Barry Lyndon at a movie theater in Water Tower Place. Throughout the movie he kept his hand on my knee, and I felt like a boy again: Alone, just the two of us, with no Hortense, no Ruth, and no siblings, he was finally free to love me, as I had always believed he would. Less than two months later, I had told Hortense to fuck herself.
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THEIR HOUSE, Abe and his wife, Marcy, kissed Ruth on the cheek. Sarah extended her hand to avoid a kiss, but Abe just looked at her hand and said, “What? No kiss?” Sarah leaned in and let him kiss her on the cheek.
“How’s the genius?” he said to me, and pressed my hand.
“What? No kiss?” I said to him.
Ruth looked stricken, but Abe burst out laughing.
“I’ll give this handsome boy a kiss,” Marcy said.
Abe and Marcy gave us a tour of the premises: It was more like a compound, with a huge main house, a guest cottage, an in-ground pool, and tennis courts. The three of us each had our own room in the guest cottage, which also included a living room and a small kitchen. Abe told us to put our suits on and meet them at the pool.
As we walked toward the pool, Ruth asked me if I had remembered to thank Abe.
“Thank him for what? Suing my father?”
Abe and Marcy were sitting at a table by the pool, both of them in their bathing suits and deeply tanned. Abe’s huge brown belly was as round and tight as a balloon; Marcy’s hair was an unnatural shade of black, and her lips were smudged with electric pink lipstick. Her nails were painted the same color. A gold Star of David was enshrined deep within her seared and corrugated cleavage. Sarah and I wore T-shirts; Ruth had on a terrycloth bathrobe she had found in the guest cottage. Abe asked us what we would like to drink.
“I’ve already had two scotches and I’m feeling no pain,” he said. Ruth said that sounded good to her.
“Me too,” I added. Sarah said she’d have a ginger ale. On the table was a platter of shrimp, colossal and gleaming. Rich p
eople’s shrimp, I thought. I immediately helped myself to one. Ruth said that both of them looked like they had been enjoying the sun.
“Oh, I know,” Marcy replied. “Don’t you think my hands look just like a Negro’s?”
She showed us her white palms and then the brown backs of her hands.
“You could definitely pass for Sammy Davis’s sister,” I commented, and helped myself to another shrimp.
“Sarah,” Marcy said, “I’m so glad you’re finally going to meet Aaron. He just graduated from Harvard Law School and is joining Abe’s practice at the end of the summer.”
“You know, I do have a boyfriend,” Sarah said to her.
“Since when?” Ruth exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend!”
“Oh, well, Aaron has a girlfriend too,” Marcy said. She placed her electric pink fingernails on the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. “A Puerto Rican girl,” she said. “But we don’t think it’s serious, thank God.”
“Just what every nice Jewish boy wants,” I said, “a not-so-nice Puerto Rican girl.”
“Seth, let’s go for a swim,” Sarah said.
“I’m a little dizzy from this scotch,” I answered. Sarah stood up and pulled her T-shirt over her head. “Come on,” she commanded. “You’ll feel better once you get in the water.”
“Your daughter has some body,” Abe said to Ruth.
Sarah dove into the water and stayed under as long as possible, no doubt to drown out any more comments about her body. She surfaced at the far end just in time to hear Abe declare that her breasts were going to make some young man very happy one day. I reluctantly got up and took off my shirt. My mother stared at me, her eyes already a little bloodshot and woozy. “All my children have beautiful figures,” she said.
I swam over to Sarah at the far end of the pool. “Try to keep a lid on it,” she said quietly.
“I’m only providing cover for you.”
“Bullshit. You don’t like them because they’re rich and obnoxious and suing Dad. Besides,” she added, “we wouldn’t be here right now if you had apologized to Hortense.”
I dunked myself under the water and stayed there until Sarah yanked me up.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“Drowning myself in guilt.”
Just then we heard a car drive up. “Aaron’s back,” Marcy said.
The prodigal son kissed Ruth and Marcy, then stripped off his polo shirt. His body was golden and muscular. Sarah looked at the grotesque bodies of his parents and then back at Aaron as if she had missed something. He dove into the pool and swam over to us. I stood straight up and shook his hand; Sarah stayed crouched under the water and gave him a little wave.
•••
DINNER WAS SERVED OUT ON the deck overlooking the ocean. The setting sun turned the sea a beautiful shade of lilac. Aaron brought out a kettle of steamed lobsters and placed one on each person’s plate. Marcy served corn on the cob and a salad made from Jersey tomatoes. Abe poured everyone wine. Apparently, Sarah had suddenly developed a taste for alcohol, because she drank the wine with a smile on her face.
Sarah and I were studying our lobsters.
“Do you like lobster?” Marcy asked Sarah.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Neither of us had ever eaten lobster before, and we were furtively looking at the three Zelmans to see how it was done.
“Of course she likes lobster,” Abe said. “What nice Jewish girl doesn’t like lobster?”
“Aaron, honey, help Sarah with her lobster,” Marcy said. Then, turning to Sarah, she added, “Aaron’s an expert at this.”
Sarah and I both watched Aaron break the back of her lobster; with a long two-pronged fork he skillfully extracted the plump white tissue from the red carcass. Then he used a nutcracker and a fork to break the claw and slither out a pink slab. “Would you like me to help you with yours, Seth?” he asked.
“I’ve got it,” I said, and tried to fit my nutcracker around the torso of the lobster.
“Darling, let me help you,” my mother said.
I squeezed the nutcracker and the lobster went skidding into my lap. My mother laughed uproariously. Eating her lobster, Sarah looked as if she was in ecstasy.
As Marcy blathered on about yachting into New York Harbor to see the tall ships, I finally extracted a morsel, dipped it in butter, and nearly swooned—it was the most luscious, sweetest, richest thing I had ever tasted. Then Abe told me how proud my mother was of my academic success at Chicago. Ruth kicked me under the table.
“Abe, thank you very much for your help recently,” I said.
Marcy asked me what I was studying.
“English.”
Ruth, who had already drunk three glasses of wine, said, “He’s going to be a famous writer someday.”
“Oh, what do you write about?” Marcy asked.
“Things,” I mumbled.
Marcy said that she was the educational director of the Temple Emanuel Sisterhood and was planning to set up a class for young people to write stories and poems about the Holocaust. Would I be interested in helping her?
“I’m pretty busy this summer,” I said.
Ruth swigged down her fourth glass of wine. “Do you know that Seth is studying with Saul Bellow?” she exclaimed.
“Seth, that’s amazing,” Aaron said. “I love his novels. What’s he like in person?”
“Who are you talking about?” Marcy asked.
“Saul Bellow, Mom,” Aaron explained. “He’s the most important Jewish writer in the country.”
“Oh, then I certainly want to read something by him. Seth, what would you recommend?”
“Pride and Prejudice.”
“Pride and Prejudice,” Marcy repeated. “Is it about the Holocaust?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
I looked around the table. Abe was staring into his glass, an unhappy expression on his face; my mother looked distraught; Sarah glanced at Aaron and he gave her an understanding smile. Ruth raised her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast to Abe. You’ve done so much for my son. I don’t know how I can ever thank you for all your help. “
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Abe said, with a big wink.
“Here, here,” Marcy said, raising her glass.
I was watching my mother sullenly, but mainly I was angry at Sarah. I felt abandoned by her. I could see she liked Aaron, liked the Zelmans’ expensive food, their wine, their stunning views. I knew she was thinking that this would be a nice family to belong to, and I didn’t blame her: If the Zelmans had a beautiful daughter who had just graduated from Harvard Law School, I would have had Abe and Marcy crowning me as the Nicest Jewish Boy in all the land. But they didn’t have a daughter, they were suing my father, and I wanted Sarah to be as resentful as I was.
“Honey, do you know that Abe offered to pay your tuition if your father didn’t come through in time?” my mother said to me.
Marcy added, “I’ll never understand how a parent can turn his back on his own child.”
I turned to Marcy and said, “You’re talking about my father.”
Ruth put her hand on my arm. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know half the things that bastard did to me.”
I yanked my arm away and stalked off. Behind me, I could hear my mother apologizing for my behavior.
I WENT BACK TO THE GUEST COTTAGE and got into bed. In the distance, I could hear fireworks going off, but I was happy to be by myself, alone with a book. At about ten o’clock I heard my mother go into her room; I was just drifting off to sleep an hour later when I heard the door to the cottage open again. I presumed it was Sarah, but after a minute I heard Abe’s voice in my mother’s room. I could only decipher the odd word or two—they were keeping their voices down—but then I heard the sound of bedsprings screeching, then moaning and sighing. I lay very still for about five minutes, debating whether or not I ought to go out, wondering if they would hear my door open and shut, until I hea
rd the door to the cottage open again. The sound of the bedsprings had become rhythmic, as if someone were jumping up and down. A few minutes later, Sarah opened the door to my room.
“Seth?” she said softly.
“I’m awake.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
She lay down on the opposite side of my double bed.
“Thanks. A mouse is skittering around in my room.”
We lay silent for a moment, the bedsprings in our mother’s room screeching incessantly.
“You can hear them in here too,” I said.
Sarah reached for my hand. The tangy scent of sex rose from her body like the shimmer of heat from hot asphalt. Reflexively my nostrils pinched in and then fared out. She knew I could tell that she had been having sex with Aaron, but she also knew I wouldn’t say anything about it. She understood that the last thing I wanted to think about was my sister having sex. Was this the only normal thing about our family?
“Oh, Abe, I can’t breathe anymore! At least let me get on top.”
“Doll, I’m coming. I’m coming.”
“This is all my fault, isn’t it?” I whispered.
“No,” Sarah whispered back.
But from the other side of the wall, I heard the true cost of my words to Hortense.
“Oh, Abe, this is really getting painful.”
“I’m almost done. Oh, God, I’m almost there. Almost . . .”
Sarah and I were born with our umbilical cords twisted around our necks, and my mother loved to tell the story of our traumatic births. Sarah and I had titled it “Was Anybody Praying?” Neither of us were breathing when we emerged from the womb. We were on respirators for ten days and it was touch and go. But a rabbi came to pray over us, and our grandmother tied a red thread around each of our wrists. Finally, on the tenth day, Sarah and I were able to breathe on our own. “I thanked the doctor,” Ruth would say, “but the doctor said, ‘Don’t thank me. Was anybody praying?’” When my mother told this story, Sarah and I always joked that we had probably tried to strangle each other before we were born. But lying next to her now, hearing Abe fuck our mother, I wondered if it was actually a suicide pact. Perhaps, floating in the briny ether of our mother’s womb, we had been able to hear some cruelty or coldness out in the world, a world where children were abandoned and women were debased.
A Stranger on the Planet Page 6