Getting Back

by Cindy Rizzo

  “Ruth only talked about Bennett after she returned to Fowler from holidays and summer breaks. She’d tell me that she’d seen him, that he was polite and pleasant, and seemed willing to accept the fact that she was not interested in dating him. But it wasn’t easy for her. Their families were throwing them together at every opportunity. I guess at the time, I counted on Ruth’s love for me to overcome these attempts at matchmaking. But, of course, she was only willing to hold the line for so long.”

  Tracy turned away from the sizzling pan and gave Elizabeth a look of sympathy that was likely one she used with clients. But her expression, reflecting back sadness and emotion, filled Elizabeth with grief and nudged open a hole in her heart that had been covered over these last three decades.

  Tracy touched Elizabeth’s hand. “I’m sorry it’s still so painful for you.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and tried her best to move past this moment.

  “Tracy, if you worry more about me than you do about the chicken, one of us is going to get burned.”

  Elizabeth received a tiny smile in response, though Tracy’s eyes were still filled with sadness. She turned back to the frying pan and, using a pair of tongs, flipped over its contents.

  Elizabeth was surprised that she could still recall so many details from the almost three years she’d been with Ruth. Once she began telling these stories, they just seemed to pour out of her with very little effort. It wasn’t merely surprising, it was disturbing. She wished she could just forget the feeling of Ruth’s lips on her, the comfort of her shoulder, the softness of her cheek. It was better to remember how it ended, the shock, the anger, the excruciating pain. But no, that was too much to think about now and not something she was willing to discuss with Tracy yet. But there was another story she did feel capable of telling her.

  She called up the most cheerful tone she could muster. “Why don’t I tell you about my one and only meeting with the illustrious Leon Abramov?”

  “You met him?”

  “Oh yes, and he made quite a lasting impression.”

  Fall Semester 1975

  Early on in our sophomore year, I was lying in Ruth’s arms on my bed, both of us fully clothed.

  She kissed the top of my head and said, “I have to go hear Papa speak, but you don’t have to come with me, Elizabeth.”

  “Would it be easier for you if I didn’t? Are you worried he’ll figure things out?”

  “As long as there’s no touching between us, I don’t think so. It’s not as if he’s looking for it.”

  “Well, then I’d like to go, if that’s all right with you.” I turned over to face her, smiled, and placed my finger on her nose. “But Ruth darling, you have to behave too. You’ll need to keep those beautiful dark eyes pointed in another direction.”

  She pursed her lips and looked at me. “What do you have against my eyes?”

  “They’re lethal weapons. They should come with a warning label.”

  She squeezed me tighter. “I will do my best, but I think you don’t understand how difficult it is to turn away when you are near me, lapochka.”

  I snuggled even closer at the sound of her pet name for me.

  “I love it when you call me that. You should teach me more Russian words. All I know is ya lyublu tibya.”

  Ruth kissed me below my ear. “Very good,” she murmured. “And that is all the Russian you will ever need. I love you too. “

  Her arms fell away from me and she moved toward the edge of the bed.

  “Let’s get ready to go,” she said. “Papa will be anxiously waiting for me.”

  We arrived a half hour before the seven o’clock start time, but already there was a long line of at least a hundred people wrapped around one corner of the building. Ruth approached a campus police officer and explained who she was, showing him her Fowler ID and a family photo. A few minutes later we were let in through the glass doors of the building. The large, light wood-paneled auditorium at the University of Massachusetts was grander than anything we had at Fowler. Ruth explained that her father had been invited to UMass by Hillel, the campus Jewish student group, but because of his national reputation, his speech was relocated from the small Hillel building to one of the many large auditoriums on campus. He was even going to be introduced by the university’s president.

  As we made our way down one of the side aisles of the cavernous, empty theater, we were met by a man in a suit who introduced himself as Rabbi Rosenbaum from the UMass Hillel. I noticed the small circle of black fabric on his head and remembered from TV newscasts that some Jewish men wore those. I made a mental note to ask Ruth why.

  The rabbi gazed lovingly at Ruth, as if she were his own daughter. I realized in that moment that Ruth was regarded as an extension of her father, the brave girl who had endured years of anti-Semitic exclusion but held her head high as she courageously crossed multiple borders to freedom.

  “Your father is backstage. I’ll take you to him.”

  We followed for a few steps and then he turned and spoke to Ruth.

  “Your friend can wait here for now. I’m sure your father would like a few minutes alone with you.”

  Disappointed but not surprised, I looked in the direction of the first few rows of empty seats, two of which had been reserved for Ruth, and prepared to make my way over.

  “I’d like Elizabeth to come too,” she said, surprising me with the directness in her tone. “I want her to meet Papa before he speaks.”

  The rabbi nodded and turned again to lead us up the steps, onto the bare stage, and then behind the heavy, red curtain.

  Leon Abramov was shorter than I’d pictured him. He was thin, in a blue blazer, white shirt, and striped tie, and his close-cropped beard was speckled with gray. Small but distinguished, he had that unmistakable look of a professor.

  His face broke into a broad smile. “Ruthieshka, devochka moya,” he exclaimed.

  She ran to him and they hugged. As Ruth stepped back, she smiled and raised a finger. “Papa, I am no longer a little girl.”

  He responded rapidly in Russian. I stood to the side unsure of what to do or say, wondering if maybe I should have stayed behind in the auditorium.

  “Papa, you are always telling me to speak English now that we are in America. Besides, I’d like you to meet someone.” Ruth turned and beckoned me to come closer. “This is my friend, Elizabeth Morrison.”

  Leon Abramov seemed to notice me for the first time and nodded his head in greeting. “Ah, so you have made a friend, Ruthieshka. Very nice.”

  He held his hand out to me. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss, what is it, Morrison?”

  “Yes. But Elizabeth, please. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  He turned back to Ruth. “Your friend has very nice manners. That is good.” He then looked at me. “And Morrison, is that a Jewish name?”

  “No,” I responded with a touch of regret in my voice. When I opened my mouth to continue, Ruth cut me off.

  “Papa! Where are your manners? Elizabeth is my roommate and she…” Ruth hesitated as if she was stopping herself from saying something that would give everything away. “I don’t choose my friends based on their religion. I thought we came here to get away from all that.”

  Her father seemed deep in thought, his head cast down, arms crossed over his chest. We were all silent for what seemed like forever.

  “Or perhaps,” he said at last, his voice tighter, almost chastising, “it is not as simple as you think, Ruth. Even here, with all of our freedoms, we must never forget who we are and where our allegiances lie.” He looked directly at Ruth and held both hands up in a halt gesture and with that same edge in his tone said, “In any case, we will discuss this another time. I have some notes to review before I speak.”

  Ruth looked down at t
he dusty floor. “Of course, Papa,” she said softly. “We have a few other friends who will be joining us. Everyone has been looking forward to your talk.”

  I felt close to tears on Ruth’s behalf. Her father clearly had the power to put her in her place and then quickly dismiss her. As the heat of anger rose up from my belly and settled in my chest, I realized to my horror that even though I had only known him for a few minutes, I already hated Leon Abramov with a passion.

  I wanted to hold Ruth or at least put my arm around her and walk her back to our seats. I would have even settled for just taking her hand—any form of contact to connect and to wrap her back in the embrace of my love. But none of that was possible, so I merely bumped my shoulder against hers as we approached the curtain. She looked at me, her face fallen in what appeared to be shame.

  “Let’s go, darling,” I whispered in her ear. “It’s only a few hours and then everything will be back to normal.”

  As I sat stiffly in my seat, anger blinded me and seemed to block my other senses as well. Throughout the entirety of Leon Abramov’s speech, I was unable to take in one word, except for his brief introduction of Ruth at the beginning. As the applause rose at the mention of her name, she kind of half-stood to receive what appeared to be unwanted recognition and then promptly sat down. We were so close to the front that I couldn’t dare touch her, but once the lights dimmed, I moved the side of my foot against hers and felt her slight push against me in return. But otherwise, I saw, heard, and felt nothing until the deafening applause and the rising of bodies around me made me realize I needed to stand as well.

  Separate swarms of people gathered around Ruth and her father. Our friends hugged her and loudly praised the speech.

  “Wasn’t he just so amazing, Elizabeth?” Margaret asked. “So inspiring.”

  I knew this wasn’t really a question. I smiled a little and nodded, but did not take my eyes off Ruth. She seemed to still be affected by the earlier encounter with her father, looking back at me every couple of minutes with a grimace that I took as an unspoken apology.

  Rabbi Rosenbaum approached the knot of people around Ruth and leaned over to her.

  “We are hosting a reception in your father’s honor at the Hillel House and would be so grateful if you would attend. Unfortunately, we do not have space for your friends.”

  I was certain that was aimed at me specifically. I watched as Ruth nodded back to him and then moved toward me and whispered in my ear.

  “After what happened before, it is probably better that I go alone to this. All I really want to do is get back on the shuttle to Fowler with you. I hope you know that.”

  “Yes.” My voice was soft as I nodded. I knew that if I said anything else I’d either start screaming or burst into tears. Neither option seemed helpful to Ruth, so I focused my efforts on leaving and pretending to our friends that I’d just been in the presence of greatness instead of in the presence of what I feared could be my undoing.

  Chapter 6

  June 2008

  It seemed unfair to ask Max to drive all the way up to western Massachusetts for the reunion and then only three days later make a second trip. Maybe it would have been worth it for him had his granddaughter, who attended Fowler, been on campus. But by early June, all the students had gone home for the summer. So instead, Elizabeth accepted Reese’s offer of a ride, thinking that if she needed a quick escape, she could always call a limo service.

  Reese’s car was far from luxurious, though it appeared to be solid and serviceable. A Subaru, she said, and made some kind of joke about it being the “lesbian car of choice.” Elizabeth often wondered if she shielded herself from knowing such things. After Fowler, and really, after Ruth, she’d paid little attention to what she once referred to as lesbian culture—meeting places, stylistic preferences, and even books. The only time she showed any interest in such things was when her name and picture were published in a magazine or a blog.

  Nonetheless, she’d had no problem meeting and dating women over the years, even getting involved in a few short relationships. The one with Gretchen Czernak had lasted five years: her longest, though in so many ways a complete failure. It had finally ended four years ago, early in 2004, and since then, there’d been brief dalliances, but nothing serious.

  From time to time Margaret called on her to be paired with one of her actress clients. They were usually women who had recently been more open about their sexuality and needed to enhance their public profiles by being seen with someone wealthy and accomplished, like Elizabeth. She’d gone along with it, mostly as a favor to her friend, but also, she had to admit, as a diversion from the daily pressures of a rapidly changing publishing marketplace that was wreaking havoc on her industry.

  But none of it meant a thing. It was a lot of fancy parties and premieres, cameras flashing in her face, hurried kisses goodnight and occasionally a little more than that. She figured she might as well go on these silly dates, since it was likely that just like Margaret, she wasn’t cut out for anything long term. The two of them had joked about growing old together, two elderly lesbians shamelessly pursuing women forty years their junior for casual nights of pleasure.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Reese whispered her name, likely trying to figure out if she was asleep. Elizabeth kept her eyes closed, her body low in the seat and her head turned toward the passenger window. She wanted to avoid any well-intentioned inquiries about how she was doing, followed by offers of support and refuge in the event that she fell apart at the sight of Ruth. Even after months spent in long talks with Tracy and with Margaret, Elizabeth still had no idea how she would react or what she would say when they stood face-to-face.

  “This is silly,” Margaret had told her one night on the phone. “Just talk to her, get to know her again. It doesn’t have to be so fraught.”

  “There’s no way it can be anything but,” she’d countered.

  She felt the knot tighten in her stomach and tried to calm herself with thoughts of the beach. When that didn’t work, she mentally pictured the steps involved in preparing Tracy’s mother’s Southern pecan pie—measuring, mixing, rolling, pouring—flour, butter, molasses, nuts. It helped a bit. So did remembering to breathe.

  She never did muster the courage to tell Tracy the story of the end of her relationship with Ruth. It really wasn’t much of a story anyway, more like the final scene of Hamlet with bodies littering the stage, all of them hers.

  Summer 1977

  I wanted to spend the summer between junior and senior year in New York City instead of in the suburbs of Philadelphia, but my parents adamantly refused. They were not sending me, a twenty-year-old woman, to a city where I could be slaughtered by the serial killer, Son of Sam. Still at-large after shooting more than a half-dozen people, most of them in my age group, he’d thrown the city into a panic.

  Besides, my uncle Henry, known to everyone as Hank, wouldn’t hire me to work at his beloved Morrison Publishing until I’d completed the same semester-long publishing intensive that he’d attended at Cambridge University in England. I’d been accepted for the fall semester but hadn’t yet sent in my paperwork. It felt unthinkable to be away from Ruth for all those months, especially on the other side of an ocean. It was bad enough living ninety minutes apart for ten weeks in the summer.

  During our junior year we lived together in a cheap, off-campus apartment. I know it’s silly to say, but it kind of felt as if we were married. We had friends over and cooked dinner for them. Ruth taught me how to make beet soup, or borscht as she called it. It was delicious hot with a cooked potato or cold with sour cream that turned the whole mixture a bright neon pink. I taught her how to make coq au vin, the only fancy dish I knew.

  “You know, I think you just might as well change both your names to RuthandElizabeth and get it all over with,” said Margaret as we served her dinner one night. “
This little domestic scene you’ve got here is so very touching and a little nauseating.”

  “Your nausea doesn’t seem to be interfering with your appetite, Margaret. You’ve just finished a second helping of brisket,” said Ruth.

  “She’s just jealous, darling.”

  “Ha, me, jealous? Of what? Sleeping with the same person night after night? Wearing each other’s clothes?”

  “We do not,” I said.

  “You might as well. But I guess, in the words of some straight man, one woman’s food is another woman’s poison.”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know that we left the arsenic out of the apple pie,” I said.

  “This time,” added Ruth.

  There was a small women’s bookstore in Northampton where Ruth and I spent hours on Sunday afternoons, reading feminist periodicals with names like Off Our Backs and Conditions. Ruth read aloud to me from a pamphlet of love poems by Adrienne Rich. I bought us a book called Lesbian/Woman and we switched off reading chapters to one another from Small Changes by Marge Piercy.

  It felt as if every day held a new discovery—about our love, about the burgeoning lesbian culture, and about who we were destined to be as women together. We went to hear lesbian musicians perform and danced at the local women’s bar. We held candles in the dark at a Take Back the Night rally. I envisioned our future as an open road extending into the horizon with no obstacles and no limits. Just us and the amazing journey of lives. The condescension and disapproval of Leon Abramov was long forgotten, left behind like a small bump on the highway, something that had momentarily warped the asphalt. I’d blocked out Ruth’s life before Fowler (really, before me) and convinced myself that she had been able to do so as well.