by Judy Blume
Andrew said, “Eric, Michelle, these are my parents, Nettie and Sam Broder.”
“Hey, how’s it goin’, Nettie?” Eric asked, pumping Andrew’s mother’s hand. “How’re you doin’, Sam?”
“This is your son?” Nettie asked Margo.
“No, this is Eric,” Margo said. She paused, searching for the right words. “A . . . family friend.”
Michelle did not approach the Broders. But she did say, “Hi, glad to meet you, welcome to Boulder and all that. How do you like it so far?”
“It’s so windy,” Nettie said. “I never felt such wind. I could hardly catch my breath.”
“Yes, it can be windy in the spring,” Margo said.
“And no ocean,” Sam said. “Nettie and I like to be by the ocean.”
“We have mountains,” Michelle said.
“What can you do with mountains?” Nettie asked.
“Climb them,” Michelle said.
Eric was munching on the cheese and crackers when he noticed the bowl of chopped liver. “What’s this?” he asked.
“You don’t know chopped liver?” Nettie said.
“Chopped liver . . . never saw the stuff, but I’m always willing to try.” He took a blob, dropped it on the center of a cracker, and wolfed it down. “Interesting,” he said, brushing off his hands.
Margo felt her face stiffen into a half-smile.
“Well,” Michelle said, “we really have to go. Nice to meet you Mrs. Broder, Mr. Broder . . . see you on Sunday, if not before.”
Margo poured herself a glass of wine and drank it quickly, as if it were water. Then she poured another.
“Some handsome boy,” Nettie said, when Eric and Michelle were gone. “Is he Jewish?”
Margo coughed on her wine. “No.”
“I didn’t think so, never to have seen chopped liver. You don’t mind that your daughter goes out with a boy who’s not Jewish?”
“Michelle’s not marrying him, Nettie,” Andrew said, coming to life.
Anyway, he’s circumcised, Margo thought about saying.
How would you know? Nettie would ask.
I know because I fucked him, Margo would say.
Oh, my God! Sam, did you hear what she said?
Yes, Nettie. She said that she fucked him. And that’s how come she knows he’s circumcised.
I fucked him three or four times a day for a week.
Three or four times a day, Sam would say. That’s a lot of fucking.
I’m feeling faint, Nettie would say.
It’s probably the altitude, Margo would tell her.
“Oh, here’s our little Sara,” Nettie said, as Sara and Stuart came up the stairs.
“Hi Grandma . . . hi Grandpa. This is Stuart.”
“Margo’s Number One Son,” Stuart said.
“You have more than one?” Nettie asked.
“No, that’s just an expression,” Margo told her.
Nettie nodded. Then she appraised Sara. “That’s how you’re going out to dinner . . . in dungarees?”
“Blue jeans, Grandma. In Boulder you can wear them anywhere. Look at Margo’s skirt . . . same material.”
“Well, if it’s all right with your father . . .”
“It’s fine with me,” Andrew said.
“Did I miss Eric?” Sara asked. “Is he gone already?”
“They went to an early movie,” Margo said.
“Oh, shit!” Sara said.
“Sara!” Sam said. “Such language.”
“Sorry, Grandpa . . . I forgot you don’t like me to use those words.”
“What movie did my sister and The Acrobat go to see?” Stuart asked.
“He’s an acrobat?” Nettie asked. “He works in a circus?”
Margo laughed.
“No, Grandma,” Sara said, and she laughed too. “He can walk on his hands. That’s why Stuart calls him The Acrobat.”
“That’s not all of it,” Stuart sang.
“Stu . . .” Margo warned.
MARGO WANTED TO LIKE THE BRODERS, for Andrew’s sake. She had known beforehand there would be questions. She had tried to prepare herself, planning to answer them honestly, in a friendly manner. But she hated having to tell them about Freddy over dinner, about a life that she no longer lived. She sensed, from their questions, they were trying to find out what problems she might bring to their son.
After dinner they dropped Sara off at Jennifer’s, then drove out to the Harvest House. On the way there Sam ran his hand along the back seat of her car and asked Margo, “You like these little imports?”
“Yes, I’ve had my Subaru for three years.”
“I had a Buick agency, you know.”
“Yes, Andrew told me.”
“It’s very hard for a person of my age, a person who remembers everything about the War, to see young people riding around in these Japanese cars.”
“The War’s over, Dad,” Andrew said, pulling into the Harvest House lot.
“Please, Andrew . . . I may be seventy-four, but I still know which end is up.”
“I like a roomy American car,” Nettie said, as they walked toward the hotel. “We have a four-door Buick, cream-colored. Light colors are best in Florida . . . they reflect the heat.”
Margo nodded.
They went into the lounge and found a table in the back, away from the singles crowd, which gathered around the bar. They ordered two Irish coffees and two plain.
“We’ve been to see Francine,” Nettie said. “I didn’t want to discuss it in front of Sara, but I thought you should know.”
“She didn’t recognize us,” Sam said.
“Of course she did,” Nettie argued. “She just wouldn’t talk to us.”
“She twirled a rubber band around her fingers,” Sam said. “The whole time we were there she twirled a rubber band around her fingers. Like a little kid.”
“She was nervous,” Nettie said. “She’s always been high-strung.”
“She looked terrible,” Sam said. “Her eyes all sunken in. She used to be such a beauty.”
“She will be again. All she needs is a good haircut. As soon as she gets out she’ll get her looks back,” Nettie said. “But her mother, Goldy . . .”
“That’s another story, “ Sam said.
“She’s aged overnight,” Nettie said. “God forbid, it could happen to any of us, but Goldy is only sixty-five.”
“Sixty-one,” Andrew said.
“Really?” his mother asked. “That’s all?”
Andrew nodded.
“She can’t get the right words out,” Sam said. “You can see how she’s struggling. But at least she knew us.”
“Francine knew us too. I don’t know why you keep saying that she didn’t. She just wouldn’t say anything.”
“It’s just one tragedy after another,” Sam said.
“You knew Francine, of course?” Nettie asked Margo.
“Yes,” Margo said.
“It’s a shame, not just for Francine, but for Sara.”
“Yes,” Margo said again.
DURING SUNDAY DINNER, as Sam and Nettie brought Andrew up to date on their friends and who had died, who had been hospitalized, and who had been diagnosed as having this or that disease, Margo found her mind wandering. She stared out the window at the Flatirons, which were still snow covered, while in town, on the Mall, tulips and daffodils were sprouting everywhere. She could see Michelle out of the corner of her eye glancing at her watch, wondering how much longer this dinner was going to last, how many more minutes before she could be with Eric again. And Sara wasn’t eating at all. She was just moving the food around on her plate an
d making silly faces at Stuart, who was encouraging her to misbehave in front of her grandparents.
It wasn’t until after dinner that Nettie and Sam took Margo aside and Nettie said, “Do you think he really loves you or is he just trying to prove something to Francine?”
Margo felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She could taste the turkey, the sweet potatoes, the fresh green beans working their way up to her throat. She could not bring herself to answer simply, to say, Yes, he really loves me. Instead, she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s never gotten over her,” Nettie said. “When she left and took Sara with her, he fell apart. We thought he’d never come out of it.”
“You never saw a boy so in love as Andrew was with Francine,” Sam said. “He worshipped her.”
“We don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Nettie said. “He’s our son and we love him, but he won’t be satisfied until he gets her back. That’s why he came out here.”
“You’re not the first and you won’t be the last,” Sam said, “but none of them lasts more than a year. Isn’t that right, Nettie?”
“That’s right. And it’s all because he still wants her. So unless you’re willing to be second best . . .”
Margo shook her head from side to side, denying what they were telling her, wanting to shout, It’s not true. You don’t know anything about it. But she couldn’t say anything, except, “Excuse me . . .” and then she ran down the stairs, locked herself in her bathroom, and threw up into the toilet.
41
FRANCINE WAS LYING on a lounge chair in the garden. Her eyes were closed. She was practicing one of the relaxation techniques she had learned in Group. She pictured herself in a hammock tied to two coconut trees on the beach, the ocean lapping gently in the distance. She was wearing a loose white dress and her feet were bare. The sun warmed her body as the hammock swayed in the breeze. She felt peaceful.
She was expecting a visitor. She was not sure she would be able to talk today, but she was going to try. She wanted to be well. And in order to be well she had to relate to people. She had to talk to them and listen to them and even care about them.
When she opened her eyes she saw Clare walking toward her. Francine stood up and smoothed out the wraparound dress she was wearing. Clare waved, then hurried toward her. Francine stood stiffly as Clare embraced her.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Clare said, releasing her, but still holding on to her hands.
Francine nodded.
“How are you?”
Francine nodded again. She poured each of them a glass of lemonade from the pitcher sitting on the white wrought-iron table.
“Thanks,” Clare said, pulling up a chair and sipping her drink.
Francine sat on the edge of the lounge chair. She wore two rubber bands around each wrist, like bracelets. Dr. Arnold said it was all right to use them if they made her feel more comfortable.
“How is Sara?” Francine asked, tentatively.
“She’s fine,” Clare said.
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yes,” Clare said. “I try to see her at least once a week. She’s singing in the school chorus and she got her first period.”
“Her first period,” Francine said. “I didn’t know.” She pulled a pink rubber band off her wrist and began to wind it around her fingers. She hoped it would not snap. She hated it when her rubber bands snapped, surprising her. She did not like surprises. Whenever a rubber band snapped she had to knot it and then it wasn’t strong anymore.
“Sara sent you this,” Clare said, pulling a blue envelope out of her purse.
Francine took it and put it into her pocket. It was so difficult to make conversation. It hurt her throat and her head. “She writes to me every week, but I never write to her. I don’t know what to say.”
“She understands,” Clare said.
Francine took a blue rubber band from her other wrist and twisted it around two of her fingers. “She lives with them, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Is she happy there?”
“She misses you but . . .”
“I know a joke,” Francine said, interrupting. “How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?” She was supposed to wait for the other person to answer, to say, I don’t know or I give up, but she never did. She always gave the answer herself. “One,” she said. “But it takes a long time and the light bulb has to really want to change.”
Clare laughed.
In Group they were learning to tell each other jokes. That was the only one she had learned so far. She did not find any of the jokes funny. She did not find anything funny. She watched a lot of TV, mainly sitcoms, trying to figure them out. Some of the patients laughed their heads off at Laverne and Shirley or Three’s Company, but Francine wasn’t one of them. Dr. Arnold said that her sense of humor would come back in time.
“Part of my problem is I don’t find anything funny,” Francine said to Clare. “Except for this. I married a man over New Year’s in Hawaii. I don’t remember having married him, but apparently I did. Isn’t that funny . . . to have married someone and not remember? Of course, I don’t have to stay married to him if I don’t want to.”
“You married Lewis?” Clare asked, leaning forward in her chair.
Francine wound the blue rubber band around her thumb.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m not that kind of crazy.”
“I’m sorry,” Clare said. “It’s just such a surprise. Does Sara know?”
“No one knows, except for Dr. Arnold, Lewis, and my Group.”
Clare finished her lemonade.
“Here’s something else,” Francine said. “I had a son who died in an automobile accident when he was ten. They tell me I have to learn to accept that. Do you think a person can ever learn to accept that?”
“Is all of this true, B.B.?” Clare asked, a worried expression on her face.
“Yes, it’s all true. I’m learning to deal with the truth. That’s why I’m here. And from now on would you call me Francine? That’s my real name.”
42
MICHELLE WAS IN LOVE and no one was going to spoil it for her. Not Margo and her hostile attitude, not Stuart, calling Eric The Acrobat, not Andrew’s knowing looks, not even her best friend, Gemini, warning Michelle that Eric was a loser. It was embarrassingly obvious that Gemini, like the other girls at school, was jealous. Only Sara understood the incredible, the amazing truth—not only did Michelle love Eric, but Eric loved Michelle.
Michelle had always known that if she waited long enough her time would come. She was glad she hadn’t gone with any of those creepy boys at school, glad that she had saved herself for Eric. She would ride to the ends of the earth on the back of his Honda, her arms wrapped around his waist, the wind in her face, the helmet over her ears so that she could hear only the thump of her own heartbeat.
He waited for her every day after school, surrounded by a group of girls who stood back in awe as Michelle approached. She would climb onto the Honda and wave goodbye, as Eric revved up the motor and sped off, whisking Michelle away to his room on Arapahoe, where he would make love to her until dinnertime. Then, he would deliver her home to her mother, her cheeks rosy, a secret smile on her face.
She had gone to the clinic for a diaphragm after their first night together. No accidents for her, like Puffin. She had questioned Eric about venereal disease since he had had so many partners, but he had sworn he was clean. He’d encouraged her to examine him. He had turned on the lights and told her to get down close to his penis and look it over carefully and she had. She had never seen a penis up close before. She had never touched one. She liked the way it sprang to l
ife, like an inflatable toy. He had been gentle that first night, but she had been so scared she couldn’t let go. It had hurt like hell. She’d felt no pleasure, except for the pleasure of the idea. She hadn’t even loved him then. It wasn’t until the next day that she’d loved him. And her love had grown steadily in the five weeks since they had met. Eric had changed her life. There could be no going back for her now.
And so, when he told her on May 15 at 5:28 in the afternoon that he had to be moving on, she passed out. She was in his bed at the time.
When she came to, Eric was hovering over her, fanning her face. “What’d you do that for?” he asked.
“The shock, I guess. Do you have to go so soon?”
“I have to get back home in time to find a decent summer job,” he told her. “If I’m going back to school in September then I’ve got to go after the bucks now.”
She had known from the beginning that some day he would have to leave. But she had hoped that it would not be until the end of the school year, and then, that he would ask her to come with him to Oregon for the summer, where she would get a job waiting tables in some quaint inn while he worked on a highway construction crew. They would live in a tiny room, with just a hot plate, or else in a trailer, and she would learn to sew so that she could hang curtains in the windows. In September she would come back to Boulder, finish up her final year of high school, and apply only to colleges in Oregon.
“I can come out to Portland as soon as school is over,” Michelle said. “I don’t have to go east this summer.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t get involved with you.”
“You don’t call this involved?”
“I never made any promises, did I?”
“No, but . . .”
“I want you to have this,” he said, reaching across to the bedside table, handing her a small cactus plant. “I want you to take care of it for me.”
Michelle held the plant close, feeling its prickly spines. “If it blooms, I will bloom,” she said, closing her eyes. “If it dies, I will die too.”