[173] Hearing her silvery voice, Rachel felt suddenly so vulnerable, her misery shamefully exposed, like when she was twelve and Mama came upon her crying because that creep Will Sperry had torn up the valentine she’d given him at school. Mama’s sympathy had hurt her more than Will Sperry’s cruelty. No, she could not stand anyone pitying her, and especially not Mama.
And Mama, think how she would suffer, too—no grandchildren to baby-sit, to play with and spoil. No, Mama was far better off not knowing. Rachel couldn’t bear the thought of her mother’s misery on top of her own.
“Sorry, I was just letting myself in,” Rachel lied. “Listen, Mama, can I call you back? This ER rotation keeps me on the run all day long, and I’m really beat. What I’m really dying to do right now is jump in the shower.”
“I’ll only keep you a minute,” Sylvie chirped. “It’s about tomorrow; we’ll be sending the car for you at ten-thirty. That should give us just enough time to get to Cold Spring by twelve, even if there is a bit of traffic.”
What on earth? Cold Spring ... tomorrow, at twelve? Rachel wracked her brain to make sense of it.
“Oh dear, you haven’t forgotten, have you?” Sylvie, sounding dismayed, seemed to read her mind.
“Of course not, how could I forget—” She paused, and in her consternation began to giggle.
“Mason. Mason Gold’s wedding,” Mama prompted, laughing a little herself. “Rachel, honestly, don’t you think about anything but medicine these days? Now don’t tell me you haven’t something nice to wear or I’ll pop over this very instant and kidnap you, march you straight over to Saks.”
Oh God, yes. The handwritten invitation she’d gotten last month—it had struck her as a bit weird, not the stiff formal card she would have expected. She’d been intrigued, and thought how nice it would be to see Mason again, and meet this girl he was marrying. Then she’d stuck the invitation in a drawer somewhere, and it had apparently slipped her mind. Lord, if Mama hadn’t called she would have forgotten completely.
Yes, it would be great to see Mason again. Rachel winced, remembering Mason’s twenty-first birthday party, and the two of [174] them grappling clumsily on the carpet of his father’s suite at the Pierre. And afterwards, how solicitous he’d been, so attentive, trying to help her get dressed, then guiding her out to the elevator as if she were a barely ambulatory elderly aunt. And tongue-tied, too, as if they were on a blind date, as if they hadn’t known each other a million years. She was sure she’d lost him forever as her friend, her childhood buddy. But then, back at the party, Rachel, in desperation, had grabbed a handful of chipped ice and stuck it down the back of his pants. Mason had yelped, danced around a bit, and called her a sneaky bitch, a brat, a rotten little creep. They’d been friends again ever since.
“... unless you’d rather make it Bloomingdale’s,” Mama was going on.
Shopping? God, that’s all she needed. No, she’d dig something out of her closet.
“Don’t worry, Mama, I have the perfect outfit.”
“Ten-thirty then,” Sylvie said and sighed. “And for heaven’s sake, darling, do remember to wear stockings and a slip. The last time you wore a dress, I could see straight through it every time you stood with your back to the light.”
Rachel, feeling a prickle of exasperation, couldn’t help wondering if this was the same Sylvie to whom she’d felt so close, so in tune, when she’d confided to her about being pregnant.
“Oh, Mama, please—yes, okay, fine, I’ll wear a slip, ten slips, if that will make you happy.” Then the humor in it struck her, and she smiled. “Well, at least you’re easy to please. Mama, I know you’d die happy just so long as I always wore clean underwear, and put paper on strange toilet seats, and crossed my legs at the ankles whenever I sat down. Mama, I love you. And, Mama, listen, thanks for—”
For what? Yes, for also knowing what really matters ... for being with me and for me when it counts ... when I need you.
Sylvie had not fallen apart when Rachel told her about the abortion. No crying, or fussing, or bitter accusations. She had just hugged Rachel, crushing her almost, and said, “I love you, darling, and I’ll always love you, no matter what.”
“Thanks for what?” Sylvie asked.
[175] A lump rose in Rachel’s throat, but she swallowed it. “Oh, nothing. Just thanks. See you tomorrow at ten-thirty.”
Mason Gold’s wedding was not what Rachel had expected.
She had anticipated a synagogue smothered in lush floral arrangements, bridesmaids wearing matching chiffon dresses with puff sleeves, a bride and groom decked in white satin and tails like the ones on wedding cakes.
And here she sat with her parents, inside this big old greenhouse on top of a grassy hill overlooking the Hudson, watching two hippies promise to love, honor, but not obey each other. Mason Gold a hippie! Unbelievable. Out of sight.
True, she hadn’t seen him in a couple of years ... but now she hardly recognized him. A tall, ponytailed stranger in a flowing white caftan and sandals. The bride wore a matching kaftan, her long straight black hair threaded with tiny wild daisies. No huppak. They stood instead beneath a basket of hanging begonias, its meaty white blossoms brushing the tops of their heads, a scatter of fallen petals at their feet.
Rachel smiled, and thought, Good for you, Mason. You managed to break out of frozen food after all.
She glanced about. Long plywood tables, laden with flats of seedlings and small plants in clay pots, had been pushed against the steamy glass walls to make room for the fifty or so folding chairs. She spotted the Golds, seated in the first row, next to a tub of zinnias. Evelyn, still Mama’s closest friend, sitting ramrod straight and wearing a brave, flash-frozen smile. Rachel noticed that the heels of her pink pumps, dyed to match her pale pink suit, were muddy from the trek up the soggy slope. Her eyes looked puffy and red, as if she’d been crying. Beside her, Ira Gold, plump and bald, darted bewildered glances about as if at any moment he expected to see Alan Funt pop out from behind a tubbed tree to announce they were on “Candid Camera.” This was not a wedding the Golds had had a hand in planning ... or could even have dreamed of in their worst nightmares.
Rachel could easily pick out the Golds’ relatives and friends ... they all looked uncomfortable, shifting about in their chairs, [176] studying their laps, exchanging embarrassed looks. But not Mama, so elegant in a pale blue cashmere suit—she simply looked bemused. Rachel felt proud of her for that.
Rachel strained to hear the minister, a soft-spoken bearded man who seemed sincere and was wearing, happily for the Golds’ sake, a suit and tie. He was reading aloud the vows Mason and Shannon—her name was Shannon, wasn’t it? Yes, something like that—had written together. Something about love being free as an eagle ... and circles within circles. Nice, and not too sappy.
Rachel felt tears welling in her eyes. God, was she really crying? Maybe it was the way Mason was looking at his bride, gazing at her with such tenderness. They were totally absorbed in each another, they could have been standing in a sinking rowboat and not have noticed. David had never once looked at her that way.
Mason’s friends (who else could they be?)—long-haired boys in jeans and loose shirts—sat in a cluster near the front. The girls, four or five of them, all had long hair parted down the middle, and plain scrubbed faces. One, with straggly blond hair, reminded her of the Before pictures in those Tame Creme Rinse commercials. Several others were nodding dreamily, and looked pretty spaced out. What else did they grow up here in this greenhouse besides flowers?
Mason was slipping a ring on his bride’s finger, and now, his face glowing and tremulous with emotion, he was bending down to kiss her. A boy straddling an overturned clay tub, cradling a guitar on his lap, began to play Cat Stevens’ “Moonshadow.” Rachel found herself humming along, caught up in the joy of the moment.
A few minutes later, everyone began filing out, Mason and Shannon first, their friends crowding about them, grinning, laughing, everyone hugging one
another.
The older people hung back, muttering their polite, strained congratulations to the Golds. Rachel noticed that Ira Gold was scowling as another short bald man who looked like a brother or a cousin patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.
Across the chairs, Rachel’s eye caught Gerald’s, and they both smiled. Daddy is enjoying this ... Ira taken down a notch or two ... Daddy always did think he was a bit of a showoff.
Now she was picking her way downhill, hobbling in her high heels around the gopher holes and rocks. How ironic that she actually [177] had worried whether she’d be dressed up enough in this white turtleneck sweater and suede skirt.
In the funky farmhouse, refreshments were set up on a round oak table. Gallons of fresh-pressed apple cider, healthy-looking salads sprinkled with sunflower seeds and sprouts, whole-meal breads, crocks of sweet butter and farmer’s cheese, crusty vegetarian casseroles.
Later, in the big old-fashioned kitchen, with its Hoosier cabinets and walk-in pantry, Rachel finally managed to corner Mason alone. “Is all this for real?” she asked. “I can’t believe it’s you. What happened to Yale, to J. Press, to the Street?”
“Ever tried celery sticks with fresh-ground peanut butter?” He grabbed one off a chipped plate on the sloping counter, and stuck it in her mouth. He grinned, watching her try to chew. “Cheyenne makes them. At first I didn’t like the stuff she eats, but she turned me around.”
Rachel forced herself to swallow the pasty, stringy lump.
“I thought her name was Shannon.”
“It used to be. She changed it.”
“You’re not thinking of changing yours, are you?” The thought of having to call him something like “Tonto” or “Seagull” made her want to laugh.
He grinned. “Sure. How does Acapulco grab you?”
“Funny. Very funny.” Now she was giggling in spite of herself. Still the same old Mason. She felt herself relax.
“I’m sorry, that was mean of me. What I said about Yale. I’m just not quite used to seeing you in a ponytail. But I’m happy for you, Mason, honestly.”
“No offense taken. Hey, want to see the rest of the place? Shan—Cheyenne and I have the whole top floor. Dove and Gordy share the second with Lisa and Joe. Have you met Joe? The house used to belong to Joe’s grandfather, he was some kind of botanist. It was Joe’s idea to hold the wedding up at the greenhouse. ...”
Rachel followed Mason up a wide staircase with a carved oak banister and charmingly turned spindles. The third floor, where he lived, was really an attic. She followed him around the low whitewashed room, ducking to avoid hitting her head on the sloping ceiling. Someone—Cheyenne probably—had sewn curtains from a [178] madras bedspread. A queen-size mattress on the floor was the only furniture aside from a chest of drawers.
Mason sat down on the mattress, his legs crossed Indian style. He caught her somewhat dismayed look, and said, “I know, kind of bare, but it’s only temporary. Till the end of summer. Then we’re moving into the city. I’m starting with the Legal Aid Society in September—did I tell you? I got fed up with corporate law, rich assholes all trying to rip each other off. You have any idea how many decent people get shipped off to penitentiaries every day because they can’t afford a good lawyer? Of course you’ll find a fair number of incompetents in Legal Aid, the ones who’re there only because they can’t get anything better. But, hey, I’m choosing this. I want to help.”
Rachel dropped down beside Mason, and kissed his cheek. She felt proud of him, of his courage, his commitment.
“Poor Delia Street,” she said.
“What’s Delia Street got to do with it?”
“I was just thinking, where would Delia have been if Perry Mason had gone over to Legal Aid?”
He laughed, and leaned over to dig out a plastic Baggie from under a corner of the mattress. “Want to smoke one? For old times’ sake?”
He rolled a joint, and they passed it back and forth, toking in companionable silence. It felt good, right somehow to be sharing this with Mason on his wedding day. Just what she needed to take her mind off herself, her heartache.
Then Mason asked, “So what’s with Dr. Kildare these days? Too busy saving lives to fall in love and get married?”
“I was in love once,” she said. “At least I thought so at the time. Think I’ll stick to saving lives from now on, starting with my own. ... Hey, you know, I’m getting used to the idea of you with a ponytail. In fact I kind of like it. I must be stoned.”
“Grew it myself.”
“The ponytail?” She giggled, feeling more and more lightheaded.
“This.” He held out the joint. “Up in the greenhouse.”
“I kind of figured.”
“Pop suspects, I think. He out and out asked me if I was up [179] to any funny stuff. He kills me. I guess he still holds it against me, that I wouldn’t go into the business.”
Rachel took a long drag, coughing on the sweetish smoke. It’d been a long time since she’d gotten stoned, probably too long. She leaned back on the mattress, supporting herself on one elbow. She could see through the low window, to where the sun was setting in a tangerine haze over the river.
“You want to hear something really radical?” she said. “I’m thinking of going to Vietnam.”
Mason stared at her. “Shit, Rachel, are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Until now she hadn’t been sure, but somehow saying it seemed to make it real.
Mason stared at the smoldering joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Wow. I knew this homegrown stuff was good, but not that good.”
She laughed. “Okay, I’m a little stoned, but I am serious.”
“Bar none, this is the craziest idea you’ve ever come up with.” His brown eyes opened in exaggerated, comic-book disbelief.
“I’m not talking about joining the army or anything. I’d work for a private hospital, Catholic Relief. There’s plenty of civilians being shot at, maimed, over there, as well as soldiers. I don’t see that it could be any worse than working in Legal Aid.”
Mason reflected on this, squinting his eyes as the smoke rose up around his head. “Yeah, you could be right about that. Anyway, who am I to judge? According to Pop, I’ve pretty well screwed up my life, so who am I to be telling you what to do? Besides, I know you well enough to know you’ll do it anyway.”
Mason fished a roach clip from an ashtray on the floor near the mattress, and finished the joint in silence. Rachel thought then that if she’d had a brother, she would have wanted him to be just like Mason.
“I’ll drop you a postcard,” she told him.
“Just don’t write ‘Wish you were here.’ ” He tapped his chest, grinning. “Heart murmur. Four-F. Bummer, huh?”
Rachel pulled herself to her feet, feeling heavy, tired, but also better than she had in weeks. Yes, she would go ... that was the answer ... put all this behind her. ...
A new life, like Mason.
[180] “Let’s go down,” she told him. “Cheyenne might wonder what you’re doing up here with another woman on your wedding day.”
“Relax, Cheyenne’s not like that. She doesn’t believe you can own anyone that way.” He hoisted himself off the mattress.
Rachel stared down at his sandaled feet, at the weirdly angled little toe he’d broken waterskiing one summer in Deal when they were kids. It made her feel sad somehow, as if Mason’s bent toe stood for a carefree part of her life she’d lost forever.
Then she leveled a stern gaze at Mason. “Listen, Buster, just don’t ever test her on that, you hear? If you love her, don’t mess with a good thing.”
Mason saluted, one corner of his mouth twisting up. “Not a chance. She’s all I can handle, and then some. Listen, I’ll tell you something I haven’t even told my parents. Cheyenne and I ... well, she’s three months pregnant. I’m going to be a father. Can you dig it?”
Rachel, a searing pain in her chest, felt as if he had touched a live wire to her heart. That
goofy look of happiness on Mason’s face. It made her think of David, how distant he’d been, how cold. Oh God.
Then she pulled herself together. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“It’s something else, isn’t it? Me getting married, having a kid. You maybe going to Vietnam.” He turned to her as they were heading toward the stairs. There were little red razor nicks along his jaw, she observed. He’d shaved off his beard this morning, he told her, out of respect for his parents. It would have been too much, seeing him looking like Jesus Christ on top of everything else. “Just don’t stick your neck out too far over there.” Then he added, “Oh, hell, why did I say that? For you, that’s like saying ‘Don’t think about elephants.’ ”
She patted his shoulder. “Okay, I promise. I won’t think about elephants.”
Out on the landing, she heard a commotion downstairs, someone crying out, a door slamming, the hammering of footsteps on the stairs below.
“Rachel? Rachel?” Mama’s voice anxiously calling her. Someone [181] hurt? She thought absurdly of those old cartoons, Bugs Bunny screeching, “Is there a doctor in the house?”
But as the white circle of Mama’s face surfaced out of the stairwell, Rachel froze. Her heart felt as if it had stopped. Oh God, something bad ... something bad must have happened to ...
“Rachel,” Mama gasped. “It’s Daddy—”
Chapter 9
Sylvie sat in the old red velvet rocking chair in her bedroom, sewing a button on Gerald’s shirt.
She guided the needle through the buttonhole. Such tiny buttons, and so fine, the old-fashioned kind made of polished bone, not plastic. Just like Gerald to watch over every detail. His shirts all custom-fitted by the same house on Savile Row that his father had used before him.
Sylvie glanced up briefly at the tall leaded windows and saw with some surprise that the afternoon was nearly gone.
Somewhere she heard a sound, a knocking. But so far away it had to be coming from downstairs. Oh well, let Bridget take care of it. She imagined herself laying the shirt out for Gerald, so he could wear it tomorrow, with his natty blue herringbone suit and that lovely Dior tie Rachel had given him for Father’s Day last year. ...
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