New York Echoes 2

by Warren Adler

  With trepidation, Barry waited for the inevitable toasts. He sat at the table in the center of the room next to his father, who sat next to his mother, her two sisters and their husbands. Suddenly the clang of a spoon against a champagne glass slowly quieted the celebrating crowd and his father rose to speak. He thanked everyone for coming and then began an emotional speech about his wife.

  “We were just kids when we got married, two foolish children barely out of their teens and here we are years later still married, still very much in love, still happy campers, with a marvelous successful son. I thank God every day for the gift of Cecile, who has stood by me, through thick and thin, enduring the long absences of my work as a traveling man. But whenever I returned from a trip I knew she would be waiting, open-armed, devoted, her pretty face smiling and happy to receive me. Cecile is my one and only, my true love, a fabulous wife and mother and I cannot tell you how happy I am to pay her this tribute on her 50th.”

  Barry noted that there were tears in his eyes and in those of many of the guests. Despite his cynicism, he felt a lump begin to grow in his throat and a tiny sob bubble up from his chest. His father turned to his mother and lifted his champagne glass.

  “I raise my glass to you, my lovely sweetheart, who I fell in love with at first sight and will love until my eyes look into the final darkness.” His wife rose and they embraced and kissed.

  The assembled guests voiced their approval and sipped their champagne. Then his mother rose, after dabbing her tear-filled eyes. She seemed radiantly happy and, clearing her throat, said, “This is one of the happiest days of my life, second only to the day Barry was born and my marriage to Marv. God has indeed blessed us with a happy marriage and a great son. I too fell in love with this guy at first sight and that love has sustained me through all the years of my marriage. He is my rock, my sweetheart and my best pal. Normally, we are not demonstrative people…” She turned to his father. “But I have to say that my husband is a most wonderful and saintly human being. I cannot imagine a life without him. He has been everything I ever fantasized when I consented to be his wife: Kindly, honest, faithful, decent and above all, loving. I love you, darling. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

  The entire room stood up and cheered. My father held up his arms to silence the crowd and turned to Barry, who felt weak in the knees as he rose. His parents’ words had stunned and confused him. Were they acting or did they really believe their words? He seemed caught in a riddle. How was it possible for his mother to have been so unfaithful to his father and still mouth what at first he believed were contrived platitudes? And how could his father, the cuckolded and betrayed husband, make such moving statements about his wife?

  Forgetting to take the card on which he had written his toast from his pocket, he managed to remain steady and for a long moment his tongue could not find words. Finally, he cleared his throat and clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms.

  “My parents,” he began haltingly. The room was dead quiet and yet he felt very much alone. “I just want to say…” He paused and cleared his throat again. “I just want to say that my parents are remarkable people. They have always told me that they think I am their greatest achievement. I think they’re wrong.” He felt suddenly emboldened, his eyes washing over his parents’ uplifted faces. “I am not their greatest achievement. Their greatest achievement is their marriage, this bond between them that is the most important priority in their lives. No matter what. It has sustained them and us as a family. I have to say…” He felt a sudden surge of strength and deep loving genuine affection for them, something that he had never before felt with such power and sincerity. “Yes, I love them and, above all, I am honored to be their son.”

  Tears ran down his parents’ cheeks as they stood up and embraced him. For a brief moment he felt the power of the old memory, when he had snuggled between them in their bed. It was no longer his business to probe the mysteries of their marriage. But he knew that the burden that had plagued him most of his life had disappeared.

  Looking For Al

  “Class reunions are like the picture of Dorian Gray. The image of the picture is on the guest list and that painting in the basement is the old you.”

  “Profound,” Cathy Barnes chuckled, winking at her old classmate, Vivien Silver, who had uttered the so-called profundity. Vivien had panned the group, Columbia College Class of 1984, and pronounced them dreary, acknowledging that it could be the weather, which was rainy and dark.

  Cathy had found Vivien a few years after graduation and, although they had not been friendly in their undergraduate years, the fact that they had both been Class of 1984 had provided the cement that bonded them. It was Cathy who had persuaded Vivien to attend.

  In preparation and to chase her reluctance, Vivien had recycled all she could remember of those days, an exercise of selective recall. She had majored in English lit and philosophy, which was reasonably involving and somewhat entertaining, while secretly yearning for some occupational path that would light the way to a satisfying future.

  While interning for a publishing house, George had come along with an offer of marriage, which she accepted out of fear that such a proposal might never come around again. That event was followed two years later by divorce, followed by years of therapy, followed by a slow climb up the ladder of self-esteem, followed by a growing realization of self-worth. Of all things, she was now a public relations executive advising people how to improve their public persona.

  Those undergraduate years at Columbia had been a dark blur and she was having a hard time coming up with any happy moment worth cherishing.

  “I was like a speck of dust,” Vivien had confessed to Cathy. “You were the big cheese on campus.”

  “How are the mighty fallen.”

  Cathy’s self-effacement was charming. From an unpromising beginning, they had bonded and Cathy had lured her into this new world of achieving single women, many of whom had struggled through the same early torments and insecurities that had made her post-adolescent life a nightmare.

  “Do you good to compare yourself to your peers,” Cathy told her. “That’s what college reunions are all about.”

  “Will I come out win, place, or show?” Vivien asked fishing for a compliment. She got it.

  “Winner’s circle, baby.”

  “Okay then. I’ll make the bet.”

  There was one undergraduate moment, a brief flicker of pleasure that did emerge from the mud of memory. To force herself out of a sense of deep dislocation and shyness, she had joined the drama club, which put on plays by Shakespeare. She was usually cast in secondary roles, waiting ladies mostly, the playwright’s clever devices for exposition.

  She had been cast as Nerissa, the waiting lady to Portia in “The Merchant of Venice,” not exactly a star vehicle, but with one good scene in which she was the instrument in getting Portia to comment on the suitors that are after her hand in marriage and, of course, her wealth. She could still remember a single line.

  “He, of all men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.”

  For some reason the line was always associated in her mind with the heavy crush she had on Al Ackerman, the student director. She remembered him as dashing, beautiful, godlike. He had become the leading man in her fantasy life, an erotic obsession. Of course, he barely noticed she was alive, except when he provided her with notes on her performance, which were always critical. Nevertheless it was the only thing about her undergraduate years that had stirred her emotionally.

  “Have you any recollection of Al Ackerman?” she asked Cathy on the way to the reunion.

  “Ackerman? Ackerman? Yeah. I remember. Pretty boy.”

  “Very,” Vivien acknowledged. “I would have parked my shoes under his bed in a New York minute.”

  Actually, she hadn’t done much shoe-parking in those days. Throughout her coll
ege years, she was still a virgin, though not because of a vow of abstinence. No one had ever stepped up to the plate to do the deed and she had actually come to the marriage bed pure and inexperienced. She seemed to have left it in the same condition and it was only in her second chapter single life that she had uncovered the mysteries of adventurous sex and it was now a bedrock condition of her relationships.

  “I think I had carnal knowledge of the dude,” Cathy giggled. “In those days I was considered a manhood validator for those dear confused boys still in the closet. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes not.”

  “Did it work for Al?”

  “I think he was a hard case.” She giggled. “My memory is a bit fuzzy. In retrospect they all seem like Chinese waiters. Anyway, we’ll soon see which pew they chose.”

  Vivien hadn’t thought about Al for years, but the press of the coming reunion had whetted her recall, although she could summon up little nostalgic sentiment about any other relationship or incident. A partial cause of this sense of alienation, her shrink and she had determined, was that during her entire four-year college career she had lived with her overly possessive parents in their Brooklyn apartment and she was not really part of the extracurricular life on the campus. This geographic and psychological divide shrank the social possibilities considerably. Other students lived on or near the campus in apartments and dormitories, and partied and socialized practically around the clock.

  Nor was she a distinguished student, her marks in mid range. The truth of it was that in those days, whatever the cause, she was nerdy, bashful, clumsy, insecure and boring. Be honest, she told herself. That was then. You’ve come a long way, baby.

  Cathy, on the other hand, was one of those super-achiever out-of-town girls who was popular with everyone. Cathy was a motivator and had pushed Vivien to transform herself, goading her into a more socially active circle.

  Cathy had never married, preferred partnerships without legal complications, and had been in and out of relationships for years.

  “When what I throw out on the stoop gets stale, I’ll opt for the road to compromise,” she had averred, but it seemed to Vivien that Cathy’s innate allure, that certain something she possessed, would far outlive her looks.

  “I’d follow you anywhere, Cath, even to this boring reunion,” she told her friend as they sipped Chardonnay and studied the other guests for signs of recognition. More people recognized Cathy and she was quickly engaged in conversation while Vivien circulated, on the prowl for familiar faces, particularly the one owned by Al Ackerman.

  She did find a few faces vaguely recognizable. Few found her and she roamed through the crowded room, stopping to converse and offering her own brief history while listening to others who seemed to have operated on a faster track. She was not in the least intimidated by their stated achievements or the etchings of the aging process. Her sense of diminishment had long disappeared. On this test she gave herself high marks.

  Comparing herself physically with the others, she noted that she had done extremely well in that department. Once, she had been a frizzy-haired girl with big glasses, bad skin and teeth that needed work. After her divorce she had, with Cathy’s prodding, taken corrective action. Skin, teeth, hair had been redone. Dark circles and puffy bags had been removed from her eyes and a personal trainer had helped flatten her tummy. She was contemplating a boob job to enhance the improvement.

  She was a blonde now, hardly the plain Jane of her college days, which was probably the real reason that few had recognized her. It was, of course, comforting to tell herself that. She did have to introduce herself to some people who she vaguely recognized and it pleased her to see their admiring glances.

  About an hour into the event, she noted that a well-dressed woman with long dark hair, a good figure, skillfully groomed and dressed, seemed to be observing her with more than passing interest. The woman kept her distance and since Vivien could not muster a spark of recognition, she ignored the woman’s interest.

  At one point, she caught up with Cathy and asked a question, motioning with her head.

  “You know her?”

  Cathy eyed the woman surreptitiously and shrugged.

  “Not on my dance card.”

  Vivien shrugged and moved on, realizing that she was pointedly searching for Al Ackerman. As more wine was imbibed, she had the feeling that the attendees were getting bolder and more and more people were introducing themselves. People struck up conversations and told stories of their experiences with various professors, few of whom she remembered. Business cards were exchanged. Many former students embraced each other.

  As she moved through the crowd, getting wine refills and nibbling on finger foods, she could find no trace of Al Ackerman. It became increasingly clear that the woman was following her, although keeping her distance. For some reason, it seemed out of character for the event. Surely there was some connective memory between the woman and herself. Why, then, was she being followed? Why didn’t the woman step forward and introduce herself?

  Finally, Vivien turned, walked over to the woman and addressed her.

  “Do we know each other?” Vivien asked, studying the woman’s face. It reminded her of someone, an actress perhaps. With her long black hair, sculpted cheekbones, and sensual lips, she was quite beautiful. She wore a simple black dress and a double strand of pearls and had a fashion model’s height.

  “I certainly would like to,” the woman said, her voice low and, Vivien thought, smoky and seductive.

  “I assume you’re part of the reunion, Class of 1984,” Vivien said.

  “Yes, I am. I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but I can’t take my eyes off you.”

  Vivien wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or guarded. She had not quite reached that level of sophistication that allowed her to sense when she was being solicited. Blatant approaches had happened before and she was quite tolerant about it and wasn’t about to be impolite or insulting. Thus far, she had never experimented in that area and felt neither tempted nor threatened.

  “I’m genuinely flattered,” she said, as the woman continued to assess and inspect her. In fact, she enjoyed the assessment.

  “It takes a woman to truly appreciate another woman.”

  “So they say,” she said casually, oddly titillated, wondering if she was throwing out some signal about which Vivien was oblivious.

  “Are you free after the event?” the woman asked.

  “I did come with someone,” Vivien said.

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “I think we made plans,” Vivien said. They hadn’t, but it seemed sensible to leave the option open.

  “Maybe we can meet somewhere,” the woman said. Her persistence was becoming somewhat aggressive. Some deflection seemed appropriate.

  “What was your major?” Vivien asked.

  “Drama.”

  “Really. I was a member of the drama club. We put on plays by Shakespeare.”

  The woman laughed showing beautiful white teeth. “I was a member myself.”

  “Now that is really a coincidence. I can’t believe it. I played Nerissa in The Merchant of Venice.”

  “Did you?”

  Delighted, Vivien repeated the one line she remembered. “‘I remember him well and I remember him worthy of thy praise.’”

  “My God, Portia’s response. I can’t believe this.”

  She studied the woman’s face. “Were you in it? I can’t seem to place you.”

  “No,” the woman said. There was something both playful and mysterious in her tone. Vivien became flustered.

  “Do you remember the director, Al Ackerman? I had this mad crush on him.”

  “Did you?”

  “He was so popular. He barely noticed me. I was looking for him here.”

  The woman smiled and tapped her chin, looking into Vivien’s eyes with lase
r-like intensity.

  “Well, you found her,” the woman said. She held out her hand. Confused, Vivien reached out, felt the unmistakable and meaningful pressure of affection and seduction. “‘She, of all the women that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.’”

  “But the line… the gender is reversed,” Vivien whispered, totally confused.

  “I’m Alice Ackerman,” the woman said.

  Vivien felt her knees wobble and her breath came in short gasps. She could not find the words to respond.

  “I’m me now,” Alice said.

  Vivien allowed her hand to linger, then withdrew it.

  “I’m… I’m stunned.”

  “Most people are,” Alice said smiling.

  She opened her pocketbook and took out a card.

  “Call me,” she said. “I’ll be happy to make amends for my earlier neglect.”

  She moved away while Vivien watched her, frozen with disbelief.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Cathy said, approaching her.

  “I have,” she said, after a long pause. “I have.”

  A Small Price To Pay

  “And to you, Dimitri,” Doris Henderson intoned, raising her glass of red, as the eight dinner guests and Gary looked on approvingly as she came to the end of her toast. “Your coming into our lives has been a highlight of the last couple of years. We have warmed ourselves on the open hearth of your personality, your wonderful sense of humor, graciousness and sincerity. We salute you, Dimitri.”

  “Hear, hear,” one of guests, a director of one of New York’s premier banks said enthusiastically, clinking her glass with that of her neighbors. “Beautifully said.”