by Susan Isaacs
“Barbara, I don’t want any part of this.”
“Of course not. What sane person would?” Barbara rose, smoothing the razor pleats of her skirt. “I have to mingle. I’ll see you whenever you’re ready.”
I let several minutes pass, while I made a real effort to recall the usual stable details of my life: Jerry’s damp shaving brush leaning against my Q-Tip box, the overflowing garbage cans outside our apartment on Tuesday and Friday mornings, the amount of my paycheck after deductions, the creak of the elevator at campaign headquarters as it wearily pulled its passengers up an exhausting four stories.
But the spell of the house was too powerful. I walked inside, through the long hall with its dark wood floor, past polished old tables with bowls of puffy white flowers with ruby centers, through the kitchen with its glass-fronted cabinets and fireplace, and stood by the back door, watching the long lawn that sloped and fell until it reached the sandy beach. There were no visible garbage cans here.
Mrs. Innis, the cook, smiled, and said, “Hello, Miss Marcia. Having a nice time?” I told her I was. “Just making some more mayonnaise here,” she explained, letting golden dots of oil dribble into a bowl. “Has to be real fresh, this time of year.” I agreed.
Outside, clusters of people decorated the lawn in their bright summer clothing. Many of them, I guessed, knowing Barbara and Philip’s friends, received paychecks not much larger than mine, and yet they all seemed to belong there; the Drexlers’ house was so seductive that all their guests shed their raucous voices and enlarged pores and became upper class for the Fourth of July.
Even my mother. I finally located her under a tree with a dark, twisted trunk. She was sitting in a canvas lawn chair, with one of her sister’s old straw hats perched on her head; it was a small, red straw and made her look almost jaunty. Chatting with her, leaning up against the tree, was David Hoffman in white slacks and a navy T-shirt. I’m not certain why, since I stood at a distance and it was just a T-shirt, but I knew it was quite expensive. David’s T-shirt was probably worth about four or five of Uncle Julius’s alligators. Even though it was ordinary-looking, it was probably a brand immediately recognizable by any fabulously rich Harvard alumnus.
I hovered by the coolness of the house, tempted to see how long she and David could continue to talk. Surely even his good manners had limits. Surely he could not be that enthralled with me or that stupid that he would attempt to gain access through my mother. But my mother’s farsightedness paid off. She spotted me and waved with such enthusiasm that other people must have thought I was some marchioness’s daughter or at least the child of an orthodontist. “Marcia!” Pale waves of sound reached me over the comfortable laughter of the other guests. “Come join us!” David left the support of the tree and joined in the waving, not as enthusiastic as my mother but certainly more sincere.
I sauntered over, passing out my own waves as I went, to the elder Drexlers, to one of the professors at Philip’s law school who was a Democratic state committeeman, to a couple of Barbara’s suburban lady friends whom I had met the previous summer at her pool.
“Hi,” I said to my mother. I turned to David, who seemed to be waiting for some daughterly show, a kiss or a hand squeeze, before I acknowledged him. But I felt, under the circumstances, a hi was more than sufficient, so I turned to him. “Hello. Did you see the latest polls? Uncle Sidney’s getting his ass kicked in.”
My mother’s wan color grew wanner. David smiled. “Don’t use that kind of language in front of your mother,” he said. He turned to her. “Does she usually carry on like this, Mrs. Green?”
Her response was a weak “well” and a shrug.
For some reason, David seemed to find this response endearing, because he beamed at her and asked if she minded if we went for a stroll.
“I don’t stroll,” I told him as we began walking. He grasped my elbow in the traditional gentleman-taking-lady-for-stroll position. “What were you talking to my mother about?”
“Politics. She’s very well informed. Is that where you developed your interest in the subject?”
“No.” We passed a flower bed covered with light green leaves and pale blue flowers that grew along the ground, upper-class flowers, pallid and indolent. “She usually doesn’t talk to me.”
David was amused. “You are being difficult today. Barbara said that being in the midst of your family seems to make you a little edgy.”
“Really? What else did she tell you about me?”
“That you’re very intelligent. And pretty. But that I can see with my own eyes.”
“You’re trying to worm campaign secrets out of me, aren’t you? Uncle Sidney sent you down here to get copies of our next press release.”
“Do me a favor,” David said. “Let’s call a moratorium on talking about Uncle Sidney.”
“It’s that bad?” I asked.
“Awful. Well, for me it is. I spent all yesterday at his headquarters. You’d probably feel very comfortable there. Not with Sidney, of course, because he’s a prize pill, but with the campaign atmosphere. But I’m used to a law firm where things are organized. Anyway, there I was, at headquarters, trying to read something, with three people standing around the desk next to mine screaming about whose job it is to answer the telephone. It’s so inefficient.”
I nodded. I remembered times when I had screamed at two other people that it was not my job to answer the phone.
David rubbed his chin, as though testing for five-o’clock shadow. “And then,” he went on, “at least once an hour someone broke down and cried, and everyone was running around trying to line up someone to sleep with, and when I didn’t appear interested they took it as a personal affront, which I suppose it is….” He stared at the Drexlers’ clipped lawn.
I stared at his expensive T-shirt and tried to imagine what was under it: tennis-made muscle or thick flesh, the texture of marshmallows. Because of the neckline, I could discern no chest hair and could not have made even an educated guess as to whether any existed. But David began talking again and his voice was more magnetic than his torso.
“Look, I’m sorry to go on like this.”
“That’s okay, as long as I get a turn to attack law firms.”
“Well, of course. They’re eminently attackable. But at least they fulfill their purpose. Here I look at what’s going on and marvel how the democratic process survives. Nobody cares about the issues.”
“Come on, David. Of course they do. They have to appear knowledgeable during a debate. And then if they’re elected, they have to have some sort of program or position.”
“But everything is appearances.” His face was flushed. A woman who cared about him would have told him to wear a hat. “Tell me, does William Paterno really care what happens to this state?”
“Yes. Why are you such a terrible cynic? Because of Uncle Sidney? He’s not a typical politician. He’s a rich businessman who decided that politics is laughs. And you’re upset because you feel obligated to spend time with him, watching him make a bigger jerk of himself than he already is and using your money to do it.”
“A, it is not my money, it’s my Aunt Marjorie’s money, and B, I have watched him behaving like a jerk for the last thirty or forty years, so this campaign is not precisely a novelty, and C, he seems to be doing quite well compared to the other candidates, incidentally, which I suppose might be construed as a judgment of the overall quality—”
“And D,” I interrupted, “you can construe until you’re blue in the face and still not know your ass from your elbow about politics if you keep hanging around with Sidney Appel.”
“Your subtlety overwhelms me, Marcia,” he said. We had stopped halfway between a small grove of weeping willows and the narrow dark-yellow beach.
“Then go back to my mother,” I suggested. “You can have a nice subtle chat about your latest issue of Foreign Affairs. I’m sure she’ll bend over backward to behave splendidly.”
He beamed at me. “You’re cute. So
irascible.”
“I am not being cute. I am being nasty.”
“No you’re not. Anyway, before you walk off in a huff, tell me why Uncle Sidney’s campaign is atypical.”
I did as we sauntered down to the beach. I also explained the differences between the various polls and why there was an excellent chance that Appel’s early lead would not only evaporate but was illusory to begin with.
David said “hmmm” quite a lot and “no kidding” once or twice. On the beach, we passed a line of old-fashioned wooden deck chairs, filled with the bodies of the Drexlers’ pale guests. I leaned over to unbuckle my sandals, and David offered me his hand to hold for balance.
We held hands until we found a spot on the sand that was quite isolated. It was a friendly hand-holding. He did not attempt to tickle my palm or kiss my fingertips. We strolled a few steps farther and sat at the water’s edge.
David took off his shoes, brown moccasins with white rubber soles, and we let the sound cool our heels. His feet were big but quite ordinary, golden-mean feet, neither calloused nor manicured, with straight toes and neat, even nails. And for the next hour and a half, while I stared at his feet and out at the water, we talked politics. He was knowledgeable about issues, even about personalities, but was almost naïve in his understanding of campaigns. Other than his Uncle Sidney, whom he obviously considered barely worthy of contempt, the only political figure he had ever met was one of his law partners, a former Secretary of Defense.
“I never knew that,” he kept saying, or “Really?”
I said “Really?” a couple of times when he explained the economic power wielded by multinational corporations. He represented several. He talked about his work, explaining it took him abroad only three or four times a year.
“Only three or four times?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite country?”
“I don’t know. I think England’s the only other place I could live, but I get more excited about going to France. What’s your favorite?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been out of the United States, except for my honeymoon in the Caribbean.”
“You’ve never been to Europe?” he demanded.
“I’ll just bet you’re a Republican, David.”
“Wrong. And stop trying to stereotype me.”
“I’m not trying to stereotype you.”
“Yes you are. What do you think, I go to bed with the Wall Street Journal?”
I changed the subject. “Don’t you live in the country somewhere? Connecticut or someplace horrendously verdant? I thought I remembered Barbara telling me that.”
David grinned. “I see she’s supplying a little background. No, I live in Manhattan. My former wife lives in Connecticut. And my children. I have three.”
“That’s right.”
“She’s remarried. To a writer. Arthur Abel. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s a novelist. He’s really a very nice guy and wonderful to my children. Reads poetry to them, takes them riding.”
“On horses?”
“Yes, of course. They live on a farm and they have quite a nice setup.”
“From writing novels?”
“No. From Lynn, my former wife. She bought the place.”
“Mr. Abel has himself a nice deal. If you like kids and horses.” David, who had been looking at me, turned his head to look across the sound, toward Connecticut. “Look, David, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be that snide. You miss your kids, don’t you?” He nodded. “How often do you see them?”
“Every other weekend and winter vacation and for two weeks in the summer. But now they go to camp with their friends during the summer.” He turned to me. “I have tickets to a concert next Wednesday. All Chopin. Would you like to go?”
“I can’t, David. Thank you.”
“You can’t get an evening off?”
“It’s not that. We’re in the middle of a primary campaign and you’re involved with another candidate. It just wouldn’t look right to be seen with you.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m serious.”
“Do I look like Mata Hari?” he demanded.
“A little around the eyes. Really, David, it’s just not done. But thank you.”
“You’re welcome. What about after the election? Would you see me then?”
“Didn’t Barbara tell you?” I asked.
“That you were involved with someone?”
“That I’m living with someone.”
David’s light brown eyebrows pulled together, creating a vertical column of skin between his eyes. Then his forehead creased into several horizontal lines. He seemed a little annoyed with me and a lot annoyed with my cousin Barbara. At least that’s what I read the lines to mean. But his voice was cool and polite. He said, “Barbara didn’t mention that.”
“I guess she was afraid you’d think I wasn’t a virgin.”
David erased his lines. “To tell you the truth, I rather assumed you weren’t after she told me you had been married for a while.”
“Then you’ve gotten my whole biography.”
“Only the highlights.” He plowed the wet sand with his toes. “Look, Marcia, I’ve had a very enjoyable afternoon with you. I don’t know what your living arrangements are, but I’d like to see you again, if that’s at all possible.”
“Well…”
“Even if it’s just for a friendly evening. But I’ll leave that up to you. I’m in the phone book. David C. H-o-f-f-m-a-n, Fourteen East Sixty-seventh. And I promise not to ply you with drink to get Paterno’s secrets.”
He smiled and I smiled back. And a quarter hour later, when we returned for the barbecue of enough protein to feed Swaziland for six months, my cousin Barbara smiled. So did Philip, Aunt Estelle, Uncle Julius, and Mr. and Mrs. Drexler. And so did my mother.
“Have a nice walk?” she asked sweetly.
Sixteen
Jerry was no dope. He knew how to soothe an anxious heart. So I was wooed long distance. From Schenectady he murmured that my hair had the texture of flower petals. “Like cornflowers,” he began.
“Cornflowers are blue,” I said.
“Don’t interrupt a compliment, sweetheart.”
From Rome he extolled the enticing curve of my small waist as it flowed into my generous, womanly hips.
From Oswego, he proclaimed I was in perfect balance: a keen mind coupled with a gentle heart.
From all over he told me how he wanted me. He couldn’t wait to see me again. And I couldn’t wait for him.
I sensed a turbulence only Jerry could calm. The Fourth of July feeling would not wear off. I caught myself thinking like a member of my family. I longed for elegance. With Jerry around, I would have no eye for rich fabrics, no nose for bluebelled hankies. He filled all five senses. With him gone, I felt empty.
I grew angry at the dirt and bleakness of headquarters, the squawking voices of the city. I was irate that I had to be exposed to the rank body odors of a summer subway ride. I daydreamed about sitting at the edge of Barbara’s pool, wiggling my toes in the water, picking at a bowl of seedless grapes on the brick patio beside me. I could see myself with one of Philip’s leather-bound volumes of Henry James, lounging in a hammock between two of the fine Drexler oaks.
“Can’t I come upstate for just a day or two?” I asked Jerry.
“Marcia, it’s the middle of a campaign.”
“But it’s awful here. Humid. The air feels filthy. And we could have such a fabulous time.”
“You’re just tense. Tired. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon and I promise you, I’ll make you feel better.”
I wanted a little gracefulness. I called David C. Hoffman and asked if he still had the second ticket: I would like to listen to Chopin.
“Of course I have it. I’m glad you called. Shall I pick you up?” I suggested we meet at Lincoln Center, by the fountain. “You’re not worried about someone cat
ching us, in flagrante, listening to music?”
I answered truthfully. “I’ve never heard of anyone who would go to hear Chopin during a campaign.”
“Then we’re safe. Would you prefer dinner before or after?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about after, so I won’t feel guilty about leaving too early.”
I got a little gracefulness. The pianist played with such fineness that I was drawn out of myself and into a mist of pleasure. I might have been George Sand, listening to an étude I had inspired a few hours earlier.
“Isn’t he good?” David asked during intermission.
“Wonderful.”
David was a relaxed concertgoer, leaning back in his seat and letting the music flow to him. Unlike Barry, he did not hunch forward, as if panicked that a note might give him the slip. Nor did he grab my hand, blow in my ear, or try to play games with my knee. He listened.
“David, what a pleasure that was,” I said, as he held open the door of a taxi. I did not mention that I hadn’t been to a concert since my divorce.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to go with such a music lover,” he answered.
We arrived at an expensive northern Italian restaurant—it had a doorman and a blue canopy in front—and the maître d’ was thrilled to see Signor Hoffman again and so obsequious that he nearly licked David’s shoes. David ordered a pasta called angel hair first. It was so delicate I hesitated before piercing it with my fork.
Our chatter was breezy. David offered some amusing stories about Harvard’s history department, which I had never before considered as a source of humor. I managed one or two sallies about the city’s fiscal policies, and David seemed to find them witty enough.
Over the veal, he asked me about being an only child. “I wasn’t typical,” I said. “No one tried to spoil me. My mother wasn’t very demonstrative, so I never felt overwhelmed.”
“You were very lucky.”
“No. I would have loved to have been spoiled rotten, have millions of presents showered over me, have someone worrying about me all the time, telling me to button my coat and eat my vegetables.”