Close Relations

by Susan Isaacs

  Brooklyn’s returns were, surprisingly, more favorable to Paterno. He received a clear majority. He also did well in Manhattan. But each time the camera switched to the tote board, the results became, as the anchorman suggested, fairly inevitable. Governor Parker was being reelected. Paterno was losing. Uncle Sidney was being humiliated. “At least Appel is getting his,” Cole said. “Do you know how much he spent, what it cost him per vote? He could have just gone out and bought each voter a color TV or a vacuum or something and they’d still be screaming ‘Yeah, Sidney!’ Jesus, if I had his wife’s money, I wouldn’t waste it in politics.” I agreed with him.

  At eleven, I saw Eileen Gerrity Morrissey on the other side of the ballroom. I walked toward her. For a moment, she looked to each side of her, trying to find a friend or an exit, but finally she stood motionless, waiting for me. “I don’t know what to say,” she said quietly.

  “Well, there’s not a lot to be said. I just don’t want any more pressure on me about quitting. I’m here and I’m staying here. Understood?”

  “Yes.” She chewed the inside of her cheek nervously. “Well, I hear you’re engaged. I guess congratulations are in order.” I didn’t answer. “Marcia,” she said then, “I’m so sorry. I can imagine what you must think of me.”

  “Then I don’t have to tell you,” I responded, and crossed back across the ballroom, to watch the television set with Joe Cole.

  The anchorman, who had perfect, even teeth, all the same size, returned after a commercial. “I have with me here in the studio Midge Bashian, the Albany correspondent of the New York Times. Midge, what’s happening here? The polls predicted the governor would go down to ignominious defeat. And as we can see, with sixty-three percent of the vote counted, we have him as the projected winner. What happened? What went wrong?”

  “Well,” Midge began, shaking her head back and forth until she found the right camera to address, “it looks like the Democratic voters of New York State gave their hearts to their ailing governor. I think his speech before he entered the hospital, its unusually direct and unashamed appeal to the emotions of his constituency, served Larry Parker well. He showed himself as a man with a problem, and people responded.” Midge would probably not be asked to return as a guest commentator. Her teeth were spotted and crooked, pushing for room in a tight mouth. “As opposed to him”—the camera went back to the spiffy newscaster—“Sidney Appel looked like a media creation, too studied, too perfect. Shades of the 1968 Nixon.” He nodded on-camera as she spoke off. An excellent television arrangement. “And William Paterno was perceived as, if we can say such a thing, too smart for his own good. This is a year of simplicity.”

  She was right about Appel, and perhaps about Paterno too. In a year of simplicity, the simp had won. No doubt, politicians in Utah and South Carolina would soon be running on a prostate platform.

  “Thanks again to Midge Bashian of the Times. Fine analysis, Midge. And now I think we’re going to switch to Paterno headquarters. Betty-Jean, are you ready?”

  She was, but Paterno wasn’t. He could not be coaxed from his room in the hotel until eleven thirty. He stood before the cameras dry-eyed. He read my concession speech in a clear, calm voice. He repeated to two TV correspondents that yes, he would be proud to support the nominee of the Democratic Party and no, he hadn’t meant to disparage Governor Parker’s abilities, but everyone says things in the heat of a campaign that might be misinterpreted. And maybe he would consider running for mayor in three years’ time, but first he wanted to get home and get a good night’s sleep.

  And when the television lights turned off and the reporters shuffled away, Paterno put his hands over his face and cried. Joe Cole patted his shoulder; Jerry put his arm around him; Eileen said he’d done a fine job; the women’s affairs coordinator said his mother would have been proud.

  I reached him a minute later. “I’m so sorry, Bill. You were the best man. You should have won.”

  “I know,” he murmured.

  David waited up for me. “I saw you on TV! You looked beautiful. But upset. You were talking to a black man and you both looked upset.”

  “We were watching the returns,” I said softly, taking off my shoes and curling up beside him on the couch. “It was enough to make anyone upset. David, it’s such a sad loss. Paterno’s a bright, decent man. He would have been a terrific governor. He deserved to win.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s all so uncontrollable. Who would have believed Gresham would choke to death? Who would have thought Sidney Appel would decide he was a politician? Can I tell you something? I have it in for your uncle. If it hadn’t been for him running around and obscuring the issues with all his goddamned money, we could have won.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “You know, experience doesn’t make losing easier. It’s harder, the older I get. I try so hard, I’ve become so professional at it, but it’s still completely out of my hands. I did fabulous work this summer. Parker’s speech writer is a goon. And look what happened.”

  “I’m sorry he lost. Really. I voted for him today.”

  “For Paterno? Did you? Honestly?”

  “Honestly. He deserved to win. But don’t be too hard on Sidney. He’s responsible for us meeting each other. If he hadn’t run, I’d be working late tonight, staring out the window and wondering what my blind date for Saturday night would be like.”

  “A beast.”

  “Of course. Here, let me help you up. You’re starting to get that overtired, hypnotized stare. Come on, right to bed.”

  I slept even closer to him than usual that night, my face pressed against his chest, thinking exactly where I’d be if it weren’t for Uncle Sidney.

  The next night I wondered where I would be if it weren’t for my Aunt Estelle. “Darling,” she said, “wasn’t I right? Look at him sitting there. Such a person. So fine. I told you….”

  I tried to catch David’s eye, but he was deep in conversation with Barbara and Philip, sitting on a corner of my aunt’s titanic sectional couch, their three heads bent together as though sharing rich, exclusive secrets.

  My mother cooed, “May I see your ring again?” I held out my left hand. David had bought me a diamond engagement ring large enough to please my aunt and my mother combined. “Oh,” she said, “it’s very fine looking. David has such classic taste.” I had picked it out. “Do you know what jeweler he used?” she asked, her voice so hushed and reverent it was nearly a whisper.

  “We went to Carrier’s.”

  “Shh, Marcia,” my aunt said. “Not so loud. He’ll think we’re talking about the ring.”

  “Well, of course we’re talking about the ring. I’m standing here with my left hand out and the two of you are—”

  “Marcia,” my mother explained, “it’s not considered in good taste to discuss jewelry.”

  “Then why are we discussing jewelry?”

  “Don’t get temperamental, Marcia,” my aunt said. Then she turned to my mother. “Pre-wedding jitters. They all get them.”

  I marched across the room. David made a place for me on the couch. “Marcia,” Barbara said, “we’re talking about the wedding. High Oaks should be beautiful this time of year.”

  “We’re going to be married in the rose garden. And the rabbi—your father-in-law recommended him—turns out to be this guy I went to high school with. We were in the same plane geometry class. I mean, David and I walked into his study for an interview with him, and there’s Sandy Langer. But now he’s Sandford and has a mustache and a doctorate in Judaic studies. Isn’t that unbelievable?”

  “Yes,” Barbara agreed. “Who’s the caterer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Barbara looked surprised, but her expression lost none of its unfailing good humor. Her face, however, although tanned and glowing from her biweekly facial, had grown rounder over the summer. By marrying Philip, she had traded up her love of Mallomars for milles feuilles, but her month in Europe meant an annual gain of fif
teen pounds. When she had walked through the door that evening, her mother had squeezed her full chin and remarked, “No dessert for you tonight, darling.” A mere glint from Philip’s icy stare had caused an immediate amendment. “You were never so crazy about blueberry crumb cake, so I bought a gorgeous melon. Cranshaw. You’ll love it.”

  Barbara turned to David. “Who’s the caterer?”

  “Sara Asher,” he answered.

  “Oh, she’s marvelous. Her lemon mousse cake! Everybody’s dying to get her, but she’s so booked! How did you manage it?”

  “I don’t know. My aunt made the arrangements.”

  “What’s your first course?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know.” I glanced at David. “Have we decided?”

  Barbara interjected, “Marcia, you’re getting married, for goodness’ sake.” She took Philip’s hand. “When we got married we went over every single hors d’oeuvre. We knew exactly what we were getting, down to the filling of the last quiche.” David sensed I was about to say something; he pressed his leg against mine to signal not to. “Do I dare ask?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Have you bought a dress yet?”

  “No. I will. Yesterday was election day. Today was chaos. But we’re going tomorrow night. The stores are open late.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, Barbara. Someplace horribly expensive, all right?”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m going for a walk.” I looked at David. “Alone.”

  “Not alone,” he said.

  He followed me out the wide front door that my Uncle Julius had paid the builder extra for thirty years before.

  “What’s the matter, Marcia?” He circled his arm around me and pulled me close, so my cheek rubbed against the cashmere of his sweater.

  “This isn’t going to work.”

  “What isn’t going to work?”

  “Us. I can’t be what I’m supposed to be. I don’t want to have to deal with arrogant, disgusting decorators and worry that I won’t know which caterer is chic and which designer dress I should buy. I came in the house tonight and you saw what happened. My mother runs up to me and says ‘Marcia!’ like she just discovered me and kisses me. Plants a kiss right there, on my cheek. And it only took an eighty-million-carat diamond ring from Cartier’s to get that kind of warmth from her. And my cousin. Did you hear her? Have I told Paterno I’m going to quit? That was the first thing she asked, like my old life is over and now I can spend all my time taking Chinese cooking courses. And your wonderful friend Philip. The only thing he’s ever spoken to me about is politics, and suddenly he’s asking me about our honeymoon plans, the new apartment. Not a word about the election. It’s as if nothing I’ve done is worth anything. Excuse me. One thing. Hooking you. That justifies the thirty-five years of sweat and tears they put into me. Well, let me tell you something. I don’t want any part of it.”

  David said nothing. I walked up the block silently then, and he followed. We passed the Leventhal house next door where, presumably, Lydia Leventhal was learning to live alone. We continued to the end of the street.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I said to him. “That I’m tired, cranky from the pregnancy, and all that. Depressed over the election. You don’t have to say it.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” David leaned against a parked car.

  “What were you going to say then? That I shouldn’t be rude to my cousin? That I should ask my mother what wine the Baroness serves with the meat course, just to humor her?”

  “No. They’re your relatives. You can treat them however you wish.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, as you’ve been saying, you’re thirty-five years old. I’m not going to try to tell you what you should feel, how you should behave.” I pulled my eyes from his stare and examined the sidewalk. “You say it isn’t going to work,” he added.

  “David.” I looked up at him.

  “What is it?”

  “I love you. I love you very much.”

  “Come here.” I leaned against him. He put his hand on the back of my head and smoothed my hair. “It’s okay now. Stop shaking. You’ve said it, Marcia. It’s out.”

  “David, I’ve never said ‘I love you’ before. Not just to you. To anyone. Did you know that? You’re the first person I’ve ever truly loved. And you’re the first person who ever truly loved me.”

  “But you say it won’t work.”

  “They get to me. They undermine me.”

  “Stop that. They can’t do anything to you unless you let them. Think about it, Marcia. In all the time we’ve been together, have we ever discussed caterers?”

  “No.”

  “Have we ever spent more than one second more than we had to with that dreadful decorator?” I shook my head. “And have I ever even hinted that I’d rather you spent your time making wonton soup or whatever instead of writing? Have I? Marcia, they have very little to do with us. We have everything to do with each other.”

  My arms wrapped around him. “I really love you. You don’t know.”

  “I do know,” he said. “And I also know you’re going to make me a wonderful wife. And do you want to know something else? I’m going to be a superb husband. You and I are going to be very, very happy.”

  “I know, David.”

  He kissed me. “I know you know.”

  Acknowledgments

  I sought advice from the people listed below and they gave it freely and cheerfully. I appreciate their generosity.

  Janice Asher, Dejon Coffin, Edmond Coller, Ruth Coller, Anne M. Grand, Patricia Hynes, T. Barry Kingham, Edward Lane, Mark BvS Monsky, Bernard Nussbaum, Winston Paley, and Paul K. Rooney.

  I would also like to thank my favorite critics—Arnold Abramowitz, Consuelo Saah Baehr, Mary Rooney, Lisa Cronin Wohl, Hilma Wolitzer, and Susan Zises—my agent, Gloria Safier, and my editor, Larry Ashmead, for their wisdom, faith, and unstinting good humor.

  And special thanks to Elkan, Andrew, and Elizabeth Abramowitz.

  About the Author

  SUSAN ISAACS has written eleven novels, including her latest, Past Perfect. Her other bestselling books include After All These Years, Compromising Positions, Shining Through, Magic Hour, Close Relations, Almost Paradise, and Lily White. She lives on Long Island.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Author’s Note

  How I Came to Close Relations

  Before I turned to fiction, I had two jobs: as an editor at Seventeen magazine (where I also wrote advice to the lovelorn) and as a freelance political speechwriter. I’ve always had a wide range of interests, from politics, film, baseball, American culture to the more traditional female pursuits of cooking, needlework, and gardening.

  My first novel, the satirical whodunit Compromising Positions, was such a success (a Book of the Month Club main selection, movie deal, big paperback auction, translated into thirty languages) that the common wisdom was Do It Again. And why not? I loved my housewife-investigator Judith Singer as well as the mystery form. Anyway, if you have a hit, keep swinging the same way your next time at bat.

  There was a hitch: Compromising was my first attempt at fiction and I had a sense that if I kept to that character and genre, I would wind up twenty or thirty years down the line writing Compromising Positions Goes Hawaiian. Not only didn’t I want to fall asleep over the manuscript as I was writing it, I didn’t want my readers to nod off when they sat down with the book.

  I decided it wasn’t my job to please my publishers. It was to write the novel I needed to write, which is ultimately the book I most want to read. What was that? Back then, in the late 1970s, as the first thrills and successes of the women’s movement were starting to abate, I decided I wanted to spend the next couple of years thinking about our jobs versus the rest of our lives.

  I gave my protagonist, Marcia Green, the work I had onc
e done, political speechwriting. Her candidate is running in the Democratic primary for governor of New York State (as guaranteeing the book would be a comedy), which gave me the terrific opportunity to explore politics—not just the electoral kind, but family politics, ethnic politics, and all the power plays, betrayals, and triumphs that can go on between lovers.

  It was Marcia’s life, and I let her set the tone:

  My family hated my job. Aunt Estelle had said, “Darling, politics is so unlike you. All those loudmouths and lower-class lawyers. They’re beneath you. I know deep down you realize it. Roosevelt was a politician. So was Kennedy—Harriman. Marcia, sweetheart, they were statesmen. We’re talking New York City now, and you know as well as I do that no one you come in contact with is interested in real elegance.”

  As usual, my mother had let a refined sigh escape through the delicate hole in her pursed lips and then had noted that I seemed to spend a lot of time catering to people in slums.

  Uncle Julius had muttered that politicians wouldn’t know a nice girl if they fell over her.

  Cousin Barbara was thrilled that I was fulfilled, but hinted I might combine my career with marriage and children for even deeper fulfillment.

  It was a situation from which half-hour television comedies are made. “Marcia! In tonight’s episode, Marcia Green’s warm and winning and wise and wonderful Jewish family reminds her that she is thirty-five, divorced and childless.”

  Did I miss the security of writing a sequel to a big success? Sure, but Close Relations turned out to be a bestseller. Even better, I gave myself a chance to grow in my craft and had a hell of a good time in the process.

  Other Books By This Author

  Books by Susan Isaacs

  PAST PERFECT

  ANY PLACE I HANG MY HAT

  LONG TIME NO SEE