by Rona Jaffe
“Oh, it’s completely safe,” Nick said. “I’m an expert skier. I’m even getting bored with the double black-diamond trails.”
“What are those?” Olivia asked.
“The steep ones that go straight down with the trees sticking out of the snow. You know, it’s just as dangerous on the bottom. The other skiers bump into you.”
“And on top,” Lynne said lightly, “there are only avalanches and holes you don’t know about.” She shrugged. “Nick doesn’t want to go with a partner.”
As if that would be any help in an avalanche, Olivia thought, but she didn’t say anything because little Amber was there, picking off tiny pieces of her cold croissant and carefully arranging them around the rim of her plate.
“A partner would destroy my solitude,” Nick said. “And besides, I don’t need one. I have a ski suit with two signaling devices sewn in that alert the helicopters in case anything happens to me. They’re on one arm and one leg, on opposite sides for whichever way you fall. Then the helicopters send in rescue parties.”
“Rescue parties?” Amber said, looking up and brightening. “What kind of parties are they?”
“Oh,” Nick said, improvising, “they make a bonfire and roast marshmallows. Balloons. The usual.”
“Amber, don’t you want some jam on that?” Lynne asked, changing the subject.
Rescue parties so they can find the body, Olivia thought. She glanced sympathetically at Lynne, who was fussing over her child’s breakfast. What is it about people, she wondered, that makes them think risking their lives is fun? If you’re poor, and just your daily subsistence is a frightening struggle, you dream of security, but as soon as the rent’s taken care of you start bungee-jumping.
Stan and Grady had been at one extreme, but the others, each in their own way, looked for excitement. There was careful Jenny, who loved the “ritual” of skiing, and then there was carefree Nick, who wanted to ski in uncharted places. Even Charlie the Perfect, who could fly First Class anywhere in the world, insisted on flying his own small plane around America every chance he got. He simply considered it a sport, like tennis, but more interesting. Once Olivia had asked Taylor—who had given up risks herself but understood and sympathized with the motivation of people who hadn’t—why people wanted to do dangerous things, and Taylor had looked at her as if she were simpleminded. “It makes life worth living,” Taylor had said.
After breakfast they all went back to their rooms to dress up. The temple was conveniently within walking distance of the hotel. She and Roger were half a block behind Nick and Lynne and Amber. Amber had on a perfectly coordinated Little Victorian Girl outfit, and was holding each of her parents’ hands, walking fast to keep up with these taller people, her gait cheerful, obviously looking forward to seeing the cousins of her generation and playing with them, and to going to this happy event.
Olivia imagined Lynne and Amber carefully shopping for that outfit, and thought how strange it was that after all these years she still could not identify with a mother as much as she could with the child. She had no interest in choosing children’s clothes. But even if she’d had to do it, most kids today were strong-willed enough to insist on having what they wanted anyway.
She thought of her own childhood trips to the store. They were battles she always lost. “You’re my little doll,” her mother had told her, even in high school, buying her a ruffly pink party dress when Olivia begged for black. “I always dressed you like a doll.” She remembered the mother-daughter dresses, which Olivia had hated, that Lila had insisted they wear. I don’t want to be you, she had thought. And she wasn’t, nor was she what Lila had wanted her to be. She was nobody’s doll. But what a struggle it had been. . . .
* * *
The temple was large and beautiful, with sunlight streaming in through stained glass. She and Roger sat behind a row of whispering, giggly girls who were probably Sam’s classmates. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to Roger. He patted her hand.
Sam’s brother and sister, Max and Didi, were sitting in the front row with their parents, trying to look grown up, but his younger sisters, Kara and Belinda, lasted about five minutes into the service and then left to go to the room outside that was for the little kids. Olivia looked with admiration at the three girls’ intricate hairdos and thought about the chaos and excitement that must have reigned in their household that morning.
After the service, the rabbi, who seemed young and zippy, got up to say that he let each bar mitzvah choose his own part of the Bible to discuss. Sam came up, wearing a suit and tie. He was pale but self-possessed, thirteen, at that transition age when he looked a little like each of his parents and not really like what he would when he grew up, an unfinished puppy, today about to become a man in the eyes of his religion, if not anywhere else.
“I have chosen this section because I have three sisters and a brother,” Sam said, “and I know about sibling rivalry. Today I am going to discuss the story of Cain and Abel.”
Olivia grinned at Roger. “That’s my cousin,” she said proudly. Around her she could see the other relatives smiling too, at the outrageously forthright young man cheerfully discussing the betrayal and murder of one’s own family member.
The lunch party afterwards was held in an old mansion known as the Haunted House, which was used for children’s parties and was both picturesque and childproof. It wasn’t a very large party—all the girls and boys from Sam’s class, the family, the proud in-laws, and a few of Jenny’s old friends. There were separate tables for the adults and the kids, and different menus, since Jenny was serving fish, which most kids hated. On one side of the room was a small, lively band, and on the other a table which had been set up as an ice-cream bar. The boys and girls were dancing, and their enjoyment was infectious.
Kenny was there, from Santa Barbara, with his son Jason but not yet with the woman he had said was the One. Olivia went around the room kissing everybody in the family, and then sat at the large round cousins’ table between Roger and Taylor. She had not seen Taylor since Grady’s funeral, and she looked a lot better. She wondered if Taylor was still on tranquilizers.
Jenny, in a silk print dress, which Olivia knew she had not bought at Julia’s, went from table to table accepting congratulations and apologizing. “I know you don’t like the hotel,” she kept saying. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to save everyone money, and it’s close.”
“It’s fine,” Olivia said.
“I picked the Haunted House because I wanted this party to be really for the kids,” Jenny said, “and not an expensive status thing for the adults.”
“They love it,” Olivia said.
“I think so, too. And don’t forget, everyone’s coming back to our house this evening. I’m having a buffet supper.”
“We’ll be there. Did you ever decide to give Didi singing lessons?”
“We haven’t decided yet. But she’s in her room practicing all the time with her tapes. She’s very persistent. We’ll see.”
“How are you?” Olivia asked Taylor.
“I’m coming along. I’m going to a therapist. I’m going to be on Prozac for a while.”
“It’s supposed to be good.”
“I got the result of the autopsy. Grady didn’t have AIDS, but his blood alcohol was six times higher than a sober person’s.”
Olivia nodded.
“He knew he had a drinking problem,” Taylor said. “He was going to get help. Soon, he said.”
But obviously not soon enough, Olivia thought, and sighed.
“Do you remember the young man who was at the funeral who nobody knew?” Taylor asked. “Sitting in the back?”
“Yes.”
“He came over to see me. It turns out he was Grady’s lover. Grady told him he would never acknowledge him. Never. Their two worlds would have to be separate. We got friendly. He’s very nice, very spiritual.
He’s interested in reincarnation. He gave me some books to read. He comes to my house and we have long talks.”
“That’s good,” Olivia said.
“I have to have something to believe in,” Taylor said. “The thought that people come back, that helps.”
“Yes, it would.”
“I never knew Grady was gay,” Taylor said. “You have to believe me. I never knew.”
“How is that possible? You were so close.”
Taylor shrugged. For someone who had not known anything about Grady’s secret life, she seemed to be taking the new revelation with great equanimity.
“I told Grady’s friend he could have something of Grady’s to remember him by.” Taylor said. “I hope you don’t mind—I gave him the two glasses you gave Grady from Aunt Lila. Grady’s friend asked for them. He said they drank a champagne toast last New Year’s Eve out of the glasses and they meant a lot to him.”
“I don’t mind,” Olivia said. So this is a new step in the journey of inheritance, she thought. My mother’s crystal glasses to me, then to my cousin, and then to his gay lover. The links of family go everywhere. She was touched that Grady’s “friend” loved him.
The music had stopped. “We have a surprise for Sam,” the piano player said into the microphone. Everyone looked over to the band area. “Didi is going to sing.”
Ten-year-old Didi was standing at the microphone, straight as a soldier, in her velvet dress, her braided hair like a crown, looking proud and excited and not nervous at all. “I want to sing this song for you, my beloved brother Sam,” she said with a twinkle. “Even though you want to kill me.”
A little ripple of laughter went around the room as the relatives remembered the story of Cain and Abel. Olivia glanced at Jenny and Paul. They were looking apprehensive. It had been one thing for Didi to beg for lessons, but another for her to get up to sing in front of so many people. They were probably hoping she wouldn’t disgrace herself. The band started to play. Didi began to sing one of the pop songs she had been listening to on tape, which Olivia had heard before and knew vaguely was a hit. Her voice was surprisingly deep and rich and resonant for such a young girl: she sounded like a juvenile cross between Bette Midler and Ethel Merman.
“She’s good,” Roger whispered, surprised.
“I know.”
Jenny and Paul’s tense faces relaxed. They began to smile, and then to beam. Olivia thought how wonderful it would be to have a celebrity in the family someday, and thought: I’m worse than a mother. When the song was over everyone applauded, not just politely, but with real enthusiasm. Didi and Sam hugged each other.
“I guess you’ll get lessons,” Jenny said.
Didi sat down, grinning, and Paul got up and went to the microphone, his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Paul was kind and gentle and professorial-looking. “Sam,” he said, “all these years when you were growing up, everybody always said: ‘What a great kid.’ From now on they’re going to say: ‘What a great young man.’ ”
That was the speech. That was it. How could you ask for more? Paul and Sam hugged and kissed, holding on to each other with pride and love. Olivia’s throat closed up and she started to cry. She remembered when Sam was just old enough to sit at a table, still the only child of young parents, Jenny pregnant with Max. They were at some family event at Uncle Seymour’s and Aunt Iris’s, and Sam had accidentally knocked over a stemmed water goblet. As the ice water spread into the linen tablecloth he had started to cry. Paul had scooped him up into his lap.
“It’s all right,” Paul had murmured soothingly. “You think we’re mad at you for spilling the water, but we’re not. It was an accident. We love you.”
Who had ever said that to her? She only remembered being screamed at when she made a mess—wasn’t that what parents always did? Harsh words and unkindness left her sick inside and stony on the outside; goodness melted her and made her fall apart. She had grown up to be a woman who always cried hardest at happy endings.
Roger handed her a tissue, but she already had one.
Aunt Myra came over to their table, making the rounds. “Isn’t this a nice party?” she said. “Nobody’s too full except me. I ate too much. And we have to eat again later at their house. Did you see Melissa? She ate nothing.”
“Melissa doesn’t eat,” Olivia said.
“Well, I guess that’s why she keeps so thin,” Aunt Myra said with her little giggle. She looked at Olivia’s dress, trying to hide her distaste. It was black and French and very expensive—it also had white stitching that looked like basting, and safety pins on it. “That’s something new,” Aunt Myra said.
“Yes.”
“It looks like it isn’t finished yet.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, you.”
After lunch they all had three hours to do what they wanted. Nick and Lynne changed their hotel; Uncle Seymour and Aunt Iris, with their age as an excuse, went back to New York; Melissa and Bill left their children with Uncle David and went running with Taylor and Tim along the banks of the Charles River; Kenny took Jason to look at Harvard Yard in case he decided he wanted to go to Harvard someday; and Olivia and Roger found a revival of the old silent movie Metropolis with a new rock score and went to see it.
Jenny and Paul’s house was large and very old, with a picket fence in front, big trees, and a basketball hoop on the garage door. “The kids cleaned their rooms,” Jenny said by way of greeting. “Be sure you compliment them on it. They worked hard.”
Obviously everyone had worked hard; the house was very orderly. Only the worn look of the serviceable furniture, which Jenny and Paul had bought when they were first married, revealed that this was a house where five children lived.
“What a wonderful room! So neat!” Olivia and Roger said, taking the tour, pretending surprise, while Sam looked nonchalant and the younger kids beamed.
A buffet table in the dining room was covered with platters of heaped-up cold cuts, bread, potato salad, coleslaw and paper plates. The eight youngest cousins were playing; Sam and Jason, who now considered themselves adults, were with the men; and Aunt Myra, Uncle David, and Paul’s parents were with their generation. After a moment Roger went over to talk with the men—he was being such a good sport, Olivia thought; she hoped he wasn’t bored, she hoped he might even be having a good time—and she joined the women cousins in a corner of the living room.
There were Jenny, Melissa, Lynne—the cousin by marriage who had missed their childhood—and Taylor, with Tim to translate. Olivia looked at his long, thin, aesthetic face, his straight, clean shoulder-length hair. He was a very quiet man, and she didn’t know if it was his nature or a habit he had gotten into with the family. He’s always right there with her, Olivia thought, until he becomes like another part of her body. She lip-reads, but it’s not that accurate or easy—for a real dialogue the family can’t talk to her without him. Her mother can, but they have little to say to each other. Taylor must feel so lonely with us, Olivia thought, compared to the way she feels with her deaf friends . . . and with Grady. With them she could be one-on-one, face-to-face, intimate and private.
Taylor’s expressive hands lay still in her lap when she spoke to her cousins, because they could hear, and when the cousins spoke to her Tim’s hands became a kind of telephone. But he was a man, and there were things the women didn’t want to say. It was too bad none of them liked to write letters, it was too bad nobody had bothered to get a TTY, it was too bad they had never learned anything but the most rudimentary ways of signing. They loved Taylor, and she them, but out of laziness and self-involvement they could hardly communicate.
But what about Grady?
Olivia still found it hard to believe that Taylor hadn’t known Grady was gay. He would have told her, even though he told nobody else. Wouldn’t he? And how could she not have noticed? The others had.
From the other room
they could hear the laughing and screeching and banging around of the little cousins playing.
“I always wanted lots of children and now I have them,” Jenny said contentedly. “I have exactly the life I fantasized about when I was an only child all alone.”
“You weren’t so alone,” Melissa said. “You had us.”
“Just in the summer, and it wasn’t the same.”
“Did you have a happy childhood otherwise?” Olivia asked.
“I’d say so.”
“So did we,” Melissa said. “We went on such wonderful trips as a family. The skiing . . .”
“Melissa is a much better skier than I am,” Jenny said. “I didn’t learn until I had kids and needed something to do with them.”
“I had a very happy childhood,” Lynne said. “Nick and I want to have at least one more child. For Amber, and for ourselves.”
“Taylor and Grady used to swing on trees and jump off roofs,” Olivia reminisced.
“I don’t remember my childhood,” Taylor said.
“But you must remember Mandelay?” Jenny said, surprised.
“Yes. I felt safe there.”
“Then what don’t you remember?”
“The rest of it. California. It’s called repressing.” Taylor shrugged, her face stubborn and vulnerable.
The others looked at each other, their concerned glances saying Poor thing, no wonder, it was so terrible.
I wonder what else she’s chosen to forget, Olivia thought.
13
IT WAS IN THE SIXTIES, in New York, that Roger had met Virginia, the young woman who was to become his wife, and then his ex-wife. For women, who were still called girls, it was the time of miniskirts and little white boots, of aggressive hairpieces and thick false eyelashes and white lipstick, of trying to look like a malnourished child from outer space. The birth control pill had been invented, discos were newly popular and many people were not yet as politically involved and aware as they would be soon. The party was still going on.