(Yes, yes!) “I won’t even bring a ping-pong paddle. I promise.”
“Good. Now let me see what I can do about changing my schedule around. I wouldn’t want you to wait until eleven p.m. to be picked up. When are you off?”
“Any time after eight, if that’s not too late.”
“Sounds good.” After an almost imperceptible pause, Vinny continued. “I thought I’d take you to a steak place I think you’d like, but if you’d rather eat kosher food, that’s no problem.”
“Who says I’m kosher? It was just the oysters I couldn’t manage. Steak would be just fine! Er, should I dress . . . I mean dress up?” (Idiot! Stop asking questions.)
“Whatever you wear, you’ll look great. Me, I’m kind of informal and out of uniform on my night off, but I’ll try not to disgrace you. But take a jacket or a sweater. It might get cold.”
Beth gave a little laugh.
“Uh oh! Do I sound like your mother? Or even worse, my mother?”
“Believe me,” she said. “You could never sound like my mother.”
“Good. I’ll call you Tuesday.”
—
For the first time in her life, Beth found she was actually enjoying a beer. Here in this steak house with Vinny, she felt she would enjoy anything he had to offer. They hadn’t done much more than make small talk, which was okay with Beth, since their first introduction to each other had been so intense, to put it mildly. She was relieved that she wasn’t being interviewed, for she would have so little to say.
“So, life in Monticello—are you getting to be an old hand?”
“You’re kidding me, right? The only thing I know is that Thomas Jefferson never slept there.”
“So, you’ve already met Moe Ginsberg! I think he meets every train.”
“On the bus, actually, on the way up here.” She grinned.
“The old boy certainly gets around.”
“He was a great comfort to me. He seemed such an authority, though not in a high-handed way.”
“He knows a lot, and he’s very sharp, though he can lay it on a little thick with pretty women he meets on buses. Actually, it’s thanks to him that I’ve got this summer job—his connections.”
“So you don’t live up here?”
“No, I live in Manhattan—Minetta Street, downtown. I’m just bartending this summer, before I start a new job in another theater of action.” He smiled a little as he said this. “Pretty heady language for what I’m doing.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll be working for the American Labor Party, as an organizer, so my business is really labor. My West Coast buddies seem to think I should be right out there with Fiorello LaGuardia and Vito Marcantonio drumming up other Italian-American working stiffs, like me. As if I could match them! Have you heard either of those firebrands? That’s real theater for you.”
He pronounced it thee-ay-ter, which surprised her. She’d never heard a real person say that, who wasn’t a hick in the movies, that is. Her surprise must have shown in her face, for Vinny laughed.
“Theahtah, I should say. I’m showing my San Francisco roots.”
“Well, my accent screams Bronx,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve seen and heard Mayor La Guardia. He’s always in the news. He opened the high school I went to—I was in the first graduating class—and I’ve heard him read the comics on the radio, of course. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
“It’s certainly part of what I meant. And why do you sound apologetic? You’re not even old enough to vote yet, are you?”
“Two more years. It’s just that I feel so ignorant since I left the city. Muriel says that’s because I need to get a social conscience. Maybe I should. What are you smiling at?”
“You sound like you’re thinking about buying a new dress or choosing fish rather than chicken from the menu.”
“I’m not as superficial as all that! I really want to learn more, see more. You know, Muriel talks about civil rights, human rights, class conflict, working-class values. Well, I never heard a word of that in my family, and my mother and father have worked their lives away, and they’re poor to boot, and I have worked every summer in their miserable little shop for the last six years. So maybe some people haven’t had the time or background or education to have a social conscience.”
“I don’t think you’re the least bit superficial, and you’re right.” His voice was gentle. “People aren’t born with social consciences—or consciousness. They learn from their families, as I’m sure Muriel did, maybe a few from their religion, or because something happened to them and they need—and learn—to make connections.”
“And you?”
“Me? Something happened. My father was a dock worker on the San Francisco waterfront. He was badly injured during the big strikes of the early thirties, but he lived long enough to join the dockworkers’ union headed by Harry Bridges, the man who still heads the ILWU today. My dad loved that man. Harry became a personal friend of the family. He made sure we had all the benefits coming to union members, and he was a mentor to me. I learned practically everything I know about the wide world from him without ever really thinking I was being taught. He’s that kind of bloke.”
“Bloke?”
“Excuse me—sometimes I do that. Harry is an Aussie by birth.” Vinny was silent for a moment. “Well, enough of that. Stick around me and you’ll get more social conscience than you want. But now let’s eat. How do you like your steak?”
Beth had never had an evening like this. Vinny was so exciting and yet so comfortable to be with. They had talked together easily, and yet they hadn’t really spent much time telling each other things. Vinny certainly knew a lot of people, a surprising number in Beth’s opinion, and seemed to be very well liked. He didn’t go out of his way to be hail-fellow-well-met with them—he mostly paid attention to her—but she felt proud that he was so popular. To top it all off, a dance band came out, really just a combo, but the waiters pushed back some tables, and people were able to dance. Beth thanked her lucky stars she had practiced dance steps privately with Frima so often, and even on rare occasions with her own brother. She could have danced with Vinny till the lights were turned off, and even after, but when the musicians took a break, he kept her hand in his and led her outside.
“Sorry, but I’ve been on my feet all week, and I’m bushed from the ankles down. Could we just look at the stars for a few minutes? Then I guess I’ll have to get you home. Sunday’s a busy day at the hotel for you, I know.” A convenient porch swing appeared around the corner, and they sunk into it.
Of course he kissed her, first gently and then more deeply, and Beth felt she could be happy to just stay tangled up with him forever. Except she wasn’t all that passive; he had to push her away.
“Beth, honey, slow down. I’m only flesh and blood!”
Instant humiliation. For a moment worse than being slugged in a restaurant. She managed to extricate herself from him and the swing and moved to the edge of the porch. After what seemed an excruciating long silence of about fifteen seconds, she turned to Vinny. “Do you think you can take me home now?”
“Yes, but. . . .”
“Thank you.” She cut him off and walked quickly toward the car. Vinny followed her silently, opened the door for her, and watched as she curled herself up in the far corner of the front seat. Still silent, he slipped into to the driver’s seat, but instead of starting the car, he just turned around, folded his arms, and looked at her.
She couldn’t stand it. “The Alpine is that way, I believe,” she said quietly, her face full of woe.
Vinny kept his voice even. “I know where it is,” he said. “But we’re not going there until I know just what the terrible thing is I did to you. Not if we sit here all night. You can start explaining now.”
She certainly didn’t want to, but it all came out in a rush. “Oh, you must think I’m the biggest kind of fool—and a tramp, which is worse still! No, don’t deny it. I have a big brother,
you know, and I hear what he and his friends call girls who are easy—even though these guys are tickled to death when they are. They are dumb broads, tramps, sluts, and even whores!”
“What the hell? Wait a minute—my turn—so shut up and listen. I am not your brother, I’m happy to say. And I’m not one of those horny fraternity boys you’ve met up with here. You know I couldn’t possibly think you are a fool—though you may be a bit of a screwball sometimes—and I’d never think of you as any of the things your brother and his swaggering buddies call women. I don’t think of any woman like that.” He paused to expel a sigh. “But you are a dish, and don’t think it’s been so easy keeping my hands or anything else off you. It’s just that I thought you were kind of young and would need to go slow, and so I didn’t bring anything with me, you know, to protect us. My fault, I should’ve known better.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. So, what do you say, Beth? Want to try again?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“You have about a half hour to think about it before we get back to the hotel.”
Vinny started the car and neither of them spoke again, but about half way there, he reached over and took her hand in his and held it there, and she let him.
Don’t get your hopes up, Beth thought, hardly daring to take comfort from this gesture. By the time they parked at the cabin at the Alpine, Vinny was whistling under his breath.
“How do you feel about square dancing?”
“Why, I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”
“I haven’t done much myself, since I grew up on the wharfs, but I’ve tried it once or twice and it’s kind of fun. Anyway, there’s this shindig I’ve been invited to next Saturday out near Woodridge, lots of guitars, banjos, singers, and dancing. I sort of have to be there, but it would be a lot more fun if you’d go with me.”
“Uh-huh. What about your tired feet?”
‘What about them? I intend to spend all afternoon Saturday in a hammock with my feet propped up, now that I know what an energetic young thing you are.”
“Well, okay,” she said, controlling her need to bob up in the air. “Woodridge is where Moe Ginsberg lives, isn’t it? Do you think he’ll be there? It would be nice to see him again.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s all over the place. So, I’ll call you midweek.” He lifted her chin, kissed her gently on the lips, and left.
The cabin was empty, per usual on Saturday night, for Muriel was at this very moment in bed with her boyfriend, and just where she, the newly fledged Bethesda Erlichman, wanted to be. “But not with Jerry, of course,” she cried out with a whoop. “Slow down, girl, he’s not your boyfriend and may never be,” she cautioned herself. “But, oh! He thinks I’m a dish, he told me I’m a dish. And I think I’m falling in love.”
When Muriel came in early the next morning, Beth was already dressed, lounging on her bed, a sketch pad on her knees. “Ah, Muriel,” she said. “You look so relaxed and refreshed. Just as you should in this vacation paradise.”
“And you look remarkably calm and happy. You had a good time, I assume?”
“I did.” Beth gave her a brief, highly edited version of the evening. “And he’s taking me to a square dance next Saturday.”
“At Woodridge? How nice! Jerry and I will be there too. I’ll fix it with Max to let us both get off early.”
Any doubts about how nice it would be with Muriel as chaperone vanished as her roommate emerged from the bathroom with another piece of advice.
“Bess . . . uh . . . Beth, we’re good friends, right?”
“Absolutely. Why?”
“Well, then let me say this. Vinny is an adult, unlike the overgrown juveniles you’ve spent time with. Oh, he’s charming and persuasive—he has to be in his line of work—but if I know him at all, he’s not a guy with a lot of leisure for candy and flowers and prolonged courtship rituals. So I want you to take a half-day off and see a very nice medically trained woman who lives and works not far from here. Judith Ginsberg is her name. She’s devoted her life to protecting women up in this backwater. She takes care of me. I’ll go with you, if you want me to.”
“Yes. I’d be very grateful if you would. Is she related to Moe Ginsberg?”
“She’s his wife.”
Beth grinned. “Thomas Jefferson never slept here, but Moe Ginsberg sure did. Well, I’m starving. Let’s go get breakfast.”
For Beth, the next couple of weeks were a cram course in safe sex, contraception, women’s rights and responsibilities, and the intricate connections of same to the class struggle. Muriel and Judith (who immediately insisted on first names), were kind, enthusiastic, and thorough. So much so, that Beth occasionally wondered whether it might not be better to die a virgin. But that wouldn’t happen. She and Vinny made certain of this about a week after the square dance. Vinny was careful, reassuring, and gentle with her, and her first time was painless and happy, and continued to improve from there. She was quite oblivious, really, to struggle of any kind. Their only concern was getting up early enough to get Beth back to her hotel and to find sufficient time and place to continue their lovemaking, expanding and refining their pleasure in each other. They were both smitten.
A few days later, Max had an especially busy day planned for Muriel and Beth. All kinds of bookkeeping and clerical work that had piled up, he said. As soon as they had finished one pile of papers, he was ready with another. They came back to the cabin late after dinner, grousing.
“There was absolutely nothing left that couldn’t have waited until tomorrow. God forbid a staff member might need a little slack. I could just shake him—” Muriel broke off suddenly and turned to Beth. “Oh, my God, look at the windows!” They rushed to inspect. There were new sills, new panes, brand new tightly fitted screens. Unpainted or varnished yet, but still perfectly functional.
“Now that’s Vinny for you!” Muriel exclaimed.
“What are you talking about? Vinny couldn’t have done this.”
“Oh, I don’t think he did it himself. He wouldn’t have time for that. Probably he twisted Max’s arm in a friendly fashion, or maybe he supplied the workmen, somehow. But it’s his doing, believe me.” Muriel giggled suddenly. “Now I know why he was so casually quizzing me about the cabin when we were at that square dance. Congratulations, you vamp, you! You must have something really special, Bethie!”
Beth was in seventh heaven. A better summer even than in her dreams. Of course, she asked Vinny about the windows right off when they next spoke.
“Well, I didn’t do the work,” Vinny answered. “Max always meant to fix the screens. I just kicked his butt a little—nothing serious. And speaking of butts, I intend to spend more time at your cabin if that’s okay with you. With Muriel and Jerry gone on Saturday nights, it’s actually easier for me to stay at the cabin than schlep you back while it’s still dark. I don’t work on Sundays, and you do. So if I spend the night there, I don’t want any saber-toothed bugs gorging on my naked butt or yours.”
What with hotel work and love, it was more than a week before Beth even thought of her sketchbook. But on this rather cool overcast day, she had an hour or so free, and since the cabin was comfortable this afternoon, she decided to work there. She liked the indoor light just now. She looked at the portrait she had begun of Vinny’s face. Primitive still, and not really a likeness. It would never be what people called realistic—her true work never was. But it might be good, she thought. A good start. The strong, bony nose was easy to delineate, but not really that important; the mouth firm but with curved sensitive lips was not yet what she was after, but she’d get there. The eyes, bright hazel, a little turned down at the outer corners and slightly hooded, were his most distinctive feature and the most difficult to capture. Thug’s eyes, people might say, at least those who saw all Italians as gangsters, but they were anything but—so direct, and caressing that the hooded lids seemed a way to control, even soften, their pow
er. Still, it was so frustratingly easy to slip into caricature. She had to get the features, the light—everything right.
Well, she had to be patient, she had plenty of time. Would she ever show it to him? She lay down pencil and pad with a sudden realization. Vinny didn’t even know she was serious about art, let alone that she had a deep, compelling attachment to this work. With something like panic she raked through their conversations of the last few weeks. Had she even told him she liked to paint or draw? If she had, it was some passing casual reference that she had quickly put on the back burner, as if it had no importance between them. She had done that, not Vinny. She was shocked and frightened by her own behavior. As if this wonderful, vital part of herself were an embarrassment to be hidden like a scar or a birth defect. Well, hell! No more of that. She would enlighten Vinny and soon.
Now calm down and think—strategize. Vinny did that all the time, didn’t he? It was almost second nature for him, and she’d do well to learn from him. She decided to show him a couple of watercolors that she’d done up here. Nice, actually, well done they were, but pretty conventional. He’d probably like them. But not the portrait. Not yet, if ever. And certainly not the other stuff that was more abstract and intense—closer to the bone. Was she selling him short? She didn’t think so. Vinny was intelligent, sharp, well-informed. But the handsome, intellectual, sensitive young man with the canoe who adored and understood her art? No way. What started as a sigh turned into a grin. What a half-baked insipid fantasy that had been. She vastly preferred the bright-eyed, red-blooded, somewhat hairy Vincent Carmine Migliori, any day.
CHAPTER 8
Frima returned from sorting and delivering the hotel’s daily mail puzzled and chagrined. It had been two weeks since she had replied by postcard to Bess’s letter. So why hadn’t Bess called her? Was she so caught up in this new romance—this next Clarence Darrow—that she had no time for her best friend? Oh, yeah? And you’ve been so open and communicative all summer about your new romance? Maybe Bess won’t intrude because she knows it’s her one and only brother you’ve been slipping off into the shadows with? Why don’t you call her? Because you’re a coward, that’s why. This irritating internal argument was becoming a real drag on her spirits, but who else could she talk to about this? Certainly not Jack about his sister’s romance and not her mother about her own. Besides, it was Bess who was her habitual confidant. Okay, no more. I call her tonight. Period. She called the next night, which was good enough.
Bess and Frima Page 8