“Far out.”
“I’m just not in favor of it,” said Mom, and she and Maxine argued some more. While Mom could wear Dad down in two minutes flat on just about any subject, she’d met her match in Maxine.
The next morning, Maxine’s 1958 Buick Riviera, about the length of a city block, rolled up to our curb to whisk me and my overnight case off to the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, campaign headquarters for Robert F. Kennedy. It was the day of the California primary election, and “Bobby” was favored to win the Democratic Party nomination. We were going to be witnesses to the historic event of his victory speech.
It was a fine day to be zooming down Highway 101, the cool morning breeze catching my hair through the open window. I’d only been to L. A. once, to Disneyland when I was eight, and now being Maxine’s sidekick felt like a real adult adventure. She and I talked and laughed together like we were girls of the same age. I found myself going on and on about Martin.
“It sounds like this boy is a real soul mate for you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how long it will last.”
“So what? It’s great for now. Now is the time in your life when you should be experiencing all sorts of relationships. You don’t have to marry a guy just because he’s right for you now. I envy you girls today. You have all sorts of freedoms I never experienced when I was your age. I didn’t have sex before I was married, and neither did any of the girls I knew. We were all terrified of getting pregnant and then being forced into the home for unwed mothers and having our babies raised by strangers. You are using the Pill, aren’t you, Joanne, or some other method of birth control?”
“Uh, I don’t . . . we don’t sleep together.”
“Well, when the time comes, let me know, and I’ll make the appointment and come with you.”
I’d already thought about this on my own. I had actually gone with Denise for her gynecology appointment, so I knew the doctor’s name and where his office was. “Thanks, Maxine. I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome, Joanne. You know I love your mother, but she’s so old-fashioned about these things.”
In fact, Mom’s main objection to my going to L. A. with Maxine was that she assumed Quentin would be with us, and Mom did not approve of an unmarried couple sharing a hotel room. “I thought Quentin was coming.”
“Oh, no. I don’t see much of him lately. He has a lover now, and he usually stays over at his house.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh!”
“You do know about homosexuals, don’t you, Joanne?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I had to smile. “Mom and the bridge ladies thought Quentin was your boyfriend.”
Maxine raised her chin and emitted a hoot. “That explains a lot! Don’t they think he’s a little young for me?” She laughed again. “Oh, yes, I imagine they do! And I thought all their whispering behind my back was just about my not wearing a bra. Ha! No, Joanne. My lover is much more mature than Quentin, and I’d never bring him around those gossipmongers. I don’t see him that much, anyway, because he’s married, but I’ve decided that’s the way I like it.”
Maxine then went on about her boyfriend, which was a little boring, until she got around to mentioning that she’d met him at Denise’s wedding, and that he had a little boy and a rather demanding teenage daughter who was trying to launch a career in the theater. Rena. It was a confusing world I lived in, with some relationships so close, it seemed they were tied in knots.
That night Maxine had tears running down her face when Bobby Kennedy made his victory speech to his adoring public. Those tears turned to a different sort later on, when shots rang out from the hotel kitchen, which Kennedy was cutting through. He was pronounced dead shortly after midnight.
As Maxine wove her big Buick through morning traffic on our way home, she was crying such torrents I was afraid she would run off the road. When we pulled up to her house, there was a person curled up on her porch beneath the tarp she used to cover her lawn furniture in winter.
“Quentin, is that you?” She shook what appeared to be a shoulder, and up popped Denise’s head.
Inside, we made breakfast as we told Denise about the assassination. When we sat down to eat, Denise told us her story. “Mr. Marlowe asked me to work late, with just him and me in the building, and the girls around the office had warned me what that meant. I refused him, and when he threatened to fire me, I quit! I’d rather starve than get laid by that creep.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you once said the office girls warned you that if you did have sex with him, he’d fire you. Isn’t that what happened to the girl you replaced?”
“Oh, yeah, huh?” Denise shrugged. “I guess it works both ways. Anyway, when I walked out on Mr. Marlowe, I realized I didn’t want to go home, either. I’ve left Jerry!” Her splotched, angry face spurted fresh tears. “I still love him, but there’s just too many things wrong with our marriage. Can I stay with you, Maxine? Just until I get another job and a . . . a place of my own.”
“Of course you can, dear,” said Maxine, handing her one Kleenex after another. “But there will be conditions.”
“I can keep house for you.”
“That isn’t it. I want you to resist running back to Jerry right away. I want you to learn to stand on your own two feet.”
“O . . . kay,” Denise whimpered. “It will be hard.”
“We’ll just keep it quiet where you’re staying for the time being. Joanne, don’t tell your parents just so they can send Jerry over here. Denise, how good are you at persuasive writing?”
“I can do it. I used to write a column for my high school newspaper.”
“Good. Dry your eyes, Denise, and get cleaned up while I run Joanne home. After that, we’ll go over to Gene McCarthy’s headquarters and introduce ourselves. We’re got a new candidate to work for.”
Maxine didn’t take the time to come in when she dropped me off. I found Mom in the kitchen making lunch for Dan and Dad, who was in his business suit, in the middle of his rounds. Dan was hunched over a letter he had received in the mail, his eyes squinted like he was having difficulty reading it.
“Maxine isn’t stopping in?” Mom asked me.
“She’s really torn up.”
“It’s tragic,” said Mom. “That handsome young man, gunned down not five years after his brother. My heart goes out to those Kennedys.”
“I just don’t get it,” said Dan, still staring at his letter. “I thought I was doing good on the test.”
“Maybe you were too slow putting the rifle together,” said Dad, “or you left out some parts.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Vulnerability clouded Dan’s eyes as he peered at me over his letter. “The marines rejected me. I flunked the practical applications test.”
He always was a klutz with mechanical things, but I never knew he was this bad. “I’m sorry, Dan. I know that was your dream.”
Dan ripped his letter to shreds. “Screw it! If I’m not good enough for the marines, to hell with the army! Guess I’m not going to Nam after all. Jimmy will be coming home soon, anyways, and we can pal around like old times. I might as well go back to college and become a business guy like you, Dad.”
“I don’t think it works that way, son,” Dad said quietly. “Your student deferment is long gone. I expect you’ll be hearing from your draft board soon.”
That evening my parents were about to leave for dinner and dancing and I was putting water on to boil hot dogs, when Jerry came through the back door looking for Denise.
“You should have called before coming all this way,” said Mom. “She must be working late.” She reached up and tried to smooth Jerry’s wrinkled shirt. “We have to run, dear. Joanne, offer Jerry a wiener.”
“Want a wiener, Wienerfield?”
“No,” he said flatly, flinging himself into a kitchen chair. After my parents left, he asked, “Where is she?”
“I . . . don’t know.” The water bega
n to boil, and I dropped two hot dogs into it. I was glad I had something to do to avoid his steely glare.
“You do, too. She didn’t come home last night, and when I went over to Marlowe Advertising Agency the girl at the front desk said she no longer worked there. She wouldn’t give me any more information. ’Fess up, Beethoven. Where’s Denise?”
“I know, but I’m not telling.”
He rubbed his hands through his hair. “I don’t have time for her little games, and I’m hungry!”
“I’ll make you a hot dog.”
“I don’t want a damn hot dog. I want my wife!” He slammed his fist down and shouted toward the living room. “Denise! Don’t be so damn immature! Come out of hiding and let’s go home.”
“You don’t get it, do you? She’s left you. She can’t stand those ogres.”
Jerry sneered. “You mean those little monsters that live under a bridge and eat the Billy Goats Gruff?”
I blushed, but I didn’t back down. “You know what I mean. It’s disgusting!”
He looked sheepish. “Did she tell your parents about that?”
“Are you dead yet? No, you aren’t. Dan has been dying to shoot someone, and he wouldn’t even care you’re not a gook, since this comes down to the family’s honor.”
Jerry groaned. “It was just a little experiment.”
“Experiment! You think your marriage is one of those white rats they keep in the psych department at Cal?”
“I just wanted to help her loosen up some.”
“She was loose until you laid all that dumb Freud shit on her. Can’t you just love each other and let it go at that?”
“If I want advice on my sex life from a fifteen-year-old virgin, I’ll ask for it, thank you very much.”
“Sixteen. And she doesn’t need a . . . a . . . dick to go to college.”
“What? Oh. Penis envy. You shouldn’t talk about stuff you know nothing about, Beethoven.”
I got up, turned off the stove, nestled my two hot dogs in buns already spread with mustard, poured a glass of milk, and brought my food over to the table.
Jerry’s eyes grew wide as I chomped down on my first delicious bite. “I wish I knew how to make hot dogs.”
I got up, dumped the water out of the pan, and placed it in his hand. He stared at it like it was a foreign object he’d never seen. “Bring it over to the sink, Whinerfield. Fill it about half full with water and set it on the stove.”
After he’d followed those directions, he asked, “Which knob do I turn?”
“That one, on high. Good. Now when the water starts to boil, plop the dogs in, and take them out in three minutes.”
“That’s it?”
“You just uncovered one of the great mysteries of human existence. I don’t even know why you bother studying Freud. Maxine says he’s a stupid old fuddy-duddy who hates women.”
“So now we’re getting to the bottom of this. That fag hag has been brainwashing Denise with all her women’s lib shit. The bull dyke bitch!”
“You think calling Maxine disgusting names is going to get your wife back?”
“I’m sorry,” he said grudgingly. “Tell Denise to come home, and we’ll talk things out. We can go back to a monogamous marriage. I’m fine with that.”
“It’s not going to be that easy. Denise hasn’t been happy for a long time.”
He groaned. “Hell! I’ll have to move back in with my aunt. And then she’ll call my parents, and then they’ll give me the told-you-so lecture.”
“Don’t give up so easily, Jerry Whinerfield.”
“I can’t batch it. How would I feed myself?”
“You already know how to make hot dogs. How good are you with peanut butter?”
“Very funny.”
“Take off your shirt.” I set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron.
“Gee, thanks, Beethoven. Could you iron about six more? Denise has sorta fallen behind.”
“You’re gonna do it. Look, first you have to check to see if the iron is hot enough. Lick your finger like this, then touch it to the iron real quick.” My wet finger went hiss. “Hear that? It’s ready. Now you try.”
Jerry looked unsure, but he licked his finger and applied it to the iron. “Yeow!”
“I said touch it, not lay on it for a half hour. Your water’s ready. Dump the hot dogs in.”
He put in four. I guessed he really was hungry. “Ouch!” He rubbed his hand.
I laughed. “You baby.”
“Boiling water splashed up and scalded my hand! I’m not cut out for women’s work!”
“Gimme that shirt. Look, you always do the collar first. Lay it flat like so, squirt it with water. The trick is to keep the iron moving so you don’t scorch the material. Here, you try.” I stepped away, and Jerry took up the iron and ran it gingerly across the collar. “Press harder. Keep it moving! Good. Cuffs come next. If you expect to get your wife back, I’m going to have to liberate you.”
Chapter
Eighteen
At the end of Suyu Li’s senior recital, I rose to my feet, my hands stinging from how hard I’d clapped. She had performed brilliantly a very difficult program, including Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” and Debussy’s Estampes. I might never make it to Carnegie Hall, but Suyu was sure to, and I promised myself I would make the trip to New York to applaud for her when she performed there.
A couple of days later, as I sat in the orchestra at our high school’s graduation, I clapped some more as Suyu’s name was announced over and over for awards and scholarships. I wanted to congratulate her afterward, but in the confusion of the graduates tossing their mortarboards like Frisbees and dashing to the end of the stadium to pick up their diplomas, I never found her. The class of 1968 had graduated, and that meant I was a senior.
Saturday morning, Mr. Li pulled up in front of our house in his delivery truck. Mom spied on him from behind the lace curtains at the bay window. “What’s that Chinaman doing? He knows we always pick up our own dry cleaning.”
Suyu got out of the passenger side of the truck and opened our gate for her dad. He was carrying what seemed to be a very heavy wooden crate, which did not look like dry cleaning. Suyu followed him with a cardboard box. Mr. Li set his load on the porch, rang the doorbell, and left. His truck putted away as I answered the door.
“Suyu! What’s all this?”
“A present for you, Joanne.” She set the box she was carrying in our foyer, and together we lugged in the crate. “I thought you would be the best person to inherit all my music. I know you will appreciate Dr. Harold’s notes.”
“You’re getting all new music for college?”
She smiled. “No, no. I won’t be needing it anymore. I’ve quit the piano!”
My jaw dropped. “You . . . you can’t quit! Oh, wow, what’s Dr. Harold going to say?”
“He’s known for a long time.”
“And he’s going to let you?”
She laughed. “Joanne, you’re so funny!”
“I don’t get it! Your recital was fantastic! You’re the best!”
“I’m pretty good, but there’s lots of pianists better than me. It’s practically impossible to make a good living as a musician. I’m done with being poor, and my parents deserve an easy retirement. I’ll see to that.”
“But the piano is your life.”
“It was a nice hobby, Joanne, but it was never my life.”
“What will you do?”
“I got a full scholarship to MIT. I’m going to build computers! They’re the wave of the future. One of these days everybody will have one in their house, like TV.”
I thought of the huge computer Jerry had showed me in the Cal psych department; it filled an entire wall. “People are going to have computer rooms in their houses?”
“Oh, no. Already computers are small enough to set on a desk.”
“But what for?”
“All sorts of things. To calculate, store data, produce documents, communi
cate.”
“Won’t there be any telephones in the future?”
“Oh, yes! And when you answer, the person calling will see you, like a little movie.”
I wasn’t so sure I wanted people to see me in my pajamas or with my hair all messed up. “Will you have to be seen?” I asked.
“I don’t know how it’s all going to work, Joanne, but it will be exciting to find out. Even cars will be different. By the year 2000, there won’t be any wheels on them. They’ll just hover about two inches off the ground!”
I wasn’t impressed. How could anyone, especially Suyu, plan a future without Beethoven? I glanced down at the volumes of music at my feet. “Won’t you want to sit down and play every once in a while?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Without practicing? It would only be frustrating. I have a recording of my senior recital. I’m happy with that. And now whenever I come to any big problem in computers, I’ll think, I can solve it. I played my senior recital, and that’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do.”
Suyu chatted on, but I was having a hard time paying attention. Two treasure troves lay at my feet, and my fingers itched to dig in. As soon as she left, I dove for her Beethoven sonatas. With shaking hands, I flipped to the “Pathétique.” What? Dr. Harold had to remind Suyu to play staccato here, and count the rests there, and voice the melody here? Those were just the same things he’d told me! Suyu had had to learn this stuff just like me!
That summer the influx of hippies that filled Haight-Ashbury was not as great as it had been in the Summer of Love. Even hippies discouraged hippies from coming, like the ad in the Oracle that read, “Kansas City needs you. Start your own revolution in your own town.” The Diggers had stopped serving free meals in the Panhandle long ago, and with noise ordinances in effect, there were fewer free outdoor concerts. The cops routinely canvassed the neighborhood, searching for runaways and shipping them home. Photos of missing teens were taped on lampposts and in storefronts. By now Lisa Girardi’s portrait was faded and cracked. Her parents had hired a private eye without results; she had slipped away from the Fillmore without a trace. Hundreds of times I thought about hugging Lisa that February night. If only I had held on to her long enough for that camper to drive away without her.
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