by Nancy Pearl
“I don’t know,” George said. “You’ll have to read me some of her poems. I haven’t read anything by Dickinson since high school, and that was the poem about death, the one that’s always included in anthologies. Maybe I’d understand it better now. Anyway, how would you even demonstrate that it was true, though?”
“I guess you’d study a lot of Shakespeare criticism written before and after Dickinson and compare them.”
“I don’t see how that would work,” George argued. “There’s no real way to know in any case. It’s all down to interpretation, anyway.”
“All I was saying is that I think it’s such a cool idea. Pascal’s influence on Sappho; Saint Aquinas’s influence on Homer. Gosh, the possibilities are endless.” Lizzie untucked her arm from George’s and moved away a few inches so they were no longer touching. “You’re no fun, George. I really hate it when you have to have all the facts before you can even wonder about something.”
George was deep in thought and gave no indication that he’d heard Lizzie. He didn’t seem to notice they were now walking separately.
Finally Lizzie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Are you still thinking about what facts you’d need to in order to prove influence works backward in time?”
He took her arm and firmly tucked it back in his. “No, actually. I was wondering if you’d like to come home with me for Christmas.”
Lizzie was flabbergasted. “Go with you to Tulsa for Christmas? Really? Tulsa, with you? Why?”
He stood so that they were facing one another. “Because we’ve been going out for almost a year, which is longer than I’ve ever dated anyone, and because I’d very much like to have my parents meet you. And you to meet them. Will you think about it? We probably have a few days before we need to get our airline tickets.”
When they got back to the apartment, they turned on the television to watch the Eagles beat the Giants in a meaningless game. George didn’t care who won—he suspected that nobody but the coaches and probably some of the players on both teams did either—but he always got a kick out of telling Lizzie about what OSU players were on which team and how high they were drafted and whether he’d seen them play. Lizzie wasn’t really listening. She was worrying up a storm. What did this potential visit mean? Did she even want to meet his parents? Was this going to be like the thin edge of the wedge, après lequel, le commitment? And, gosh, she had begun it, really, hadn’t she? She’d initiated every forward movement in their relationship. They wouldn’t be together if she hadn’t called him way back in December or agreed to go out with him all year. And, true, she had brought him to her family’s disastrous Thanksgiving (which in retrospect had somehow brought them closer together), but that wasn’t because she wanted her parents to meet him or vice versa. She’d invited him because she couldn’t stand being home and hoped his being there would help her get through the day. Maybe the role George played in her life was to distract her from the voices in her head and all her despair about Jack.
Ugh, Lizzie, she said to herself, that is a terrible thing to think. Unfortunately, it sounded very true. Maybe she needed someone in her life besides Marla and James, another person who didn’t despise her or think she was an awful human being. Maybe that someone was George. It was quite possible that George had unaccountably fallen for her, and fallen hard. He didn’t know about Jack or that biggest, stupidest, most awful mistake, the Great Game. He had no idea of all her many sorrows and her multitude of flaws. She remembered a line from a poem by Stephen Dunn, one of Jack’s favorite poets, about wanting to be loved beyond deserving. That’s what she wanted. And Jack couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. But maybe George could, and would.
Still, the decision to go to Tulsa had big stakes and lots of possible repercussions.
“It’s such a family holiday, maybe your folks wouldn’t want you to bring me.”
“Are you kidding? My mother loves company. Really. She begged me to invite you. Please come.”
Lizzie hesitated. “I don’t know. Let me think about it, okay? “
That evening, in a panic, she asked Marla whether, if she went to Tulsa, she needed to bring presents for George’s parents and, if so, what she should bring. Marla loved buying presents and did it brilliantly. She had an instinctive sense of what someone would enjoy receiving and didn’t mind shopping until she found exactly what it was she was looking for. Lizzie knew from firsthand experience that Marla could figure out what you really wanted even before you knew it was what you wanted. Marla’s talent was how Lizzie now had a supply of bath accoutrements, salts and oils and nice-smelling soaps, none of which Lizzie had ever thought she wanted and would certainly never purchase for herself. Lizzie, on the other hand, had no facility for either part of the process. She tended to be so overwhelmed by the quantity of choices available that she left the store empty-handed, feeling both guilt and relief. Plus there was no way she could ever fathom what someone else would want.
Marla’s firm opinion was that, yes, Lizzie needed to bring George’s parents a gift. At the very least, a hostess gift, to thank them for their hospitality. She ruled out candy and liquor. Too much of a stereotype: the new girlfriend arriving with candy and liquor in hand. Marla favored the dramatic and inventive. She instructed Lizzie to ask George some questions about his parents.
The next day she reported the answers back to Marla. Yes, they both liked to read. Yes, they liked to travel, or at least George’s mother did. His father was a hug-the-hearth. “George didn’t put it in those words, but it’s what he meant. You know, I’ve always wanted to say ‘hug-the-hearth’ and never thought I could find a way to use it in a sentence. It’s from a poem by the oh-God-the-pain girl.”
“Move on, Lizzie, time’s a-wastin’ and James is awaitin’ for me.”
“Okay, okay, but how come nobody except Jack ever likes it when I quote poetry to them?”
“Shouldn’t you be putting the verb in that sentence in the past tense? For your own sake? True, Jack let you quote poetry, many months ago now. False, Jack is still here. He is not here. He left you and didn’t come back,” she ended astringently. And partially made up for what she’d said by adding lovingly, “And I’m happy, and James is happy, and I bet George would be over the moon to have you read poems to us. But, Lizzie, that particular Jack McConaghey train left the station months ago. It’s done gone.”
Lizzie went on relaying George’s answers, now feeling a little chastened and somewhat depressed. She wished Marla hadn’t been so definite about Jack’s absence. Yes, both Goldrosens were interested in politics. They had both marched on Washington and volunteered at the local Gene McCarthy for President campaign in the 1960s when they were young. Yes, they listened to music. Allan preferred jazz and Elaine was still addicted to the music she’d listened to in her twenties and thirties, which included all those now iconic singers like Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. No, Elaine didn’t particularly enjoy cooking, but loved baking and reading about food. No, they weren’t both sports fans. Only Allan was. No, they weren’t particularly collectors of anything. Yes, they liked the theater. They went to New York three or four times a year to see the latest plays, and saw whatever plays were offered in Tulsa. Yes, they had a lot of family photographs around the house.
“You can stop there,” Marla told Lizzie. “That gives me enough to go on. I’ll have a list for you by this afternoon.”
“Don’t hurry. In fact, don’t work too hard on it. I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to go or not.”
“You’re going,” Marla said, either encouragingly or forebodingly or perhaps a mixture of both. Lizzie couldn’t tell for sure.
A few days later at breakfast before they left for class, Marla asked, “Have you decided yet?”
Lizzie swallowed the piece of toast she’d been chewing. “Nope.”
“Well, get cracking, girl. I assume George is waiting for you before he buys a ticket.”
“Do you think I should go?”
Marla sighed. “
Of course. Why wouldn’t you? It’s not like you’re committing yourself to anything. You’re just going for a visit. What’s the worst that could happen? You might be a little uncomfortable or bored, but you’ll be more bored here. James and I will be gone and Mendel and Lydia are hopeless, as you never tire of telling anyone who’ll listen. Of course you should go, especially because I have some great ideas about what presents to give. But before you actually buy anything, don’t forget to check with George to make sure he thinks it’ll go over well and that they don’t already have it.”
“Yes, Mother, I won’t forget. And will you come shopping with me?”
Marla sighed dramatically. “Yes, dear daughter, I guess I will come shopping with you. I can get started on my own Hanukkah stuff. Maybe I’ll buy the same presents for my parents and James’s. Now go call George to tell him you’re going. I mean it. Do it.”
“Yes, Mother, I will.”
“Now. Go call him now.”
Lizzie stood up and then sat down again. “Do you think I need to get George a present?”
“I’m not sure what the etiquette books would say, but I’d say no, it’s not necessary. Your going with him is his present.”
“That would be really good, because I have no idea what I’d buy for him.”
So the die was cast, the decision taken, the tickets bought. Needless to say, George was thrilled. His mother, when he called sounded—was it possible?—even happier than George was to hear the news. George knew better than to tell Lizzie that.
She studied the list Marla gave her. She had a lot to choose from. There were many suggestions of books, and Marla had starred the ones she thought would be especially appropriate, which included Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang (biography and history); David Simon’s Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets (sociology and crime); Beryl Bainbridge’s The Birthday Boys (fictional biography of Scott’s journey to the South Pole); Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol (sociology and education); James Stewart’s Den of Thieves (financial chicanery); books by the food writers M.F.K. Fisher and Elizabeth David. If none of the books met her approval, Marla had added a CD of the original soundtrack from the Broadway version of Evita (which encompassed, conveniently, politics plus music); unusual picture frames; and a subscription to Harry & David’s fruit-of-the-month club.
Lizzie went over the list with George, whose already high opinion of Marla increased tenfold. What a terrific job she’d done, he told Lizzie. He could swear, looking at the list, that she’d spent a lot of time with Elaine and Allan and knew them well. Lizzie relayed this to Marla, who was very pleased with herself. Lizzie ended up buying books: for Allan, Den of Thieves, and Elaine, The Art of Eating. George decided he’d get his dad Savage Inequalities and his mother Evita, since he knew they’d seen it and didn’t think they’d ever gotten the CD.
Lizzie’s Christmas shopping was done. Of course the Bultmanns never exchanged presents. Lydia was on principle violently against any religious holidays and Mendel simply wasn’t interested in celebrations. When Sheila was Lizzie’s babysitter, she’d always bring her a holiday gift or two. Lizzie recalled with much embarrassment the presents she’d foisted upon her beloved Sheila in return: one year there were guppies in a fishbowl; another year (a particularly painful memory) a set of oversize jacks that she’d coveted for herself. Stop thinking about the past, Lizzie!
* What You Remember and What You Forget *
Lizzie well knows that what you remember and what you forget is surpassingly strange. She can recall some things from the past with an almost eerie clarity. She can, for example, still remember the chalky taste of the powdered milk Mendel and Lydia favored and the socks Cornball Cornish wore the night they fucked in the Great Game (he never took them off; she remembers that too). And yet there’s so much she’s forgotten: the exact shade of Jack’s blue eyes; the name of the woman that Todd almost married; Andrea’s mother’s first name; the plot of Umberto Eco’s Name of the Rose, a novel she’d actually liked quite a lot; the name of the girl she’d won a double-Dutch jump-rope contest with in eighth grade; the sound of Jack’s voice when he said good-bye to her for what she didn’t realize was the last time—oh, the list of what she’s forgotten goes on and on and on.
But here’s what she does remember:
1. Sheila telling her that Lizzie should never ever learn how sausages or laws were made. And if she happened to find out, she most definitely shouldn’t tell Sheila about it.
2. The crackly, sticky, generally uncomfortable feel of the torn leather booths at Gilmore’s, which, regardless, is her second favorite coffee shop, because it’s where she and Jack used to go.
3. Being at a family Hanukkah party at Andrea’s house when she was about ten and hearing Andrea’s married cousin Ginger saying to someone (but who?), “I have to sleep under the bed if I don’t want to get pregnant.”
4. The painting of a naked woman on the wall by the stairs at Andrea’s house, and how embarrassed she was each time she saw it.
5. Finding the rhyme “Monday’s child is fair of face” in some book from the library and, after figuring out that she was born on a Wednesday, realizing that it was why she was filled with woe. Too bad she hadn’t been born on a Tuesday, full of grace, or, even better, on a Friday, since then she’d be both loving and giving.
6. Taking a chance by telling a Health Service doctor that she felt awfully blue much of the time only to have him respond by telling her that she had an unreasonable expectation of happiness. Lizzie wonders whether her desire for happiness, as opposed to an expectation of it, is unreasonable as well.
7. The smell of Wind Song, the cologne Sheila always wore.
8. Her father telling her angrily that there were more important things to cry over than the fate of a fictional horse and being shocked that he knew that Black Beauty was a horse.
9. Her Halloween costume when she was seven: a traffic light, which Sheila created.
10. Naomi Abrams telling Lizzie (in third grade) that her mother looked like a witch. The thing was, Lydia’s appearance was somewhat witchy.
11. Her first-grade teacher announcing that the next person who talked out of turn would have to stand in the corner for five minutes, and, wouldn’t you know it, Lizzie was that person. She spent a significant amount of time in the first grade standing in that same corner.
12. How, when she was nine, in third grade, right before Sheila stopped working for the Bultmanns, Lizzie told her parents at dinner—it was dispirited pork chops and undercooked scalloped potatoes (although she knows full well that “dispirited” is not a word she’d have ever said back then)—that her homework was to draw a family tree and present it to the class, with stories about her ancestors. Mendel looked down at his plate and took a small bite of potato. Lizzie could almost hear it crunching between his teeth. Lydia said grimly, “Ah, the family genealogy. I wondered when that would rear its ugly head. You’d think the Holocaust would have put paid to that particular assignment.” (Lizzie also knew that she had never heard the word “genealogy” before Lydia said it. Or what “put paid” meant.)
Lydia continued, “A study of genealogy does not work for such happy few as we, since we have no ancestors.” (It was many years before Lizzie realized that Lydia’s “happy” was to be understood as ironic.)
“But,” began Lizzie just as Mendel shook his head.
“No. Your mother is right. Use Sheila’s family instead. Pretend they’re your own. She’ll be happy to help you draw a family tree and you can ask her if you can meet her grandparents. They’ll tell you all the stories you need to make a presentation.”
Which is how for a while Lizzie’s father (Warren) was a man who worked at the Bendix factory outside Ann Arbor and her mother (Adele) was a secretary at the university. Warren’s parents were a minister (Jacob) and a housewife (Lorene). Lizzie’s pretend paternal grandparents met when Irv was working as a chassis assembly-line supervisor at the Ford River Rouge plant in
Dearborn and Mary was the waitress at a restaurant where he went on his union-authorized breaks to drink coffee and smoke. The minister collected model trains (HO gauge), which he bequeathed to his son Warren, who turned his garage over to the collection and enthusiastically built it up to an impressive degree. The garage was filled with several Ping-Pong tables that had been pushed together to display the complete setup. During her oral report to the class, Lizzie noted that it was almost time for him to find another, much bigger place to keep his trains, because the collection was rapidly outgrowing the garage. “My dad,” Lizzie continued, “loves trestles, so there are lots of them that the train has to go over as it makes its way through the big towns and small cities. There are farms and schools and lots of houses. There are even people living in those places, and they have dogs and cats and one of the houses even has a tiny rabbit on the front lawn. Kids stand on the steps of their house and wave at the conductor and engineer when the train goes by.
“My dad,” Lizzie went on, “was sorry he didn’t have a boy to share his hobby with.” Her mom, she said, wasn’t much interested in the trains. But she, her father’s daughter, loved them, although she was forbidden to play with the trains unless her dad was there.
Lizzie passed some pictures around for the class to see: a Polaroid of the railroad’s layout. Another one of her grandfather Jacob’s first church, in Milan, Ohio. And another taken at her parents’ wedding, which was at Greenfield Village, the indoor-outdoor museum that housed Henry Ford’s collections of cars.
Nobody challenged her, not even the teacher, whose name Lizzie didn’t remember, and who definitely knew who her real parents were. She might even have gotten an A on the assignment.
* The Cornerbacks *
The boys who played defense were much less interesting to Lizzie than the offense had been. After all, defense had originally been Andrea’s bailiwick, and Lizzie had decided to go on with the Great Game only after finishing with the offense in a badly mistaken desire to complete what she’d started. Honestly, those eleven defensive players are mostly blurred together in her mind.