‘Gosh, we’re already completing each other’s sentences.’
I put down the phone. I put my head in my hands. I felt cornered, trapped. There was no way out.
The next afternoon, I left my office at three thirty and walked up Fifth Avenue, full of dread. I entered the Plaza Hotel at the appointed time. Mrs Grey was seated at a table in the Palm Court. She saw me approach. She did not smile. She did not proffer her hand. She simply motioned to the chair beside her and said, ‘Sit down, Sara.’
I did as ordered. She stared at me for a long time, her lips pinched, turning them into a fine inflexible line that bisected her face. I tried to meet her disdainful stare. I began to knead my hands together. Naturally she noticed this.
‘Are you feeling anxious, Sara?’ she asked mildly.
My hands froze. ‘Yes. I am feeling anxious.’
‘I suppose, were I in your situation, I would feel anxious as well. The fact is, though - I would never have landed myself in such a situation. One always pays a huge price for impulsiveness.’
‘And, I suppose, you’ve never been guilty of impulsiveness?’
Her lips expanded into her telltale tight smile. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Not a single act of rashness in your entire life?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘How controlled of you.’
‘I will take that as a compliment, Sara. But back to business …’
‘I didn’t realize we were talking business.’
‘Oh yes. This is, without question, a business conversation. Because, as far as I’m concerned, we have nothing else to talk about but the practical matter of arranging a wedding post haste. We don’t want you walking down the aisle visibly enceinte, now do we?’
Another of her narrow smiles. I said nothing.
‘Of course, everyone at the wedding will naturally know why we have so expedited the scheduling of the ceremony. Which, in turn, means that we will want to keep the event small and discreet. No doubt, this will not tally with your childhood fantasies of a big all-white wedding …’
‘How do you know what my childhood fantasies were?’ I asked, the anger showing.
‘Don’t all girls dream of a big wedding?’
‘No.’
‘Of course I forgot - you and your brother were always a little out of step with things, much to the distress of your very nice parents.’
I glared at her, wide-eyed.
‘How dare you make such an assumption …’
‘I’m not making an assumption, dear. I am simply reporting established fact. We have these very old friends in Hartford - the Montgomerys. They were your parents’ neighbors, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Yes. They lived a few houses away from us.’
‘Well, when Mr Grey and I discovered - somewhat abruptly, I should add - that you were to be our daughter-in-law, we decided to do a little checking into your background. It turned out Mr Grey knew Mr Montgomery from Princeton. Class of nineteen oh eight. And Mr Montgomery and his wife, Miriam, were exceedingly informative about your family. I never knew, for example, that your brother is a Communist.’
‘He is not a Communist.’
‘He joined the Party, didn’t he?’
‘Yes … but that was during the thirties, when it was fashionable …’
‘Fashionable? To the best of my knowledge the Communist Party wishes to overthrow the government of this country. Is that your idea of chic, Sara?’
‘He left the Party in forty-one. He made a mistake. He’s the first to admit that now.’
‘What a pity your poor parents aren’t around to hear his renunciation.’
I felt myself getting very angry.
‘Eric mightn’t be the most conventional of men, but he was always a good son to our parents … and he is the best brother imaginable.’
‘I do so admire familial loyalty. Especially in the face of such unconventionality.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Oh yes you do. So too, I gather, did your late parents. In fact, word has it that your brother’s unconventionality so upset your father that it hastened the stroke which killed him.’
‘It’s outrageous to blame Eric …’
‘No one is apportioning blame, Sara. I’m just reporting what I heard from others. Just as I also heard that you directly contravened your father’s wishes by moving to New York after Bryn Mawr. And shortly thereafter, the stroke felled him …’
I was on the verge of screaming at her. Or slapping her. Or spitting in her face. My heart was pounding, my rage immense. She saw this, and responded by affording me another of her little smiles. A smile which invited me to do something reprehensible … and pay an even bigger price than the one I was paying now. A smile which forced me to remain in control.
So, taking several deep steadying breaths, I simply stood up and said, ‘We have nothing more to say to each other, Mrs Grey.’
Her tone remained temperate, steady.
‘If you walk out of here now, dear, you will be creating enormous problems for yourself.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Oh yes you do. After all, I can’t imagine a respectable family magazine like Saturday Night/Sunday Morning allowing an unwed mother to remain in their employment. And once Saturday/Sunday dismisses you on moral grounds, who on earth will hire you? Then there’s the matter of your apartment. Isn’t there some clause in the standard New York City tenancy lease … Mr Grey mentioned this to me en passant … about landlords being able to evict tenants who have committed acts of moral turpitude ? Granted, having a child out of wedlock might not fit the letter of the law … but could you afford to fight such an eviction in court?’
I sat down again. I said nothing. Mrs Grey lowered her head for a moment. When she raised it again, she was the picture of civility.
‘I knew that, at heart, you were a sensible girl, Sara. I’m certain that, from this moment forward, we will get along just fine. Tea?’
I didn’t respond. Possibly because I felt the way a convicted felon must feel when he’s been sentenced to life imprisonment. This was the abyss. And I was in it.
‘I’ll take your silence as a yes,’ she said, motioning towards a waiter. ‘Now then, back to business. The wedding …’
She outlined the plans. Under the hasty circumstances, a wedding at the family parish church in Connecticut was out of the question (‘one simply does not organize such an event with two weeks’ notice’). Instead, there would be a simple straightforward service at the Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan - to which I would be allowed to invite four guests, including my brother (‘I presume he will be giving you away?’ she asked dryly). There would be a simple, straightforward reception afterwards here at the Plaza. George would be organizing ‘the honeymoon details’, though Mrs Grey had suggested to him ‘a nice, modest hotel’ in Provincetown, into which he had subsequently booked us for a week. After the honeymoon, we would be moving into our new home … in Old Greenwich, Connecticut.
It took a moment for this news to register. ‘George and I are moving where?’ I asked.
‘To Old Greenwich, Connecticut. You mean, he hasn’t yet told you … ?’
‘Considering that he only informed you of our news last night …’
‘Of course, of course. The poor boy’s had so much on his mind. Anyway, when he did tell us your wonderful news yesterday evening, Mr Grey gave him the most marvelous surprise. As our wedding gift to you both, we’re letting you have a little house we bought as an investment a year or so ago in Old Greenwich. Do understand - it’s hardly a mansion. But it’s the perfect starter house for a young family. And it’s only five minutes’ walk to the railway station, so it will be very handy for George’s commute to Manhattan. Do you know Old Greenwich? Very sweet little town … and right near Long Island Sound, so it will be perfect for …’
Drowning myself.
‘… outings with other young mothers. After the baby arri
ves I’m sure you’ll find so much to do up there. Coffee mornings. Church socials. Charity yard sales. The PTA
As I listened to her delineate, with relish, my prosaic future, all I could think was: this is a masterclass in how to twist the knife.
I finally interrupted her.
‘Why can’t we live in George’s apartment for a while?’
‘That dreadful place? I wouldn’t allow it, Sara.’
It wasn’t that dreadful: a serviced one-bedroom flat in a residential hotel, the Mayflower, on 61st Street and Central Park West.
‘We could always find a bigger place in the city,’ I said.
‘The city is no place to raise children.’
‘But the baby’s not due for around seven months. I don’t want to be commuting back and forth to Connecticut to my job …’
‘Your job?’ she said, sounding amused. ‘What job?’
‘My job at Saturday/Sunday, of course.’
‘Oh, that job. You’ll be resigning at the end of next week.’
‘No I won’t.’
‘Of course you will. Because a week later you will be married. And married women do not work.’
‘I was planning to be the exception.’
‘Sorry, dear. It cannot be. Anyway, given your condition, you’d have to give up work in a few months. It’s the way motherhood works.’
I tried to remain rational, reasoned, in control.
‘Say I refused? Say I simply walked out of this hotel right now and didn’t go through with any of this?’
‘I have already outlined the consequences to you. I do believe in individual free will - so, as far as I’m concerned, you may do whatever you want to do. Sadly, the outcome of such a decision may not be to your liking - as raising a child on your own without a job or a decent place to live may be a little difficult. But we would never dream of stopping you …’
My eyes began to water. I felt tears cascading down my face. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I whispered.
Mrs Grey looked at me, baffled. ‘Doing what, dear?’
‘Ruining my life.’
‘Ruining your life? Please spare me the cheap melodrama, Sara. I certainly didn’t force you to get pregnant, now did I?’
I said nothing.
‘Anyway, if I was in your position, I would be positively delighted with the way everything’s been arranged. After all, it’s not many girls who get given a house in a desirable suburb as a wedding gift.’
A final tight smile. I stared down at the table. There was a lengthy silence.
‘Cat got your tongue, dear? Or have you simply seen the logic of my arguments?’
My gaze remained fixed on the table.
‘Splendid,’ she finally said. ‘Our plans will proceed as agreed. Oh … and look who’s here to see us. What marvelous timing the boy has.’
I looked up. George was standing at the entrance of the Palm Court, hesitantly awaiting the wave of his mother’s hand that would beckon him to the table. No doubt, she had given him an appointed time at which to arrive at the Plaza. Just as she had told him last night exactly how she was going to stage manage our life from this day forward. Because, in the world according to Mrs Grey, this was the price one paid for transgressing her sense of order and decorum and social standing.
Mrs Grey used her right index finger to beckon George forward. He approached our table shyly, like a schoolboy being called into the principal’s office.
‘Hi there,’ he said, trying to sound cheery. ‘Everyone happy?’
He glanced at me and saw that I had been crying. Immediately, he tensed. His mother said, ‘Sara and I have been discussing future plans, and we’re in agreement on everything.’
I said nothing. I continued to stare at the table-top. Her voice became testy. ‘Aren’t we, dear?’
I didn’t raise my gaze, but I did say, ‘Yes. Everything is fine.’
‘And we now so understand each other, don’t we?’
I nodded.
‘So you see, George - everything is working out splendidly … as I told you it would. As I’m sure you well know, Sara - the poor boy is a bit of a worrier. Aren’t you, George?’
‘I guess so,’ he said nervously. Sitting down next to me, he tried to take my hand. But I pulled it away before he clutched it. Mrs Grey caught sight of this little drama and smiled.
‘I think I’ll go powder my nose, and let you lovebirds have a moment or two alone.’
As soon as she was out of earshot, George said, ‘Darling, don’t be upset …’
‘I didn’t realize I was marrying your mother.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Oh yes I am … as it seems that she is calling all the shots here.’
‘After the wedding, we can block her right out of our lives
‘After the wedding we will be living in Old Greenwich, Connecticut. How nice of you to discuss this little change of address with me …’
‘The offer of the house only came last night.’
‘So you naturally decided to accept it without consulting me.’
‘I meant to call you at work this morning.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘I was tied up in meetings.’
‘Liar. You were afraid what my reaction might be.’
He lowered his head. ‘Yes. I was afraid how you might react. But, look, the house in Old Greenwich was just a really generous offer from my parents. We don’t have to accept it.’
I stared at him with utter contempt. ‘Yes we do,’ I said, ‘and you know it.’
A pause. He squirmed in his chair. And finally said, ‘You’ll really like Old Greenwich.’
‘I’m so glad you think so,’ I said.
And if you don’t like it …’
‘Then what?’
‘Then …’ He squirmed again. ‘I promise you, it will all work out. Let’s just get through the wedding …’
‘And then - let me guess - you’re going to tell her to stay out of our lives forever?’
Another uncomfortable pause. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, his voice a near whisper. He then made a loud coughing noise to indicate that his mother was returning. When she approached our table, George instantly stood up and held her chair. After she sat down, she nodded to indicate that he could be seated. Then she turned her gaze to me.
‘So,’ she asked, ‘did you have a nice chat about things?’
Had I been the fearless sort, I would have stood up and walked out of the Plaza, and accepted my fate. But to do that, in 1947, would have meant taking the most enormous personal gamble. And yes, as much as I loathed her, Mrs Grey was right about one thing: deciding to be a single mother would have meant instant unemployment, instant social ostracization. Back then, only widows and abandoned women were allowed to be single mothers. To decide to have a child outside of wedlock - or, worse yet, to reject an offer of marriage by the child’s father - would have been considered, at best, deeply reprehensible; at worst, deranged. And I didn’t possess the don’t give a damn mentality needed to buck conventionality. I longed to have Eric’s seditious streak, but knew I couldn’t pull it off. Like it or not, I was a small-c conservative. My parents may have despaired at my minor acts of rebellion - like moving to Manhattan after college. But they instilled in me such a fear of authority - and such deeply engrained notions of respectability - that I felt unable to do the impossible, awkward thing: telling George Grey and his godawful parent to go to hell.
The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) Page 27