“Do you have a good enough relationship with Todd to try it?” Louis asked.
“Actually, no.”
“Me neither. He’s slime.” Louis pulled out his cell phone and called Rona. She didn’t pick up. “Where the hell is Rona? Bev and she were always so thick. She’s the one who should solve this,” he said.
Rona was missing in action, as had happened so often lately. Louis promised to return the next day to sand and paint the patched walls. He’d catch Rona then. Where was Rona right now, when they needed her?
***
I’ll bet Susan wonders where I am, Rona thought, as she walked on the boardwalk in Coney Island, heading toward Brighton Beach. Susan would never guess. The outer boroughs were not Rona’s usual haunts, especially Coney Island with its holdover of the vulgar entertainments of a century ago. Roller coasters and the midway with its rigged games of chance. A beach abutting polluted waters. Provincial Brooklynites at play in the dark green liquid despite the pollution. Not her thing at all. Today, she had boarded a subway train headed for Coney Island, and endured the hour-and-a-half ride all the way out to the end of the line. She had indulged in a Nathan’s Famous hot dog at the original Nathan’s stand. She had wandered around the carnival attractions that were already moderately busy on a summer Friday afternoon. She had even walked on the beach a little, all the way to the rocks and then back to the Brooklyn Aquarium. The beach was packed with people, mostly mothers with their children. These city dwellers couldn’t afford some other retreat from the heat of their apartments. They came out here to the free Coney Island beach and sat all day while the kids ran in and out of the water and played with whatever shells and other litter had floated in with the tide.
Now, she strolled the boardwalk walking away from the crowds, amid elderly Jews who lived in big apartment buildings nearby and wouldn’t give up a square inch of territory, especially part of the benches lining the boardwalk. Then there were the many Russian immigrants who had come to the area for the past forty years, who had their own loud social mores. Through them all, she walked almost invisibly. Of course, the carnival barkers tried to get her to shoot at weighted ducks or ride a silly spook ride. Otherwise, because she had her New York face on and strode along confidently, she was left alone.
She remembered coming to New York thirty years ago and how hard it was to live among people with New York faces. The New York face was a flat expression common to everyone who lived in the city, unlike anything seen in any other big city in America. It wasn’t a mean face. It wasn’t arrogant. It wasn’t personal. It didn’t smile. The New York face said, “I am watching you, so don’t try anything. Unless you know me, keep away.” At first, it was a struggle not to smile automatically at strangers. In Newton, Massachusetts, girls were brought up to smile, but not to meet people’s eyes on the street, so they didn’t have to smile at everybody. New Yorkers watched everyone. They looked. At first, seeing people looking at her, Rona had automatically smiled. Then, gradually, she had learned not to. After that, after various incidents on the street like what had happened to Susan with that groper, Rona got in touch with her inner street fighter. She developed her own New York face. It wasn’t a lot different from wearing makeup, she’d always thought. The one covered her expression and the other coated her features. They both warned the world she was in charge of herself so don’t step out of line.
Why did she feel as if her expression rearranged despite herself if she even thought of Edward? As if she could not even control her facial muscles, he so deeply affected every bit of her being? She didn’t want that anymore, did she?
Twenty-five years ago she had been madly in love with him. She hadn’t cared that he was a married man. She hadn’t shrunk from committing adultery to make love with him. She had wanted to be with him day and night. She had wanted to give him babies. She had wanted everything. If he hadn’t been cautious, she would have proclaimed their love from the rooftops.
Rona paused and went to the railing, looking out at the beach. Here, it wasn’t as crowded as it was nearer the subway station, but there were still plenty of people camped out and amusing themselves, getting sun or avoiding it, getting wet or trying not to. Children tossed balls and chased them. People hiked and ran up and down the beach along the waterline, parallel to the boardwalk. One couldn’t be alone in New York, although one could pretend. She had pretended she knew what love was all about until she fell in love with Edward. Prior to meeting him, she’d had a moderate amount of fun for years as breaks from her ambitious studies. She’d had boyfriends and lovers. She’d had some sleepless nights and caused some. It had all been nothing compared to the real thing.
Love was supposed to be wonderful, but she hadn’t believed it until she fell in love. By then, she was no innocent virgin. It hadn’t made any difference. Everyone was an innocent before they fell in love. Had she known Edward would rip her heart out by his mere existence, would she have refused to walk into the committee room and meet him for the first time? She had not known real love could do that. Had she understood that love truly could destroy her? Of course not. She hadn’t even understood it when she was in the middle of experiencing it.
The inner heart of love was a tiger, fierce and relentless in capturing and devouring its prey. She had been devoured. She became the victim of feelings she had never imagined, desires she had never dreamt. She lusted with an overwhelming hunger. She yearned with a despair she had never known. She had never recovered. She had merely paved over the ruins of her life and tried to have a semblance of meaningful existence without Edward.
Their affair had been madness. What had she been thinking? Nothing, of course. She was the ambitious young woman who had scratched and clawed to get her tenure track position on the faculty of the premier university in New York City. It was bad enough that she’d been hired as a token because she was both Chinese American and a woman. Nobody was prepared to take her seriously. She had risked her fragile career on a sordid affair with a married man. Except it hadn’t been like that. She had been in love.
Love made no sense, but it happened anyway. As a university professor, she was called upon sometimes to expound on the power of love, or on the history of love as described in courtly poems, or in myth-ridden romances such as Tristan and Isolde. Rona of course cited instances of kingdoms supposedly lost or gained because of love, not only Troy, but also the sway of Christianity through the influence of Theodora on the Emperor Constantine, and of course Cleopatra’s alliances with Julius Caesar and with Marc Antony and the creation of the Roman Empire. Yes, she knew about the power of love. About Diane de Poitiers being the mistress of two successive kings of France and more powerful than either of their queens, about Queen Victoria’s wildly possessive love for Prince Albert and lifelong mourning for him, even about instances in the animal kingdom when the lion lay down with the lamb out of love.
She’d never understood how a person as logical and intelligent as she had fallen in love in the most stupid, most scandalous situation possible. Why finally learning what love was by finding a man she loved deeply had to be accompanied by the awful threat of career suicide for both of them.
She began to walk again, passing the old people on the benches and younger people rollerblading and dodging in and out of the flow of walkers. Things were so different now for young, ambitious women. Her self-confident young students had never seen a newspaper with all the good jobs listed as “Help Wanted—Male,” and a few menial jobs left over in “Help Wanted—Female.” These young women anticipated taking their places in business or politics or science or wherever without having to fight merely to get in the door. That was not the world she had confronted as a newly minted graduate. Especially in academia, that most hidebound of American institutions.
It was a cliché now, she supposed. She’d had to work twice as hard as the men who were her competition. She’d had to be more prepared, more erudite. She’d had to publish far more scholarly papers, sit on scores more committees, c
onvene dozens more seminars, devote endless hours to ensuring that she was always the perfect candidate for promotion. To become a success, she had had to be a complete and utter workaholic.
She hadn’t been the first woman on the faculty, but she was the first Chinese American woman. The first of a new breed, the first who insisted on being addressed as “Ms.” She had been actively recruited as a token of the university’s liberalism, a nod to burgeoning feminism and racial equality all in one neat package. It was a great triumph, and it was widely publicized. She was regularly shown off as proof that the university was responsive to the rights of women and minorities. Yet, mysteriously, she was not copied on important memos, and not sent notices of department meetings. Once, the department chairman even moved the time and date of a meeting after learning that Rona had gotten wind of it. The hostility had seemed endless in those days. She’d suffered from snide comments and open attacks, and she’d pretended that none of them would stop her. Despite knowing that she constantly walked a tightrope, and one wrong step would send her tumbling into an abyss.
She’d nearly toppled right off her thin rope, that fragile path to a foothold on the male bastion of her department’s hierarchy. One hint of her affair with Edward would have ruined her. Her enemies had always been waiting to pounce. It could hardly have been worse. Not only was he a well-known political figure, but also his mother-in-law was a major patron of the university and sat on the board.
How ironic that today, it simply did not matter anymore. Rona was the department chair now. Her position was secure. She was a well-respected and oft-quoted leader of her field, frequently asked to contribute some words to NPR or television news. Publishers approached her to write books; she didn’t even have to shop a proposal. She had achieved her life’s ambition. Yet, she could already see the end of it. She had at most another ten years before she would be pressured to step down. Proud as she was of all her achievements, the time was quickly coming when her career would wane.
Had it been worth it? Her success had come at a terrible cost. She’d had to give up what no woman should be asked to give up. Edward hadn’t even allowed her the option of choosing him over her career. He’d ended their affair himself, in the cruelest way possible.
Here she was, having run away from everything today, run as far as she could from anyone she ever spoke to, worked with, or taught. After twenty-five years apart, merely thinking about Edward could send her as far from the city as a subway could take her. Maybe she should have rented a car, driven out to the other end of Long Island, and hidden herself on the rocky shoreline or in the dunes. That gesture was more extravagant than she cared for. She merely wanted some peace, some surcease from the unending thoughts of him. Of course that was impossible. Edward was all she could think about, day and night.
What was she going to do about him now? That was the question. Edward kept calling. He wanted to see her again. What did she want? She could choose freely now. The only consequences would be personal. His powerful in-laws were long dead. His well-connected wife was finally dead. He had retired from the Senate and wasn’t seeking a new public office. He was free.
They could have a public affair now without any consequences. Maybe one of his children would be obnoxious occasionally, or someone in his social circle would be snide, but that wasn’t important. Did she want to plunge back into that maelstrom of emotion? It had ripped her apart once. It had nearly destroyed her. The ride had been magnificent. Maybe that’s why people rode the Cyclone, the famous Coney Island roller coaster whose details were getting sharper as she walked back toward the subway station. It was made of wood, a fragile building material. Even so, people young and old lined up for the thrill of being taken up to the heights and plunged down to the depths. Repeatedly.
What an obvious, cheap metaphor, unworthy of a university department chair. She must decide if she wanted to board the roller coaster again, this time knowing the ride could last until the end of her life. If only it could.
Chapter 11
Susan was not happy that Rona was missing in action again, not answering her cell phone. The note she’d pinned to Rona’s door after seeing Louis out earlier was still there. She had run down to check. She’d also sent Rona a couple of emails marked Urgent in case she was at her office or using an advanced handheld phone. For the second email, Susan had even turned on read notification. Nothing.
Rona had things on her mind. Didn’t they all? Rona was the one who had foisted Bev on her as a houseguest. She didn’t like it. She actively despised her houseguest and for good reason. Now that Louis had drawn her attention to possible drug use, she didn’t trust Bev to be safe alone. What to do?
She watched Bev carefully that evening, trying to hide her repugnance and wondering if the sacrifice of her evening plans was necessary. She certainly didn’t want to spend every night all alone with Bev. There was another ballet she wanted to see. Truth be told, in the mood she was in, she’d even voluntarily see Carmena Burana again. Anything to get away from Bev.
She was fairly sure Bev would sit in front of the television the rest of the evening. With Louis gone, Bev showed no animation. She just sat. Not talking to Bev was fine with Susan. Except she wanted Bev to go away.
She went out to the backyard walled garden and called Bev’s mother, Shirley Gross, whom she had met at Megan’s Bat Mitzvah two years ago. It was a complete waste of time. Mrs. Gross complained about being forced to babysit Bev’s girls. She claimed to know nothing about any mental or emotional issues Bev might be having after giving birth. She blamed her son-in-law for being a lousy husband.
After that, Susan stayed in all evening and resented Bev for making it necessary. She eventually persuaded Bev to go to bed by turning off all the lights and the television. Bev was so limp, she went to bed.
Rona finally called back late that night. She sounded tired and sad, clearly not in the mood to discuss Bev’s problems. Or Susan’s problems with Bev.
“Look, I’m too wiped tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll come by and talk to her,” Rona finally offered.
“You have to do more than that. She’s your guest, not mine. She’s not even my friend.”
“What are you talking about? You invited her to Nancy’s wedding.”
“It was a big mistake. A bigger mistake than you know,” she said, practically hissing to keep her voice down so Bev wouldn’t hear her.
“Okay, we’ll deal with this tomorrow, I promise.”
“Please do. Bev is not my responsibility.”
She said a curt good night and flopped down on her bed with her arms outstretched. Why had she expected this summer to be any easier than living back home would be? There were tensions with Rona, tensions at work, and tensions with her unwanted houseguest. When was she supposed to get the time to think about her future? For that matter, did she even want to? Or was she drifting through this summer as a temporary escape, and going home with nothing decided?
What about her date with Michael Sheppard? Rona still hadn’t taken her shopping and maybe never would. Susan wanted to look her best that night. For all the wrong reasons, probably. She moved restlessly on the bed. Her arms and legs felt so heavy, languorous. Her breasts rose and fell as if the mere thought of Michael caused her to take deep, deep breaths. That was crazy. She was a married woman, she reminded herself. Separation or no separation, she was not in the market for a lover.
Something about Michael called to her. Something more than the obvious good manners and good looks. He had looked at her as if he found her attractive.
What did she want? Admiration? Confirmation that all her efforts to gain a slim figure were worth it? She certainly did not want to have sex with him unless it was in the dark. Under her slim new clothes, she was a mass of saggy, wrinkly skin that only major surgery could take away. That’s what happened when a person got fat. The skin stretched, and it never un-stretched. Rick did not care one way or the other. He had seen her pregnant. He had seen her fat. He had seen her youn
g, and now, getting old. She had no intention of exposing her vulnerable flesh to someone new. It showed the telltale evidence of a life of self-medication with food. Michael had the look of a man who had never varied his weight. People like that simply did not understand the siren call of eating. Or the pleasure of feeling weighty and consequential when every other part of her life told her she was nothing and nobody.
Time to write in her food diary. Time to write about the negatives of being fat, the being out of breath, the being looked down on as stupid, the scorn from men and other women. She could only maintain her sobriety around food if she was scrupulous in using the tools that first led her to sanity. Weight loss was a nice outward symptom of food sobriety, but that’s all it was. Inside, she was still the same woman addicted to food. Like any Alcoholics Anonymous member, she had to work the program. If she didn’t, she might take that first bite that would lead her to balloon up all over again. She pulled open her dresser drawer and got out her food diary.
***
The next morning, Susan decided that since Bev always slept late, she was free to get out early. She took a blissfully air conditioned, virtually empty subway train up to 86th Street and then found a nice place for breakfast. She was at her museum of the week, the Guggenheim, when it opened. Three hours later, she knew she couldn’t put if off any longer. She had seen the museum from top to bottom, going down the ramp as it was done. The gift shop, too. Her mission was complete. She glumly headed back to her apartment when she would have much preferred to go shopping. She called Louis and Rona on the way. Neither one answered. It didn’t bode well.
She found Louis in her apartment bedroom, wearing a dust mask and overalls, sanding the patch. He had re-laid her drop cloths, so at least the dust wasn’t getting on everything in the room.
Summer in the City Page 12