We always ate lunch at 21; it was Daddy’s “club.” He knew the waiters and most of the clientele—Hollywood agents, politicians, old soldiers’ wives like Mrs. Douglas MacArthur, who would sit next to us in the A section of the restaurant. The tables nearby always overflowed with Washington lobbyists, real estate brokers from Tel Aviv, gossip columnists like Earl Wilson and Leonard Lyons, and sometimes Ed Sullivan and Bill Paley. Once Earl Warren, who had been in high school with my father, came over to chat. Everyone would greet Daddy with affection.
My father would get a sad expression on his face whenever someone from California dropped by our table. He missed San Francisco terribly, he told me; he never should have left, but he could never go back “now that I am under a cloud,” he said. “I was too old to move to New York and take over a newspaper that had no advertising, a left-wing paper at the height of the Red Scare. What was I thinking?”
He’d order corned beef hash but often not touch it. All he’d do was drink. There was a terrible deliberateness about the way he doused himself with whiskey in 1953. He said he felt sick that Adlai Stevenson had lost the election and he was disgusted by Eisenhower’s refusal to take on Joe McCarthy: “He says he doesn’t want to get down in the dirt with him—why not? He is president, he is the most powerful man in the world. McCarthy is scum . . .”
My father would drink and drink and then he’d let me take a sip from his glass. I’d keep the glass for a while to keep him from getting too drunk. Was he being absentminded or did this mean he accepted me as a grown-up? This seemed to be my cue to describe what was happening in my life (leaving out the mental and physical abuse I was still occasionally receiving from my husband).
I’d tell him we’d moved to a funny attic apartment in Fleetwood. I did not say we’d been kicked out of Alger Court by the Bean family after Lucky had chewed up Faith’s plants and nipped her on the arm. Actually, Wally had put our belongings on the street. I came home from college and saw my suitcases and books in a pile on the lawn and Jason lounging in the Jag with an embarrassed smirk on his face.
I’d tell Daddy that Jason was applying for an art scholarship, that he’d begun several paintings. I did not say we had gotten into violent shouting matches because he was still threatening to quit his job. He was now sorting mail in the Bronxville post office.
By the end of the meal I would be describing the TV commercials I’d gotten, the auditions I’d been going on, and Daddy’s face would light up. “Jesus, my darling, you are making headway.” His voice was growing slurred. I would ask him to stop drinking for a minute. He would shake his head impatiently. “Am cold sober,” he’d maintain.
Then after several cups of black coffee and numerous cigarettes, he no longer seemed drunk. “So how are you, baby?” he’d ask. “You can tell your old man.”
“I’m okay,” I’d lie.
“Well, you don’t look okay. You look like hell. Skin and bone and your clothes are a mess. Wrinkled. There’s a spot on your blouse. I know I sound like Mama, but you should at least be well groomed. What exactly is going on?”
“Well . . . Jason is . . . difficult.”
“How so?”
“Temperamental . . . moody.”
“Does he abuse you?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want him to know.
He didn’t press it, but his silence put me on the defensive.
“I’m trying to work something out.”
“Work out what?” My father’s voice rose impatiently. “What’s there to work out?” He took a deep breath. “Oh, I know, he’s an artist and he is trying to find himself.” His tone grew mocking. “But so far nothing is happening for him, right? So he is probably taking it out on you. Am I correct?”
I nodded.
“I’m not asking you to leave him, but I just hope he realizes what he’s got in you.”
I made a grimace.
“Don’t underestimate yourself. And don’t feel guilty if you decide to get out of the situation. You are not trapped. You are independent financially, don’t you realize that? You could just walk out.”
“I know, I know.”
“No, you don’t know yet. But something will trigger it. Or something will trigger you into an even stronger commitment. But you must remember it is not the worst thing in the world to admit you’ve made a mistake.”
I WOULD COME back from a lunch with my father exhausted, hungover, depressed. Jason would often be in an ugly mood after sorting mail for eight hours. He was going to quit, he’d threaten—he couldn’t keep up with this boring routine. I’d say I’d leave him if he did. We’d glower at each other. He didn’t hit me any longer, but I was always on guard and my body remained very tense even when we made love.
We saw very few people. Every so often Marcia and Gene dropped by for supper. I’d cook pasta on a hot plate in our bathroom, which served as a makeshift kitchen when a board was placed over the tub.
DURING THOSE BALMY spring weeks of 1953 we kept the windows open in the apartment. We were directly over a parking lot, so there was the frequent sound of car doors slamming and tires churning in the thick soft gravel far below.
I was staying up late at night reading for my Great Books course, which I was taking with the Scottish poet Alastair Reid. Novels had acquired a new value for me. I’d often stay awake till dawn, my brain ringing with fatigue as I escaped into the works of Tolstoy and Gustave Flaubert.
Sometimes Jason would call me to come out and look at his paintings. He would be standing in front of his easel, frowning. A gooseneck lamp glared down at the canvas. Blobs of color, dribbles of green and gold, a mishmash of symbols, a cross and the Star of David—I didn’t know what to make of his work, so I would say nothing except “It’s coming along, hon.” And he’d grin tiredly. Above us, Lucky swooped and flapped.
BY EARLY JUNE, Lucky had grown fat. Uncaged, he flew around and around the apartment. Occasionally he’d shit on our bed or the couch or peck at my arm. I hated that bird. I told Jason repeatedly he must be kept in his cage, but Jason said no. “Lucky likes to be free.”
One afternoon I came home early from classes. As usual the place was a mess. I set about cleaning everything, stuffing dirty laundry into a pillowcase and sweeping beer cans and Coke bottles and candy wrappers into a heap. It was hot (we had no air conditioning), so I opened the window to let in some air. I did not see Lucky fly away. In fact I didn’t notice he was gone until Jason came home laden with groceries from the A&P. I was already busy doing some homework in the living room.
“Hi, hon,” Jason called out in his creamy mellifluous voice. “Bought us some steaks on sale.” I could hear him moving around the kitchen/bathroom, which was outside in the hall, and then he came into the living room. “Where’s Lucky?”
“Don’t know, hon.”
Jason ran into the small bedroom at the back of the apartment. “Lucky boy?” He started to cheep. Lucky didn’t cheep back. After a few minutes Jason let loose a groan, “Lucky is gone!” He ran back into the living room and faced me. He seemed very agitated.
“Have you looked in the bathroom?”
“No!” He vaulted out of the apartment and into the kitchen/bathroom in the hall. He returned within seconds. “Not there either,” he said. Then he noticed the wide-open window. “Oh my God,” he cried. “He must have flown away!” With that he stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Lucky! Lucky! Lucky!”
I joined him at the window. The sky was leaden—gray, empty. We waited a couple of minutes. Below us the lot glittered with parked cars.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, touching my husband’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? I loved that bird.” His voice was hoarse. “I loved Lucky.”
“I’ll buy you another,” I offered lamely.
“You’ll what?” Jason whirled around and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me hard. “You did this on purpose—you opened the fucking window and shooed the poor little fellow out!”
> His hands gripped my shoulders painfully.
“Stop—you’re hurting me!”
“You did it on purpose,” he repeated angrily. His face was growing very red.
I struggled to break free. “No I didn’t, Jason, honestly . . .”
“Oh yes you did, yes, you did.” And with that my husband put his hands on my throat and began choking me.
Jason’s fingers were very strong pressing against my windpipe. I struggled, I pounded my fists against his chest. I felt as if I were in a bad movie. I twisted and turned in his grasp, and after a moment I managed to kick him hard in the shins and break free. I stumbled into the hall and began calling for help.
I could hear myself calling “Help!” in a soft weak voice. I was so terrified I could hardly get the words out. Since we were on the top floor of the building, in an attic apartment that cost $50 a month, there were no other apartments on our floor.
Jason came after me and grabbed at me, and this time I kicked him even harder and managed to dart over to the fire stairs. I raced down the twelve flights and through the park surrounding our apartment complex. I couldn’t tell whether he was coming after me or not. I didn’t dare look back.
It was humid out. The drenching heat made me break out in a terrible sweat. I ran past the supermarket and the Laundromat and into a drugstore. A blast of freezing air-conditioning hit my face. I slipped into a phone booth and thanked God I had some change in my jeans.
I dialed the family brownstone. Miraculously my brother picked up the phone. “Please, please come and get me,” I sobbed. “Jason is trying to kill me.”
“Where are you?” Bart’s voice was very calm.
I told him where I was. He ordered me to stay put—“Hide in the phone booth if necessary.” He would pick me up in the car as soon as he could get Mama to give him the keys.
And that’s how it happened. That’s how my marriage ended—with Bart picking me up outside the drugstore in Fleetwood forty-five minutes after I’d phoned him. I threw myself into the front seat and we were off. We said nothing to each other until we were speeding along the Cross County Parkway. I remember my brother sat very straight behind the wheel. He drove with great confidence and élan. He had just gotten his license.
I started to tell him about Lucky’s flying out the window and Jason’s choking me. Bart shook his head and gave a brief chuckle. “I don’t want to hear about it. You were almost murdered before you woke up. Your husband is such a jerk. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”
We drove home the rest of the way in silence.
MY PARENTS HAD stationed themselves at the front door. As soon as she saw me, Mama wrapped me in her arms. “The electric chair is too good for him. He should be imprisoned for life!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, no,” I cried. “I wouldn’t want him arrested.”
“For God’s sake, Patti, are you blind?” Mama interjected angrily. “He tried to kill you.”
“No, no, he hadn’t meant to hurt me,” I insisted, although in truth Jason had been victimizing me for months. He did abuse me, but since it didn’t happen too often, I kept excusing it and him, telling myself it couldn’t be that serious.
Late that night Jason came to the brownstone, pounding on the door. Bart and Daddy had to hold my arms to keep me from letting him in. Jason called out, “Patti, Patteeeee! Come back!” I was sobbing hysterically.
But I didn’t want to go back to him. And yet somehow I wanted things to end “nicely” between us, which wasn’t possible.
The following morning, my parents sat me down in the dining room, and over coffee, Daddy advised me not to press charges. He was deadly calm. “You must never see or speak to this man again. Leave him the car, the furniture. Don’t go back for your clothes. I will arrange for your divorce in Reno, baby. It will be taken care of.”
THAT AFTERNOON I had an emergency session with Dr. Rado. The scary ending of my marriage had made me aware that I had a lot to learn about myself before I ever entered into another relationship. Again I found myself excusing Jason’s appalling behavior.
Dr. Rado retorted dryly, “The will to deny the event is stronger than the will to proclaim it.”
We talked back and forth some more. There were moments when I heard myself sounding coldly realistic, but mostly I waxed sentimental. Near the end of the session I blurted out, “I think I still love him in spite of everything.”
Rado shook his head. “Your adult self sees the logic in ending this marriage, but your romantic side doesn’t. You want it both ways. Can’t be done.”
When he said that, I started to cry. “Will I ever grow up?” I wailed.
Rado smiled and lit another cigarette. “Let’s hope.”
YEARS LATER I would wonder why I’d allowed myself to become such a victim. It was a question I’d never addressed during the marriage itself; I was too ashamed to tell anyone how severely Jason was abusing me physically and psychologically. I kept myself frantically busy so I wouldn’t have to think (one woman friend joked with me about 1950s love relationships, “It was all about feeling and not about thinking!”) and Jason’s behavior was insidious—he would slap me but then make love to me later, leading me to think he would stop. I now know that this is a classic pattern of abuse, but at the time I wasn’t aware of it.
I would relive the traumatic memory of the near strangling for years; I kept seeing Jason’s Adam’s apple moving up and down like some bulbous growth as he encircled my throat with his hands. I had nightmares of Lucky swooping down at me, bigger and fatter, his claws digging into me and pecking me violently.
What bothers me to this day is that at the start of our “romance” I’d failed to detect that there was anything the matter with Jason (although early on his hair-trigger temper had unnerved me). I didn’t bother to ask him tough questions about his family or explore the warnings from students who knew him and said he could be a bully, that he was self-centered and a con artist. And then there was the voice of my brother, whom I’d always listened to in the past. Why didn’t I hear him?
When I finally described the abuse in my marriage to Rado, he theorized the following: that the violence had excited me to some extent, that the fights were something I’d never witnessed growing up, that it was a relief to hear arguments and problems brought out into the open even if they were accompanied by bloody fists. Rado may have been correct, but he didn’t know that my assumptions about a world of safety, security, and peace of mind had been shattered early on, long before I entered the grubby confines of Alger Court.
Part Two
Focusing
Chapter Nine
DADDY HAD BOOKED me in a place in Reno called Shangri-la—The Divorcees’ Retreat. Mama objected, “It sounds seedy,” but Daddy insisted several of his clients had been happy there. Even so, I had a funny feeling as soon as I arrived in Reno and told the taxi driver where I wanted to go. He looked at me as if I was crazy. “Shangri-la? Jesus, girlie, you aren’t the type to go there.”
I refused to answer, so he gunned the motor and we were off. After we left the city limits we began bumping along a blackened highway that cut through the desert. All I could see were sunblasted hills and sand. We passed an abandoned mine and a burnt-out shell of an automobile rusting on a sandy hill. Once a speeding truck hurtled past us. We drove for what seemed like hours until we came to a dip in a desert valley at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Just ahead I could see a series of bungalows that looked as if they were made out of driftwood; they were half surrounding a murky swimming pool, and nearby was a jam-packed parking lot.
The minute I left the cab, the heat overwhelmed me. It was deliriously hot (the cabdriver had said the temperature was over 115°). I had to walk past a surly dog growling at me and pulling on a leash. I felt almost giddy from the heat as I registered in the office while a bored receptionist with peroxided hair stared at me in silence and then handed me my key.
My room was so small and crammed with furnit
ure I could barely turn around in it. The shades were drawn and lights blazed in two standing lamps. Overhead a fan whirred, but the air was stifling and smelled of mothballs. I took a cold bath, which made me feel better, and then I wandered out to the dining room, where I joined two middle-aged women with deep tans and expensive jewelry and a man who resembled an aging Clark Gable complete with a pencil mustache and cigarette holder. No introductions. There was a discussion about snakebites, and someone had seen a coyote near the swimming pool. Did I have a car? “You better have a car or you’ll be stuck in this godforsaken place for six weeks and then what’re ya gonna do?” The final question to me was “How old are you?” I admitted to being twenty. “Jailbait.” Clark Gable chuckled. “You look like a goddamn virgin.” They wandered off.
Supper was on the table. I tried to eat the tuna casserole and the fruit salad, but I skipped dessert and fled to my room. I just could not stay at Shangri-la. I waited until most of the guests had departed for Reno and gambling, then called my father from the pay phone in the hall. Sobbing that I couldn’t stand Shangri-la, I described the place, the people.
Daddy understood. “I’d been misinformed, baby. I thought it would be nice . . . I will arrange for something else right away. Give me twenty-four hours.”
I WAS AWARE that I was slipping right back into being “Daddy’s girl.” I’d programmed myself to depend on him from the time that I was little, fervently believing, often wrongly, that he would be able to solve all my problems. (Forgetting that while I was married, I’d been forced to solve a great many problems on my own, I didn’t give myself credit for my growing independence.) As time went on, Daddy helped me less and less. But I would continue to turn to him when I was in trouble until he died.
The Men in My Life Page 11