by Lynne Hugo
CLASSES ENDED EARLY IN MAY. Largely to quell Mother’s distress over the notion of my being away another whole summer, I’d asked—and been granted permission—to do my summer field work in a nursing home only twenty minutes from home. I’d have to use Mother’s car, which meant she’d be stuck at home during whatever shift I got, but she was willing. “A small sacrifice,” she said, stroking my hand like the petal of one of her daylilies. I wasn’t sure which one of us she thought was making the small sacrifice.
By the middle of May, I was back on the foldout couch that had been my bed for longer than we’d ever stayed anywhere before. Mother had made room in her wardrobe for the uniforms the nursing home required me to wear, and my shorts and tops were folded next to my shoes behind the couch. Underwear went in a drawer in Mother’s dresser. Toilet articles, fortunately, had a home in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Anything I didn’t need on a day-to-day basis, as before, had to be in boxes in the part of the basement the Jensens had designated for our storage. Even though I was accustomed to living this way, and indeed, had for quite a while, the sheer lack of privacy had begun to get to me. Now I wonder why, especially after living with a college roommate, it should have bothered me. I, of all people, was accustomed to chicken coop living. Of course, at school, Sandy and I didn’t grill each other on the contents of mail, and the phone was at least out in the hall, where anyone on her way to the bathroom would catch a snatch of your conversation, but no one acted as though eavesdropping were a constitutional right.
I mention the mail and the phone because Evan did write to me. I came home to find a letter from him already opened, its page and a half of masculine ink scrawl laid on the kitchen table as obvious as a newspaper on the kitchen table.
“That came today,” Mother said, jerking her thumb disparagingly toward it. She was sitting at the other end of the table with a glass of iced tea. “Who is this Evan?” An accusation.
“Mark’s older brother.” A rare, stubborn weed sprouted in me. She’d get what she wanted, but I’d make her work for it.
“And Mark is?”
“I’ve mentioned Mark. You remember, Sandy’s fiancé.”
“So what’s his older brother doing writing to you?”
“I’ll have to read it to know that,” I said, picking up the letter, knowing full well she’d already knew every word of it.
“Don’t act smart.”
“I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what’s in it. I’ll tell you as soon as I’ve read it.”
“How do you know him?”
“I went out to eat with him and Mark and Sandy when he was in town.”
“You never mentioned that.”
“Didn’t I?” Of course I hadn’t. What would be the purpose of giving her something to worry about when there was nothing to it?
“No, you didn’t.
“What does the letter say?” As though she didn’t know.
“Just that he got one of the jobs he interviewed for and is moving to New York.”
“Anything else?”
The letter said that he’d gotten my address and phone number from Sandy, that he hadn’t thought to ask me for it when we’d last seen each other. He guessed he’d not realized how quickly the semester was ending and we’d be moved out of the dorm. “How about coming into the city for a weekend after I get there? I should arrive on or about June 20, because the job starts July l, but I’ll have to find an apartment and move in my orange crates first. Or, if you’re working some weird shift, unlike the normal population—me, for instance—then I’ll come out to see you after I’m settled, if that’s okay,” the letter asked. “I’m sort of hoping you can come here, though…I could use advice regarding curtains and the like. This is the first time I’ve had my own place. Roommates with taste have always taken care of decor because after consulting me, each of them was smart enough to ignore my input. I hope to hear from you. This address will be good until at least June 15. P. S. Every time I see a redhead, I think it’s you.” I didn’t mention any of that.
“It just says that he’d like to get together after he moves to New York,” I said, putting it down and heading to the cabinet for a glass so I’d have an excuse not to look at her.
“What for?”
“I guess just to get together.”
“Where will he be living?” She was taking the circuitous route, not mentioning the obvious, that she’d read my letter. A game, a pointless game. If I brought it up, she’d ask why I would mind if she opened it. What, exactly, did I have to hide?
“I don’t know.” This response, which she knew was honest, slowed her down for a minute.
“Were you two seeing each other or something?”
“Hardly. He was just in the city for a few days on job interviews.”
“Where is he from?”
“Mark’s family is from upstate New York.” I put ice cubes in a glass after discovering there were no clean ones in the cabinet and washing one that languished with other dirty dishes in the sink. I was grateful—more time with my back turned, more time to answer her questions without my face betraying me.
“So is that where he’s moving from?”
“No, he’s moving from Chicago.”
“What was he doing in Chicago?” She was starting to sound impatient.
“Getting his doctorate.”
“In what for heaven’s sake?”
“Business management.”
“Oh.” The syllable was laden with disdain.
“He’s a very nice person, Mother.” Although I tried not to be, even as I spoke, I knew I was defensive.
“I’m sure.”
I answered Evan’s letter the next day while I was on my break at the nursing home. Still feeling marginally defiant, I gave the receptionist the change for a stamp, and stuck my note in her outgoing mail basket. Not that there was anything so personal in what I wrote. It was just that I wanted a tiny corner of privacy. At the time I didn’t realize how my not having immediately uprooted that stubborn weed would get everything off to a bad start. I didn’t know that something had started, that was the problem. Mother smelled it, though. She smelled it when I made her beg and still didn’t really feed her information, and she confirmed her conclusion when I defended him. She made me pay for my five minutes of faux satisfaction, and, later, pay again and more.
IT MUST HAVE BEEN SHORTLY after he received my letter that Evan called from Chicago.
“That boy who wrote you called.”
I bristled, but ignored the implicit insult in “boy.” I hadn’t mentioned that he was nearly twenty-eight to Mother, but she knew he had a doctorate, so he could hardly be in his teens.
“Evan?”
“Yes. That was the name he gave.”
“When?”
“A couple of days ago. I just remembered.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“Not really. Just said to call him, but I told him you were working.”
Again, that strange new growth in me, the errant weed in Mother’s cultivated garden. I just said, “Oh. Thanks,” and made no further comment. That night, though, when she sent me to the store for her, I got three dollars in change, and called him from a pay phone at the gas station.
“Hello.” His voice was deep, cheerful as I remembered, the hello a statement, not a question.
“Evan?”
“Speaking.”
I was suddenly shy. “It’s Ruth, you know, Sandy’s roomma….”
“Ruth! I’m so glad you called!”
“I’m sorry. My mother forgot to tell me that you’d called until today.”
“I’m just glad to hear from you. Thanks for your letter.”
“Well, thanks for yours. How are you?”
“Drowning in a cardboard sea. You should get a load of this place.”
“Packing?”
“Well, only if you count every book I’ve owned since junior high school.”
“How was your graduation?”
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br /> “It was good. You know, Dad shook my hand vigorously and Mom cried. And cried. And cried. And…”
“Well, she’s proud. With reason, I might add.”
“You know, it was a little strange. I don’t want to put you off or anything, I mean, I’m not pushing myself on you, I hope, but I wished you were there.”
“Thank you,” I said after hesitating an awkward fraction. “I would have liked to see you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, will you come into the city after I get there?”
“Evan, it might be hard. I don’t usually get two days off in a row.” Actually I’d only been working a week and had little idea of what flexibility I could call on. My supervisor had said to let her know if there were days I particularly needed off.
“Could you ask? I mean, if you want to.”
“I haven’t been there very long. I hate to start right off asking favors. Let me see how it goes, okay?”
“Okay. I could come up there, if that’s better.”
“No.” I was hasty with that reply. “It’s probably best if I come down. I’ll try. I’d like to. I’d really like to.” As the words came out, I realized I meant them.
“MOTHER, I WAS THINKING I’D go into the city next Wednesday. I’m off, you’ve got a full day of students and I could meet with my advisor and preregister for the fall. I got cut from two classes last year because they were full.”
“You’re going to see that boy, aren’t you? What’s going on, here, Ruth?”
“Nothing’s going on, Mother, honestly. I’ll probably see him, yes, but I do need to meet with Dr. Santivica. I should have done it before finals, but I just didn’t. He’s around, I know, because he’s teaching a practicum seminar—the one I’ll have to take next summer.”
“Why didn’t you just say, I want to go see my boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. I hardly know him. I’m the only person he knows except Mark and Sandy, that’s all.”
Three weeks had passed since Evan and I had talked. One more letter had arrived from him, but Mother didn’t know that because I happened to get the mail that day. It had been a much longer letter, more personal, even a little rambling. He’d written that he normally felt like he could tackle anything and handle it, but that he was nervous about his job. “I’m finding myself pacing a lot, trying to figure out how to solve problems at work and I don’t even know what the problems are, yet. It’s not like me. It’s strange, too, to think about moving and not knowing anyone (except you and Sandy and Mark, of course, and I feel especially blessed to have met you).” Blessed. That was the word he used.
I should, perhaps, have taken it as a sign that in spite of Mother’s grumblings, I went on Wednesday. Not only did I go, but I took the 6:25 train to New Haven so that I’d get into the city before ten. Evan was standing on the platform craning his neck to find me in the crowd. I’d have noticed him even if I didn’t know him, tall, nice-looking, crisp in a pressed, light-blue shirt he’d left open at the neck.
“I thought it would be nice to meet you,” he said, a little sheepishly. I’d been supposed to head over to his apartment to measure for curtains. “Um…to show you where the apartment is.” He grinned. There was nothing in the least complicated about his address.
“That’s so nice,” I said quickly, not wanting him to feel foolish. I wasn’t accustomed to treatment like this. Of course it affected me. How could it not? How could it not affect me that he put his arm around me when we crossed Forty-second Street, and a cabby blared his horn as he jammed on his brakes at the last moment?
We walked to Evan’s apartment in Murray Hill, the din of midmorning traffic limiting our conversation. The last days of June had been rainy, and that morning the air was sparkling, rinsed, still cool from the recent downpours. Light danced around us.
“Here we are. What do you think?” He was searching my face for a reaction.
“Evan, it’s wonderful.” And it was, a beautiful old brownstone on Thirty-second Street near Third Avenue, with window boxes of red geraniums and trailing vinca vine, a tree arching over the entryway.
“Wait till you see the inside. Not that I know how, but someone could do wonders with it.” He grabbed my hand and took the stairs two at a time, while I tried to hit them double-time to keep up with him. “Sorry,” he said when I stubbed my toe and stumbled forward. “I guess I’m getting a little ahead of myself. You okay?”
“I’m fine, really. Show me.”
Evan unlocked the door and stepped back. “Me casa es su casa,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “I think that means welcome to my castle. And I do mean welcome.”
The main room was beautiful, with hardwood floors and splendid light from a bay window overshadowing piled-up boxes, drop cloths, and soaking brushes. Evan had painted the walls a warm cream color. A flourishing philodendron spilled green from the windowsill toward the floor. “It’s got a lot of potential, don’t you think? I’ve got to put the rug down and get rid of these boxes so I can see what I need in the way of furniture beside the couch. Come see the kitchen and bedroom,” he said, hardly giving me time to take in the first room. “The kitchen is a little…rustic, shall we say, but since I have to read a cookbook to heat a TV dinner successfully, what the heck.”
The kitchen was tiny, windowless, obviously added when the original house had been divided into apartments. A garbage can was half-full with carry-out cartons, cardboard coffee cups and sandwich wrappers. Mismatched dishes were stacked on the small tan counter area. “Mom’s discards,” he said, gesturing at them. “What can I say? The price was right.”
“Hey. They’re better than what we use at home,” I said laughing. “Let’s not get insulting here.”
“I want to hear about your family. Does your mother have red hair?” he said.
“No. Brown.”
“You must look like your dad, then.”
I smiled and gave the slightest suggestion of a nod, which could have been interpreted as either assent or a shrug. I’d been asked the same question a thousand times and was practiced at ducking it, though I hated every reminder of the missing and the unspeakable, the mysteries of my coloring, my bird bones and scant flesh. It was easier for Roger, having at least some resemblance to Mother, with his brown wavy hair and heavy build. Only the squareness of his body and his thick, dark brows insisted they’d come from emphatic genes other than hers, although even he didn’t have her jutting jaw.
“So…there’s you and your mother and brother, right?”
“Not much to tell. My brother’s at the University of Colorado. So let’s see the bedroom. This place is incredible.”
Evan led me farther down a hallway. His back looked broad, accentuated by the narrow corridor. “Actually I’ve got two more rooms.” In the first, a single bed was set up on a frame, made up with sheets and a blue, patterned afghan.
“Did someone knit that?” I asked, pointing.
“My mother. We’ve all lost count of how many she’s made. As soon as she meets you, she’ll probably start on yours.” He laughed and then added, “I’m serious! You know, it’s a mother thing, a mutant gene or something. They’re all the same, I guess.”
“I can’t believe how much work must have gone into that,” I said, moved. “I just can’t imagine.”
Evan’s study was more finished than the other rooms. He’d unpacked boxes of books into modular bookcases, and moved a reading chair and light to the side of a wooden desk above which he’d hung his diplomas. A deep brown area rug extended nearly to the walls. A few framed photographs rested on the top of one of the bookcases, and, on what would have been the outside wall had the apartment not been in a row house, was a seascape print. I crossed the room and picked up one of the pictures.
“This is your family?” I said, stating the obvious.
“That’s us. Mark, me, Jon, Doug, Mom, Dad.” He pointed as he spoke.
“A good-looking group,”
I said.
“With the notable exception of Jon and Mark and Doug,” he said. “Otherwise, definitely.”
“They look so nice.”
“Jon and Mark and Doug? Nah.”
“Quit it. Your parents. They look so nice.”
“They are,” he said, serious for a moment. “Great people. They’ve done a lot for me.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Sure. What do you want to know? And first, how about a cup of coffee and a doughnut double-rolled in powdered sugar?”
“You remembered!”
“Of course I remembered. All you have to do is make the coffee. Unless you don’t care whether or not it’s drinkable, in which case, I’ll be happy to make it.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, pulling the electric percolator toward me. “Any eight-year-old can.”
“Watch it, there,” he interrupted. “I know ten-or eleven-year-olds who don’t do it as well as I do.”
“Incompetence will not work as an excuse,” I said while I went ahead and made the coffee.
Evan pulled a plastic drop cloth off a small sofa in the living room and overturned an empty box to make a little table for our coffee cups and the bakery bag. “Good coffee,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Thank you for the doughnuts. I love this place. It’s wonderful.” I looked around, absorbing the comfortable feel of the room, the arc of light on the creamy wall and darker floor, the green of the plant. “That philodendron looks nice,” I said. “This is a great room for plants. You should get some more.”
“Mom again,” he said. “She’s the plant lady. She stuck that in the car when I picked up all the stuff I raided from our basement.”
“My mother loves plants, too,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t, but Evan didn’t ask anything.
“You were going to tell me about your family,” I said.
“Okay. Well. Where to start? Good German stock on both sides. Dad’s Jewish, Mom’s not. I guess their parents were less than thrilled, but what can anyone say anymore? They’ve been married for thirty-seven years. When they get into arguments, of course, it’s like a reenactment of the Second World War.” He trailed off laughing as he shook his head.