by Lynne Hugo
“It’s probably too late,” I answered, my worst fear.
Three days later, Sunday night, I went back to school. In those three days, no mention was made by either of us of the unspeakable pain of walking, of putting on and taking off clothes. Filthy thoughts were not thought, and I went back to school carrying the marks of the chain Mother had created, the chain that bound me to my grandmother, and now to her, the same chain that had bound her to Grandmother even from three thousand miles away. For all I knew, it was the whole tie of generation to generation in our family, at least the women. The men seemed capable of escape, but not us. We were bound forever, not by blood, not even by sorrow. Guilt. Guilt pinned us like butterflies on the black velvet that passed for love.
19
“WHAT IS IT, RUTHIE, what’s going on?” Evan pressed in his second call of the evening. Now that I was back in New York, he took advantage of being able to call whenever he wanted. I faced the institutional tan wall of the dorm hallway, slightly hunched, trying to keep my conversation private. I was barefoot, but wore slacks while everyone else was in shorts, yellow plums of bruises still on my legs.
“Nothing. I told you, nothing’s wrong, except maybe I’m a little nervous about meeting your parents. I just want to have all this school stuff done so I can concentrate on being with you and getting to know them.” I tried to relax, keep it convincingly casual.
I’d been ducking Evan since Sunday night. When he called, I’d tell him that Sandy and I were setting up our room, that I had to get my books, I had to check on my financial aid, whatever I could think of to put him off a few more days. I could lie to Sandy, tell her I’d gotten the mark on my face and neck when I was doing yardwork for Mother, that a tree branch had snapped back onto me. I could even lie to Evan to the extent that I could manufacture pressing tasks to keep us apart a few extra days, but I didn’t want to look him in the face and lie about the bruise on mine, and I didn’t want to risk his seeing the marks on my body. And the control I’d regained over my heartbeat, jumpy stomach, tremulous voice didn’t feel solid to me yet. But I look back and realize how much I’d already changed, that I never considered not seeing Evan. Perhaps I thought Mother really only took issue with sex, and certainly I could ensure that she never saw Evan and I so much as touch each other again until we’d been married for twenty-five years. Or perhaps, it was that ancient human bugaboo: convincing oneself that something is possible because one desperately wants it to be.
I FELT GUILTY ABOUT LIKING Evan’s parents so much. His mother was welcoming, kind to me, and good-naturedly teasing Evan right off. His father, on the short side and balding, was more reserved, but bided his time and got a few licks in. Mrs. Mairson had set a beautiful, formal table with gold-edged china, sterling silver and Waterford crystal. I knew it was Waterford because she took a lot of ribbing about it, how she cared more for it than all of her sons put together.
“Damn right. And don’t you forget it,” she tossed back. “The Waterford is better looking and knows when to keep quiet. And it’s…brighter than you all, too,” she said sliding a candle to one side of the wineglass to heighten the effect. “Don’t you let him get away with anything, honey,” she said to me. “Keep him in his place.” Evan wadded up his blue cloth napkin and threw it at her.
“What, no matzo balls tonight, Mom?” he prodded. “I’ve described their culinary splendor to Ruth. Actually, I’d wanted her to take a few back into New York, so she’d have bullets handy in case someone tried to mug her.”
“Perhaps it would be better not to use them in that manner, anyway, Evan. I believe your Ruth is a sensitive sort, who would be troubled by killing someone, even in self-defense,” his father said dryly. The remark seared through me.
We were circumspect at night, remaining in the family room with his parents during the evenings and sticking to separate rooms once we’d said goodnight, but during the days, our time was quite our own. We went for walks in nearby woods, holding hands, sitting once on a fallen log to talk and hold each other. “This is the kind of family I want to have,” I said to him. “No one afraid, no one unhappy.”
“Ah, someone’s always unhappy about something around here. The Jewish half, I guess. That’s okay, though. It passes. But you’re right, no one is afraid. Have you been…afraid with your mother or brother?”
“Afraid for my mother, yes.”
“I thought maybe you meant afraid of her.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That would make me crazy, you know? I can’t stand the thought of you being frightened.” He was looking directly at me. He knows I’m lying, I thought.
“I’ve never felt safer than with you.” And that much was the absolute truth. Even with Roger, there had always been a little leftover fear, as though the little finger of danger still cast a shadow just behind him or to one side where he couldn’t see it, but I could.
Sunday night, his dad barbecued chicken on a charcoal grill. We were on their patio, edged by lush late summer impatiens that ran up and down the major scale between red and white, hitting every tone and half tone. Enormous trees held hands over our heads while lit torches held back the early night. “Oh boy, are you in for a treat,” Evan said. “Dad’s original formula for the creation of fossils.” That’s how light the mood was, so at first, I didn’t even catch on to what Evan was saying. Right after harassing Mr. Mairson about needing a hook and ladder company to extinguish the fire he was burning the chicken in, he said, casually, “I think you two ought to know that Ruth and I are making future plans. Nothing specific at the moment, but, well, now that you’ve met her, I just wanted to…well, I guess I just…well, now you know…” he trailed off in an uncharacteristic blush.
Mrs. Mairson’s face lit and I recognized Evan’s grin there. She shot her husband the told-you-so look of the long and well married, got up and came over to hug me, then Evan, then me again. “Nothing could make me happier, son. Nothing,” she said to him over my shoulder. Mr. Mairson began to shake Evan’s hand, then the hand that was on Evan’s shoulder drew him into a bear hug. When Mr. Mairson turned to hug me, there were tears in his eyes.
“Mazel tov. Mazel tov. You make each other happy, you make us happy.”
“Whoa, Dad. Don’t use up all your mazels and tovs until I get a ring on her finger. We—well, I—just wanted you to know the direction things are going. Poor Ruthie didn’t even know I was going to mention it.” He turned to me. “I hope you didn’t mind? It just sort of came out. These two are usually in on anything big I’ve got going.”
My turn to blush. “I don’t mind.” And I didn’t.
“Wait!” Mrs. Mairson exclaimed. “I think I’ve got…but it’s not cold…” She hurried inside, a whoosh of long blue hostess dress behind her. In a moment, she came back, beaming, carrying a bottle of champagne. “I’m not trying to rush you two…” she said when Evan said she should save it for an official occasion. “We might not be with you, then, and…besides, this is to celebrate that you two have found each other.”
Evan reached for the bottle. The cork popped like a shot.
That night, Evan’s parents went to bed early, leaving us alone in the living room. I was admiring the room’s unpretentious comfort and warmth. House plants, even one big enough to be considered a little tree, were set amid the soft colors, and family mementos along with books, magazines and pictures said, “This is a living room for living.” I understood how he’d been able to do his apartment so beautifully, the same way Sandy had learned how to make our room best in the dorm. It had to do with what they’d absorbed by living with someone who had money, taste and wanted her home to be inviting and well-used. Evan and Sandy both lived in wealthy areas, at least compared to Malone and the other little towns we’d lived in; in Evan’s hometown, there were newer, sprawling ranch houses on wooded acre-lots, but on the way through the village, we’d also passed elegant two-story houses impeccably maintained on manicured grounds with cushioned, white wick
er porch furniture and croquet set up on the lawn.
I was musing about how much Evan seemed a combination of his parents, his height, fair coloring, features and expansiveness from his mother, his need for glasses, big hands, seriousness and intellectualism from his father, when he said, “I really was out of line saying anything without checking with you. I’m usually not like that. It felt really natural, having you here, and you fit so well with them. I can tell they like you.”
“Really?”
“Oy vey, what’s not to like? What’s not to love?” he was mimicking his dad, then he turned serious. “I do love you, you know.”
“I love you, too.”
“For the rest of your life?”
“All of it.” I was carried on a river of love for Evan and suddenly I was over the waterfall, letting go of what I should have worried about.
“I didn’t plan this for tonight, but it feels right.” Evan took both my hands, one enveloped in each of his. “Ruthie, will you marry me?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”
“So now it is official, right? This is it. We’re engaged? You’re sure, you’re not too young, you really know this is what you want. I mean, I’m what you want…who you want? To marry.”
“What and who. To marry. I know what I want, and it’s you.” Evan and I held each other’s eyes for a moment, then each broke into a smile. He pulled on my hands to bring me closer, then put my arms around his own waist, and his around mine. “Come here,” he said. “Come as close as you can. And stay.”
We kissed, Evan caressing my head and wrapping his fingers with my hair. “I love you so much,” I whispered. “It would scare me to love you so much, except that you make me feel so safe.”
“You are safe with me.” We were quiet for a minute. I was thinking about Mother, how to approach her when Evan said, “I bet Mom and Dad were giving up on me ever getting married. I am a bit…old…you know. And I do know that you’re not, that we have to take your school into consideration. But I make enough to support us. We can get married before you graduate, if you’re willing, and you can commute.”
“Evan, it’s going to take me some time to deal with Mother. I have to think of her.” Now, when everything I wanted was right in front of me—a man my mother actually liked, one I adored, one who tolerated her demands on me—was I going to risk it by insisting he see how sick she was? I still thought I had some control, that I could make it all work.
“I know, sweetheart. It’s okay, I’ll help you.” It was the first time he’d used an endearment, and it was like he’d pushed a hidden button marked Core Meltdown. I hadn’t known how hungry I was for that kind of verbal tenderness, but there I was, crying. I so wanted to believe I wasn’t in this life alone, that someone can be fully with you. I wanted Evan to save me, with his strong hands, strong mind, strong love, and in return I would give myself over to him. It was still a while before I learned, the hard way as usual, that the best we can hope for is a companionship in our separate alonenesses.
I’D INTENDED TO LEAVE Friday after my last class, but Evan had virtually insisted on my staying at his apartment that night and going home Saturday morning. I hadn’t yet told Mother about our engagement; I was certain it was best for me to do it alone and in person. Of course, I didn’t tell Evan how unpredictable her reaction might be, or that I was unwilling to risk his seeing her at her worst. He thought it was rude, that he should be with me. “Really, you know, I should ask her, to be old-fashioned correct,” he’d said. “At least for her blessing. But it seems silly, you know? We’re adults, it’s your decision after all.”
I hadn’t commented. My decision? As if I were unchained, free, unencumbered. As if the craziness, the pain, the sheer destructive force she’d unleashed first in herself, then in me right before I came back to school hadn’t just double-locked the chain that bound me to her, made me complicit yet again. Blue capsules emptied into a sick woman’s water weren’t enough; no, she’d had to show me that in my depths I was no different than she, I was my mother’s daughter after all. If I couldn’t win her agreement, could I risk what she might reveal?
Evan finally accepted my going alone, but not on Friday. “Nope. No can do. Can’t go home to tell your mother without being with me first.” Even over the phone, I could tell he’d made up his mind but I twirled a lock of hair, inspecting it for split ends, while I tried once more.
“Why, honey? I think it would be better if I spend as much time with her as I can…in case she thinks I’m still too young, or whatever.” I was using the married-sounding endearments myself now.
“I have my reasons. You can catch the earliest train you want Saturday morning, but Friday night is mine. And one more thing…do you think you could wear that black dress of Sandy’s?”
“The one I wore when we met?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll ask her. What time do you want me to get there?”
“Nope again. I’m picking you up. Six o’clock sharp.”
I laughed in resignation. “You drive a hard bargain, sir. I hope you’ll be easier to manage when we’re married.”
“No chance of that.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to love you anyway.”
“I’ll try to endure. Good night, sweetheart.” We hung up then, suppressed laughter bubbling through our voices.
AT SIX O’CLOCK, THE GIRL sitting bells in the lobby buzzed up to me. Evan was downstairs in a suit and tie, the same, I thought, he’d worn the night we met. He hailed a cab, a Friday night miracle, and directed the driver to the Russian Tea Room. When we arrived, he simply said, “I’m Evan Mairson” to the maître d’ who smiled broadly, shook Evan’s hand, and showed us to a table already set with a bottle of champagne on ice. The maître d’ pulled out a chair for me.
“This seat for the beautiful lady,” he said. Laid across my plate was a single red rose, resting on a fern and several sprigs of baby’s breath in a cone of florist paper. A waiter hustled over with a narrow vase, which the maître d’ set in the center of the table.
“Perhaps you would like to keep your flower fresh while you are here?” he smiled. “And may I add my best wishes.”
“Oh, Evan. I can’t believe this. Thank you.” But there was more. When the maître d’ removed the tissue in which the rose was wrapped, he uncovered a tiny white florist’s envelope, which he handed to me. The rose bouquet was tied in a bow of white lace. The card had a wedding bell on it and said, “For Ruth, With this ring…” comes all my love, today, tomorrow and always, Evan. I looked up to see Evan draw his hand from his pocket.
“May I have your hand? Your left hand?” When I extended it, he separated my fourth finger and slid a solitaire diamond set in gold into place.
“Evan. I don’t know what to say. I never expected…it’s beautiful. How did you…?”
“Oh, that.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “Easy. I had Sandy steal your high school ring from your jewelry box for me so I could have this one sized. It’s back in place, safe and sound. Looks like a fit to me. So you like it?”
“Sandy knew? I love it. I love you.”
“Of course Sandy knew. Why else would she have been so decent about loaning you her dress again after you drooled all over it last time? I love you, Ruth. Count on it.”
“At least it was water. Someone I know spit wine halfway across the room. I do. I will.”
I’D MISSED THE FIRST two trains from Grand Central to New Haven. Evan and I had stayed out late, then stayed awake talking in bed after we made love in the amber light of two candles. Our lovemaking had already come a long way as my initial shyness dissipated slowly, like heavy smoke, and we grew into knowledge of each other’s bodies. That magical night, riding excitement, courageous from the commitment we’d made, we were the most intimate we’d yet been, and neither of us wanted to relinquish consciousness to sleep. We shared a pillow and lay in each other’s arms laying down layers of waking dreams. I loved him wit
h unqualified first love—we always believe it will be the last, as well, though it only occasionally is—wholehearted, pure, the adoration we have for our truest hero before it is sullied by disappointment, by failure.
I should have been using train time to study my Casebook of Occupational Therapy, but, I suppose, like any twenty-year-old girl newly engaged, I studied my left hand instead, shifting its position by small degrees to see the diamond break the sunlight into tiny rainbows. I’d had to take a local, but I didn’t mind so much because with a twenty-five minute wait in New Haven, I could connect with an express and still be in Malone by noon. When I arrived, I called Mother from the pay phone to come get me, but there was no answer. I sighed and shifted my bag, heavy with the books I’d intended to study on the train, to the other shoulder and began to walk. It wasn’t far; we lived perhaps a mile from the small station, but there was no sidewalk. Walking on the uneven shoulder of the road—often unmowed and sometimes litter-strewn—was slow, and I was already later than I’d said I would be.
Just before I reached our gravel driveway, I slid the ring off my finger and put it beneath a handkerchief in the pocket of my denim skirt, which was deep. I patted it there, like a tangible prayer. I’d have to feel out how to tell her, to show her the ring, somehow involve her in the decision to accept Evan’s proposal and ring, which, of course, I’d already done. But things always went much better when they were Mother’s decisions. I hadn’t lived with her for twenty years for nothing; she never did take surprises well.
Her car was there, which worried me. Either she’d just returned home or she wasn’t answering the phone, a sure danger signal. The back door was locked, so I used my key.
“Mother? Mother, it’s me. Where are you?” There was no answer. I went through the kitchen to the living room—not the room fixed up as a studio, where Roger used to sleep, but the one I slept in, the blue couch room—where I found her, disheveled-looking, sitting rigidly in the tattered stuffed chair. Her bare face was expressionless, and she didn’t respond by so much as looking at me. Noon light speared through the silence of the bay window, backlighting Mother, making a halo of her hair and connecting her by dust motes in a direct line to the outside, to the sky, to God.