“Lillian,” I said, anxious to include her, “you must know London as well. Did you visit often from France?”
“France?” she said, tossing back her hair. “I’ve never been to France. Or London. Or anywhere, really, besides New York.”
I was confused. “But your accent. I assumed you were from France.”
“Certainly not,” she said. “I’m from Canada. From Montreal. I suppose my accent sounds French to some people.”
To stupid people, was she saying?
“No,” she repeated, “I have never been to Europe. We were very poor growing up. There were nine children in our family. Sometimes in the winter we had to choose between food or firewood. There was no money for trips or luxuries like that. I went to work when I was sixteen—I didn’t even finish high school. New York is the farthest I’ve been from Montreal. Maybe someday, I’ll take a vacation. See Europe. Who knows?” She waved her hand, making the remaining bracelets jingle.
“You will, sweetheart,” you said and took her hand. “We’ll go to London and Paris together. You’ll see those places. When both of us stop working so hard.”
“Perhaps,” Lilly said, and shrugged her shoulders, as if travel was frivolous and silly and didn’t matter at all to her.
Then you said, as if you hadn’t noticed her shrug, “Lillian, you would not believe how many places Judith has traveled to. Kids, did your mother ever tell you about taking a ferry between islands in Indonesia? Or, how she lived in a grass shack on a river in Fiji?”
The children barely looked up from their frozen peanut butter hot chocolate treats. Those places Elliot mentioned, Indonesia and Fiji, I’m sure the twins had no concept of what he was talking about. They could have been suburbs of Chicago.
“Really,” you persisted. “Judith’s been all over the world. Evan, Miriam, get your mom to tell you some travel stories. She’s had amazing adventures. She was really something.” You looked at me with admiration, but the twins barely lifted their heads. It had been a long day and besides the sugar overload, their minds were overloaded as well, unwilling to take in much more. I felt embarrassed, like a kid whose parents are boasting about her, but no one wants to hear the stories. Yet, the parents insist and keep bragging, even though no one is listening and everyone’s boredom is apparent.
“It’s okay, Elliot. To them, I’m just Mom. Someday, I’ll tell them travel stories. Today they saw me ice-skate. That was shocking enough. I’ll tell them about my hippie life only when they’re too old to do those things themselves. I’d worry if they did half the things I did.”
You laughed. Lilly looked at me with one brow raised, as if I were an item on the menu she’d overlooked.
“So you were a hippie,” Lilly said. “You were a hippie, too, Elliot?”
“Not really,” you answered. “I only rebelled for a year or two at Brown. Then I thought I had to be more responsible. Be important and achieve things. I missed out on most of that. No fun for me once I became a lawyer. Judith is the one who had fun in those days.”
“Well, Elliot,” Lilly said. “Perhaps you and I will be hippies together someday.” She smiled and moved closer to Elliot, then looked into his eyes, speaking softly, her sexy French accent, even if it was Canadian, more pronounced than before. “We will learn to be irresponsible together. We will teach each other, my dear.”
I took a sip of my frozen hot chocolate, then carefully wiped my lips with the napkin. Cold food on a cold night. Who’d thought of such a ridiculous thing?
8
Sensory Fulfillment
I saw your infatuation at Serendipity that night, the look in your eyes as you drank in Lillian. Once again, I had to accept that not only was my timing lousy, but that you had not chosen me. A widower, you were neither alone nor bereft. I was tired of my Elliot addiction. Any junkie has to hit rock bottom before recovery. And, that night at Serendipity, I did. While I could not understand your infatuations, either with Meredith or Lilly, I do not remember being asked for my approval. Instead, at forty, there was the discouraging sense that life was passing me by. My future, I told myself firmly, did not involve Elliot Pine. I would stop waiting for you.
The children and I lived on Milvia, a street near the UC Berkeley campus brimming with children and their conscientious parents. I saw couples everywhere I looked—walking dogs, packing their children into cars, even bickering in the park. Although I loved my cozy, family neighborhood, it was like being at a dance without a partner. But what were my options? I couldn’t be a hot, single woman going to the latest club. I was not hot, for one thing, and that was not what I wanted. I was a mom. Marnie, my neighbor and closest friend, who was always politically correct, said, “Judith, of course, you’re a family—you and your kids are every bit a family.” She played that popular album for her children and mine, Free to Be … You and Me, which contained cute ditties about families coming in all sizes and compositions. But this seemed like crap. I did not feel like a real family, no matter what Marnie, or even Gloria Steinem, might say. I thought about that antique three-legged table I’d spotted in a window of the resale shop on Shattuck. Sure it was lovely, and it appeared stable; but when touched, it wobbled precariously on its delicate tripod base. I ached for a conventional table—one standing solid on four legs: Mom, Dad, two kids. We, Evan, Miriam, and I, were a three-legged table. Keeping this table from wobbling was exhausting.
Well-meaning as my parents were, their weekly calls from Chicago did not help. “What will become of them?” my mother asked in one form or another. “Children of a broken home? Twins, besides. They need a father, Judith.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Mom, my home is not broken. We have a fine family,” I’d firmly answer, wishing I could echo my friend Marnie’s eloquence on the subject. Yet, inside, I felt my mother was right.
“How are you managing?” my father asked as soon as my mother finally passed him the phone. He always worried that we were on the brink of starvation. “We could send you a little money each month.”
“We’re fine.” I reassured them both, knowing they didn’t have a lot left over to send me. I put on a brave front, never admitting to them my sadness or fear and that since the divorce from Seth, I often lay sleepless at night.
I hated single motherhood from the inside out—from the loneliness in my bed at night, to the way I imagined the children and I looked when we ate out at restaurants on Saturday evenings. I was sorely aware that there was no man either to bed me or to get the check. I was always in a state of heightened alertness, fearing that something was left undone. Had I checked the car’s tire pressure? Were Miriam’s forms for summer camp complete? Did I change the batteries in the smoke detector? So much to do and no safety net if I forgot. My few forays into dating had been brutal, leaving me even more discouraged afterward. My insomnia got worse.
Then, one afternoon outside the co-op market, I met Walter Kahn, a man also longing to put a family together. A late bloomer, he was a man who’d had his head down, concentrating only on achieving great things in his field, physics. He’d been so single-minded and passionate about physics, he forgot anything else. First school, then more school, and then work. Suddenly, at forty, he lifted his head and noticed that everyone around him—his few friends, his colleagues, his cousins—was married or getting married. He’d received seven invitations to weddings that year. Walter wanted a home, a wife and children, but realized he had no idea how to make that happen.
He began with the easiest task and purchased his first house. It was on Milvia, not far from my own. I’d noticed him a few times before at the food co-op, the slow, deliberate way he shopped, picking up items and carefully reading the backs of packages. One day, we went through checkout and reached the exit at the same time.
“You look as overloaded as me,” I said as he held the door open for me with his body.
“Yeah,” Walt said. “As usual, I probably bought too much for one person. Do you live close by?”
“A
bout three blocks down,” I said, juggling the weight of my bags. “You?”
“Just one block over. Listen, what if we walk to my place and unload the groceries? Then I’ll help you carry your bags to your house.”
I hesitated just a second. “Sure. Sounds brilliant. But you’re not a serial killer, are you? I always tell my kids not to talk to strangers.”
“No, just a boring physicist. At Lawrence Livermore. My name is Walt Kahn and if you’re worried, you can wait outside my house while I unload my bags.”
He had a nice smile, and as we walked, I told him about the twins, but made sure he knew I was single. He told me about buying his house just the previous month and how much he liked the neighborhood—especially the food co-op that he’d discovered stocked his favorite things from back east.
“Like what?”
“U-bet chocolate syrup, for one,” he said. “Can’t live without it.”
When we got to his place, he asked if I wanted something to drink, and I left my bags in the entryway and followed him inside. On the way to the kitchen, I looked around curiously. The house was furnished entirely in shades of brown. The carpeting was a medium brown, the sofa, a massive corduroy monstrosity, was upholstered in a deeper brown, and through an open door, I could see that his bed was covered in a brown tweed spread that looked scratchy to the touch.
“Wow. That sofa is huge,” I said, smiling.
“Yeah,” Walt agreed amiably. “They just delivered it. It looks bigger here than it did in the store.”
“Must have taken a lot of brown fabric to cover it.”
“My theory of decorating is to stay monochromatic,” Walt said. “I’m not very good with colors, so I figure it’s better to stick with just one. Less chance of screwing up.”
Using the same reasoning, he told me he dressed entirely in brown—avoiding sartorial accidents. He was, indeed, wearing brown from head to toe. Shirt, belt, pants, socks, and shoes. Later, when I knew him better, I opened his closet door to see nothing but rows of brown polyester trousers and a collection of brown polyester shirts. He owned a single sports coat, camel hair with brown leather elbow patches. The jacket would have been quite lovely, had it been tailored and not hung so loosely on Walt’s narrow frame.
Very soon after we began dating, I found myself itching to remodel: to re-carpet in a lighter shade, to reupholster the clunky corduroy couch, and to shop for a soft, but masculine bedspread (I finally settled on a paisley—much later, of course). I also dreamed of making a big bonfire with all the browns in his closet—imagining the satisfying curl and then sizzle as the polyester burned.
“I hate to shave,” he told me one night, rubbing his hand along the tight curls on his cheeks. “My skin is sensitive. Such a waste of time—there are so many more important things to think about. It just grows back again and then you have to do it all over.”
“Mmm,” I said sympathetically, thinking how I would research electric razors and present Walt with a top-of-the-line model that would not irritate his skin. A nicely trimmed goatee, preferable to his current unruly, reddish-colored beard. Despite all these renovation and remodeling plans, from the beginning, I found I enjoyed kissing Walt quite a lot, even when he still had the bristly beard.
And after three months of seeing him regularly, I appreciated even more. I liked his quirky humor. He made witty puns and jokes. He knew the words to every Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, which were favorites of mine as well, and would loudly sing the lyrics in a deep, round voice, as he got ready for work in the morning. I also realized how much I had grown to enjoy the patient, methodical way he made love to me, reminding me of the way he carefully examined groceries in the co-op, although perhaps more tentatively. He seemed to find it a gift to be allowed to merely examine my naked body, let alone have sex with it. I began to imagine a future. At first the twins found Walt’s quietness awkward—it was such a contrast to their noisy and exuberant father—but soon they got on well together. The bond between Walt and Evan grew first—when he began to teach my son chess.
“You’re gifted, you know? You have a real talent for the game. You’ve caught on quicker than anyone else I’ve taught,” Walt told Evan, folding his arms across his chest as he pondered the board between them.
Evan looked pleased; the chance to excel at something apart from his sister was intoxicating. There was soon a permanent game in my living room, and both considered their moves on days when they didn’t see one another. As soon as Walt arrived, Evan would steer him toward the chessboard, excitedly ready to resume their play. For Evan’s enthusiasm alone, I would have married Walt.
He also won over Miriam. Although Walt had never been on a horse, and said he had no plans, ever, to sit astride one, he stood patiently at my side and watched Miriam at horse shows, never complaining as the competing riders went up and over the same jumps, again and again. There is a lot of repetition at jumping shows. At these events, Walt even found a comfortable way to banter with Seth, who was often there watching Miriam as well. Walt would slyly poke fun at my ex-husband’s insufferable bragging (the new Corvette, the expensive wristwatch), without Seth even comprehending he was being teased.
“Those are some boots you’re wearing, Seth. Do you think you could tell me where I might find a pair?” lanky Walt would ask with deadpan sincerity.
I choked back laughter. I could no more see Walt in cowboy boots than in a Stetson cowboy hat.
“Oh, these,” Seth answered and stood a bit taller. “I get these custom-made in Houston. You’ve got to get custom-made boots if you want a decent fit.”
Walt nodded and, with a serious face, borrowed a pen from me and wrote down the name of the boot maker.
We began seeing each other most nights, and when Walt worked late, he’d call from the labs to say good night. I got used to the routine, to his quiet and considerate ways.
One Sunday we were, as usual, standing at a fence watching Miriam compete. This horse show was at the Alameda County Fairgrounds, a dusty, treeless place. Walt cleared his throat. “So, have I mentioned that my parents are coming for a visit?” He looked distinctly uncomfortable as he spoke.
I turned to him. “No, you haven’t said a thing. When?”
“Tomorrow,” he answered and looked down, tinkering with the long telephoto lens he always carried to Miriam’s shows.
“Tomorrow?” I repeated. Then an unpleasant intuition flickered across my consciousness. “Walt, you’ve told them about us, right?”
Instead of answering, Walt began following the girl who was in the ring. She was jumping her small brown thoroughbred. Miriam had taught him that the number of strides a horse took between jumps was crucial. Too many, and the horse would come up short, too close to clear the jump cleanly—usually knocking down one of the rails. Too few, and the horse would end up dangerously far from the jump and have to awkwardly catapult itself forward to get over. Walt was a good student and he began counting, just as Miriam had taught him, nodding his head with each of the horse’s strides.
“You haven’t, have you?” I persisted. “I bet you haven’t mentioned there’s a woman in your life. Do they even know my name?”
Walt sighed and stopped his absurd counting. He turned his head toward me. “Judith, I’m not sure how they’re going to accept you.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me?” I asked. “I’m a nice girl, right? Won’t they be pleased you’ve found someone you’re happy with? Jewish, even.”
“Yeah,” Walt said, looking more miserable. “To me, you’re perfect. But I worry about how they’ll react.”
“To what?” I asked, indignantly.
At this moment, Miriam appeared in the ring and began to jump her horse over fences. We stopped speaking and watched as she had a perfect round, clearing every hurdle. We both applauded enthusiastically as she left the ring with a big smile on her face.
“React to what?” I repeated.
“To you being divorced. To the twins.”
“Jesus, Walt. You’re forty years old. Did they expect you to be dating a virgin?”
He laughed, but I saw the beads of sweat on his forehead. “Judith, I’m sure they think I’m a virgin. I know my parents and, though I hate to admit it, a divorcée with two kids is probably not what they imagined for me.”
“God, that’s an ugly word. Divorcée.”
“You’re right, it is,” he said. “You’re much more than that. A wonderful mother and a talented social worker. You help people every day. There’re so many things to admire in you. But frankly, I’m worried about their reaction. Maybe we should wait until the next time they come out here for you to meet them. I’ll begin to drop a few hints this time.”
I glared at him, my eyes widening.
“No? Bad idea?” Walt muttered. “Okay, let me think about the best way to do this.” And he brought the camera to his face again.
An only child like myself, Walt had told me about his adoring parents—perhaps too adoring. The Kahns didn’t find it odd that their son was forty and had never had a serious relationship. He’d gotten his doctorate, then become a well-respected academician. He traveled frequently, presenting at conferences all over the world: Istanbul, Calcutta, Rome. By the time I met him, Walt had authored over fifty papers and was already receiving awards from his colleagues. Mr. and Mrs. Kahn, an older couple from New Jersey, were Holocaust survivors who worshipped their son as a miracle of the new world’s triumph over Europe’s desire to snuff out their life—a belief shared by my own immigrant mother about me, her only daughter. But unlike my Russian mother, they were German-Jewish snobs. I suspect they thought there was plenty of time for Walt to have a woman’s admiration. What was the hurry? They weren’t through admiring him themselves. And could there possibly be a woman adequate for this task?
Eventually, I convinced him to bring his parents around the following Saturday evening. They could come for dessert and coffee and see my house and the children. They wouldn’t fail to be impressed with the charm of my cozy California bungalow, I assured him. Everyone loved its cheery warmth: the bright colors I’d painted the walls, the old pieces of furniture I’d rescued and sanded. Miriam and Evan had lovely manners. I knew I could be proud of how they’d behave to Mr. and Mrs. Kahn. I’d make my famous rum cake. It drew rave reviews every time I baked it. Starting with a rich yellow cake, I poked holes with a toothpick up and down its sides and top. Then I drizzled a luscious rum and butterscotch concoction over the whole thing, making each bite a moist and sweet shock to the senses. I was the consummate balabusta. Of course the Kahns would approve.
Love Is a Rebellious Bird Page 18