Love Is a Rebellious Bird

by Elayne Klasson

  Finally, you opened your eyes and reached for the clock beside the bed, turning it toward your face.

  “Oh shit,” you said. “Look at the time. We’re supposed to meet Roberta and Jordan in forty-five minutes.”

  “Mmm, do we have to go?” I asked sleepily. “I mean, what if we made some excuse?”

  You laughed. “Oh no you don’t. I’d just have to reschedule and see them both on my own. Come on, you, we’ve got to get dressed. We’re meeting them in the East Village and we’re all the way uptown now.” You pried yourself from my arms and sat up, your feet hitting the floor with a thud.

  In the taxi to the restaurant, I reached for your hand. I was still smiling, but instead of returning my smile, you turned and looked out the window at the darkening streets, barking directions to the cab driver. I felt queasy when you didn’t turn to me. The remains of the Russian Tea Room lunch and wine rose from my stomach. Why did your hand feel limp in mine? Why didn’t you return my smile? Like every New Yorker, you knew a better route, a way to avoid the traffic we were stuck in. I saw that you were nervous, but then you’d always detested being late. I didn’t care what time we arrived. I wanted never to get there. I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes, fighting down the nausea.

  When we finally arrived at the restaurant, a dimly lit Italian place, we found Roberta and Jordan at the table together, heads behind menus.

  “Finally, you two,” Jordan said. “We’ve already filled up on bread. Which is delicious, by the way.”

  Did it show that you and I had been holed up in a hotel room having sex all afternoon? I wondered. My lips felt bruised and swollen from all the delicious kisses. Was the bruising obvious to the others? Embarrassed, I hugged Roberta, then put my arm around Jordan, asking them both questions at once, chattering nonsense about the traffic.

  I wouldn’t have recognized Roberta. She’d become a frumpy woman in a business suit. Her body was still long and athletic, but the feminine blouse with ruffles was jarring and all wrong. She used to spend hours with her hair rolled around large plastic cylinders, which resulted in a smooth hairdo we called a bubble. Apparently, she no longer bothered with these. Instead, her once-shiny brown hair had reverted to its more natural state of wild curls, more gray than brown. I remembered that at the end of high school, Roberta, like so many of the other girls, had her nose shortened by a plastic surgeon. I found myself studying the small upturned knob. It seemed out of proportion, not belonging on that long face at all.

  The years had been kinder to my old boyfriend, Jordan, though I doubted I would have recognized him on the street, either. He was dressed beautifully, a gray velvet jacket over jeans, and he was leaner than he’d been as a boy, a trim beard flattering his face, making it seem more defined. He jumped up, looking delighted to see both you and me.

  “Jordie!” you exclaimed. “You’re looking great. I need a jacket like that. Everyone needs a jacket like that. And, Roberta, wow!” you lied. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Sure, buddy,” Jordan said, pumping your arm. “We’ll have to go shopping sometime. That is, if you ever leave your office. You got to quit working so hard. Come on down here to the Village more often,” said Jordan, obviously not knowing of your retirement.

  There was a lot to take in at the table: Roberta, who seemed to have had all the fun extracted from her, and Jordan, once so shy and awkward, now poised with charm and bonhomie. Besides studying them and trying to absorb all the changes I saw, I was conscious of your every word and gesture, every time you did or did not look at me or touch me.

  As we made our way through the dinner, I became aware of an odd dynamic: all three of us, Jordan, Roberta, and myself, were flirting with you. And you were performing for the three of us—recounting amusing tales about people in the small town of Beacon, getting us to groan about how those Cubs disappointed us Chicagoans year after year, but how we never, ever gave up hope. Perhaps your performance was more for Jordan and Roberta, for I was the home crowd, already won over. Roberta did seem depressed, just as you’d said, not at all the irrepressible girl I remembered from grade school. But slowly, the evening revived her. I learned that her life was a hard one. She worked for a government transportation agency in Albany, was a single mother, and had had to piece together coverage for her two kids whenever she came down to New York for committee meetings. I certainly understood her life, but I’m afraid I was in too much of a postcoital swoon to feel much empathy. She told earnest, complicated stories about state government, stories that made me stifle yawns. But she didn’t notice me at all—her interest was directed solely at you, Elliot. She asked you question after question.

  “Everyone thinks rapid trains are the answer. But buses are more flexible, don’t you agree? Buses can be rerouted, but you can’t move train tracks when the population moves. What do you think, Elliot? Why are people so enamored with trains?” Roberta asked. She also wanted your ideas about several legal briefs she was preparing at the Transportation Department. You tried to look interested. Perhaps you were.

  Jordan was the greatest surprise, though. He’d come into his own. He was confident and articulate, although he, too, deferred to your opinions. He told you that he’d followed your career, been so proud when he heard that you’d been appointed clerk to a Supreme Court justice.

  “And your judge, my God, what a hero,” Jordan said. “All of America loved him back when he played basketball, and even more, later, when he was appointed to the Supreme Court. That guy could have been president if he’d wanted to. What an experience it must have been to actually work for him.”

  “Yeah,” you agreed. “An exceptional legal mind. But you should have seen him when he was shooting hoops. He never even broke a sweat, even when he was over sixty! Absolutely the greatest man I’ve ever known. I loved him.”

  “I always knew you were going places, buddy.” Jordan smiled sweetly and leaned toward you. “You were the smartest guy in the whole school. And there were a lot of smart Jews in our school. Right?” Jordan looked to Roberta and me for confirmation. “Right, ladies?”

  “Shit, Jordan, you’re no slouch. A doctor, for Christ’s sake. And, those programs you’ve set up to fight AIDS. You’ve done groundbreaking work.” You patted Jordan on the back.

  “Hell, I’m just a bureaucrat, like our friends Roberta and Judith here,” Jordan said, modestly. “But you, you’re something. It wasn’t hard to come out in my line of work. Lots of gay doctors, especially in public health. But you, it’s not so easy to be gay in corporate law. That’s a very homophobic world over on Wall Street.”

  There was a long silence. I broke off a piece of the crispy bread, scattering crumbs on the table. You looked long and hard at Jordan. “Jordie, I’m not gay,” you finally said. “Where did you get that idea?” You reached for a napkin and wiped the corners of your mouth.

  Jordan looked down into his plate of risotto. “Jeez, man. I, uh, just assumed. Sorry, no offense. I mean, look at me. I’m as queer as they come. No offense intended at all.”

  Roberta’s eyes met mine. I think we were both remembering the story that went around the halls of school and at our pajama parties. Something about Jordan and Elliot giving each other oral sex when they were in junior high. At the time, when the story was repeated to me, I was so innocent, I couldn’t even imagine how such an act was done, but hadn’t wanted to ask. Now I wondered if perhaps there had been something to that rumor about them in junior high. Could the story have been true?

  The silence persisted, then Jordan uncomfortably continued, “I can’t believe I just said that. Really, Elliot, it came out of nowhere.”

  You returned the thick cloth napkin to your lap. “Hey, Jordan, no offense taken. Remember? I thought you were dead. Can you believe that, Judith? When he called me out of the blue, I said, ‘Hey, man, I thought you were dead.’”

  I laughed on cue. “Yeah, you told me. You guys. None of us should believe anything we hear or read in the papers. All of u
s reading and believing gossip. Like the way my mother and her cronies used to gossip. The stories got juicier each time they told them.”

  “It’s obvious,” Roberta said. “We’ve become our mothers. In so many ways. I even play mah-jongg, just like my mother did.”

  I smiled, but the thought of Roberta playing mah-jongg depressed me. I wanted to picture those long legs of hers sprinting and leaping over jumps, as she’d done in high school. Where had Roberta’s energy gone?

  “Seriously, Elliot,” Jordan said, “forget about it. Tell us about that fancy law firm of yours. What’s the latest on Wall Street? I heard Spielberg wanted to make a movie about that big antitrust case you did in Silicon Valley.”

  “Well, actually,” you said, “I’m not in that world anymore. I took early retirement. I made partner, so they still send me shares of the firm’s annual profits. But I’m a writer now. My dream-come-true life.” You shrugged and smiled pleasantly at Jordan.

  “Retired? You’re kidding,” Roberta said. “You’re so young.” She rubbed the back of her neck tiredly. “I’d love to retire. Get out of my office. Use my body again. Get back in shape.”

  “Yup,” you said. “I’ve rented a little studio up in Beacon, fireplace and a view of the woods. It’s nice. I’m working on a novel. Judith edits for me. That’s what we were meeting about this afternoon.” You nodded in my direction. “No one knows a colon from a semicolon like Judith,” you said and patted my hand. “Right?”

  Just like that, my role reduced from muse to grammarian.

  “I sure can believe that,” Jordan said. “Judith was always the grammar police. Matching those subjects with those verbs. And her vocabulary.” He looked at me. “You must have known every word they threw at you on the SATs. You didn’t even need to take a prep course like the rest of us did.”

  I smiled humbly. Grammar police. Wasn’t that sexy? I thought. “But, really, Elliot,” Jordan said. “How great that you’re out of the grind. It’s beautiful where you live. So unspoiled. I’ve been up there a few times.”

  “Yeah, it sure is. And the wonderful part is doing what I’ve always wanted to do. Every time I get one of the distribution checks from the firm, I open the envelope and look at it with amazement. ‘There it is,’ I say, ‘my fuck-you money.’”

  “God, I’d love that,” Roberta said. “I hate my job.” She picked up her glass of water and took a big swallow. “Fuck-you money. Do you know where I might get some of that? You sure know how to live.” Then she gave him a big smile. “Anyone special in your life, Elliot?” she asked, flirtatiously.

  I’d expected the question, and was sure you would mention Lilly, but in an offhand way. But you answered, “Yeah, I’ve been living with Lilly for a long time. She owns a terrific gallery in the Hudson Valley. It’s pretty well known. People come up from the city for openings. And, we just refinished remodeling the house—making it more comfortable for the two of us. Lilly designed the whole remodel. Fewer bedrooms, more open space. It’s spectacular.” You didn’t look at me when you said this.

  “No kids?” Jordan asked. He looked less bright, more tired than he had when the dinner began.

  “No kids,” you answered firmly. “I’m not really a kid person. Lilly has three, already grown when we got together. Two married now. No, I’ve never really wanted kids. Judith’s always after me about kids.” You chuckled and finally looked at me. “But I don’t think I’d be any good at it.”

  I stared back at you, then checked my watch. “Speaking of kids,” I said, “I’m visiting my son Evan, and I’m sure he’s waiting up for me. That’s the way it goes, Roberta. Eventually kids and parents reverse roles. Now he worries about me and gives me boring lectures about my eating and sleeping habits.” I stood and went around the table, brushing my lips across everyone’s cheeks, giving each the barest of kisses. “Great to see you, Roberta, Jordan. Please let me know if either of you get to San Francisco. I’d love to see you. Show you around. I’m a good tour guide, aren’t I, Elliot?” I smiled down at you. “And don’t forget, I’ll be waiting for that next chapter.” I left the restaurant and walked into the chilly evening, angry more at myself than Elliot. He’d never lied about Lillian. I just hadn’t listened.

  We continued to exchange manila envelopes for a few more years. I couldn’t bear to completely stop reading your work, even after that disastrous visit to New York. I carefully read and edited as best as I could, but we spoke more honestly about it as time went on. You’d worked hard at your manuscript, struggling mightily with it. No one could deny that. Yet, as I’d suspected almost from the book’s first chapter, you were not a novelist. The book never felt real to me, the characters never took on life. That was the reaction you got, I fear, when you sent it out into the world. You received rejection after rejection. This was probably the only endeavor at which you found no success. Although you kept the studio for a while, eventually you gave up working on the story about the guilty attorney.

  “Someday I’ll get back to it,” you told me. “But it’s feeling stale now. Maybe I ought to try nonfiction. A book about antitrust law. But not now. Now I need a break from living in my head so much. Lilly and I are going to travel. She finally sold her gallery. I promised her we’d go to Europe together. Remember?” you asked me.

  Once you gave up your dream of writing, you attacked world travel with the same gusto and ambition you’d shown toward everything else in your life. With Lilly, you visited country after country, logging in more frequent flyer miles than you could use in a lifetime. Every few months, you were off to another magical place. Lilly must have given up her stern practicality and begun to enjoy the good life. You sent postcards from exotic locations, first Europe and then beyond: Africa, South America—even the Arctic. Because they were signed, “Elliot and Lillian,” the cards were unimportant to me. I’d read them quickly, then toss them aside. How many ecstatic descriptions of ancient hill towns or wide beaches or nearly extinct animal species could one care about? Was it the same as when Seth and I had been traveling the world so many years before? It was difficult then to interest people in our adventures. No one really wanted to hear about it. In your sixties, you and Lillian were finally seeing the world (though the upscale hotels you sent the cards from hardly resembled the youth hostels and shacks of Seth’s and my youthful travels). I just couldn’t muster any interest.

  While you and Lillian were traveling around the globe, I increased my hours at County Social Services, becoming a full-time employee again. I worked hard and my job continued to be satisfying. After Joseph went to college, I often stayed late at the office. Why not? It was a novelty to work without guilt, to have no responsibilities waiting for me at home. No soccer games to go to, no one else’s dinner to think of. I became a supervisor of fifty caseworkers, all working toward the Herculean task of placing children in foster homes. Sometimes, though rarely, the placements even led to adoption. Seeing a child finally finding a permanent home, living with people they could call their family, was the best part of the job. I liked mentoring new social workers, too, watching them gain confidence. As I got older, I watched with satisfaction, but from afar, my own three children launching their lives. In college, Joseph made the decision he wanted to be a doctor, as his father had been. He studied conscientiously, preparing for medical school. Miriam surprised me by her marriage in her twenties to Gray, a man neither as charismatic as her father, Seth, nor as bookish as Walt. He was a good, kind husband and they made a happy home, certainly one with less drama than the example Seth and I had provided. She’d always been easier than her twin brother, Evan, who with his high-strung temperament and difficulty in focusing, had floundered in school. But along with the freedom of no longer needing to hide that he was gay, other parts of his life began to fall into place. He liked his job as an admissions counselor, one he seemed very well suited for. Eventually, Evan found a partner, Ira—and, as far as I could determine, they seemed happy.

  I had a large circle of f
riends. I joined book clubs. I took up yoga. I was busy. Occasionally, I went on dates—but these had become less frequent and there had not been anyone special since Walt. In my sixties, I supposed there never would be, although my tech-savvy friend Rachel had persuaded me to try the online method of meeting people, a phenomena that only seemed to lead to disappointment. Men my own age seemed to fall into two categories: those interested in meeting women decades younger than themselves, or those wanting, as another friend said, “a nurse with a purse.” After a few dispiriting coffee dates, I could barely bother to turn on the computer to see who had looked at my so-called “profile.” I took vacations. Marnie and I went on a tour of the Galapagos. We loved the animals, especially the penguins, as well as the pristine beauty. When we returned, her seasick-prone husband thanked me profusely for accompanying his wife, again getting him off the hook.

  Being seen. It was what I’d always wanted from a man, yet it eluded me. Sure, I’d had moments with you, Elliot, the sexual connections we’d had, those presents you sent me which no one else could have selected, the letters and phone calls. We shared many things: impressions of art and music, the literature we were engaged with, politics. We talked over our respective dilemmas at work, you with your writing, me supervising the other social workers. Importantly, our shared past, the knowledge of our youth and families, remained a bond. However, there were everyday details of my life which I felt were not lofty enough for our correspondence. Importantly, Elliot, you never understood the place my three children held in my life.

  I didn’t mention to you, for example, my worries about Evan and, later, Joseph. Could I have helped Evan more in his struggles to find his identity? Seth and I never saw eye to eye on Evan. I felt helpless when I discovered pot, and then cocaine, in his room in high school. And Joseph. He never rebelled, desperately wanting not to be a worry to me. But he was such a perfectionist, so hard on himself. I ached to know what Walt would have said, and wished I had help guiding him. Did Joseph really want to be a doctor, or was he fulfilling generational expectations of his family? Might I have done more, or was that hovering? I lay awake nights and thought and worried about my children, always wishing I could talk over these concerns with someone. Yet I never brought them up to you, Elliot. I knew my concerns about the kids weren’t things you could help me with.