I had met some great people and learned an important lesson. My faith in society was damaged, but my faith in humanity was buoyed. I had experienced the injustice people can inflict on one another in the name of money and power. But the high standards and honorable methods of the DiLorenzo family awakened a great respect in me. Even Lou Scuncio, the court stenographer, had asked about me and expressed amazement at the way the case had turned out. I appreciated that, but the naive side of me still wondered why the judge allowed a decision he knew to be flawed to stand.
The system.
More than ever, I understood the difference between the two kinds of fortune: true friends and money. Friends were priceless; money merely a means to an end.
Brown’s action destroyed forever many of my illusions about society and the Ivy League. Still, I was capable of separating the corporate from the academic. My dream for many years now had been to complete my education, and as badly as I was treated I still wanted that dream.
While on the East Coast, I visited Roger’s parents. Having heard the play-by-play of the trial through Roger, Julie was eager to comfort me. I was traumatized — I couldn’t stand to have anyone touch me. Even kind words bothered me. I felt cold, and I wanted to stay that way. My outward appearance was also changed. I felt no desire to smile or express anything. I was deadened. Shell-shocked.
One afternoon Julie and I took a long walk together. It was cold and breezy and we were bundled up to our chins. Julie voiced her worries about Roger. The moodiness he had always exhibited was developing into a real problem. He was becoming downright mean. “He is a very angry, troubled man. I don’t know how many times I’ve offered to put him in counseling, ever since he was little,” she fretted, then abruptly changed the subject, asking me about my future plans. She knew I wanted to be in school, even though the cleaning business was going well. I told her, “This spring will be the third year I’ve been on leave and the fifth year that I’ll be independent. I should qualify for the extra aid. If that happens, I’ll go back to school in September. If not, I’ll enroll at the university in Santa Cruz.”
“Oh that’s good, Heidi. You’re a smart girl. You have a lot ahead of you.” Her breath floated white through the air.
I smashed my fists into my coat pockets, my thoughts heavy. “Julie, I wanted to tell you something. I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about it.”
“Go ahead, Heidi,” she said, giving me a little hug.
“I’m thinking of leaving Roger.” I watched her face for a reaction.
She smiled sadly. “Oh, Heidi, that’s the best thing you can do. He’s just holding you back.”
I cried a little then, because I knew I would leave him.
That evening Julie and Ted took us out to dinner. Before dessert Julie made a small speech. “Heidi, I know how difficult the past week has been for you. I’m sorry. I want you to have this.” She pushed a tiny box across the table. A thin blue ribbon trailed behind.
She continued. “Every time you look at this I want you to remember what a good person you are.”
I opened the box. The ribbon was tied to a sparkling ring; a large blue topaz lined with six diamonds. It was real. “Oh! It’s incredible. Thank you, Julie.” I checked her eyes. She was completely sincere.
Roger and I flew back to California the next morning. As soon as we arrived I told him, “I’m going to stay at a client’s house. I’m not happy with this relationship and haven’t been for a while. I need to think clearly.” He looked mopey, but said, “Fine, whatever you need to do.” Then he ignored me.
My heart was in a tough spot. I felt a duty to make things work. I didn’t want all our time together to be for nothing. Somehow, apart from my feelings about him otherwise, I still enjoyed our sex life — a lot. I would miss that. I wondered if sex would ever be as good. And after more than three years of monogamy, the prospect of dealing with AIDS scared the hell out of me. I didn’t look forward to being single.
A few days into our separation he saw me in a clothing store in town, shopping with my girlfriend Judy He came into the store, mumbling under his breath, walked straight up to me, and kicked me, square in the thigh. Hard.
Duty? What duty? Self-development rates higher than self-sacrifice.
He made the breakup easy for me.
I found a studio apartment near the beach in Capitola, the next town over from Santa Cruz. A cocktail job helped me save more money and a cross-eyed kitten named Stupid kept me company. My evening job was at the Edgewater Club, a cheerful restaurant perched above the sand overlooking Monterey Bay. It was a popular hangout, and for an efficient waitress the tips were good. Being tanned and blond didn’t hurt, either. At 5’6” and a muscular 114 pounds, I appeared tall and was lean and strong. My clear skin agreed with the California sun; I was usually a shade of golden brown. And I learned, with practice, to graciously receive compliments on my bright blue eyes. For the first time, I fully appreciated — and was comfortable with — my appearance. But I never consciously used my looks to get ahead. I was shy, and besides, behavior of that type wasn’t right.
I remember an early evening at the Edgewater when I was hastily rounding up drink orders. Just a few minutes earlier an errant seagull had glided through the open roof and perched on the table of three little old ladies having dinner. The ensuing confusion had distracted me and I was behind.
In my rush to fill orders I hardly noticed the bulky, rough-looking man zeroing in on me. I looked up expectantly when he came close. “Hi, baby,” he drawled, attempting a smile.
He sounded as unnatural as a linebacker asking politely for the football. I responded perfunctorily. “Hi, can I get you a drink?” I said and smiled pleasantly as I went on to clear a few tables, automatically counting the quarters as I swept them onto my tray. I glanced his way, waiting for his order.
His forehead was sweating. He nervously eyed me, then offered hopefully, “You should come work for me.”
I smiled, gave him a quick “No thanks,” and bustled off thinking, If you don’t need a drink, I can’t help you. I’m naturally curious and talkative — but when I’m working, I’m working.
My next swing by the bar explained his strange behavior. Geno the bartender took my drink order, then, while pouring, grinned devilishly at me and motioned toward the man heading out the door. “What’s he want?” Geno asked.
I didn’t know what he was getting at but suspected something was up. “I don’t know, offered me a job, why?”
Geno laughed loudly and I cringed, prepared for the joke I must have missed. “Hey, babe! He wants you for his titty bar! Wake up, hon!”
He knew very well that I would have a shocked reaction. The bar staff regularly counted on me for a blush. It was good-natured fun. I usually enjoyed the attention, but this time my eyes threatened to water. Yet I managed to laugh it off, returning to my section to hustle drinks.
I was embarrassed and shy about that kind of thing. I wondered if the staff had been making fun of me, maybe even set me up. I was still relatively unsophisticated — and I had small breasts. And a scar! Weren’t strippers sleazy and huge on top? The whole idea shimmered in my mind, alien and frightening, then flashed away. I was simply unable to comprehend that kind of work — prostitution sort of stuff. Business picked up just then and the subject was dropped. Geno turned back to his bottles, a couple ordered another round of margari-tas, no salt….
June was the month the financial aid packages were distributed by Brown. I grew obsessed with my mail. July arrived and I still hadn’t heard. I knew this was the year I should qualify as an independent. I had been applying and reapplying year after year. Each June a letter arrived, outlining my loans, grants, and scholarships. Thousands and thousands of dollars, but always with thousands more to pay, unaccounted for. I would sign each offer over to the school, never knowing if it would be more or less or even offered the next year. There was no guarantee.
By August first I was completely distraught. I c
alled Dean Ben-gochea, who had approved my leave, and pleaded, “Can you find out why I’m not hearing anything?”
“Have you called financial aid?” he asked.
“Yes, I called financial aid. No one knows where my package is!”
He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Call me in a few days.”
Tony Jr. called a few days later. “What are your plans, Heidi? Are you coming back to Providence?” I had tentative plans to live with Isabella while I settled back into school.
“I don’t know yet, Tony. My financial aid is being held up. I don’t know why. Could it be the lawsuit? Are they angry with me?”
“They can’t hold it against you. That would be illegal. But they’re a private institution, they could try something sneaky. Let me know what happens.”
But our worries were unnecessary. A week before classes began I received a financial aid package that would allow me to return and complete my education in the way I had promised myself. Although it was all loans, nearly five thousand worth, the extra aid made a difference. As jarring as it was to do it, I dismantled my business and my California life as a “real” person to become a student again. An Ivy League student. I had committed myself to this ideal long ago and my attachment to it, however ignorantly or unconsciously it may have begun, was as strong as ever.
My mother was distressed. She sensed my dreams returning and was afraid for me. “Heidi,” she argued, “why go back there? They are just going to hurt you again. You’re doing so well in California, a happy life on the beach, a successful business. You’ve survived so much trouble. Why can’t you just be content?” She had a point, but I had to finish what I had begun. It was still a dream and I wanted it. Besides, I would be paying for my freshman and sophomore years for the next eight years anyway. What’s another twenty grand? There was no argument. My dream had taken over, and now that I could do it without working thirty hours a week, it would be different.
4
The Rabbi
That the most intelligent, discerning and learned men, men of talent and feeling, should finally put all their pride in their crotch, as awed as they are uneasy at the few inches sticking out in front of them, proves how normal it is for the world to be crazy,
— Francoise Parturier
Back at school, my first step was to reacquaint myself with campus life. Between settling into classes, I needed to find an apartment. Handwritten ads plastered the wall of the university post office. I noticed freshmen eyeing me curiously as I efficiently ripped down the prospective ones. The freshmen looked childlike, inexperienced.
Was I that inexperienced and young looking just a few years ago?
I felt like a veteran — and an outsider. Now, though, I didn’t care that I was an outsider. I was proud of my experience and confidently looking to my bright future. I certainly didn’t have the same attitude that I did my first day, five years ago. Now I was intelligently optimistic.
I was living at Isabella’s house a short drive from Providence. This was a short-term arrangement. I didn’t want be a commuter student, I wanted to be a regular Brown student, finally. Since it was midday and I had some time before my next class, I called the nearest available apartment from the listings I’d taken.
“Come on over,” the lady crackled at me. “Corner of Brown and Bowen.”
“Thank you very much. I’ll be right there.” Things were looking up, and the place was only two blocks away.
I trudged through the humid city air, sweat beading my body, dripping down the insides of my arms. I missed California terribly — the comfortable weather, natural scenery, my independent lifestyle. I had created a positive, productive situation for myself there. I had sacrificed it all for a good reason, but the memories of my old life did make me a little sad.
I have to do this. I have no choice. I wouldn’t be truly happy anywhere else.
I looked around the wide intersection. On each corner I saw a large historic home. The dark, plain exteriors were evidence of the predominantly student population, ever changing and unconcerned with their surroundings. “Corner of Brown and Bowen.” My irritation was increasing at the vagueness of the landlady’s directions and my own inability to ask the right questions, such as, “Which corner?”
Tired and hot, I chose the closest front door and rang the bell. I was tempted to run my fingers over the intricate doorknob, but I saw movement inside. A short figure, bearded and becapped, calmly descended the staircase of polished wood. I could see him though the thick antique glass, slightly distorted. His wrinkled figure focused intently on the opposite end of the sculpted doorknob. It apparently took all his energy to reach and open the door. The perky introduction I had prepared trickled away.
Surely this wasn’t the right house. And who was this poor old man I was bothering?
Slowly the door was pulled open and the little man ran his eyes over the tawny form on his stoop. He was dressed all in black and gray, etched face and fingertips the sole parts of him free of weighty fabric. His expression was one of mischievous amusement, but a little blank, like a gnome. I nervously pushed my hair back, sure that there was too much of it and it was too blond, and quickly began my explanation. He seemed to awaken. His eyes twinkled brightly at the sight of me: Scandinavian, Brown student, young, apologetic. If he noticed the sweat he ignored it, and almost immediately smiled brightly at me. Apparently I was a welcome surprise to the old man, but I was nervous and in a hurry to move on. I needed an apartment, not a pleasant but pointless conversation with a lonely, doting gentleman.
He candidly examined me while I explained that I had mistaken his home for the one with apartments available. I obviously passed his test, since he settled against the open door. With a grandfatherly manner he brushed off my excuses and coaxed me into a conversation. “Why are you still looking for an apartment? Classes began last week,” he asked curiously.
I could barely see his hands. A sliver of skin peeked out between the cuffs of a dark shirt and the pockets of his heavy flannel pants. He regarded me amiably, waiting for my response. His gray weathered head with its tiny cap sat atop a short, thick body too generously covered with thick clothing. Yet he appeared cool and comfortable.
“Well, I just returned to school after three years away,” I replied. I was melting in the heat, and the coolness seeping out of his tomblike home taunted me. He urged me to talk, smiling, beaming like my proud grandfather. His eyes were dark and small, squinting into the midday sunshine from the dim stagnant light of his house. Flattered by his interest, I started to explain my situation to him.
“Come, come inside where it’s cooler,” he said. He struck me as being venerable and wise, worldly and gentle, but for some reason my guard was up. His manner made it clear that I was to accept, so I turned the conversation to him, and learned to my surprise that he was the famous diplomat, Rabbi B———. I had heard that Brown was purchasing his voluminous archives. His reputation as a global politician, and the fact that he was a rabbi, eased my innate suspicion. I entered his foyer and discovered that I was surrounded by the artifacts of his vast experience. Daggers pointed toward invisible foes; jewels hung suspended from velvet cords glowing dully in the dim, heavily screened light. Letters, photos, tapestries, maps, awards — I was overcome with curiosity.
He plugged right into my Ivy League fantasies.
People like him, experiences like his; this is what makes the Ivy League so special!
He led me through the lifetime of travel and adventure displayed on the walls of the grand old home. Respectfully, reverently I gazed at each item. Among the ancient textiles and artwork hung photos of the rabbi himself with presidents Nixon, Ford, Reagan, and Bush. Yassir Arafat and the Shah of Iran were among the other recognizable figures.
At his insistence I followed him into his library. We settled into cool burgundy leather, and he brought me up to date on his current status. He was semi-retired from his demanding diplomatic work. In exchange for his archives, Brown su
pported him and provided him with this enormous private residence, where he wrote and handled his affairs by phone and fax. Occasionally he traveled, attending political functions, peace talks, and advising world leaders. In fact, he had just returned from the Middle East, where tensions were approaching the boiling point following the invasion of Kuwait by Iraq.
Having reached the present, he smiled encouragingly and said, “Now, young lady, tell me about yourself.”
By now relaxed, I began to describe my tame-by-comparison adventures.
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