Jack laughed. “Hey, they recognize you, they think you’re that nun!”
He grinned at the nuns, then reached over and squeezed Andrea’s breast. The two nuns turned quickly and hurried off.
“Jack!” cried Andrea. “You—”
He laughed loudly, turned on the ignition, and sped off down the street, blowing his horn and waving out the window at the two nuns, who had turned once again to watch them go.
Andrea knew that dope dealing on the scale that Jack and his roommates conducted it was far from innocent. It was a simple and safe operation, Jack had told her candidly. Sid drove to Providence twice a week in the jeep and picked up several pounds of marijuana that was sent up from San Antonio. It was brought back to Jamaica Plain and cleaned and packaged by Morgie and Rita; then Jack sold it to petty dealers, mostly in the southern suburbs of Boston. “There’re lots of middle men in this business,” he said, “and we’re just one of ’em.” Andrea said little about this, but she nervously eyed the clear vials of cocaine that stood openly on the mantelpieces of the house, or the small manila packets that Jack always shoved into his jeans just before he went out anywhere.
Early one Saturday morning, Andrea found herself in the chilly kitchen with Morgie. The oven had been turned on high and the door left open to help heat the room. Andrea prepared herself a cup of instant coffee, sat at the table, and picked up a packet of white powder that was not the consistency of cocaine.
“What’s this?” she inquired idly.
Morgie didn’t look up from her copy of Harlem Hellions. “Smack,” she said.
“Smack? You mean heroin?”
Morgie nodded behind the book. “You know who gets hooked most around here?”
“Who?” said Andrea, not quite ready for such a topic so early in the day.
“Junior college teachers. Wouldn’t think it, would you?”
“No,” whispered Andrea.
“Somebody ought to write a book about it. Do you write?” she asked Andrea.
“Only term papers and like that,” said Andrea uneasily. “Does Jack sell much smack?” she asked, hating the word.
“Now and then. The thing about smack is, it’s reliable. You get a recession, you know, and people don’t smoke as much grass, they can’t afford it, but smack—people are addicts, you know, and they have to have it no matter what the economy’s like.”
Jack drove Andrea to Wenham that morning in the jeep. Just as she was climbing out, he slipped an ounce of grass, bound in a cellophane bag, into her jacket pocket.
“Thanks,” she said. She paused with her hand on the door handle. She leaned inside and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Another wonderful time.”
He smiled and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Sure.”
24
On the first Saturday in April, Andrea and her mother were lunching at the exclusive Cafe Lananas on Newbury Street. Vittoria had telephoned that morning, and her invitation was insistent, although Andrea’s assent was less than gracious. Over the top of the handwritten parchment menu, Andrea looked critically at the woman. Vittoria wore a brown tweed suit-dress with an off-white turtleneck sweater. Her black hair was fixed in a bun at the nape of her neck; and, like her daughter, she wore no makeup other than a slight blush to her cheeks, clear lip gloss, and the lightest brushing of pale mascara to emphasize her large eyes. Vittoria had dressed in a manner she knew would be approved by her daughter. She looked up suddenly: “Do you want to share a cold plate for appetizers?”
“Whatever,” Andrea replied in a voice that expressed boredom and resignation.
“What were you thinking just then? You had the strangest look in your eyes!”
Andrea didn’t immediately reply. Then she said briskly, “I was thinking about the Cape. Marsha and I would like to use the house in Yarmouthport next weekend.”
“But it’s all closed up. There’s no heat and the electricity’s been turned off. You’ll freeze.”
“It’s not supposed to be cold this weekend. We’ll use the wood-burning stove, or the fireplace maybe. If you don’t want us to use the house, please just say so. I don’t intend to argue the point.”
Vittoria shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I suppose you could use the house, as long as you promise that if you get uncomfortable, you’ll check into a motel. Would you like me to drive you down on Friday, and Cosmo could pick you up on Sunday?”
“No. Marsha’s driving her VW, if it doesn’t die on her this week.”
“Won’t you be afraid all alone down there? No close neighbors off-season.”
Andrea unfolded her napkin, smoothing it across her lap. “That’s the point of it.”
A silence fell between them. Andrea glanced at the other tables in the restaurant, she peered through the front windows at the sidewalk, she examined the ceiling—she looked in every direction but her mother’s. Vittoria cleared her throat and spoke: “You may be a woman in everyone else’s eyes, Andrea, but I still see my pretty little girl.” Vittoria paused while the waiter took their order. “You were never a rebellious child,” she continued. “Sometimes difficult, of course, but Cosmo and I knew that very smart children are always a little difficult. You never really made us unhappy, Andrea, not for a moment of our lives, not until that day you . . . you got so upset.”
“Don’t bring it up. I don’t intend to go through it again.”
“If I could believe you had forgiven us—forgiven us for loving you so much—I’d never mention it again in my life,” said Vittoria earnestly. She reached affectionately toward the earlobe that held the ruby chip.
For the first time that day, Andrea looked directly into her mother’s eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want to forgive you,” she said grimly. “Of course I do. It’s just that I can’t forgive you . . .”
Vittoria withdrew her hand.
“Your father and I have a surprise for you,” she whispered. “I’m not supposed to tell because it’s your birthday present, and—”
“I just had a birthday.”
“I mean your next one. The Antiquities Society is sponsoring a tour of Europe this summer—July and August, six countries. Well . . .” Vittoria paused.
“What are you trying to say?”
“We thought it would be a good idea if you went to Europe with the group. It’s a charter and the price is right and the itinerary is just marvelous. We signed you up, dear. An early birthday gift, or Christmas, or Halloween, or something. Some of the members of the Society are a little stuffy, but you and Marsha—”
“Marsha?”
“That’s the other part. Marsha’s going too. I asked the Libermans if they wanted to send Marsha, and they said of course, so I pulled a few strings and got her included. We thought you might be lonely all by yourself—”
“On a tour, you mean.”
“Well, darling, you will probably be the youngest members.”
Jack. The name loomed in Andrea’s mind, unconnected with any image.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have gone ahead with this without asking first, but— Oh, Andrea,” cried her mother, “please don’t say you don’t want to go!”
Andrea thought again, and a vivid but static image of Jack was seared across the back of her eyes. “I didn’t expect this,” she said.
“Of course not! That’s what makes it a surprise. We had already planned to give you a trip when you graduate, but this was too good to pass up. After lunch would you like to go back to that shop on the corner of Clarendon? I think that salmon blouse would look nice on you. And the kelly green sweater for Marsha. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” said Andrea absently. “I suppose I’ll need a whole new wardrobe for the trip.”
“Oh, yes. Keep June free for shopping and shots and everything,” Vittoria said giddily. �
�You should apply for your passport tomorrow, before the rush. You and Marsha will have lots to talk about while you’re in Yarmouthport.”
“Yes, I know we will.”
Mist hung in opalescent veils across Route 6A as they drove toward Yarmouthport early Saturday morning. The air was sharp and cold and smelled of rain. Andrea sighed and scooted farther down in the seat, pressing her knees against the dash. From her bag she took a cigarette and lighted it, flipping the match out the slightly cracked window. The smoke swirled lazily from her mouth and was indistinguishable from the mist beyond the windshield of the jeep.
“Lousy weather,” Jack said.
“Ummmm . . .” Andrea replied. “I’m sick of rain. This whole winter’s been lousy with rain.”
Jack shrugged one shoulder as he shifted gears and swung off the exit ramp for Yarmouthport. The wheels of the jeep hummed evenly. There was little traffic, and he pushed his foot heavily on the accelerator. “It’ll be summer soon and you can lay out on a beach the whole fucking day.”
Yeah, she thought. On the Riviera.
Andrea had not yet told him of her parents’ gift, hesitating because she was not certain how he would react. It was not his anger or disappointment she feared—it was his indifference. She had engineered this weekend for them at the Cape simply to be alone with him out of the house in Jamaica Plain. She hoped this time would be so romantic that when she did tell him of the European journey, he would feel regret. She’d like him to ask her not to go. Andrea suspected that, in Jack’s case, absence only made the heart grow farther away.
That night, they ate at a small restaurant in Hyannis and returned late to the beach house. Jack laid a fire in the hearth, and they smoked two joints and snorted four lines of cocaine. They spread several blankets and quilts on the rough-planked floor and made heated love. Andrea had never been so ardent in her lovemaking and did not restrain her cries. When they finished, she lay on her back, her head resting in the crook of Jack’s arm. The firelight played over their sweat-gleaming bodies, and, thinking of the cold that prevailed in the entire house except for the spot where they were just now, Andrea snuggled closer. She told Jack that she would not be seeing him that summer and why. He said nothing, and she was wretched.
She told him she loved him. She wept and turned her face against his chest. Jack remained silent, his body stiffening beneath her weight. Andrea continued to talk, knowing she should stop, but unable to. Finally her voice trailed off. Jack held her until she stopped shaking and the tears subsided. In a thick voice she asked if he loved her.
Jack eased her away and sat up. He stabbed his cigarette out and shoved the ashtray roughly away. The heavy oval of glass slid across the blanket and cracked against the hearth. He stood and moved into the cold shadows where their clothing was heaped by the wicker sofa.
He picked up Andrea’s blouse and tossed it to her. “I’ll douse the fire while you’re getting your things together,” he said shortly.
“What?” Andrea sat up, crossing her arms around her knees, feeling the room’s chill. “Didn’t . . . didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Hard to miss.”
Her voice was a frightened whisper: “I said I love you, Jack. I’ve never said that—”
“I heard you,” he said in a hard voice, roughly yanking up the zipper of his jeans.
Andrea watched as he pulled on his boots and his leather jacket. His heels resounded against the hollow floorboards as he walked away from her. “I’ll get the jeep warmed up and then I’ll take care of the fire. Just be ready to go.”
The door slammed behind him, rattling the glass panes. It wasn’t until Andrea heard the engine of the jeep roar to life that she covered her face and began once more to weep.
Jack drove her back to Wenham in strained silence. When they pulled up to the dorm, Andrea leaned over to embrace him, but he pushed her back without a word. She did not leave her room in Wordsworth Hall for two days and ate only when Marsha brought her food from the vending machines in the lobby. Andrea had not the emotional strength to relate to her friend what had happened at the Cape house. Marsha stayed in the room with her, reading and saying little and avoiding any reference to Jack. On the third day Marsha insisted that Andrea leave her room, and took her into the village to a double-feature of Dracula’s Dog and Nocturna, Granddaughter of Dracula. The absurdity of the films put Andrea into a better mood, and when they left the theatre, she suggested they drive over the town line to the nearest pub. Sitting in a back booth, they each consumed four large frosted mugs of beer, and talked. After her second cheeseburger, Andrea confessed Jack’s coarse treatment of her. Marsha nodded sympathetically through a near-drunken haze, her face screwed into devout understanding.
“I shouldn’t have pushed it. I shouldn’t have—”
“Bullshit,” said Marsha. “You did exactly what you felt like doing and it was right. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just what I would have done.” She leaned far across the table. “You’re better off rid of him now, and by the middle of next week you’ll know it too.”
“I know it now.”
“First time I saw that man I could have told you he’s not the kind you fall in love with, Andrea.”
“Well then, what do you do with a man like Jack?”
“Just what he did with you: fuck him and have a good time, and that’s it.”
“Oh, Marsha!”
“It’s true. He had no right not to at least talk it out with you, let you down easy.” Marsha hiccuped and sat back. “No matter how good-looking he is or how good he is in the sheets, he’s just a bum. Personally, I think he’s only read one book in his life—the one published by Ma Bell, and he gave that up when he heard about four-one-one.” Marsha lurched back across the table. “If it’d been me on the Cape with him and he pulled that stunt, he’d be six feet under and I’d be in Framingham. Oh God, Andrea, here we are: two young beautiful women, both jilted and both drunk!”
“Both? You mean Joshua—”
Marsha nodded: “That circumcised asshole—”
“What happened?! When?!”
“Dumped me—like his goddamn laundry that I used to do for him every Sunday. I get an eight hundred on my math on the college boards, and I’m doing laundry every Sunday morning for this creep who can’t light a match without reading the instructions! Last weekend, probably just as Jack Jerk was pulling his number, Joshua laid it on. Said he needed to ‘expand his horizons’ or ‘plow new fields’ or something. The only new field he wants to plow is this nasty-smelling little blonde who lives in his apartment building. You ought to see her, Andrea—all teeth and no tits. But real Aryan. I got plunged for a shiksa.”
“That’s awful,” giggled Andrea. “That’s just awful,” she said in a serious voice.
“No no,” cried Marsha, holding up her hand in mock solemnity: “I don’t want sympathy from you. My little crisis with Joshua is nothing compared to your trauma in breaking up with the leather fiend/dope dealer/nursery school dropout!”
“Well, after this,” nodded Andrea, “finals will be a breeze.”
“They’d better be. In six weeks, we’ll be in Paris—ever get fucked by a Frenchman? It’s great. In seven weeks, we’ll be in Rome—ever get fucked by an Italian? It’s great. In eight weeks, we’ll—”
Last call was announced, and Marsha lost her place.
25
Andrea and Marsha had no difficulty in meeting men abroad. Andrea knew French and Italian, and Marsha had French and German. The two young women dutifully spent their bleary-eyed mornings contemplating monuments, museums, and broken statuary. Afternoons were always reserved for specialized sightseeing, which, translated, meant shopping, so the two young women were not put to the trouble of accounting for themselves. In the evening it was usually easy enough to partake of the table d’hote dinner at
the hotel, but Andrea and Marsha were rarely persuaded to join a group for the theatre or concert. But after carrying out the obligations they thought necessary for the maintenance of their reputations—the women they travelled with being, after all, quite nice—Andrea and Marsha felt themselves free to explore.
Their lead line to exploration was a European bar guide that Joanna Liberman had recommended. In Italy they found one man better looking than the next, and here they were fabulously courted. In Germany Marsha spent three days with a computer engineer who had a rare collection of Dresden china, telling the leader of the tour that she had to make a spiritual pilgrimage to Dachau. In Munich Andrea one evening had the choice between a thin young man dressed in black leather and a young businessman who was handsome but slightly corpulent; remembering Jack, she chose the businessman. In Amsterdam she went out with a man who taught music theory at the university, and Marsha dated a man who took her to every live sex show in town. In England they found the men pallid or uptight or both, and glutted themselves with the theatre and pub-crawling. During a long weekend in Zurich Andrea received a proposal of marriage from a handsome but overzealous dealer in Oriental art. She tactfully declined the proposal, but remained with the man until it was time to proceed to Paris. By the end of August, when they boarded the plane at Orly, each young woman was struggling with three more pieces of luggage than she had come with.
The previous year at Wenham Andrea had declared History & Literature her joint major, and in her junior year she narrowed her study to that of the period between the world wars in France, Belgium, and Italy. Her upperclassman status provided a single room, directly adjoining Marsha’s, on a quiet end of the top floor of Wordsworth Hall. For Christmas that year her parents gave Andrea a bright red Trans-Am and, blushing for the opulence of the gift, said they were only being selfish in the hope that Andrea would visit them more often than previously—but she did not.
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