What It Was Like

by Peter Seth

  After my thirteen hours of coma-sleep, I came downstairs feeling like somebody had hit me over the head with a baseball bat. Maybe a shower would make me feel human again, but first I went into the kitchen to ask my Mom a question.

  “Hi,” I said. “Did anyone call for me?”

  “Yes,” said my mother, turning around from the stove where she was cooking something. “A girl. But she didn’t give her name. She said that you would know who it was.”

  That made me feel better instantly. I ran back upstairs and took a hot-cold-hot-cold-hot shower, sort of like James Bond does, that reinvigorated me and somewhat restored my humanity. All the while my mind raced with plans. I had much to do: Connect with Rachel. Meet her mother and her father, in whatever order they wanted. Get myself organized for Columbia. And do all my shopping for school. I had only a couple of days before Freshman Orientation started. Thank goodness, I was finally “going away to college.” OK, it was only Manhattan, not all that far from the Island, but I’d still be living on campus, in the dorms. I know that some kids commuted to Columbia and had to live in their parents’ home; at least I was spared that.

  I came back downstairs, clean and ready for the day. My mother read my mind and had French toast, Canadian bacon, and the real thick apple juice I like prepared for my first breakfast home. It was one of the few good things she cooked, and I needed fuel. I had taken the Freshman Orientation packet from Columbia to Mooncliff, but I have to admit that I only glanced at it once during the whole summer. I guess I had wanted to be a different person, a less responsible one. Now that I was back in the real world, I had to attend to business.

  “Can I use your car this morning?” I asked my Mom, who was pouring milk into a measuring cup with surgical concentration.

  “Why?” she said suspiciously, with that parental reflex of refusal.

  “You know I have a million errands to run,” I said.

  “‘A million’?” she repeated archly.

  “As many as I have,” I said. “And no more French toast. Please.”

  “Well . . .” she said, pausing for no reason because we both knew that she had to say ‘yes,’ “As long as you bring me a half a gallon of milk from the A&P on the way home.”

  “Does the milk have to be from the A&P?”

  “You know your father likes the A&P milk,” she answered as if it were something I should know. And I admit that I did.

  “OK,” I muttered. “One half-gallon, A&P milk.” I loved my parents, but I already couldn’t stand being home.

  I made a list of everything I needed. I figured I could buy some stuff at the Columbia bookstore, but I wanted to start with some basic things, all fresh and new, the spiral notebooks I like, pens, etc., and I could probably get that stuff cheaper out here. Things in the City were generally more expensive. Plus I had to go to the bank. There were a couple of guys from high school, Paul and Jeff, I wanted to catch up with before they went off to school (Williams and Lehigh, respectively), but they could wait. I had more immediate things to do.

  I waited until after 10:00 to call the Princes’ number. I figured that was a decent hour: not too early, not too late. I picked up the phone on the kitchen wall, dialed the number, and pulled the long cord into the dining room for some privacy. I needn’t have bothered. On the second ring, it picked up.

  “Hello,” said a female voice, “Prince residence.” It was a soft Southern-accented voice and definitely not Rachel.

  “Hello, is Rachel home?” I asked.

  “No,” said the voice. “I’m sorry she’s out. May I ask who’s calling?”

  I gave her my name and number and asked when she’d be back.

  “She went out with her mother, so there’s no telling,” said the voice. “But I’ll tell her you called.”

  Before I could say “thank you” she hung up.

  OK, I thought to myself, I’ll do the rest of what I have to do, and I’ll see Rachel later. I told myself that I had to be patient; if I thought about all the time I wasn’t with Rachel, I’d go nuts. Instead, I went on my errands.

  The first thing I did was go to the bank. I had two checks: one was my regular paycheck for the summer, and the other was a separate check for Close-Down. I put the whole regular check into my savings account, and the Close-Down check into my checking. I have to say that I felt good about this; I’d wanted to come back with a decent chunk of money to start the fall with, and I did. I’m not exactly a pauper, but I’m just about the farthest thing from rich, and this was far-and-away the most money I had ever had in the bank in my entire life. I had no idea what my expenses would be, but at least I had a nest egg to start with.

  As I drove around from store to store in my mother’s old Ford Falcon (a car that does not deserve a nickname), it occurred to me that, if I wanted to, I could just drive over to Rachel’s house. I knew the address, and I knew where the town of Oakhurst was. I had been there several times. I was even at a debating tournament at Oakhurst High, the same one that Rachel went to. I could drive over there, go into a gas station and just ask for directions. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to find the house; there was nothing stopping me. Nothing stopping me except good common sense. The last thing Rachel needed was me showing up unannounced, before she had time to prepare the situation. Not that I didn’t want to drive over there, take her in my arms, and re-enter The Zone – with everything that meant. The main thing is that I didn’t. Instead, I finished my errands, stopped at the A&P for the half-gallon of milk, and went home.

  I was rewarded for my patience and self-control. Not more than ten minutes after I walked in the door, the phone rang. I pounced on it, feeling optimistic.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Thank God it’s you,” Rachel said, and I felt instantly happier and calmer. “God, I’ve missed your voice. I’ve missed your –”

  “Everything,” I concluded for her, and she laughed the musical laugh that I loved. I’d loved it on that first night after square dancing with Pecos Pete and the Joad family, and I loved hearing it then, over the phone.

  “So how have you been?” I asked her.

  “Semi-horrible,” she said fake-cheerfully. “But I’m much better now.”

  “Me too,” I agreed.

  “Can I ask what you are doing for dinner tonight?” she floated.

  I played along. “I don’t know,” I said. “What am I doing for dinner tonight?”

  “You’re going to meet me and my mother and Herrrb at our beach club and have dinner,” she said. “If that’s OK with you?”

  “That is more than OK with me!” I answered eagerly.

  She lowered her voice and whispered hurriedly, “You have no idea how horrible it is here, the tension. She really hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you,” I tried to comfort her. “I’m sure she’s just –”

  “No!” she cut me off. “You’ll see.”

  “OK . . .” I said. “You know that I don’t hate you.”

  “I don’t hate you either,” she said.

  Just like that, we were back in The Zone. We talked a little longer. Rachel gave me the address of the beach club and a bunch of warnings about what not to talk about during the evening: the War, the Marshaks, and the divorce.

  I just laughed her off, “Don’t worry, sugar. I know how to handle adults.”

  “You’ve never met my mother,” she said.

  “Don’t worry so much!” I said. “I’ll charm her, and she’ll relax and let you go out with me, and we’ll have everything we want. Time, privacy, no Jerry, no Estelle. Just like we planned.”

  That made her laugh. Which is what I always wanted, one way or the other: to make her happier.

  “I told you, we’re going to do everything right,” I said. “See you tonight.”

  Record of Events #17 - entered Thursday, 5:16 A.M.

>   ≁

  Forget about what I said to Rachel. I was completely nervous about that first dinner at the Costa Brava Beach Club for a whole list of reasons, as you can well imagine. First time meeting the Mother . . . and the Mother’s New Boyfriend. I know that many, if not most, teenage girls fight with their mothers, but there was something definitely strange going on with Rachel and her mother, something extra. (And maybe with her father too, for that matter, but apparently I wasn’t going to meet him this time.) And it was at one of those ritzy beach clubs on the ocean – the kind of place I’d been to only once in my life, courtesy of rich cousin Ralph. But I resolved to make the evening a success. We had to get through this night in order to get time on our own.

  I approached the dinner as I would a college interview. I got out my lucky blue blazer (the one I wore to my Columbia interview) with my lucky Bobby Kennedy for Senate lapel pin in the pocket, a blue pinstripe Oxford shirt, neat pants, and shined loafers. I passed on the tie; I figured that it was a beach club. I got myself into a frame of mind to impress Rachel’s mother and Herb. I would be crisp and alert and respectful. It was very clear what had to be done. I would out-phony the phonies and win their trust so that they wouldn’t interfere with Rachel and me.

  “You look gorgeous!” said my mother when I came downstairs, which instantly made me check myself in the front hall mirror. I was not gorgeous, but it would have to do; my appearance, I mean. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to neaten up one last time.

  “Can I take the Chrysler?” I asked her.

  “Ask your father,” she replied. Neither my father’s Chrysler nor my mother’s Ford was really new or nice, but the Chrysler was newer and nicer. And bigger.

  “Hey,” I said to my Dad who was leaning back in his recliner, reading TV Guide very close up, “You think I can have the Chrysler?”

  “You think you can put some gas in it?” he replied. Which meant yes.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You should put your glasses on.”

  “Good night, college man!” he said, bringing the little magazine closer.

  My Dad has a good sense of humor. He’s basically a gentle man who always tries to say “yes” to me, provided I didn’t screw up. That arrangement worked well for a fairly long time.

  ≁

  I got to the Costa Brava Beach Club early, but I didn’t go in. I parked the Chrysler on the side of Ocean Boulevard, in full view of the Costa Brava’s illuminated entrance. I didn’t want to be too early or too late. I wanted to walk into the dining room where I was supposed to meet Rachel and her mother at exactly, perversely 8:00. I timed it perfectly, despite the snotty look and slow response I got from the guy who parked the Chrysler, which was way too shabby a car for this place, and despite the snooty questioning I got from the guy at the front desk when I asked directions to the dining room.

  I walked into the reception area of the Neptune Room, went straight up to the tuxedoed maitre d’ at his podium at exactly 8:00, and asked for “The Capulet table, please!” Then I corrected my little joke and gave the right name. He looked down at me, gave me a brief unfriendly inspection, and passed me off to a young girl in a blue and white uniform.

  “Louise, take this young man to table twenty-four,” he said to the girl and went back to looking at whatever he was looking at. The girl in the uniform smiled blankly, turned her back to me, and walked away. I guessed that I was supposed to follow. Nice place, but I refused to let their attitude bother me. I followed Louise as she turned the corner, and I could suddenly see the whole Neptune Room spread before me, all blue and white – blue tablecloths and white candles and white plates, and a wall of windows showing the white, sandy beach and the wide blue Atlantic Ocean just beyond. My eyes zipped around the room full of diners, talking loudly and eating loudly, until I saw Rachel.

  She was at a corner table, and she was looking straight at me, rising out of her chair with a huge smile on her face. Seeing her, I felt a charge of pleasure and excitement.

  “Thank you, Louise,” I said. “I see them,” and I almost ran over the poor girl, getting to Rachel.

  “Hello!” I practically shouted as we converged.

  She greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, her hands holding me back a little by my forearms, just in case I got too close. A quick look in her eyes told me that she was nervous but hopeful.

  “Hi!” she whispered. “You’re late.”

  “No, I’m not,” I whispered back. “I’m on time.”

  She took my hand and turned me to the table where I could see her mother and the man who sat across from her. It was a round table, and Rachel and I were going to be sitting across from each other.

  I greeted her mother first.

  “Hello, Mrs. Prince,” I said warmly, trying not to sound insincere. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  I tried not to react to the sight of her face as I extended my hand, but Rachel’s mother was not a pretty woman. In fact, with all her make-up and puffy reddish hair and mouth and fingernails and jewelry, she was quite the opposite of attractive. I’m not saying she wasn’t expensively and carefully dressed, but everything about her was a little too much, and it was especially off-putting, next to the pure beauty of her daughter. It was no wonder that she resented Rachel.

  “Nice to meet you too,” she said, sounding completely insincere, shaking my hand with a limp rattle of bracelets. “Rachel cannot stop talking about you.”

  “Good things, I hope,” I replied.

  “You’ve made quite a big impression on her.” She was not just looking at me; she was sizing me up.

  “Mother,” Rachel muttered.

  “Well, Rachel makes quite an impression on everybody,” I said. “You should be very proud of your daughter.” I would not back down.

  “Yes, I am. Very,” she said with a smile like a knife, not backing down to me either. “Let me introduce you to Herb Perlov.”

  All this time I felt the presence of the man sitting across from Mrs. Prince, but I could not, would not disengage from her. Now I could.

  “Hello, sir,” I said to the man sitting down. Rachel introduced me as I shook hands with Herb.

  Even though he was sitting down, I could tell that Herb was a big, bony man. Balding and tanned, he leaned toward me with an aggressive smile, a hairy hand coming out of his blue seersucker sports jacket. He tried to crush/test my hand in the handshake, but I was ready and held my hand firmly in his vise.

  “Nice to meet you,” I lied.

  Herb had bushy black eyebrows behind thick black-framed glasses, a peeling, freckled dome, and an extremely confident grin.

  “Sit down, kid,” he said. “Have something to drink.”

  “Herb!” Mrs. Prince cautioned him.

  “I didn’t say anything alcoholic,” Herb defended himself. “Have a Coke,” he said to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will. Make it a double.” Which got a tension-breaking laugh from everyone as I sat down.

  I looked across to Rachel and said a private “hi.”

  “Hi,” she whispered back to me as her mother interrupted to ask her a question.

  “Rachel,” said Mrs. Prince. “Tell me again what’s the name of that store where you bought those ridiculously expensive boots?”

  Rachel answered her mother sharply, “They were not ridiculously expensive, and I didn’t even want new boots. You’re the one who told me to go buy them.” They began an uncomfortable exchange of claims and counter-claims about said boots. Embarrassed, I looked down at my table setting – fat silverware, big, mostly-white dishes painted in a nautical theme, with ‘Costa Brava’ in blue, and several different glasses – and caught my breath. I remembered to snatch the blue napkin off my plate and put it in my lap.

  “Leave her alone, for God’s sake,” Herb said to Mrs. Prince. “Stop busting chops!” And he winked at me, in an
“us guys” way.

  “So Rachel tells us that you’re going to Columbia,” he said, taking the cellophane wrapper off a cigar.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m starting this week.”

  “Columbia,” said Herb, biting the end off his cigar. “Good school.”

  “Tell him where you went, Herb,” said Mrs. Prince. “Go on.” Before Herb could tell me, Rachel’s mother crowed, “Harvard. The college and the law school, right?”

  Herb didn’t say anything. He just chuckled and lit the tip of his cigar with a gold Zippo lighter.

  I admit it: it zinged me. Harvard was a big name to drop, and she dropped it right on me.

  All I could do was mutter, “Also good schools.” Which made them burst into laughter, in my direction.

  “I love to drop the H-bomb!” said Mrs. Prince to Herb with a little smirk. “It always gets such a great reaction.”

  I looked across to Rachel for comfort, but she was looking down at the tiny printed menu that was next to each plate. She looked much more grown-up than at Mooncliff, in a dress, with make-up and her hair done. She looked beautiful and uncomfortable at the same time.

  “Hey,” I said to Rachel. “When I called you this morning, you weren’t home. Who answered your phone?”

  “Oh,” said Rachel as I startled her out of her thoughts. “Ella Ruth. She told me that you called.”

  “Is she your – ?” I asked her and Mrs. Prince.

  Rachel jumped in, saying, “She comes in to help clean up and stuff, but we don’t have a live-in anymore. My mother thought that the last one was stealing from her.”

  “I did not!” said Mrs. Prince, sitting straight up.

  “And Ella Ruth doesn’t steal?” I commented.