What It Was Like

by Peter Seth

  “Not so far,” said Rachel, playing back to me. “But I’m sure my mother is watching her very carefully.”

  “It is not that –” Mrs. Prince defended herself.

  Herb interrupted, “I tell you, Eleanor,” – Eleanor! That was the first time I’d ever heard Mrs. Prince’s first name! – “I can find you someone trustworthy, somebody who is bonded. And fully guaranteed, if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s not about the stealing –” Mrs. Prince said.

  “Oh yes, it is,” Rachel put in.

  “No, it’s about privacy! It’s about feeling comfortable in my own home,” Mrs. Prince insisted. “I just got one giant nuisance out of my house. I don’t need another!”

  That comment stopped the conversation for a moment. I was wondering if anyone was going to mention the Princes’ divorce. Now someone had.

  Mrs. Prince broke the silence, addressing Rachel, “You know Herb was very helpful to me, during all the proceedings.”

  Herb spoke up, between cigar puffs, “Bernie did a fine job for you. I was just happy to be of help, reading things.”

  “You are always a help,” responded Mrs. Prince, with a way-too-charming smile in Herb’s direction that made Rachel squirm in her seat.

  Fortunately, the waitress came just then to remind us what the specials were.

  I had no control of the conversation; I just went wherever it was pushed.

  Mrs. Prince turned to me with a cocked eyebrow as she cracked a dinner roll with her perfect pink talons. “So, has Rachel told you of her well-thought-out plan not to go to college?”

  Before I could answer, Rachel jumped in, “At least not straight out of high school! Why can’t I take a year off before I go to college?”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “To live!”

  “You don’t know how to live?” Mrs. Prince said, with a raised eyebrow. “Why not learn a little something first? Then you can live.”

  She and Herb had another good chuckle over that.

  “You don’t always have to ridicule me, Mother,” Rachel said. She looked at me for help.

  I started to say, “People have all kinds of different paths to –”

  “I know a little something about education,” Eleanor cut me off. “When I was head of the PTA –”

  “Once!” Rachel said directly to me. “When I was in fourth grade, she actually did something.”

  Herb asked Rachel bluntly, “So what are you going to do for a year? Go work in the Peace Corps?” He reached his hand a little ways on the tabletop to pat Rachel’s hand, for emphasis. “Even to work in the Peace Corps, you need a college degree. At least.”

  She immediately pulled her hand away from his. Which I was glad to see.

  “I can just picture my poor little girl working for the Peace Corps!” Mrs. Prince said, between bites of bread. “Imagine her in Africa: ‘Is there a Bloomingdale’s in this jungle?’”

  It wasn’t funny, but Eleanor and Herb laughed as if it were hilarious. Now I’ve seen parents tease their kids before. My Dad sometimes teases me. But with Eleanor Prince, there was almost no affection in her teasing. It was all, in one way or another, a little hard, a little cruel. I smiled a grim smile of support at Rachel, one that said: Let’s just get through this, and we’ll be OK.

  Her eyes widened with embarrassment and cried out, “You see what I’m going through? You see? I wasn’t exaggerating!”

  And she wasn’t. “Come on, Eleanor,” rasped Herb. “She’s much too fair-skinned for Africa. Maybe the Peace Corps has a junior branch in East Hampton.” Which gave rise to another duet of laughter.

  For the record, the dinner itself was decent: shrimp cocktail, salmon in some whitish sauce, and potatoes au gratin. Not much better than the fried clams at Howard Johnson’s that my parents splurged on, my second night home, but I guess I’m low class. Maybe that’s why she hated me, because almost from the moment that I sat down, I felt waves of condescension coming from Mrs. Prince. And Herb wasn’t that friendly either, no matter how much he talked and “joked.” To tell you the truth, I don’t think Mrs. Prince would have liked anybody Rachel brought to the dinner. For some reason, she was resolved to give her/me/us a hard time. Rachel could have shown up with Mahatma Gandhi, and they would have tsk-tsked him for wearing a diaper. Oh, there was a surface niceness throughout the entire meal, but I could tell by the time we got to dessert: Rachel and I were in for some considerable amount of trouble. I just didn’t know how much.

  “Daddy said that he’s getting me a Mustang when I get my license,” Rachel said.

  “We will have to see about that,” Mrs. Prince responded tartly.

  “It doesn’t matter what you say,” said Rachel. “The judge said that he could give me a Mustang for my birthday.”

  “After the stunt you just pulled? I don’t think so –” Mrs. Prince scoffed.

  “He’s still my father –” Rachel insisted.

  “Who thinks he can spoil you –” Mrs. Prince interrupted.

  “Who will do whatever he wants anyway!” continued Rachel. “Am I right?”

  She looked at Mrs. Prince and Herb, and they looked at each other grimly, seeming to agree with her.

  “I think the Court just might have something to say to Manny about that,” said Herb.

  Rachel laughed and said to me, “Wait till you meet my father. He’s a real trip-and-a-half.” I could see that she was saying that just to torment her mother, and Herb, too, for that matter. But it didn’t make me feel any better, seeing what I was getting into, in the real world of Rachel Prince. And her father’s name was Manny.

  “You’ll look fantastic in a Mustang,” I said, privately, across to Rachel, seeking The Zone.

  She smiled at me, seeking the same thing.

  “We’ll see what the future brings,” said Mrs. Prince, as if she had already decided the future. “You have a very big, important year of school in front of you, young lady. Let’s see how you do.”

  As we left the table and single-filed out of the Neptune Room, I managed to get behind Rachel and whisper to her, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

  She whispered over her shoulder, “I don’t know. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said. “Not seeing you.”

  She whispered, “Don’t you think I feel the same way?”

  Then she stopped and faced me.

  “But now do you see what I’m dealing with? Now you believe me?”

  The hopelessness in her look – and the directness of the plea behind it – touched me deeply. More than ever, I saw that she needed me. And nowhere in any of this was there any mention of Eric.

  ≁

  In the parking lot, I prayed – and I am not a praying person – that they would bring my car last. I didn’t need any comments – or non-comments, for that matter – from Mrs. Prince or Herb about the Chrysler. My prayer was answered when Herb’s humungous black Lincoln Continental was pulled up to the curb first. When I first saw it, I swear that I thought it was a hearse. No kidding.

  “Thank you so much for the dinner, Mrs. Prince,” I said, trying to sound straight-on sincere. “It was really wonderful.”

  “Why, you’re welcome,” she responded as if she were surprised that I should have the manners to thank her. “I certainly hope we’ll see you again,” she said when we both knew that she meant the opposite.

  “Oh, you will, Mrs. Prince,” I answered her, taking up her challenge with a smile. “Guaranteed.”

  Her eyes narrowed: she didn’t like that I said that, but I couldn’t help it. I had to show her, right then, that I was a serious person in Rachel’s life.

  I let the parking attendant open the front door for Mrs. Prince while I got the rear door for Rachel. (It was one of those cool, open-from-the-rear back doors on the Conti
nental.) She gave me a Thank-God-that’s-over roll of her eyes and whispered a quick “I love you” as she scooted into the back seat. She looked great in a dress. I was sorry to close the door on her and her tanned legs. As soon as I slammed the door, she turned to look at me through the window. I was instantly sorry that I missed the chance to kiss her – or something – but by now Herb had turned on the Conty’s engine, and they were about to drive away.

  “I love you,” she mouthed again through the glass as the big car sped away. I waved and said the same thing. I hoped that she saw it.

  I hoped that they didn’t see the shabby gray Chrysler being pulled up to the curb for me. But then again, I thought, so what if they did? This is who I was. They were going to find out, sooner or later.

  ≁

  Some nasty aftertaste – I think it was that white sauce on the salmon but it might have been the conversation – was making me queasy so I drove to my favorite local diner, The Lexington, near the railroad station in my town, to get something to take away the bitterness that wouldn’t go away. When I walked in, as I had done a thousand times during high school after some school play or game or event, I saw a couple of friends of mine, kids from my class. Not close friends, more like “say hello” friends. But they saw me, too, and called me over.

  These were kids who were going to live at home while going to college, going to places like Hofstra, Adelphi, Queens, and Nassau Community (“the thirteenth grade”). I was lucky that my scholarship covered room and board as well as most of my tuition. If I had to live at home for the next four years, well, I just wouldn’t do it.

  I sat down with them and we talked about starting college in the next few days, about what we did that past summer, about who was doing what and where. I had a black-and-white milkshake that covered up the sour tickle in my stomach and made me feel better. But all the while that I joked and bantered with these three guys and two girls, I kept thinking about Rachel and Mrs. Prince and Herb and going off to Columbia. And how I was going to keep everything together and get what I wanted.

  “So you gonna live in the freshman dorm?” one of the guys, Marty who was going to Nassau Community and had been in my homeroom for years, asked me.

  “I guess so,” I said. “Wherever they put me.”

  “You can have my bedroom,” cracked Vincent. Which made us all laugh.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I am ready to Get Out. If you know what I mean.”

  We all knew what I meant. Nothing more needed to be said.

  On the way home, I remembered to put some gas in the Chrysler, just as I had promised my Dad. At least I had something real and specific to feel good about.

  Record of Events #18 - entered Thursday, 11:17 P.M.

  ≁

  The next morning I woke up with a million things to do, including finishing packing all the stuff I was going to take to Columbia. It was good that I could leave some things at home and get them later in the year as the weather got colder; I didn’t have to take everything in one trip. But as I was getting the day going – showering, eating breakfast, making lists – I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened last night: how flat-out mean Mrs. Prince and Herb were to Rachel and me. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got; but cold-angrier. There was no way that I was going to let Mrs. Prince interfere with Rachel and me. They obviously had no idea about love, and she obviously had no sympathy for Rachel. If she did, she wouldn’t’ve treated me, someone her daughter obviously cares about – and Rachel herself! – in such a haughty, snide, backhanded manner. It would be insane to let Eleanor Prince determine our lives.

  The phone rang. I picked it up before the second ring was even finished, pulling the phone, cord, and myself into the dining room for some privacy.

  “Hello?” I said, hoping, feeling that it was Rachel.

  “Can you meet me outside the Lord & Taylor in Garden City at one thirty?” she whispered.

  “I can do anything you ask me to,” I said right back.

  “OK,” she murmured dreamily. “One thirty.” And then she hung up.

  I hung up too. Short, but very sweet.

  “Can I borrow the car this afternoon?” I said to my mother, who just happened to be standing there in the kitchen when I went back in to hang up the phone.

  “What,” asked my mother, as she was clearing away my breakfast dishes. “She calls, and you jump? You’re not even done packing!”

  I turned back and said, “Ma? Just leave me alone, please. You really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then I continued on upstairs, not wanting to get into an argument.

  As I went up the steps, I heard her shout, “I didn’t say ‘yes’ about the car!” But I knew that she didn’t mean it. There was no way that I was not going to take the car. My mother was big on empty threats. But I generally had good judgment and never got into any real trouble. (I don’t count any of the stuff that happened at Mooncliff.) She knew that I’d be ready for tomorrow. As I said, I was always a good kid.

  I vaguely knew where the Lord & Taylor in Garden City was, but I checked in the Yellow Pages for the address. My family didn’t shop at Lord & Taylor. It was too far away and too expensive anyway. If it hasn’t been made clear before, I don’t care that much about clothes and outside appearances, but if Rachel did, it was fine with me. I was there to be with her.

  I straightened up the inside of my Mom’s Ford. I wished that I had time to wash the whole car and maybe get my mother’s smell out of its interior, but there was no time for that. On my last trip to the bathroom, I gave myself an extra spritz of Right Guard and hoped for the best.

  “When are you going to finish packing?” asked my mother at the front door as I was leaving.

  “I’m almost done,” I said, cutting across the lawn. “Did you do the rest of my laundry?”

  “What do you think?” she answered, as if to say: Of course I did!

  “Then everything’s fine!”

  I got to Garden City early, which was a good thing, because Lord & Taylor was a big store, and there were four entrances. I parked in the lot next to the huge, white-painted brick building and figured that, if worst came to worst, I’d just walk around the outside, from entrance to entrance, until I found her. It couldn’t be that hard. Locking the Ford, I pocketed the keys and walked toward the Lord & Taylor. It was very clean-looking, with trimmed bushes and little flowers framing the walkways. There was a large glass-doored entrance right in front of me; maybe she would be there. That seemed to be the logical place. Why shouldn’t logic be on my side?

  I waited there ten minutes, standing in full sight of the entrance, easy for anyone to see. I watched the well-dressed, mostly female customers spin through the revolving doors, in with nothing and out with big “L&T” shopping bags. I looked at my reflection in the plate glass window, me in my jeans and open Oxford shirt over a T-shirt. Maybe I should have dressed better, but as I said, I don’t care about clothes. I care about people.

  There was a large clock with Roman numerals on a fancy lamppost that read almost 1:40. OK, I told myself, I’ll check the other entrances. I can’t stand here any longer.

  I checked the other entrances. First, the one on Franklin Avenue – she wasn’t there – then the one on the other side. Not there, either. I decided to go back to the parking lot side; that was the most logical meeting place. I was starting to get sweaty now, which was a complete drag. I had to slow down. There I was, walking in circles around a big rectangle when I had so much to do to get ready for Columbia, so many “responsibilities” as my father would say. But instead, I was chasing a real dream.

  Then she called from behind me, “There you are!” And I turned around as she jumped into my arms.

  “Oh, baby, baby, baby,” she cried into my neck as she held me tightly. She smelled like sweet flowers. Her long, dark hair felt silky against my cheek. I held her so tight
ly that she had to push away from me.

  “You’re crushing me,” she said.

  “I know,” I answered. “I don’t care.”

  She looked terrific in tight jeans, high leather boots, and a pink blouse that looked as soft as a cloud and very touchable. She had a nice leather purse on a strap with a golden clasp that hung from her shoulder. It was still kind of new to see her in something other than a Mooncliff uniform; she was definitely not the same girl at home that she was at camp.

  “Now control yourself, please,” she said. “This is Nanci Jerome,” directing my attention to a girl – a big, shapeless girl dressed mostly in black – standing a few yards away from us, smiling and giving me a little wave. “She drove me here.”

  A large, friendly pudding of a girl with short, brownish hair, she wore black leotards that covered her thick arms and her legs down to her tan Dingo boots. She had some weird type of colorful peasant skirt wrapped around her wide waist, and a sheepish grin that kind of reminded me of Marcus.

  “Well, thank you, Nanci Jerome!” I said.

  “It’s only ’cause Rachel nagged me until I said yes,” she said with a little lisp. I tried to keep looking her in the eye, even though I couldn’t help but notice how thick her legs were in her black tights below her too-short skirt. And slung over one shoulder was this giant, overstuffed brown suede purse, dangling with fringe and beads, while the other shoulder was draped in some kind of shawl. Or maybe it was two shawls. Even though she was in Garden City, she was dressed for Greenwich Village.

  “She’s very good at that,” I said, squeezing Rachel’s hand to keep her from saying anything else.

  “That is not true,” said Rachel. “But Nanci did save my life. She’s the only one who can talk some reason into Eleanor.”

  Nanci gave me a little twisted smile of pride.

  “Well,” she said to me wryly, “Rachel seemed to be in such agony without you that –”