Absaroka wrote:Excellent Erin, and I hear the voice of a lot of experience in this chapter. Did anything like that ever happen to you in a boat? Or is it writing out your fears?
Thanks, Absaroka. When I was 14, I spent a long weekend with a friend of mine out on his father's sailboat. The first day, we ran aground on Averil Harriman's private beach in Sands Point and cracked the rudder. After making repairs, we sailed out along the North Shore of Long Island to Northport Harbor. When we awoke the next morning, we were engulfed in a dense fog, and the calm that came with it. As the boat had no motor, we had to paddle our way out of the harbor and into Long Island Sound, but even then we didn't catch a breeze. Finally, a motor boat out of City Island towed us back to where he kept the boat, which is how I first heard of City Island.
One cirticism- grandma and her broken hip would seem to warrant more attention.
Patience, my dear. Patience.
I liked what seemed to be a very girlish description of everyone getting married or engaged- to my mind at least you seemed to capture a girls perspective on this rather than who guys at that age might be writing about this. Also interesting with stuff like it's Jeff's boat, not hers. Lets us know it's a girl in a certain time and place.
It took even longer for me to get around to posting this segment than I had expected. But, as it includes my big day, I hope it was worth waiting for.
January, 1975 to September, 1975
Grandma’s recovery was slow and painful, and although she did walk again, it wasn’t for long. Shortly after Christmas, she stopped getting out of bed. We hired an aide to stay with her during the day so that Mom could continue to work. At night, Fred would run a laundry to deal with the bed linens she’d soiled that day. Because the house had a cesspool that was nearly full, he ran the drain hose for the washer out the basement window, and the strip of grass on the side of the house quickly turned into a swamp.
One night, as Fred was tending to something outside, I commented to Mom about how great he was in dealing with Grandma and keeping his sense of humor.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s a real saint.”
Just then, we heard a thick splat outside and Fred bellowing, “Aw, manure!” It was the best laugh we’d had in a long time.
At first, Grandma seemed to remain pretty sharp, mentally. I visited with her when I could, and we would talk about when Mom and I lived with her. It had only been for two years, but it seemed to have meant a lot to her.
But soon, she was telling me of her younger days, when she was apparently quite a cut up. She told me lots of stories about when Mom and Uncle Rob were children, things I’d never heard about before. And she told me about Grandpa, and how he was offered a job in the government during the war because of his experience in marine insurance, and how he’d turned it down because he didn’t want to move his family.
“He loved our little house,” she said to me with pride. “And the town. You did, too, didn’t you?”
“Of course, Grandma,” I lied.
The room soon smelled of urine, a smell that to this day I associate with age, decay and the dissipation of life. The aide did her best, and Mom and Fred did theirs, but the odor was everywhere. And soon, Grandma began to slowly slip away from us.
She was telling the same stories, but with fewer details, and some that were muddled. She became prone to bouts of incoherence. And yet, she would sometimes brighten and tell me, “What a pretty skirt!” or “You look nice with your hair longer.” And every once in a while, she would say, unrelated to anything else, what a nice boy she thought Jeff was.
With each passing month, she fell deeper into senility. I knew it was tough for Mom to watch, so I tried not to make any complaints myself. There were times, now, when all Grandma seemed to do was to wail incoherently.
Of course, Jeff was there for a number of these, and, like Fred, he always seemed to be a little bit brighter and more cheerful. He played to Fred’s corny humor, which endeared him to both him and Mom, and it also allowed more laughter. And every time he came over, he would say hello to Grandma, whether she was coherent or not.
One night over Easter break, after I’d gotten home from a date with Jeff, I sat with Mom, watching “Casablanca” on television. After it was over, she turned to me and said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am for you and Jeff.”
I thought it was a strange thing for her to say just then.
“I knew how you felt about him back in high school,” she went on, “Even before you told me. Or at least I suspected. And, of course, once you got back together, we all knew where it was going.”
I smiled and hugged her.
“But, I still worried. Just because things were settled in your heart didn’t mean that it would be ‘happily ever after’ for you. In fact, no one gets ‘happily ever after’.”
“I know, Mom. I saw it with you and Dad, and I see it with you and Fred. There is always something to overcome, something to deal with.”
“That’s right, sweetie. The answer isn’t how to avoid the hard times; it’s how to deal with them. And I want to say this to you, just between you and me: Jeff is as solid as a rock. I know that you love each other, and I know that you appreciate all his traits, but I see how he is with Grandma, and that tells me a very great deal – he’s thoughtful and considerate, which we always knew, but he’s also not afraid to look life’s troubles in the eye and face them down. And, since you have that aspect, as well, I don’t worry about how you two will manage.”
As my graduation approached, Mom was in a real bind. Grandma was in no condition to receive company, but Mom wanted to have an appropriate celebration. In the end, she decided to go ahead with the party and whatever happened would happen.
She surprised us all, allowing us to get her into a wheelchair and remaining surprisingly coherent the entire day. It was her last gift to me. Ten days later, she died.
Once again, the tendency of Mom’s family to meet mourning with humor was in full swing. This time, Jeff was with me. He appreciated the fun.
“It’s a very healthy way to deal with it, I think,” he said. Of course, even he wasn’t prepared for Uncle Rob’s after-dinner stickball game out in front of the house, although he did get several hits. Maureen gave me a pair of tennis sneakers to replace my heels with, so I couldn’t get out of playing. Even Fred played, at one point hitting a triple.
A couple of months before graduation, I was a dinner guest on a spring Sunday afternoon at Jeff’s house. When I got there, Gloria complimented me on the spring dress I was wearing, and asked me to join her for a short outing. Jeff looked at me and shrugged, and I agreed to go, curious at what she might have in mind.
We got into her car, a white Chrysler New Yorker, and she chatted easily as she pulled out of the driveway. She hadn’t gone very far when she turned into a side street and found a place to park. As I got out of the car, I noticed we had stopped at the little country club.
“It’s an old mansion that was converted into a country club just after the war,” she told me. “I’ve been on the board of directors here for the past ten years, and I’ve just been elected the board’s secretary.”
“Oh,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, my dear. Now, come; let me show you a little of my world.”
As soon as we were inside, I was impressed by the warm atmosphere. The house was done in a grand old style, with high ceilings and lovely molding in every room. In the central hallway, there was a beautiful stairway, with a heavy rich wood banister that curled outwardly at the bottom, old portraits and sconces all the way down the stairs, and thick burgundy carpeting.
To the right there were French doors that opened into a large room that could serve as a dining room or a meeting room, and to the left there was a lounge, with darker colors and heavy furnishings. Past the stairs there was a hallway that led to the back and the other facilities.
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“Yes, I’ve always thought so.”
People began to cluster around us, greeting her enthusiastically, and she introduced me to all of them as her future daughter-in-law. A nice looking gentleman, wearing a suit, came over to say hello.
“Oh, hello, Senator,” she said. She then introduced me to the local State Senator, who had been re-elected despite being a Republican running in a Democratic district in the first post-Watergate election.
“Your son is a very lucky fellow,” he said to her as he took my hand.
After a while, we went into the lounge and were seated at a table in the corner. We each ordered a glass of white wine. She started to say something to me, and then stopped.
“Gloria,” I said, “This is all very nice. Now, why did you want to bring me here…today?”
She laughed at that.
“I do love you, Erin. All right, I did have a reason for bringing you here. Jeff tells me that you’ve been looking at different places for the wedding reception.”
“And you’d like to suggest we have it here?” I asked. I didn’t say it accusingly.
“Yes. Because of my position here, I can arrange for your parents to get it at cost, with no charge for usage. At that rate, I’m thinking it will be a lot cheaper than anything else you might be looking at.
“Now, the last thing I want to do is interfere, truly. So, if you don’t want to pursue this, just say so and I won’t say another word about it. But I have to tell you, ever since you and Jeff announced your engagement I’ve had visions of you coming down those stairs in your wedding gown.”
I looked around the place; I loved it, and I loved the idea of having the reception there. But I was concerned about how my parents would feel accepting help on something like this. Gloria understood.
“I’m not laying out a penny,” she said with a smile. “All I’m doing is using my position to your advantage, and there is nothing wrong with that at all.”
That was true. But I was also aware of the fact that Donna’s elopement had hurt her deeply. No doubt she had dreamed of a grand wedding for her daughter at “her” country club, and now she loved the idea of Jeff and me taking her place.
We finished our wine and walked out into the hallway again. She cast a wistful glance at the stairway, and I had to admit, the idea of making our entrance coming down those stairs did appeal to me. She explained that there was another stairway in the back, where we would enter.
“You’ve thought this through pretty thoroughly,” I noted.
“Yes. I had planned on having Donna’s wedding here, but that was not to be. So, I suppose that has something to do with it. Just tell me…does the idea appeal to you at all?”
I smiled and nodded. She gasped and hugged me.
“What did Jeff say?” I asked.
“I haven’t mentioned this to him. You can talk to him when we get back to the house, and then decide what you want to do. Again, if you decide against it, I will understand.”
“Like hell she would,” Jeff said with a laugh when I told him about it. “I wondered what she had up her sleeve.”
“But it really is beautiful, Jeff. We’d have such beautiful pictures. I just don’t know how to approach my parents about it.”
“I bet Mom will have some ideas about that.”
He was right. The following Sunday, they were invited to lunch at the club. Mom was impressed with the food, the service and the décor, before anyone mentioned the wedding.
We were getting ready to leave, and had returned to the hallway when Gloria put her arm around Mom and turned her to the grand stairway.
“I want you to do something for me. Look at those stairs. Now, picture Erin coming down those stairs in her wedding gown.
“I tell you, that’s a vision that just hits me every time I come in here.”
Gloria made her pitch, assuring Mom as she had with me that Jeff’s family wouldn’t be laying out a cent, it would simply be Mom and Fred taking advantage of Gloria’s position. Mom was pleasant but noncommittal, saying only that we’d have to talk it over. That night, we did.
“Honey, it’s very simple,” she said as we both sat at the kitchen table. “If you want it there, you’ve got it. But I just want to make sure it’s what you want, and not just what will make Gloria Maitland happy.”
“Jeff and I talked about it, and the truth is, we think it’s a beautiful place. I just worry that you and Fred will feel badly because it’s not…you know…around here.”
“Don’t give that a thought. We’re thrilled if you’re thrilled.”
I smiled.
“I’m thrilled. I haven’t told Gloria about my dress at all, but I keep thinking it’s the perfect setting for that dress.”
Mom still hadn’t quite recovered from my choice of wedding gown. So far, only she and I had seen it. We had looked at more gowns than we could count, and I had been fairly taken with one beautiful thing that had a seven foot train.
And then I had seen this one – a Victorian style gown with a simple, country feel to it. It was pure white polyester jersey knit, with matching white very fine net and embroidered-look lace with pearls. The detail on the lace was just amazing for such a simple dress.
It had a shaped lace neckline with a cameo style net detail and pearl accents to the lace front of the fitted bodice. There were full sleeves with lace-trimmed cuffs and a finely pleated skirt that trailed about two feet behind me. Cookie had kidded me about finally getting me to do something daring like wear a mini-dress for my gown, but this was as far from that as I could get, and I fell in love with it the moment I tried it on.
Now, I was seeing myself wearing that gown and coming down those stairs, and I realized that Gloria had been more right than she could possibly know.
The major dilemma I had was over my choice of maid of honor. The bridesmaid choices were easy – Diane, of course, Terri, Laura, Cookie and Maureen. I nearly asked Diane, as a way to avoid choosing from among my three dearest friends, but in the end I chose Terri, because her brush with serious illness had made me realize how special our friendship had been over the years. Everyone understood.
The wedding was set for the end of September – the 27th, to be exact. Planning was manic over the summer, and we had a few minor scrapes, but I think everything went about as smoothly as it could. Jeff had already passed the bar exam and landed a job as an associate with the firm for which he had worked as a librarian, and I had found a job as a secretary in midtown Manhattan, so we could commute together.
We took an apartment in Bayside, right across the bay from Douglaston, and Jeff would keep his boat at the little marina we had first sailed to. We actually had the apartment as of September 1st, and spent most of the month painting and furnishing it. It was a lovely little three room apartment with a nice living room that opened onto a balcony overlooking the bay, and an eat-in kitchen.
Terri’s family moved that summer, to a nice house in Albertson. Her mom invited Jeff and me over on a Sunday afternoon for dinner, which I thought was very sweet. I was really looking forward to seeing Terri and Jim, as well as the rest of Terri’s family.
Terri answered the door and immediately gave me a big hug.
“Come on in and let me show you the living room,” she said, which struck me as a strange comment. But when we stepped inside, a mass of women and girls yelled, “Surprise!” Jeff had his arm around my waist, which helped steady me, and slowly, very slowly, I recognized faces – Aunt Pat, Maureen, Diane, Mom, Gloria, Donna, Laura, Cookie…but I still couldn’t say anything.
“It’s your shower, silly,” Terri said with a laugh.
Jeff sort of steered me to a chair that had been set aside as mine, with pastel-colored streamers showering down from the ceiling.
“I think you could use this,” Jim said, placing a glass of white wine in my hand, and I didn’t object. Jim and Jeff were then instructed to leave, and they removed themselves to the finished basement.
There were lots of lovely gifts, of course – things for the apartment, and some naughty things for me. I shuddered when I opened Cookie’s gift, but on top was a simple ivory lace peignoir. When I looked underneath, there was the tiniest pair of stark white g-string panties, a matching lace underwire bra, a white lace garter belt and lace top thigh high stockings.
“That,” Cookie said later when it was just the four of us chatting, “is for you to wear on The Day.”
“Cookie! I couldn’t!” I gasped.
“Trust me.”
The morning of the wedding, Diane was shocked when I put Cookie’s lingerie on. I must admit, I felt very naughty, and I liked that. When I had the gown on, Diane whispered, “I don’t believe it – so wholesome on the outside and so naughty underneath.”
The girls helped me with my makeup and everything else, and by the time the photographer was there, we were actually ready. The girls looked really pretty in their bridesmaid gowns, which were a peach color and had a little chiffon jacket around them. They wore picture hats, which looked really sweet on them.
Fred looked dapper in his tux, and Mom looked as elegant as could be in a teal gown that was set off wonderfully by her red hair.
The limos had arrived, and we were getting ready to leave. Terri pulled me aside and gave me a big hug, while being careful not to crush the gown or smear any makeup.
“I knew that first day of second grade that we were going to be great friends,” she said. “I am so happy for you!”
Fred made sure he had my suitcase in the trunk of his car, which Mom would drive to the church. Jeff and I were flying to Bermuda the next morning, and he had been adamant about keeping our hotel plans a secret, although I don’t think his friends would have tried anything – unless, of course, they joined forces with my cousins.
The night before had been the groom’s dinner, which Gloria had arranged to be held at the same restaurant Jeff had taken me to when we first got back together. Despite our rather large wedding party, it had been an intimate dinner and when we got back to the house, Maureen and I had stayed up quite late chatting.
As the limo pulled up to the church, Fred turned to me and said, lightly, “So, whaddaya say?”
I felt for him, because I knew he was wondering how I was feeling about Dad. But the truth was that Dad had been gone for more than six years, and Fred had become a wonderful companion for Mom. He deserved to be giving me away.
“Ready Teddy,” I replied, using one of his favorite expressions.
The day was a little cool, which the photographer said I would be glad about later on, but I did shiver a little as I got out. Fred gave me his arm, and then my small army of bridesmaids swarmed around me; Laura looked soft and lovely, Cookie was stunning, Terri looked radiant, if still a bit thin, Diane looked older than her 17 years, and Maureen, who had just gone blonde, looked gorgeous.
“He’s here,” Terri said. “So, nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, right,” Cookie snorted. “Like he’d have ever jilted her!”
An elderly gentleman was walking by as I began to make my way toward the church steps, and he asked me to wait. He was tall, but somewhat stooped over. He wore a suit that had clearly seen better days, with a small pansy in his lapel, just like Grandpa had always worn, a scarf around his neck and a grey fedora. In fact, he reminded me so strongly of Grandpa that I felt a sort of jolt when I saw him.
He plucked the pansy from the hole in his lapel, brushed away the veil from my face, and tucked it gently into my hair, right behind my left ear.
“Go with God, sweet child,” he said. I thanked him warmly, he smiled and went slowly on his way.
Once inside the vestibule of the church, Mom reached up to take the pansy, but I asked her to leave it. She smiled and nodded.
“My dear,” Gloria said, coming up to me, “You look absolutely stunning.”
Jim was Jeff’s best man, but Doug Bevens, a friend since childhood, came by to give me a scouting report.
“He was steady as a rock last night and this morning, but when we got here, he lost a little starch,” Doug said with a laugh. Then he escorted Gloria up the aisle. A few minutes later, Kyle escorted Mom up the aisle.
“Ready when you are,” Fred said. “But not before.”
I took a deep breath, and the g-string moved, giving me a quick little buzz.
“Okay,” I said with a smile.
A moment later, the organ sounded loudly and began to play “Here Comes The Bride.” Jeff’s younger cousin, Tony, escorted Diane. Next, Kyle escorted Cookie, a pairing I arranged at his request. Another friend of Jeff’s, Larry, escorted Maureen, and Doug escorted Laura.
Terri gave me a big smile before making the trek up the aisle by herself. Then Fred gave me his arm, and we started up the aisle. I could see Jeff and Jim at the front, Jeff fidgeting slightly, Jim making a quiet comment – probably a wisecrack. We were taking our time, because I was really enjoying this.
When we got to the front of the church, Jeff gave me a big smile. Whatever nerves he’d felt were gone. Fred moved my veil aside and kissed me on the cheek, and then I stepped up and Jeff slid in right next to me.
“You look fabulous,” he whispered to me.
“So do you,” I replied truthfully.
The ceremony was a blur. During the vows, I had Terri at my side, and it felt so right. Jeff’s vows were strong, confident, just the way he’d always been. As I recited mine, I felt they were the truest words I had ever spoken. And when he kissed me, we held it for a long time, and I even heard Terri mutter, “enough already.”
As we began our walk back down the aisle, I thought my face would burst from smiling. All these friends and family, wishing us the best – my husband, and I, his wife. Jeff and Erin Maitland.
Mom gave me a huge hug, and then the avalanche started. The receiving line seemed to go on forever. Much of the family I hadn’t seen since Dad’s funeral, and some of my friends, like Gina, Beth and Carol, I had only seen a couple of times since high school.
There were lots of photos, of course, and then we dashed to the limo under a shower of rice. It was just Jeff and me, so as the driver pulled away, horn honking, we just kind of grinned at each other. After a soft, sweet kiss, I took out a small mirror and checked my makeup – so far, so good.
“Everything shipshape, Mrs. Maitland?” he asked me. I laughed.
“I love the sound of that, except that I keep looking for your mother when I hear it.”
The limo with the bridesmaids and ushers was right behind us, and we made our way into Queens and pulled up in front of the country club. The mansion served as a backdrop for several photos. We took more inside, including several on Gloria’s staircase, and then we went upstairs where we got something cold to drink and a little something to eat (the girls were afraid I’d pass out).
There were more pictures taken upstairs, and then we got ready to be introduced, making our entrance coming down the stairs, just as Gloria had envisioned. I was very nervous coming down, because there were flashes going everywhere and I was suddenly afraid that the hem of my gown might catch, and I’d tumble to the bottom. But my husband held me steady and we emerged together.
Terri would later laugh about it, but by the time dinner was served, I was famished. Jeff was on one side of me, with Jim next to him, while Terri was on the other side, and Laura next to her, so that was the extent of my dinner conversation. Old friends, and dear ones.
Of course, we all did lots of dancing after dinner, and it seemed I couldn’t get a moment to rest. I didn’t mind, though, as it was the one day I would have to be a bride. I did appreciate the chance to rest, though, when the wedding cake was brought out.
Everyone was still having coffee and cake when I excused myself to go to the ladies room, and Laura and Cookie came with me. We were coming back into what was serving as the ballroom when Cookie said, “Gee, Erin, you should ask the band if you can jam.”
“Don’t be silly,” I laughed. “I’m not going to play on my wedding day.”
“Why?” the band leader asked, having overheard. “What do you play?”
“She’s a really good guitarist,” Cookie replied, ignoring my shushing.
“Yeah?” he said with a laugh.
“With lots of experience,” Laura added.
“Laura!” I gasped. “Well, I do play,” I admitted, turning to the band leader. I couldn’t help noticing he had a beautiful Gibson Les Paul model, and when he asked me what mine was, I told him a Fender Stratocaster. He had one of those, too.
“You want to try the Les Paul?” he asked. “Volume real low, I promise.”
“Oh, go on!” Laura said, pushing me. “It’s your wedding, for cryin’ out loud.”
Without waiting for a decision, he gave me the guitar, and I slipped it on over my shoulder, being very careful not to catch any of the pearls or to tear the lace. I played a couple of riffs, barely audible. I could see Maureen grinning at me from across the room.
“Let’s hear ‘Badge’!” she yelled, suddenly, to my complete horror.
“We know it,” the bandleader said, his grin growing wider. “Whaddaya say?”
The other musicians had all come back by now and the band was getting ready to start the next set. Maureen and my other cousins were starting to chant my name, and I could feel myself turning a deep crimson.
“No,” I said. “I couldn’t…”
“We’ve got a treat for you,” the leader said into the microphone. “It’s not unusual at weddings for someone in attendance to be an accomplished musician and to join the band for a song. But we’ve never had the bride do so…until now.”
“Better make the best of it,” Cookie said with a grin. From the dais, Jeff gave me a smile and a “thumbs up”.
I shrugged my shoulders, sighed, and started to play the intro to “Badge”. The band’s lead singer did the vocals, and I played the leads, while much of my family looked on, mouths agape. We had just swung back into the final verse when the leader, who was playing rhythm, leaned over to me and said, “We usually segue into ‘Blues Power’, like they did at the Rainbow Concert. You okay with that?”
What could I do? I laughed and said sure, played an improvised link between the two songs, and then (what the hell) sang the lead vocal on “Blues Power”. Afterward, no one except Jeff and the girls believed it hadn’t been planned from the start, but it hadn’t.
Jeff and I made the rounds, saying good bye and thanking everyone. Uncle Rob surprised me by taking both my hands in his and telling me quite earnestly that I made a lovely bride, Jeff and I made a lovely couple, and wishing us all the happiness in the world. I kissed him on the cheek, and was surprised when he seemed to tear up a little.
Mom took care of collecting all the envelopes, and in a quiet moment assured me that everything would be waiting for us when we got back. We didn’t get to talk much that day, but I felt close to her all the same. Diane put it best when she whispered to me, “It’s days like this that make up for all the hard times.”
Then again, she had been quietly and subtly campaigning all day for me to make sure she caught the bouquet. The girls had all been teasing her about it, and I had thought that would tamp down her intensity, but it didn’t. As the moment neared for me to throw the bouquet, she looked at me pleadingly.
I was walking up to the band, and Jeff came up to me and whispered, “My new sister-in-law is going to be over on the far left.” I really wanted Terri to catch it, but then again, she was already engaged, so it meant more to Diane. I tossed the bouquet over my left shoulder, and her loud squeal told me she’d caught it. When I turned around, she rushed at me and hugged me.
“Thanks, Sis,” she said.
“Just be glad I decided not to throw a garter,” I whispered.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, and we both giggled.
There was a private room upstairs for Jeff and me to change in. Once we were alone, he undid my gown, and I let it fall to the floor rather dramatically. Jeff’s jaw almost did likewise when he saw what I had been wearing underneath.
“You mean you wore that all through the ceremony and everything?” he gasped.
“Uh huh,” I replied with a smile. He started to reach for me, but I stepped away and said, “Oh, no you don’t. Not now, and not here.”
I changed into a tan corduroy miniskirt, a cream sweater and stacked-heeled loafers. He changed to slacks and a sport coat. I touched up my makeup, brushed my hair, which was now flowing down past my shoulders, and pronounced myself ready to go. The pansy was still tucked in behind my left ear.
“I like it,” he said, and kissed me. He started to slip his hand up my skirt, and I slipped away from him.
“No,” I said, laughing. He uttered an epithet, but laughed.
Many of the guests were still there, and were waiting for us as we came back downstairs. Someone had already moved my suitcase from Fred’s car to Jeff’s, and after all the goodbyes, we were on our way as the sun was beginning to set.
I was thirsty, so on our way out to the airport – we were staying in a hotel nearby – he stopped at an ice cream stand just down the street from his old high school. He bought me a chocolate shake, and it felt so good going down.
“What if one of the brothers comes by?” I asked him.
“I’ll introduce you as my wife,” he said with a happy shrug.
We checked into the hotel and once we settled into the room, we saw they had sent up a bottle of champagne. Neither of us was in the mood for alcohol, but it was a sweet gesture. Jeff showered, and when he came out, he was wearing a terry robe – hedging his bets, I thought to myself.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted at that point, because it had been a long day. But as I gathered my things to take into the bathroom, I decided to take Cookie’s peignoir. After a hot shower, I felt relaxed and revitalized, and I blew dry my hair, pulled on the tiniest little g-string I had ever seen (even smaller than the one I’d worn throughout the wedding) and then that lovely gown, as light as gossamer.
The chiffon jacket tied with just a little satin ribbon at the neck, and the entire ensemble was almost transparent. It seemed to kiss and caress every part of me with every move I made, and when I came out of the bedroom and Jeff looked at me with hunger in his eyes, I went to him quickly. By the time I reached the bed, his robe was off – he was wearing nothing under it.
The first summer out of high school my male self worked construction, building a flow control company's new building. Robyn would've hated it—shoveling gravel all day long? Whooee.
But being a bookworm, I knew that dreadful bookstore pretty well, and the much more enjoyable newsstand across the street with its lurid paperbacks and pulp magazines.
I try to think what choices Robyn would have had available ... good and bad.
Was I Marty? No. It's not so simple, not one-to-one. My story is full of things I did and ways I felt, but as I said before, everything is scrambled to protect the innocent (if any).
Oops, gotta run, and fast—very little leisure lately! Just time to sign,
Erin great chapter with a slightly unexpected twist. I kept expecting Gloria to use the club as some sort of mechanism of exclusion and was glad she didn't.
I played Funny Valentine behind my wifes singing at my reception, which was a big thrill. And she sang Can't Help Loving That Man while I danced with my mother and everyone watched. Not my favorite moment..... Several other friends also performed, some with the band, some not.
Love the song Badge. "She cried away her life since she fell out the cradle".........I've known a few people like that.
everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
Here's the next chapter, with less of a rewrite than I really wanted. It's called How Do You Get There? from the joke about Carnegie Hall.
The next few years were a time of getting ready for something for all of them. Getting ready for what they didn’t know, couldn’t know. Andy’s fight with Peanuts and Leo had finally convinced the other kids that his days as a target were over and to his great relief relieved him of the need for anything similar to happen again. He had made a half formed, half conscious decision that what he had gained had not been worth it. It also convinced Danny and Steven that they didn’t really want that much to do with him any more. They would chat from time to time, and they remained pleasant to each other. But their friendship was a thing of the past. Andy continued to wonder. Who was he? Who did he want to be? All he knew was that he was distancing himself from something. What, he didn’t really know. What he was looking for he didn’t know either, but he did know something about it. No matter what it would include Vickie and Mountain Girl. And it would be something of his choosing, of their combined choosing. Whatever it was, it would not be what anyone else expected of them.
Vickie thought about this far less than Andy. But she was equally busy. Slowly she too was distancing herself from something. Moving away from the expectations of almost everyone she knew, even those of Dennis and David and Alan. But what was she moving towards? She had no idea.
Mountain Girl got letters from them whenever they thought there was anything remotely worth writing, which in Andy's case was nearly all the time. Vickie wrote a lot too considering that she considered letter writing to be an unfit activity for someone of her reputation. Mountain Girl found that the trip to town for mail was as important to her now as hunting or fishing; it was emotional food for her.
The letters would have had a real discontinuity to them for other readers with her writing about the weather and latest storm, the hunting and fishing and berry picking, while Vickie wrote about music and trouble and all sorts of half formed thoughts that made sense to Andy and Mountain Girl even if they made no sense to Vickie. Andy wrote about family, school, the three of them, and often seemed to write just for the enjoyment of writing to her. And at least once a month would be the trip that Andy’s parents had found that they had somehow agreed to without realizing when this had happened. During the fall they had Vickie and Andy take the train to the hamlet at the foot of Zechariahs mountain. Andy had found yet another after school job for him and Vickie to use to pay for the train. But when winter came they began to drive them and walk up the mountain with them. Sometimes it would be just Andy’s father, other times both parents and sometimes even Stu. And then Mountain Girl would escort Andy’s parent’s back down the mountain to be sure they were safe, which they thought was very thoughtful but unnecessary. And then Sunday at twilight they would pick their children up.
There was one class in the school where the teacher seemed to really enjoy Vickie’s presence, and that was in the school band. It was the same teacher who had offered her the use of a school instrument after hers had been destroyed, and he seemed overjoyed that she had decided not to give up on music in spite of her brother. Vickie thought it seemed only reasonable that Andy would be in the school band with her and she eventually talked him into playing the trombone because the band was short of them. And he practiced diligently.
But what came naturally to Vickie was a struggle for him. His ear just wasn’t there and although she already seemed to be able to play the trumpet as if she was holding a conversation with someone, all Andy could ever produce were notes. On a good day there would be notes with a feeling, even mild passion, but they were really just notes.
And then, inevitably, Vickie had decided that she wanted her own band. She began her efforts with the members of the school band who she liked and then quickly realized that if she could enlist some of the members that she wasn’t exactly friends with that her efforts were far more likely to be successful. It took quite a while for her to figure out what exactly she had in mind and how to do it but eventually they had a small group that could actually manage to sometimes play together in a manner that wasn’t too awful.
They made copies of some of the music they played in the school jazz band and felt they played it a lot better, but she wanted something besides a rehash of the school band. So one day with Andy in tow she took a train ride to the city, an hour away, to pick out arrangements in the music stores there. She did this several times and each time the results were frustrating, the arrangements were too hard or too simple and for the most part just weren’t what she wanted. At first it had been a big thrill just to be doing this without any adult help, but that was wearing thin and her efforts didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Perhaps they were all just too young she thought. They didn’t have the technique or the self discipline that they needed. Rehearsals started late and people were always failing to show up when they said they would. Nobody seemed willing to practice enough and when they did it wasn’t even clear what they should be practicing. Nevertheless she told herself that this was no different from her own early efforts and when she got discouraged she would picture Mountain Girls face in the moonlight saying nothing worthwhile was easy and once more feel a flush of shame at the thought of giving up.
It was in her first year of high school that her trumpet teacher, who had also been the junior high band teacher, had realized that she needed something more than he had to offer. He had a friend named Henry from the city, an accomplished jazz trumpeter, but thought he was probably too expensive for Vickie to afford, especially since he wasn’t really sure that she could afford to pay for lessons at all. He decided to give something a try. He invited his friend to a concert at her high school and spoke with the band instructor, explained to him why he was asking him to do something to show Vickie off.
The high school band instructor thought that she was actually a pain in the neck with a bad attitude but there was no denying that she had both real talent and dedication, and from what he heard from the other teachers she was a lot less trouble for him than she could be. People talked about the arts bringing out the best in students who were otherwise just about hopeless and most of all he did want to think of himself as an educator, whatever that word meant. He agreed to give her a chance to shine for the evening even as he wondered if he was just indulging some fantasy of his own about the power of his chosen field of work.
Henry was wondering. A high school concert? But his friend the band director had been adamant that there would be a surprise.
Vickie was frustrated with the high school band too. To be sure the music was more challenging and there was a better sense of direction and responsibility in the band, but what did the music ever say? Sometimes when she would listen to music that she really liked she felt as if the performers had invited her to walk around inside their soul and look around, but with the school band while the music was fun there was nothing personal about it. But the night of the concert the band director told them they would be doing something a bit different. One of the silly jam tunes that they did for warm-ups or when the teacher occasionally tried to teach them how to improvise, this time to begin with a solo by her.
She played her twelve bars and he motioned her to go on. Several more choruses went by and she began to wonder when he would let her stop playing. She was about to run out of ideas she thought, and played a final chorus, ending it clearly and unmistakably. The band director motioned for her to go on. Angrily she put the horn back to her lips, wondering as she did about the man in the fourth row with her old band teacher who was staring at her so intently. She played the remaining choruses to him, telling him to stop staring at her and this stupid band, and after she played three more the band director motioned for the rest of the band to come in. Confused, irritated, hurt, and victoriously triumphant all at once, she walked back to her seat with the rest of the trumpets behind the trombones. By the end of the song she had forgotten how annoyed she had been and was enjoying herself thoroughly.
There was another song at the end of the set that the teacher had added at the last minute. It was a new arrangement of a Maynard Ferguson tune called After Hours. It was a composition that seemed to be about half a dozen things at once, evoking in her simultaneously the peaceful mystery of a deserted moonlit street at one in the morning, the warmth of her times with Andy and Mountain Girl, and the aching sadness and loneliness she sometimes felt when she was alone. All the things that she never talked about with anyone except her two friends and even they usually had to fill in the blanks when she got to how she really felt; something that so often seemed so completely beyond the ability of any words to describe. She wondered about the person who had written this song. Had he really felt all these things too or was it just an artifice of the composition? Was that even important?
It had a long solo for her with chord changes that weren’t nearly as simple as they first seemed and she’d taken it to Andy’s house to practice on it, bought the record also, and worked on it the last couple of weeks till everyone in his house was tired of it. They hadn’t rehearsed it enough and the band made some serious mistakes but she felt good and her horn felt great. That man in the fourth row stared at her again but she didn’t care, she just shut her eyes and tried to play something that felt like the long walks she would take with Andy on summer nights while the rest of the world slept and all of life seemed like one big delicious secret. She wondered why this teacher who didn’t seem to like her had sprung this on her tonight. It was probably some sort of trick to embarrass her but she didn’t care, she’d show him that she could handle any challenge he was going to give her and in fact she was daring him to try this again. The notes coming out of her horn just seemed to find themselves and with her eyes closed and the sound of the band interweaving with the voice of her trumpet she felt as if she had drifted into a trance for a moment before the ending came and then she could hardly even remember what had just happened.
After the concert the her trumpet teacher and his friend cornered her in the band room. He explained that he thought she needed a better teacher and that his friend Henry would like to hear her play some more. Could she come over to his house? She spoke with Andy’s parents, people who by now seemed as if they were her parents too and they agreed. Off she went.
She had often thought that her trumpet teacher was not a bad pianist. They played a couple of songs that she had been studying with him and then without a word Henry produced a trumpet and began to play with her. She was suddenly intimidated; this man was good! They played back and forth and she began to relax. Her teacher began another song, one of her favorites. Like the last song they had played at the concert it was one where she felt like she could really speak as she played. It was time to let loose and she did.
Later there was discussion of lessons. Yes Henry would be happy to have her as a student. How would she get to the city and how much could she pay? Her teacher told her not to worry about getting there, she could just take the train. Then he tried to explain the economics but couldn’t seem to get to the point. At length Henry asked her what she could afford and she offered a sum that was definitely more than she could scrape together honestly. Maybe Andy’s family would help but she really thought they did enough already. Henry looked puzzled. His friend had explained Vickie’s economic and home situation to him previously although they weren’t going to volunteer that knowledge to her at the moment. He asked how she would get that kind of money and her teacher frowned and said that he did not want to know. Henry made another offer, way lower than what he charged any of his other students except one. “You practice, show up on time, and work your backside off and that number is okay with me” Henry added. “Otherwise you’re just wasting both our time anyway. You don’t want to do that, right?”
Practice and lessons were hard. They were doing a lot of new things and they were exciting but once more she wondered if she would ever really be able to do this. Henry also spent a lot of time teaching her the piano and training her ear in addition to giving her exercises on the trumpet that she had trouble believing anyone could play. And then even worse Henry would bat them out effortlessly. Maybe he had a different type of trumpet she thought and she even asked him about that but no, he got the same results with her horn and she got only a miniscule amount of help from using his horn instead of her own. Then one day when she was especially discouraged he had her play something from when she had begun her lessons with him and she was amazed at how childishly simple it seemed. She had remembered it as so hard.
Her band was getting better too but she just knew it could be something else. She confided her thoughts about this to Henry one day and he said nothing. However the next week at the end of her lesson he brought it up again on his own. “You need to branch out in your choice of musicians” he told her. “Look around. Don’t just pick your friends from school” She took his advice and after a while it paid off. She started visiting other schools nearby whenever they had a concert and trying to draft who ever she liked into her band.
Henry’s next suggestion was something she had already thought of but couldn’t bring herself to try. “What will make you good is if you can find a voice for your band. Keep playing the stock charts you have, some of them are really very good. But create your own stuff too. You have it in you.” She waited for several weeks before arranging something she had made up long ago as she sat in the cemetery with Andy watching the trains rattle across the bridge. Something that she had hummed and sung to herself for all these years but hadn’t dared pretend it was actually a song. It sounded kind of silly, but there was a thrill of ownership to it. And something else too. Listening to her band play it she felt as if they suddenly knew something about her. Something simultaneously Deeply personal and yet entirely mundane. Something they liked and something she was proud of. She gave it a stupid name but then gave the song another name that no one but Andy knew and that was how she thought of it. It was something of her.
They started leaving time at each rehearsal just for making things up or for experimenting with ideas that other members brought in. At first it sounded stupid but at least it was their stupid. More band members quit, uncomfortable with what she was doing. But she kept listening to the suggestions of the remaining members about people who might like to play with the band and eventually had a decent group, even if it was too small for all the arrangements she had bought. Two trumpets plus her, two bones, four saxes, and a little three piece rhythm section. Some of the people she had finally gotten had some real creativity and were coming up with some ideas that worked. And she had a singer now also, a girl named Denise who she had heard in a choir that she had gone to hear at the suggestion of Gordon, her other trombone player.
They started trying to copy songs off of records but they usually didn’t really sound like the record. They still had trouble with the harmonies and besides it was more fun to switch things around. They also started doing their own arrangements of songs which meant that they were now able to play things that didn’t normally get played by jazz groups, arrangements of rock tunes and blues. Not just the pop music love songs that that they heard on the radio but other stuff. There were a couple of songs by Santana where she tried to play the trumpet the way he played the guitar and another one by deep Purple about a car where she did the same thing. They did a few of the pop songs that everyone liked, like a song called No Matter What You Are because she liked the guitar chorus which she adapted for the band, and another incredibly silly song called Apples Peaches Pumpkin Pie because she liked some of the harmonies and just the way it felt; terribly adolescent but still something real in it. Well they were still kids she thought and they might as well enjoy a few adolescent loves songs while they could.
That was the rock music, stuff she liked and the other kids liked on the rare occasions anyone listened to the band. Then there was the jazz. Her whole love affair with jazz had started the day she heard Andy’s father playing a Duke Ellington record. They had tried to copy what was one of her favorite songs by him, something called Koko, but it wasn’t the same when they played it no matter what they tried in an effort to capture the voicings and feeling of the recording. They did some other songs by Duke that were more popular and pretty like Sophisticated Lady, and they did stuff by other bands, Bijou by Woody Herman, More Soul by Buddy Rich, Maria with a solo an octave and a half lower than Maynard had done it. And then there were songs like Swamp Fire, East Saint Louis Toodle-ooo and Black and Tan Fantasy. The music that folks who listened to the Duke because his music was nice didn’t really like, but songs that seemed terribly personal to her. The songs were hard to play and even harder to figure out how to play and sometimes they just had to put them away for awhile. But fitfully they started to be able to play them so that they meant something, at least to the band itself.
Eventually they had been working at it for a couple of years. It seemed like all they ever did was rehearse with an occasional small performance somewhere that they couldn’t even call a gig. It was like some of the bands she played in with older guys. They even called them rehearsal bands. It was a lot of fun but she wanted people to listen to her. There was going to be a regional high school jazz band competition and Vickie had an idea. Most of the members would be going anyway, playing in their respective bands. She stole the paperwork from the desk of her band teacher and filled it in. They made a tape of the songs that they did best that didn’t sound too far out from what they knew the other bands were doing and she sent everything in under the auspices of her school in the guise of an extra curricular activity.
To her terror and delight they were accepted. The logistics were strange; they had to decide what to wear as a band. The other bands would be wearing tuxes or all black or some sort of coordinated scheme. She decided with a leap of faith that everyone would keep the black pants that they’d be wearing anyway but that they would all wear red shirts since this was how she expected her band to sound. She also had to figure out how to get everyone there since not all her musicians would be attending as members of an invited school band, and to coordinate freeing up others from their school bands long enough to play with her which involved several phone calls to their teachers from her school band leader, but somehow she got it all figured out, or so she thought.
Her school band played early which gave her a chance to experience her first round of nerves and stage fright. It was funny she thought, the more she practiced and the better her own band got, the more she enjoyed the school band. Henry had laughed when she told him this and said that it wasn’t the band that was changing so much as it was her. They did Early Hours again and she played something as introspective as she could possibly be. Afterwards she went back into the auditorium to watch the other bands, to listen to what they were doing. Several of her musicians played wonderfully with their school bands and she was terribly proud of them. A half hour before they were due for their performance she began to collect things and realized that neither she or anyone else had remembered to bring any of their charts. They had just one song, a piece called Crystal Blues which had been squashed into her trumpet case. She thought for minute. Black and Tan Fantasy was in actuality simple enough that the band had memorized it. And they had their head charts, stuff they had just sort of made up as they went. One of them would make three songs and with the extra solos that they liked to do that would take up as much time as the 4 or 5 songs the other bands seemed to be doing. Crystal Blues had a long passionate vocal for Denise. None of the other bands had used singers so far. Well, Denise was good. The band was different anyway and the selections were going to make it real different.
They started out with Crystal Blues, which was also one of her favorites, something that she kept fiddling with trying to get it just right. She had meant to work on it after rehearsal the night before which was why it was in her trumpet case. It was a song about drug addiction, not exactly a love song or nostalgic swing and not at all the sort of thing that came to mind when most people thought of big band jazz, which was what the competition was supposed to be about. She introduced it and then let the band have fun with several introductory solos before Denise began to sing. Denise had a screaming gospel voice, perfect for this song. She sang two verses and then came Vickie’s solo, one where she always felt like she was actually telling someone exactly how it felt to watch her friends commit what she considered to be suicide on the installment plan. There was one more verse and then the end, with Denise on a long loud cadenza ending in a whisper, singing about someone who no longer even knew who they were, with an actual tear running down her cheek. Denise’s life hadn’t been much different from Vickie's.
There was a moment of shock at the intensity of the performance and then applause. This was blend of blues and rock, not swing jazz or overly orchestrated bebop like all the other bands were playing, and she wondered if that mattered to the judges. Well the last song would swing, she knew that. But before that it was time to do Black and Tan Fantasy. It was jazz, that was for sure. They did it differently from the record. They'd copied it off of a record but then changed it around. The melody was a bari sax solo on the record but their bari player had begged them not to have to play it, so after a funereal introduction they gave the first solo to the pianist who played it with a deliberate mournful hesitation and tentativeness, a eulogy for someone the speaker hadn't really known. And then came the trombone solo. The famous trombone solo by Tricky Sam Nanton, the solo that had baffled the best jazz trombone players in the world when they tried to copy it. The solo that she thought was the ghost of the departed either leaving forever or perhaps returning to haunt the funeral goers, or maybe both at the same time. Gordon, who played lead bone, had come up with something that captured the spirit of original solo even if it didn’t have the same actual notes and sounds and they had taken to doing that and then opening it up for more. There was another trumpet solo and then Gordon again, a long solo with him speaking for himself now that he had shown he could imitate a master. Listening to Gordon play Vickie sometimes felt like a usurper playing her solo on this song but when he was finished she added her part anyway, shrieking venom through the plunger mute into the audience. Crystal Blues was about grief but she played the last part of this song with the rage of an animal in a trap. Finally the band played the famous trombone chorus again, this time as a transcription of the solo with enough changes to make it work with the whole band playing it and then the song ended as it always did with the Chopin death march that was as much a signature of the song as the almost human sounding plunger mutes.
There was no hesitation on the applause this time. Some of the other kids in the audience had heard them rehearse from time to time and they knew the song, were glad to hear it. She looked at Andy, beaming at him triumphantly at how they had sounded. He had a big smile on his face but buried beneath the smile she could see sadness also.
She knew what the sadness was about. Gordon was an incredibly talented musician and Andy wanted desperately to be able to sound like him. In reality most of the band shared that feeling but it was different for Andy, far stronger than the mild envy the others felt. He and Gordon were as friendly as Gordon was with anyone in the band, and Gordon often tried to help Andy out with things he was having trouble with, arriving early just so they could practice the trombone parts together. But no matter how much effort Andy put into it the gap between him and most of the other band members seemed to constantly grow.
It could have been worse. Andy genuinely loved being in this band where so many of the musicians seemed to be on a completely different level from him. She would see him watching Gordon with admiration, all his discouragement forgotten in the joy of listening to Gordon play. But she then she would listen to him practice at home and hear the discouragement in the notes as they came out of his horn lukewarm and inoffensively. She didn’t care. As long as he kept playing in her band she just didn’t care what he sounded like. He was Andy and from time to time she actually came right out and reminded him that no matter how much he sometimes seemed to wish he was Gordon, if he hadn’t been exactly who he was there would have been no band in the first place.
The next one would be one of their head charts, something they had never actually written out. It started of with just the rhythm section and then the horns built on it. It was an absurdly simple composition really but it was all in the feel and band was feeling good, knowing that they had performed well, and now it was time to brag about it. Vickie played the riffs with the band as the neglected sax players took turns unwinding, trading choruses and then fours. These things could go on for a long time and she remembered that they were supposed to keep their performance fairly short. She hurried the horns through their collection of riffs and skipped through the last solo to the last ensemble chorus and it was over.
The judges seemed happy. They asked what the last song had been. There was a program with the selections the bands had picked to perform but they hadn’t played any of the songs that they were supposed to play. She had introduced the first piece and of course they knew what Black and Tan Fantasy was. The last song didn’t really have a name. They referred to it as Frank’s Thing since her tenor sax player Frank had made up the ensemble at the end and the original riffs during the solos, although they had taken to making up new ones each time they played the song. She off handedly said that they called it Frank’s Thing but it didn’t really have a name and pointed out who Frank was and his role in the creation of the song. Then the judges wanted to know where they had gotten that arrangement of Black and Tan from and she told them that it was mostly a record copy with changes.
The judges worked with each band on one song. They chose the last one and made some suggestions about how to do it differently. Then their time was over. As they left one of the judges pulled Vickie aside and asked about the fact that he had already seen some of the musicians, including her, in other bands. She explained that this wasn’t really a school band, just something they had gotten together themselves. The judge told her that they had been very good but that he wasn’t quite sure if this was fair competition. They asked her to have all the band come to the award ceremony saying that they would think of something; the band had been so very good. And so they sat there in the audience wondering what would happen. The awards were handed out and her band got none at all. She sat there stunned and numb with disappointment and began planning dreadful revenge on the judges for tricking her like this. Then before the applause could die down the judges said that now they had something special. The winning band would be playing but first they wanted another band to play. Her mood went from an abyss to an incredible high as they called her and all of the band members up onto the stage. The judge explained that they were going to compose a song as everyone watched and told Vickie to start with just the rhythm section. Then one by one the judges suggested something till there were three separate complementary riffs going on at once. One by one the judges selected band members for solos, including Denise who practically ruined the whole thing in her first eight bars before recovering to scat and finally sing several choruses which left the audience amazed. Finally they were done and the judges were giving a little talk about how the whole essence of jazz was improvisation and how so many of the early bands couldn’t even read music.
Vickie was beginning to feel a bit funny about all the praise when one of the judges changed tactics and introduced the winning band to also play and they were good, really good, not as personal but with impressive solos and incredibly complex harmonies, themes and counter themes which made her think that she would never be able to compose music that intricate but after all she had gotten some sort of a special recognition and perhaps there was a chance with enough work. Not only that, she thought maybe she could tempt a couple of it’s members to play with her also and now the night was an incredible success.
Real Life: Extending someone solo duing a performance is a something HS band directors do to prima donnas to let them know who's in charge. I've watched it done a few times. Usually the audience however has no idea what has happened. It's only used on students who are very good.
I went to a great many competitions when my daughter was in school-they didn't really have them when I was her age. I have vivid memories of things like the judges telling the band to stop after the very first song and saying rather than judging all three songs you were going to play we'll just try to fix the first song. They were usually pretty nice about how they said this however. Or of them telling the kids they had to understand what the song was about. Like how Charles Mingus's Haiten Fight Song (a popular choice a couple of years ago) is about killing the white slave owners. And so on..... I heard a lot of good stuff and, thankfully, never once did anyone play In The Mood. Occaisionally bands would do their own compositions.
Gordon is a couple of people- a boy who sat next to me in HS band when I played the trombone. A quiet and nice boy who ran very, inscrutably, deep. Also a terrible trombone player. And he is also Art, who I knew a bit later.
In my first couple years of college I was privileged to play 4th trumpet in a band made up of musicians way past anywhere my talent level was ever going to be. About half of them were music school students and the other half professional musicians. Some of them had played with or went on to play with the likes of Sonny Rollins, Maynard Ferguson, Duke Ellington, Gerry Mulligan-you get the picture. And there was me. I've often wondered how I got in that band, but I was friends with the boy who started it. The 2nd trumpet player would get 10 minute solos and I would get 4 bars solos, horribly greatful when my 4 bars were over. Art played lead bone and went on to play with Bobby Bland and then Duke Ellington. He could hold forth forever on a good night.
Duke had at one time in the 30's and 40s a trombone player named Tricky Sam Nanton who could produce sounds with a plunger and pixie mute together that no one really understood. Years later I met Art and asked him about this. He showed me the general way to do it and added "but no one has ever been able to do what Tricky did"
I went out and got a transcription of Black and Tan Fantasy and practiced a lot. I managed to work out something that sounded good, although it was of course nothing like the record. The recording by the way has very little relationship to what's on Utube which is a much earlier version with Arthur Whetsol playing the song.
My daughter read this and said "daddy that's about the last chorus we heard Wyton Marsalis play on Black and Tan at Lincoln Center, right?' Absolutely.
Crystal Blues was by Country Joe and the Fish and is a Chicago Blues about drug addiction. The first time I heard it I had a visceral reaction that finally someone had written a song that told the truth.
Denise is really an alter ego of Dennis, who is a man I was very close to at one time, but also a great friend of my wife and I who sings the gospel like Aretha and is a wonderful person.
Hope you enjoyed it.
Absaroka
Last edited by Absaroka on Fri Jun 05, 2009 6:32 am, edited 1 time in total.
everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
Intense, Absaroka. And a chance for me, who always played solo or duet, more rarely with an old time band or jug band, to get a privileged inside look from both you and Erin at how a contemporary music band works.
Most of all, though,
"Vickie wrote about music and trouble and all sorts of half formed thoughts"
resonated for me, since it's so much like what I seem to end up doing.
Busy me! I got up extra early this morning to make time so I could post before things get moving again.
You’ll find this a lighter, happier (and mercifully shorter) episode by far than the last. Have fun,
Love, Robyn Katie
***
Down the hall a girlish voice, intimidatingly clear and assured, warbles a silly camp song through what sounds like a washcloth:
I know just how ugly I are,
My face it ain’t no shining star,
But me, I don’t mind it, for I am behind it,
It’s the people out front get the jar.
At the ends of the hallway the windows, thrown up, inhale not-quite-autumn scents: late summer leaves still green but dusty, dry, beginning to rattle. Throughout the dorm is a subdued bustle: freshman girls still a-wriggle, almost done moving in.
It’s beautiful here at Mount Holyoke College for Women, this stately campus, tall majestic trees shading the lawns and the funny old ugly-lovely buildings like the shelter of a skeptical but loving heart. The campus throngs with gaggles of girls—nearly two thousand of us, the welcoming lecturer said.
All I can see from the dorm window is twenty or so, crisscrossing Skinner Green in the bright falling sunshine from Brigham Hall to Porter Hall and Safford Hall, or headed for the classroom buildings like Dwight, Cleveland and Shattuck. Most of us are indoors, I guess, despite the fine day, getting ourselves shaken out and hung up and settled in and getting knick-knacks and textbooks bought as we each set up for the academic year.
Up through the stairwell, doing their level best to drown her out, rise two other voices, gasping, pathetically unmusical, maniacally singing that silly old Hansel and Gretel song over and over:
Susie, little Susie, come tell me the news,
The geese are going barefoot because they’ve no shoes,
The cobbler has leather and plenty to spare,
Why won’t he make the poor geese a new pair?
I giggle. I can’t help it. I’m exhilarated just being here. What a difference a few weeks make! Can I really have been so miserable just a short time ago? Best of all is being away from home again at last. Until I got here I didn’t realize most of what bothered me was having to live with my family. The once homesick girl has learned to be happy as a clam away, on her own!
Holyoke wasn’t the first college of my choice; Smith was. But I couldn’t qualify for Smith despite my grades. Now I think I was lucky, judging by what I have seen of Smith girls in the days I’ve been here.
There is a fair amount of coming and going between the two schools, which are separated by not enough miles—walking distance. Smith girls tend toward cashmere sweaters and perfect posture, not to mention posh tastes and enough mad money for salon hairdos and manicures, jewelry made of real gems, and foreign automobiles. They look down on us Holyoke girls as a lower-class crowd. But I’d ten times rather be here than there.
No boys here, a shock. At first I wondered if I could get used to that, after being educated with boys all my life since first grade. Then I realized how free I felt, how lighthearted. All around me were girls, just girls, and I felt so strangely at home I was taken aback. Is this what I wanted all along? I asked myself. Just girls, all of us aswim in the pool of knowledge with no boys distracting us?
But how could that be? Where’s the Robyn who spent the last two years of high school in a passionate love affair with a boy? She seems gone as if she had never been. Here with no one but girls I seem whirled back into the days when Lainie was all there was in my world, and though it brings a little heartache with it, it’s strangely comforting too.
I don’t mean that I am attracted to anyone here, far from it. But I don’t even miss Marty or reminisce about being with him. I seem sort of a nun, not thinking much about sex or wanting it. I scarcely know myself. Maybe it’s the newness, the demands. There’s no lack of adjustment, stress or surprises. Classes are hard! I did qualify for a freshman English seminar and that let me out of Freshman English. Along with that I have History, Math 1, Geology 1 and French conversation, at which I am so bad I’m scared they’ll drop me from the course.
I don’t know anyone. A few years ago that would have scared me. Now I revel in it—can this be me? I’m one of only two girls from my Gerrold class of ‘55 who came here; I gather there is also a sophomore and a couple of juniors from Gerrold, but I’m not seeking them out.
It’s a precarious feeling, being such a stranger, but it’s also reassuring in a funny way. I’m up against a lot, the professors are demanding, and getting through each day is quite an achievement, but on the other hand no one else expects anything of me; there’s nothing to live up to except whatever I can make of myself.
The glorious voice from afar has switched over to another camp song:
I am just a little wildflower, getting wilder by the hour,
No one wants to sit by me, I’m as wild as I can be,
La de dah, my sweet cream soda pop,
My sweet cream soda pop, my sweet cream soda pop,
La de dah, my sweet cream soda pop,
La de dah, de la de dahhhh …
She sounds ready to go on for hours, but the competition from the stairwell (to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance) is fierce:
My reindeer flies backwards, she’s better than yours,
My reindeer can cha-cha, she can open up doors,
My reindeer is purple, yours is bright pea green,
My reindeer’s a Girl Scout, she can dig a latrine.
A latrine? Now there’s something I never heard in a song before.
Others, though, evidently have. “Shut up, Latrina!” yells a girl from nearby, explaining to someone, “Her name’s actually Katrina, but the temptation’s irresistible.”
My living circumstances, however, will take some getting used to. The school matched us freshmen more or less randomly, and while I don’t like to say anything mean about anyone, I am not having it all that easy with the results.
The three-girl dorm room I was assigned is regarded as kind of a plum, as it’s on the corner of the building and has three whole windows. The problem is my roommates. Funny, anyone who knew my secret at Gerrold while Lainey and I were having our secret affair would probably predict first thing I’d do on getting to college would be to seduce my roommates. They’d be wrong—but then, they hadn’t met these two.
Rena Dray, a wealthy but foolish drip of a girl, could not be more annoying if made specially for the purpose. Her family are exactly like her—I know; I met them at Parents’ Day, and it’s clear who made Rena so silly-superficial and stupefyingly arrogant. On the other hand there’s thin, cupbreasted Joanne Knowles, a smartypants from Chelsea, which she proudly says is the pot hole of Boston. She is foulmouthed, mean and cynical, prides herself I guess on being kind of a street girl type and juvenile delinquent, though she’s the daughter, I gather, of some Navy surgeon or other.
Joanne and especially Rena repel me, and I guess I repel them. I try and try not to hate them both, but they are so hateful! They gang up on me for no reason, apparently, except because I am gentle and easy to pick on. Maybe I’m not annoying enough for their tastes?
But in one way I do annoy them practically to tears. They are constantly, corrosively bitching about me playing my banjo and guitar in the room, every note of which they have made up their minds to detest.
“Just quit that, would you?”
“Yes, give us a break!”
I am pained. I thought it was kind of pretty, the song I was playing. However, being treated like this makes me mulish. So I deliberately begin another song, and not my least raucous one either—an old mountain fiddle tune.
Cluck old hen, cluck and sing,
You ain’t laid an egg since away last spring,
Cluck old hen, cluck and squawl,
You ain’t laid an egg since away last fall—
They’re holding their ears. “If you are going to do that, you should go get a rehearsal room in the Music Department like any other band member.”
“But—this isn’t like playing the tuba, this is something I need to just pick up and play—”
“Not around here, you don’t. Have some consideration for others!”
I’m inconsiderate? This is news to me. “But the Music Department is across the whole campus and I’d need to make an appointment for a room and—” I can’t seem to explain properly how I need my music always at my elbow, how it’s soft (usually) and isn’t meant to be a disturbance.
“Well, it is a disturbance, as surely you realize.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll play quieter.”
“You couldn’t play quiet enough to suit us.”
` “Yes,” agreed Renee in her dimwitted way, “did you think we wanted to hear you? Well, we don’t, in fact, no one does, so there.”
Joanne shows her fangs. “Think you’re so smart, just ‘cause you can flail on some old guitar or whatever.”
“Got a nerve trying to make such a dismal din around here.”
They have a high old time vying with each other to see who can say the cruelest thing. It’s a shock; I’ve never met anyone like them, in fact I never dreamed any girl could be as nasty as these two. Finally their carping gets so ugly I just say, “Fat chance, I have the right to play and sing here.” Maybe it’s selfish of me, but they goaded me to it.
“Oh you think so, do you?”
“We’ll see about that!”
War is declared. Joanne turns on her three-speed phonograph and plays her Julie London LP and Harry Belafonte’s Calypso album nonstop till I can’t stand it any more.
Okay, I leave, I’m driven out. I’d go down the hall and visit a friend, but I haven’t got friends on this hall, they all stay away from our room, lumping me in with the other two as lost causes, I suppose.
Well, for one thing I’m going to need someplace to play where I can feel free. For now, though, I just blow an upbreath that makes my bangs flip and flutter, tell myself That’s Life, and go study in the Library, where at least I don’t have to listen to carping voices or loud arguments. I can’t live this way, but until I can figure out another approach, I guess I’ll need to stick it out the best I can.
Gee, though, I really resent being made to feel unwelcome in my own room! But I must admit it is a relief being anywhere else. I wrap my foot around the leg of the battered old wooden chair and try to write my essay paper. Writing is something I’m pretty good at, I’ve even managed a story or two! Though they’re not anything I would show anyone, as I’m afraid they’re quite amateurish.
Almost all my classes are required subjects, and they’re a bit of a grind. But my one freshman elective, Dance, is proving to be a godsend. It’s taught by Miss Judy Yancey, our dance mistress, who is very young and enthusiastic, hardly older than us, and half the girls are in love with her. I’m not really very talented as a dancer, in my opinion, but pursuing one of Mom’s inspirations I did take two years of ballet lessons in Dolestown when I was eight and nine years old, so when Miss Judy calls out the moves, I at least have some idea what to do with my arms and legs.
The dance class is sort of a mixture. We do ballet exercises, and warm-ups drawn from yoga (something I never heard of before, but Miss Judy reminds me it’s what yogis practice, and I’ve at least heard of yogis). But most of the routines are from modern dance, as Miss Judy is a devotee of Martha Graham. I feel abashed that I never knew that name before, as Martha Graham is very famous. Despite all my advantages—college-educated parents and prep school education—I begin to think I am an awfully ignorant girl in many embarrassing ways.
I stand at the barre struggling to get my body under control. Miss Judy touches me here, there, murmuring, “Straighter—that’s not bad—you’ve had training, haven’t you—”
“Only a little.”
“Still it shows.”
I’m happy to feel a glimmer of devotedness I’d lost touch with, and privately decide to be as good a dancer as I can be, though from what one of the girls was saying I’ve gotten the idea that it’d be easier if I were still a virgin, as my pelvis is wider now, and I think it, or something related to it, is making my movements less quick. I haven’t asked Miss Judy whether my impression is correct. One thing’s for sure: she’s already not crazy about my decision to also go out for girls’ soccer.
“Must you? I’m as respectful as anyone of our sports program, but really, Robyn, soccer may well be incompatible with dance, and you’ve only got one body, you know.”
“I know, but I was so excited it was even offered here—that alumna who endowed it—”
“Yes, I know, the notorious Barbara Penrose and her love for the sport,” wryly. “She so pined to be a soccer professional. Not that she could—nor can you—as there’s no such thing as a women’s soccer league at any level. Really, Robyn dear, it’s a waste of your energy. I only say this because, though you may not be the best, you could do something in dance.”
But I am headstrong, I guess, for I continue playing with the soccer squad until November, when they cut me. I really wasn’t all that good.
In writing this I conceived of the story as a song with different players having different moments in it. Time for Mountain Girl to blow a few choruses now......The real Ron and Hannah were siblings and Hannah was my first true love. She had issues, as you will see. She died of an OD a few years ago and this was among other things a goodbye to her as you will see later. Ron was a big part of my introduction to the outdoors and he and I lived together with Dennis in real life. But I had trouble with his character and neglected it, as I did Kelly. Some day I'll give them at least a few bars of their own.
Lee is Mountain Girls civilized alter ego. We've been close for decades.
Moonchild was recorded by King Crimson in the late 60's
You'll recognize the moonlit walks I sometimes post about here......
Across the divide from Mountain Girls home the river that flowed through the valley below was joined by a cascade falling down from the sides of the mountain. There was a series of pools and ledges and by some accident of geology some of the pools were slow moving enough for the water in them to become warm enough for swimming. Even though it was not that long a walk from her home, thanks to the local geography the town was far removed from the one below her home where she and her father enjoyed their sinister and mysterious reputation, and the local inhabitants knew little of either of them. A trail led up to the falls from a town below and some of the local teenagers had taken to hiking up the trail to the ledges and pools to swim and relax. Mountain Girl had spied on them a number of times, thinking about what it might be like to become some sort of friends with them, before she decided to take a chance with her plan. One afternoon she watched for a while as two boys and two girls alternately swam and then lay on the still sun warmed rocks to dry off. She debated appearing noiselessly before them but decided to have some fun instead. Silently she made her way to a cliff high above the deepest pool and then leapt off the cliff screaming as she plummeted into the water. The first the others knew of her was her scream and then the splash and they watched dumbfounded as she swam over to them. She pulled herself out of the water next to them and offered a casual hello that she had practiced for this very moment.
She had chosen well. They were friendly and they talked a while as she skirted most of their questions about her, responding with questions of her own. Once more she avoided the subject of her name, merely answering that names were superfluous in a place like this and starting a confused discussion of what was identity anyway. They resolved the question by saying they would just have to call her Mystery Girl which she didn’t really like so a little later she said that her friends called her Mountain Girl, which after all sounded almost the same. One of the them, a short muscular girl named Lee, was more outgoing than the others and Mountain Girl set about enlisting her friendship. With sunset nearing they left and she lay on the ledge for a moment more in the warmth of the departing sun before hurrying home to her father. She had more friends.
It took a while but she got to know their pattern, what afternoons they would be there and what time of day that would be. Sometimes Lee would come up all by herself and they would while away the hours talking and swimming with Lee filling Mountain Girl in on all the details of the world. She had questions about Mountain Girl also but when she saw how the subject always changed when she became inquisitive she decided to leave all that alone and allow Mountain Girl to confide herself to Lee in her own time, understanding that this was something that might be a long time in happening. Other times Lee would bring her friends, usually two boys named Ron and Kelly and another girl named Hannah. They were all nice people and she loved listening to them talk. Hannah and Ron were the ones who first brought beer, wine, and then marijuana to the rocks, thinking that perhaps this would loosen Mountain Girl up a bit so that they could figure out who she really was. It would make her silly and she would laugh a lot, and sometimes she would begin to allude to things that didn’t make any sense, but still whatever secrets she had remained just that, secrets. The prevailing theory was that she lived in some shack outside of town with absent or abusive parents but it was one day when Lee and Hannah were talking with her that they guessed at something very similar to what Stu had thought.
It began with a comment by Hannah about how pretty she thought Mountain Girl was, which took her by surprise. Her father sometimes said words to this effect but for the most part attractiveness was something she gave very little thought to. She would find herself staring at the pictures her friends had taken of her or at her reflection from time to time but that was more a matter of wondering just who this person was that she was looking at than it was of evaluating her own beauty. She knew she enjoyed looking at her friends and her father. Vickie must be pretty she thought, and her father and Andy must be handsome, since she enjoyed looking at all of them. Hannah’s words took her by surprise. If Vickie was pretty then she, Mountain Girl, must also be pretty, she knew that. Hannah and Lee were her friends but Hannah seemed to mean something different from what Mountain Girl thought liking to look at some one meant. Did pretty mean something else besides liking someone?
It must have been the marijuana. There was something in the whole idea that was confusing but rather than remaining silent as she usually did she heard herself asking if someone could be pretty when there was no one to look at you. Hannah had started off on some sort of direction about beauty is all in the mind so who knew, but Lee’s mind went in a different direction. The question sounded like a very lonely question but it wasn’t, she could hear that in Mountain Girl’s voice. It was more of an innocence. Lee was too old to think that Mountain Girl was raised by wolves but she wondered aloud if perhaps she was some sort of hermit living in the woods alone. Mountain Girl affected a more stoned than usual stare and then replied dreamily that she’d never tell. Lee had just smiled at her and said that whatever secrets she had were safe and started to change the subject. But an idea was lodged in Mountain Girl’s mind right next to the answer to her own question. She told them of another friend, someone who had helped her to become a kinder person even when there was no one to be kind to, and of someone else who had taught her courage even when there was nothing to be afraid of. She was pretty even when there was no one to look at her, it was that simple.
Lee seemed to think that Mountain Girl had just said something profound but then Hannah sadly asked if you could be pretty when others thought you were ugly and Mountain Girl was at a loss. She explained that she liked Hannah which meant that she liked to look at her which meant Mountain Girl thought she was pretty. Just the sight of her, Lee, Ron, or Kelly sitting on the rocks would make Mountain Girl happy. But what exactly did any of this mean? They talked some more and it changed the subject away from Mountain Girl and where she lived which was a good thing. But it was confusing.
On the way home an expression of Andy’s came to her. Rage for the faint of heart. He had used it to describe a song Vickie had written. Suddenly she had a new understanding of why Vickie got into so many fights. No matter what happened to her Vickie would never allow anyone to tell her who or what she was. Maybe she could have Vickie talk to Hannah about this, show her the courage to fight back against whatever had made Hannah think she was ugly. By time she got home her mind was made up. Her friends would explain this to Hannah and it would be okay.
She had told Zechariah about her new friends and he said that this would be okay but that he didn’t really want anyone else to come to the cabin. It was best to preserve the reputation for unfriendliness he thought, and repeated this to her a number of times. She thought she felt the same way and replied that she did not think they had any idea who she was and he thought that was even better. She was welcome to visit them at the ledges but that was it, nothing more. He strongly suggested she not let any of them know what direction she left in or appeared from and she commented that she had been careful to do just that. But it was nice to see a few other people now and then and she began to look forward to her visits with her new friends more and more even as she managed to keep herself one big secret to them. She also found herself drawn to the place itself. She would go there on days she knew they wouldn’t be there and sit, thinking about all sorts of things that were hard to understand. Sometimes she would spend the night sleeping on the rocks near the waterfalls, remembering conversations with them, with her father, with Andy or Vickie. Sometimes she would enjoy the marijuana or wine that her friends had left her and just sit and think for half the night before falling asleep.
Often her thoughts would be of her friends. Of Andy and Vickie. Something had changed over the last year inside her and she would feel it as she thought of them. The three of them had always enjoyed wrestling and rough housing, ever since she had met Vickie. It had always been fun, a way of playing and being affectionate all at the same time. Mountain Girl in her own way was really an affectionate and cuddly person and so was Andy, at least by teenage boy standards. But Vickie was different. Mountain Girl would get a quick hug and a kiss from her for hello and goodbye but that was a ritual and even then only allowable because she lived so safely far away. Affection had to be disguised, usually as play but sometimes in other ways. But lately there had been something different about this. Something that Mountain Girl felt inside her. It was a nice feeling, a kind of warmth and hunger rolled into one. Sometimes it came while she was asleep as well, and sitting here on the rocks at night it came often. She thought it had something to do with the rocks and the warmth they retained from the heat of the day. Or maybe it came from looking deep into the pools of water, at the bubbles that rose up from the depths where they were carried by the waterfall. The whole thing felt a little bit like a waterfall. She wondered about all this; why did she so often have the feeling here in this place? It was such a good feeling that it seemed only natural to think about her friends when she had it. There was something she liked to do when she had that feeling. Something that she liked to think about her friends while doing. Or she'd think about a new game they had made up last year. A pretend game like they had played when they were younger. But this game was different. It was like the pirate and princess game Andy and Vickie had introduced her to when they were first friends. But this game was different, even if it often had a similar plot. Always before the pirate had tried to capture the princess and the princess tried to escape, and since it was usually either she or Vickie who was the princess, the princess usually did escape. But now sometimes it had become a story where the princess captured the pirate. She didn't quite understand that. And sometimes she would think about her other friends too, the waterfall people as she liked to call them. It didn't feel quite right to think about them, but sometimes she did anyway. She knew the words to describe all this. But the words didn't seem to work when she thought them.
Other times she had completely different thoughts. She would wander about arranging rocks into little piles, pretending they were the gargoyles and fairies and trolls she had read about as a child and giving them names. Or she would sit dropping small stones into her reflection to watch the ripples float back and forth and try to figure out how long it would take them to disappear altogether. She liked how the whole night would feel almost like a dream as she wandered about ethereally in the moonlight across the silent rocks and then in the morning she would wake to the dawn and the newness of the day and wonder what exactly was real and what was not. It was as if there was some sort of mystical contradiction between night and day at those times; as if she became two entirely different people, both knowable only to the other, and there was just something about the drugs, the place, the memories, that seemed to be opening a new world to her. To be sure it was all in her mountains. It wasn’t really a new world, none of it. Just a new feeling about the world, a new way of seeing it.
It all reminded her of a song Vickie had told her about. She had sung Mountain Girl the words one day and then later brought a little tape player with her and played the song for her. At Mountain Girls insistence she had left it there for her and she had played it until the batteries gave out. It was called Moonchild and seemed to be about some sort of fairy floating about in the moonlight, leaving signs for the people that came by day and waiting for something. Waiting for what? She didn’t know. Vickie liked to say that music was for when words failed. But she wasn’t a musician like her friends and she wished she could find the words.
She wrote a poem about it and showed it to her father. He didn’t say much about it but a few days later, as if the matter had required several days thought, he had asked her if she could bring him to this place where she liked to sleep on rocks and write poems. They had gone together and spent the night there. He’d asked her lots of questions about what it was like here and had seemed delighted when she showed him some of the little rock sculptures she had assembled. The next morning he had thanked her for bringing him here. She had thought that was a bit silly. He was her father and these were his mountains. He could go where he pleased. But she guessed that he was trying to tell her something.
They’d talked more on the way home. She had tried to explain to him again how she felt sitting there on the ledges alone in the moonlight. It was frustrating, she’d tried the night before but there was just something she couldn’t figure out how to say. She hadn’t wanted to tell him about the marijuana or the wine. She didn’t think that was the cause of all these feelings even if a good buzz did seem to open a door to all sorts of new perceptions. But he’d put his arm around her and said that of course he knew what she meant. Then he had said something that just made too much sense to possibly be true. Everyone, if they were at all fortunate, felt this way about something. But because it was so intimate most people couldn’t really express it to anyone. They either knew or they didn’t. She’d earnestly told him no one could feel the way she did unless they were a teenage girl. A teenage girl living in the middle of the wilderness. He’d gotten one of the biggest smiles she had ever seen on his face and said that he personally had thought no one but an old man raising his daughter in the shelter of the worlds most beautiful mountains could ever feel what he felt sitting by the waterfall last night. Then he’d told her to be careful. He’d sat and contemplated the infinite all night while under the influence more than once himself. It was a wonderful feeling. But he didn’t want her to overdo anything and somehow hurt herself. In fact he hoped that she’d learn to find all these feelings in herself unaided. They were all there waiting.
They were almost home. She wanted to tell her dad something else. Something she didn't want to tell him and hoped that he wouldn't be angry with her about. She wondered why she thought this. He had rarely been angry with her even when she was younger and for the last few years the most he had ever expressed was a disappointment when she had acted in a way he thought she shouldn't have. Why be afraid of him being angry? But she was and it made her stomach hurt.
everything under the sun is in tune
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon
I can't believe how crazy things have been! I've come to the conclusion that it is deemed ever to be thus. In the meantime, I am wrestling with all those issues that newlyweds have to deal with, including those first forays into the real working world.
Since it's been a while, this post is longer than most of my others have been. But I hope you all like it.
September, 1975 - November, 1976
We spent a week in Bermuda. It was the first time I’d ever flown, and I was very nervous. But Jeff, ever cool and calm, just kept reassuring me that everything would be all right. Once we were in the air, I was fine, although I did get just a little nervous when we landed.
We stayed in a small place on St. George Island. One day, Jeff rented a boat, and we made our way to one of the little tiny islets, where we anchored in an unpopulated little cove. We spent the day there; we went skinny dipping, and Jeff suggested we make love on the beach. I think he was only half kidding, but at any rate I was afraid we’d get caught.
We took a bus one day into Hamilton, and I did some shopping there. It was so lovely and quaint, I could see how one could fall in love with such a place. We talked about taking future vacations there, but we both agreed that there were lots of other places we wanted to see, too.
We made love almost every night, and sometimes in the morning. The day before we left, Jeff suggested we rest, as he was getting sore. But we did make love the morning we left, sort of a final farewell.
We had discussed birth control at length, because I still didn’t want to get pregnant and I was afraid of the health risks of taking the pill – Mom’s scare a few years earlier stayed with me, despite the fact that she hadn’t been on the pill. Since we were now married, we decided that the relatively low risk of using a condom was acceptable. We even worked it into our rather extensive foreplay.
I was sad to leave Bermuda. We had a noon flight that got us in to LaGuardia a little after 3:00, so the traffic wasn’t too bad. We drove straight out to my parents’ house (it sounded funny to refer to it that way), and Mom was thrilled to see us.
She made us dinner, and afterward Jeff and I went through all the wedding envelopes. As we added up the checks, I was stunned at how much we had received.
“We’re off to a good start,” Jeff said, and I kissed him.
Diane had already gotten some of her pictures back, and we sort of luxuriated in the memory of that lovely day. Mom and Diane each told us lots of little things that we had missed. My cousin Kyle had been panting after Cookie all day, until she finally gave in, and they left the reception together.
“I hope he got home all right,” Mom said, and I giggled at that.
Mom also had nice things to say about Gloria, and the two of them seemed to have hit it off. The only tension of the day seemed to have been between Gloria and Donna, and I guess we all knew that Gloria would still resent Donna’s elopement. Some additional tension had been added upon Gloria's discovery that Donna was three months pregnant - nothing had been said at first.
Diane told me that her cousins (my step-cousins?) had all had a great time, and that Joyce, who was a year older than me and a recent graduate of Vassar, had hit it off with Doug Bevens. Doug found himself warmly welcomed by Joyce’s brothers, who were united in their distaste for her semi-serious boyfriend of the moment, Alan. Nevertheless, things with Doug would quickly cool, and Joyce and Alan were married the following summer.
By the time we got home that night, after having stopped to buy a stereo for the apartment, we were exhausted. When I slipped into bed that night, wearing a cotton nighty, I cuddled up to Jeff and we just kind of snuggled together and fell asleep, and the last thing I remember thinking was that this was how it felt to be at home with my husband.
We both dove into work and school. Jeff was going for his Master of Law, and I was going for my Masters in Music Education. Jeff’s schedule was especially grueling, and although we had agreed to split household chores evenly, the combination of his late hours for work and his schoolwork meant that I had to absorb more than my fair share of domestic work. He found ways to make it up to me – flowers delivered to home or work at unexpected times and for no apparent reason, little thoughtful gifts that weren’t particularly expensive, but that were things he knew I’d like, and dinners out whenever we could manage them.
The worst part for me was that our sex life really shriveled for a while, but we agreed that it was worth it in the long run, and we agreed to always leave a little time for some unplanned fun. Every once in a while, when he came home from work on a night he didn’t have class, I would be waiting for him with dinner on the table, wearing some provocative lingerie, but for a year or so, such times were relatively rare.
I was working as a secretary to an art director at an advertising agency. His name was Carmine Asanio, and he was a kindly gentleman in his early 60s who enjoyed flirting with every girl in the office. My first day, the office manager, Mrs. Grenfeld, had taken me aside and assured me that Mr. Asanio’s flirtations were completely harmless, and that the shorter my skirts and the higher my heels, the better my raises would be.
When I returned from my honeymoon, I was tempted to lower the hemlines and the heel heights a bit – as a married woman, I thought it would have been the proper thing to do. But I also liked wearing short skirts and high heels, and I figured that I’m only young for a little while, so I might as well enjoy it. Besides, I made it a point never to flirt back.
Mr. Asanio was indeed harmless, and he was really nice to work for. But I had only been there about a year when he had a heart attack one weekend. Mrs. Grenfeld called me at home that Sunday and told me that there would probably be some temporary changes while he recovered.
He was out for two months, and during that time, most of his work was covered by Rick Cavendish. Rick was a rather dashing looking man in his early forties, and very ambitious. He was friendly and smooth, and whenever he wanted to change something that Mr. Asanio had done and I questioned him, he would smile indulgently and explain that when Carmine returned, we would of course go back to doing things his way.
Work and school together filled my plate, but there were other things to deal with as well. Laura was the next one of my close friends to get married, in June of 1976. I wasn’t surprised but I was very pleased when she asked me to be a bridesmaid, along with Terri and Cookie. Her sister, Julie, would be matron-of-honor.
Laura asked her niece, April, who was now twelve and blossoming, to be the flower girl, and was stunned and hurt when April objected that she was too old to be a flower girl and demanded to be a bridesmaid instead. Julie immediately put a stop to that idea, declaring that April was definitely too young to be a bridesmaid. A family crisis quickly developed and a very distraught Laura showed up at our apartment one night, in tears and saying she’d rather elope than put up with this.
“What did Greg say about all this?” Jeff asked.
“I haven’t told him,” she replied. “So far, he’s gotten along really well with my family and I don’t want to ruin that.”
“But it’s your wedding,” I said. “Yours and his. You really have to keep it that way. If you want April to be a bridesmaid, then she should be, no matter how old she is.”
“But I think Julie’s right,” she said. “I mean, how could I pair her with an usher who was in his twenties?”
“Why not pair her with a younger usher?” I asked.
“We don’t have an usher that young.”
“Can you get one?” Jeff asked. Laura thought about that.
“I could ask Greg if there is anyone in his family; there’s no one in mine.”
I gestured to the phone, and she called him, explaining the situation. He must have said something negative about April, because she said, “No, Greg, you have to understand. I’ve known her since she was born, and I spent a lot of time with her when she was little. I think she’s hurt because she wants to have a mature role in my wedding and her mom isn’t allowing it. But I think if we could find her an age-appropriate partner, that would solve the problem.”
As it happened, Greg had a fourteen-year-old cousin named Steven, the youngest of three boys. Although it threatened to be a little awkward, as neither of the other two boys was asked, Greg did ask Steven to be an usher, especially to escort April, and he agreed. Julie was angry at having been outmaneuvered, but in the end she put that aside.
It was fun to go through all of the excitement of choosing gowns and going for fittings and talking about shoes and accessories. And although Laura chose some things that I would not have chosen – especially crowns of flowers the bridesmaids all wore – I remembered too well what it had been like, even among wonderful friends and family, and I kept my opinions to myself. Not everyone else agreed.
Poor Cookie looked a bit too wide in the hips with the gowns Laura chose, and I felt for her when she complained, “I look like a hippo!” Terri barely stifling a laugh didn’t help, and for the first time in a long time, I saw Cookie really look angry. Laura looked really hurt.
“You don’t look like a hippo,” I said soothingly, and then stifled a laugh. “I’m sorry, Cookie, but that was a funny way to put it, and that’s why Terri laughed.”
“Of course,” Terri added. “I’d never laugh at you. You know that.”
As Laura drifted out of earshot, I said to both Cookie and Terri, very softly, “I think Laura’s catching a lot of grief over this wedding. To tell you the truth, I’m not wild about the dresses or the headdress, but it’s what she set her heart on. So, I’m just going to tell her how wonderful it all looks.”
“You’re right,” Cookie said. “I guess that comes from having gone through it. I just wish I knew how to take two inches off my hips before the wedding.”
The only other one who didn’t like the dresses was Julie, who felt, like Cookie, that they made her look too wide in the bottom, but also because of how they made April look. The effect on her budding little shape was very pleasing, and Julie’s misgivings deepened.
As for April herself, she had already gotten into something of a state by the night of the rehearsal, which was also the first time she met Steven. Jeff and I met everyone at the church, and so I only heard a brief synopsis from Laura of the major battle Julie and April had had over her outfit for the evening and makeup. Judging by April’s appearance, the compromise that had been reached was that April wore lower, thicker heels, a longer skirt and a less revealing top, but also a little foundation, blush, lipstick, eye shadow and mascara.
Even though I had seen her when we went shopping for dresses, I wasn’t prepared for how mature she looked now. She presented a confident appearance, and the effect of the “compromise” had been to prevent her from overdoing anything. In a word, she was gorgeous.
Steven’s reaction was almost comical. He was virtually speechless when he was introduced to her. When we rehearsed everyone coming up the aisle in the church, Jeff saw that he kept stealing glances at her. Later, at the rehearsal dinner, Steven never took his eyes off her for more than a second or two.
The next day, Jeff dropped me off at Laura’s house early. He would meet me at the church later. Greg dropped Terri off almost at the same time, and we would have a fun time getting ourselves and Laura ready.
Julie, April and Cookie had spent the night at Laura’s, and peace had finally settled over the family. Cookie and I supervised April, making sure her makeup was as tastefully done as it had been the night before. But this time, the effect was combined with the flattering dress and very high heels, and by the time April was ready, she was eye-popping gorgeous, and there was little we could do to tone her down.
“Now,” Cookie said, “I saw that you got Steven’s attention last night.”
“Yeah,” she said with a grin.
“Well, this is your aunt’s wedding, not a school dance. Flirting is fine, and you seem to already be pretty good at it. But don’t overdo it. You have a nice date for the wedding, so make sure you’re as nice to him as you expect him to be to you.”
“Is that what you do?” April asked, with just a touch of mischief.
“No,” Cookie replied, with no hint of embarrassment. “But I’m 23. You’re 12. And while I might have been a bitch when I was 12 and 13, I never would have been when so many people went to such trouble for me.”
This time the rebuke was unmistakable.
“We’ve both known you almost all your life,” she went on, softly. “Today can be a triumph for you if you just remain yourself. No acts, no airs, no phoniness. Just be you.”
April turned to look at me.
“What she said,” I said with a smile. April smiled, and we knew the message had registered.
Julie, Cookie, Terri, April and I all went in one limousine, while Laura and her dad went in another. As the photographer was taking pictures of us in Laura’s house that morning, her dad kept making jokes that were really not funny, and Laura was getting increasingly upset. Julie started intervening and interrupting him, which he didn’t like but which Laura found to be a relief.
Just before we all got into the limousines, Laura’s dad turned to April and said, “By the way, you look like a hooker with all that makeup; make sure you wash it off before you get to the church.”
“Don’t be silly, Daddy,” Julie said without missing a beat. “I’ve never been more proud of April in my life; she looks fabulous, and you are not going to ruin it for her. Now, please be a dear and don’t critique anyone else the rest of the day, okay?
“Laura,” she added, “Everything is perfect. Don’t let him ruin a thing.”
As we got into the bridesmaids’ limo, April was about to say something, but I put my hand on hers.
“Sometimes,” I whispered, “The best thing is to smile and say nothing.”
I had a feeling that Julie was going to vent once we all got in the car, but she didn’t. She just Joyced on as if nothing had happened. We all followed her lead, including April, and we talked about how lovely Laura looked.
“I can’t believe it,” Julie mused, speaking to me. “I remember you and Laura as young teenagers fussing over April. Now you’re two mature, married ladies.”
“Or will be in another hour or so,” I said.
“Time marches on,” Terri added softly, and I reached across and gave her hand a squeeze.
When we met at the church, Laura looked white as a ghost. She’d been growing increasingly nervous over the last two weeks, and especially that morning. We all took turns talking to her, trying to calm her down, but the manic preparations and all the bickering had taken a toll.
“Hey,” I said to her, quietly. “It’s your day. Greg is a sweet guy and you two will be perfect together. Everything else is side noise.”
She nodded tightly. She looked like she was beginning to relax a little until the organ sounded the beginning of the wedding march, and then she went white again. I was paired with Frank, Greg’s older brother, a gentleman who was cordial and friendly, and I smiled as we walked up the aisle, especially when I saw Jeff. I was between Cookie and Terri, but I got a good look at Laura as she and her dad came up the aisle. She looked okay, but when they reached the front of the church, instead of just kissing her lightly on the cheek, like fathers of the bride are supposed to do, he lifted her veil and placed his hands on both cheeks and kissed her, smearing her makeup in the process. When he took his place next to Laura’s mother, he made a great show of cleaning his hands with a handkerchief.
“What an backside,” Cookie murmured to me.
“We’re in church,” I reminded her, and she just smiled at me.
The rest of the ceremony went well, and everyone later pretended not to notice the smudge marks on Laura’s face. By the time she and Greg emerged from their limo for the pictures at the reception hall, she had repaired the damage and Greg had gotten her laughing about the whole thing.
The pictures seemed to take forever, and I found myself fretting about Jeff. I hated being apart from him for so long, and I didn’t see him until we were all introduced at the reception. Fortunately, Laura had opted to have just her, Greg, Julie and Greg’s best man on the small dais, with two tables for the wedding party and guests. When Laura and Greg had their first dance, the wedding party joined them and I danced with Frank; but when the bandleader invited everyone onto the floor to join in, Frank and I separated so that he could dance with his wife, Arlene, and I could dance with Jeff.
I snuggled against him and he held me close. It was our first wedding since we’d gotten married ourselves, and I’d missed being with him during the vows.
“You look fabulous,” he said.
“I missed you,” I replied, and he squeezed me a little tighter. I was sorry when the song ended, but glad to return to our table together.
We danced a lot the rest of the reception – Jeff danced with all of the girls, including Laura. I danced with Greg and Jim, and when Jeff was dancing with Cookie, I was surprised when Laura’s father asked me to dance. I was a little concerned because he’d had a lot to drink, but he was perfectly okay. When the song ended, the band swung into a slow number, and I kissed him lightly on the cheek and thanked him, then slid happily into my husband’s arms.
Any time I saw April, she was with Steven, and I was pleased to see that she was at least as enraptured with him as he was with her. After a while, I didn’t see them until Cookie and I went to the ladies’ room together. On the way back, we made a wrong turn and went down a narrow corridor looking for an exit, but instead came upon April and Steven wrapped in each others’ arms.
“You could have picked a better place,” Cookie said dryly, causing them both to start badly.
“Please don’t tell my mom,” April begged.
“Tell her what?” Cookie asked me.
“No idea,” I replied, and we left them alone. Before we got back to the ballroom, I turned to Cookie and asked, “Wasn’t that one of those moments where we’re supposed to act like responsible adults rather than identifying with our teenaged desires?”
“Probably. But I just didn’t feel like it.”
“Me neither.”
I’m not sure when it started, but one day I realized that Rick Cavendish seemed to be finding a lot of excuses to touch me. It was all quite innocent – a hand laid on my shoulder while making a point, taking my hand in his to reassure. Then, one Friday evening, a large group of us were all leaving the office, and we crowded into a single elevator. His forearm was pushed up against my breast, and I couldn’t seem to get away from him.
The following Monday, I wore a rather long skirt, and there was no denying the scowl he wore. His manner toward me was decidedly cool, and I decided I preferred it that way. I went home that night and told Jeff about it, but he just laughed it off and said I was probably imagining things.
Hemlines were dropping anyway as we moved into 1976, and I continued to dress more conservatively. Mr. Asanio returned to the office in April, but I found myself working for him part of the time and for Rick part of the time. Mr. Asanio looked crestfallen at my longer skirts, but I decided I was going to stick with them.
He didn’t have to worry about them much longer. He had a second heart attack right after Laura’s wedding, much milder this time, but a definite warning sign, and he decided to retire.
I was reassigned as Rick’s full time secretary, and almost immediately, things started to go wrong. Files I was certain I’d put away seemed to disappear; phone messages I knew I’d left on his desk were nowhere to be seen. One Friday in early June, a little before 5:00, he asked me for the Kensington file, which I knew I had just put away just that morning, but it was nowhere to be found.
“Are you sure you didn’t take it out, yourself?” I asked him.
“Of course not. If I had, I wouldn’t be asking you, now,” he said, somewhat crabbily. “All I ask is that you find it before you go home.”
As the other girls all said good night, I began a systematic search. Then, one by one, the guys began to leave, too. Most cast sympathetic glances my way, which didn’t help my mood at all.
By 5:45, the office was empty except for Rick in his and me with my search. I had gone through all of my file cabinets twice, and was now looking through the file cabinets in the general filing area. There was no reason the Kensington file should be there, but I was working on the assumption that someone had misplaced it.
I had already called Jeff to let him know I would be late, and I had told him why.
“Just do what you have to do,” he said cheerily. “Well have a late, romantic dinner.”
Rick had come out of his office a couple of times to ask me how it was going, but he didn’t say much other than that. Around 6:30, he called me into his office.
“Why don’t you take a break?” he offered. “Have a drink.”
He took a bottle of whiskey out of his desk drawer.
“Might calm your nerves,” he added.
“My nerves are fine,” I said. “And besides, I don’t drink at work and I don’t drink any kind of whiskey.”
“Well, I think you need something to relax you. How about a rum and coke?”
Without waiting for my answer, he extracted a can of Coke from the small refrigerator in the corner of the office, and pulled out a small bottle of rum from a drawer in his credenza.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Oh, I insist.”
He was standing right next to me, blocking my path to the door.
“I understand that this is embarrassing for you,” he said softly, “and I just want you to know I fully understand, and it’s okay. We’ll work this out together.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I said, taking a step back. “I just want to find that file.”
I walked out of the office and back to the general file area. He didn’t follow me. After another twenty minutes or so, I noticed a file that appeared to be doubled, and as I pulled it apart, I saw, in my handwriting, “Kensington”.
I slammed the drawer closed loudly and strode quickly into his office. He was taking a sip of his drink, the glass of rum and Coke sitting on his desk in front of him, apparently for whenever I came back.
“Success?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes. It was stuffed into the Milliman file.”
“Milliman? I never would have guessed you’d have put it there.”
“Of course not,” I snapped. “Because I didn’t put it there. I haven’t gone into those general files since before Mr. Asanio first got sick, and certainly not since I started working for you because none of your files are kept there.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to get to the bottom of this little…”
“Get to the bottom of it? Try looking in the mirror.”
“Erin, you’re upset, you’ve had a rough time of it. I understand. You’re usually much better organized than this, but…”
“That’s right. I am. I am meticulous about my files and about my work. I leave messages in exactly the same place in the same way all the time. And I leave them right away so that I won’t forget.”
“Now, look,” he said, getting angry. “I’ll hold still for a lot, but you’re going a little too far. Now, I’m willing to forget the whole thing, and even share a little drink with you. So, let’s let bygones be…”
“I’m going home,” I said, stepping around him. He grabbed my arm hard and held me firmly.
“You…” he started to yell, and then caught himself. The outer office door opened as the cleaning crew came in. He released his grip. “I think it would be best if we parted company,” he said at last. “I don’t think you’re cut out for this business. We won’t stand in the way of you getting unemployment.”
It was fine with me. I stopped at my desk, picked up the framed photo of Jeff and me in Bermuda and the framed photo of our wedding day and put them into a small shopping bag in my desk. I also packed two paperback novels that were in my bottom desk drawer, a bottle of skin lotion and a small bottle of spray cologne that Mr. Asanio had given me.
I picked up the phone and called Jeff, who was now home.
“I just got fired,” I said. “I wouldn’t play the game.”
“Take a cab home,” he said. “I’ll be waiting out front when it pulls up and I’ll pay the driver.”
Sometimes, a person proves to you just how important you are to each other with the simplest gesture. Jeff was waiting in front of the building, just like he’d said he would, and he paid the driver. He slipped his arm around my waist and held me loosely as we rode the elevator up to our eighth floor apartment, and when he opened the door, he had a hot pizza laid out on the table, and two glasses of Chianti poured out and waiting.
He held me for a long time, until I gently pushed him away so I could have enough room to let my anger out. I told him the whole story, and he said nothing, just listened and nodded. I could have felt better about the whole thing if it wasn’t for one question gnawing at me: if Rick Cavendish had done such a rotten thing, why was I the one who’d lost my job?
“Honey,” he said at last, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the law is just starting to recognize the problem of women being harassed on the job. If you want, I know someone who you could talk to, if you wanted to make a fight of it.”
By now, the pizza was cold, but I was hungry and I ate it anyway. The wine was good. On Jeff’s desk at work was a little plastic statue I’d given him of a caricature of a judge with a big nose and a haughty expression, holding a law book, and the inscription: “Sue the bastards!”
“Is that what you think I should do?” I asked. He thought a while before answering.
“I think,” he replied softly, “that you should do what you most want to do. It wouldn’t be easy, I know that. But it is possible.”
If we won, I’d be a heroine to working women everywhere. And I’d get to hang the dirty bastard out to dry. But…I wanted to finish my graduate degree; land a teaching job; buy a house; have babies. I wanted all of that so badly, to turn what had been a rocky childhood with an alcoholic and suicidal father into a perfect adult life with the love of my life whom I’d nearly lost.
I think he saw the flame of determination flicker and go out while he watched. And he smiled with understanding.
“And,” he continued, without missing a beat, “I also think that you can just get up Monday morning and start looking for another job, keep plugging away at your classes, and we can move on with our lives and let someone else fight the war. You have a right to the life you want to lead, Erin.”
I got up and went to him. He pulled me down and I sat on his lap and we held each other for a long time.
I didn’t start looking for a job the following Monday. I threw myself into my classes and the various instruments I now played. I’d learned all of them, of course, but I’d narrowed to a handful the ones I played on a regular basis – I had a violin, a bassoon, a bass trumpet (which I had bought used for seventy five dollars) and of course, my guitars.
I wanted to finish my masters degree so that I could qualify to teach. I knew by now that I would have been better served had I taken education as my second major, or even as a minor, but I didn’t regret having done literature instead. And having lost my job would come in handy the following semester when I had to take student teaching.
One other interesting aspect of this was that I became a housewife for a while. Between school and music, I wasn’t a housewife in the traditional sense, but when I’d talk with any of my friends, they would tease me about it. Cookie liked to say that I went from one female stereotype – the secretary getting chased around the desk – to another.
Jeff didn’t mind, though, and he urged me to go full time in September so I could finish my graduate degree much sooner, and I did. He seemed to appreciate the little things I did to keep the household going, including having nice dinners ready for him when he came home. And our lovemaking became more frequent – I found myself wanting him more than ever.
But one Saturday evening in early October, we were invited to a cocktail party to celebrate his firm’s closing of a large corporate merger. Jeff seemed very keyed up about it. I knew that he had worked very hard on the merger, as he continued to make a name for himself as an up-and-coming associate in the firm, and this social event promised to be a signal of better things to come.
I bought a new cocktail dress for the occasion, teal satin and chiffon, with matching pumps and purse. He loved how the teal contrasted with my auburn hair, which I still wore well below my shoulders. For our first anniversary, he had given me a lovely pair of diamond earrings and a little diamond pendant on a fine gold chain, and as I gave myself one last look in the mirror, I thought I looked pretty good.
On the way into Manhattan, which is where the cocktail party was to be, Jeff had asked me to be at my best. It was obvious that he was nervous about this, which struck me as funny because he usually cared little or nothing for social politics. As soon as we arrived, I understood.
We were by far the youngest couple there, although there were a few “trophy wives” who weren’t too much older than I. Not surprisingly, they were a rather catty group with little to say that I found interesting. The older wives tended to be condescending, although they did compliment me on my looks and gown; I found myself drawn to the male side of the room.
Jeff was in a small group that included one of the senior partners of the firm, Richard Allardyce, and the chief counsel of one of the companies in the merger, Dennis Carpenter. Jeff introduced me as I drifted into the group, and I was politely received before they turned back to the topic of conversation, which turned out to be politics.
The Carter-Ford election was only a month away, and speculation on the outcome was rampant. Mr. Carpenter was damning Jimmy Carter rather vehemently, and while I was not surprised to see Mr. Allardyce nodding in agreement, I was stunned to see that Jeff was, too. I knew from our private conversations that he was still undecided, not liking a lot of Carter’s ideas but being very unimpressed with Ford.
Mr. Carpenter finished his diatribe by declaring that Carter’s election, which now seemed quite possible, would be a death sentence for the American economy, with nods of agreement all around.
“I can’t say I’m all that impressed by Ford’s record on the economy so far,” I said. “I don’t think you can accomplish too much in battling inflation and unemployment by putting out ‘WIN’ buttons. I mean, I agree that we have to ‘whip inflation now’, but I don’t think that the mere expressing of the sentiment is going to do the trick, except maybe for the folks who make the buttons.”
Mr. Carpenter laughed, Mr. Allardyce didn’t, and Jeff grinned and quipped, “Spoken like a true music student.”
“You’re a music student?” Mr. Carpenter asked.
“No, I’m have a bachelor’s degree in music, and I’m currently going for my masters in music education,” I replied.
“No time for courses in economics,” Jeff added, and the other men chuckled indulgently.
I drifted back to the trophy wife group and made idle conversation on fashions. Was this what Jeff suddenly wanted me to become? I couldn’t believe it.
When it was time to leave, I thanked our host and hostess, congratulated Mr. Allardyce, smiled at Mr. Carpenter and told their wives how lovely it had been to meet them. In the elevator down to the ground floor, I said not a single word to Jeff. We walked in silence to the car, and by the time he pulled onto the FDR Drive, I still hadn’t said a word.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”
I think he could have uttered just about any other sentence in the English language, and it wouldn’t have made me as angry as that did. I’d already been stunned by his demeaning comments to me in front of his boss; now he was pretending that it hadn’t actually happened, or if it had, he hadn’t noticed. I could feel anger rising up in me like nothing I had felt toward him since we’d gotten back together, and it frightened me.
“Fine,” I said. My voice was flat.
“You don’t sound fine,” he replied, solicitously.
“Well, you know how we music students can be.”
There was a stalled car in the left lane on the off-ramp to the Triborough Bridge, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Silence prevailed in our car while we made our way pass the bottleneck. As we made our way onto the bridge, I gazed downriver at the dazzling display of lights on the east side of Manhattan, a sight that always brightened my spirits, but not tonight.
We were soon gliding past LaGuardia Airport and then Shea Stadium, and we bore left onto the Whitestone Expressway, past the old Flushing Airport (where, in my summer in day camp, I remember passing and seeing the Goodyear blimps being readied for flight) and finally onto the Cross Island Parkway that would take us home. And all of it we rode in stony silence.
We entered the apartment and turned on the lights. He shucked off his suit jacket while I slipped out of my heels. I had just opened the drawer with my nightgowns in it when he spoke for the first time.
“Look, I’m sorry…”
“No!” I snapped. “You are not going to apologize now, now that we’re safely out of earshot of anyone who might thing any the less of you because you thought you owed your wife an apology!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, standing there tonight and toadying for Allardyce and Carpenter, nodding that you thought they were right, shaking your head in disapproval at anything they said was bad, and mocking me when I had the temerity to voice an opinion that you yourself have stated more than once – but only when safely out of earshot.”
“Erin, I just didn’t want to antagonize Allardyce when he is already impressed with my work,” Jeff said, defensively.
“Did you ever stop to think that he might actually admire you for holding your own independently formed opinions? And that he might actually have formed his initial good opinions of you for the same reasons I did? And that maybe, just maybe, he might be just a tad disappointed that you would sell out your own viewpoints so cheaply?”
He tried to say something, but nothing would come out.
“Well, let me tell you something,” I went on, tugging my dress off in one swift motion. “If you want to be a good boy, say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and behave just like they want you to behave, that’s up to you. It’s not you, and it’s not the man I married, but that’s up to you. But don’t you dare diminish me for my opinions, or make me out to be something less than what I am.
“You disparaged my work in music tonight after having told me for years that you loved my work in music. You can’t have it both ways. Don’t say you admire me and then insult me, and don’t you ever run me down in front of others, because I just won’t stand for it!”
I stormed out of the bedroom and into the bathroom and closed the door. I immediately started the shower so he wouldn’t hear me crying. I slowly pulled off my pantyhose, panties and bra and dropped them into the laundry hamper and then I stepped into the steaming shower until the hot water relaxed the muscles in my neck and back, and the heaving in my chest stopped as the sobs subsided. I didn’t turn the shower off until I’d calmed down.
Because my hair was so long and thick, it took quite a while for me to blow it dry, and I threw myself into the work. When it was done, it looked rich and full. I then decided to pluck my eyebrows for a while, then I brushed my teeth and finally slipped on a knee-length nightgown.
When I came out of the bathroom, I saw the sliding door to the balcony was open, and I could see him standing at the railing, looking out over the bay. I walked over to the door.
“I’ve made a decision,” I said quietly. “I’m going to drop two of my courses on Monday, including student teaching, and I’m going to look for a secretarial job. I refuse to have you act as if I don’t contribute as much to this marriage as you do.”
“Erin, please don’t…”
“I’m not discussing it. I’m going to bed.”
I went back into our bedroom and closed the door. I got into bed, thoroughly miserable. I had hoped for so much from tonight.
None of my hopes had had anything to do with Jeff’s work, except that it was something we were celebrating. He’d loved my gown from the moment he’d seen it, and its soft, clinging material had made him want to touch me whenever he had a chance. I’d envisioned coming home from the cocktail party, teasing him a little, letting him undress me, helping him undress and then finally making love.
All day, I’d had a powerful desire for him that seemed at times to overwhelm me. And so the fact that we’d had a fight that had ruined it had made me even angrier. Now, I felt that the whole evening was in tatters, and I resented it.
I had dropped off to sleep, but I woke up when he came into the room and quietly slipped into bed beside me. I looked at the clock and saw it was after 3:00, so I knew he’d been sitting and stewing for a long time.
“You awake?” he asked softly enough so that if I had not been, he wouldn’t have awakened me.
“Yeah.”
I was lying on my side facing away from him.
“I’m sorry about tonight, Erin. I really am. I’m really proud of you, and I always have been. Our values to the marriage are not determined by how much we earn or how we make a living, but by what we give to each other.
“I don’t know what got into me tonight. I guess I was so wrapped up in doing well at the firm and wanting to be well liked, I was afraid of a little controversy. Maybe the fact that I seem to making progress faster than anyone expected, including me, made me suddenly afraid that I might somehow blow it. But you’re right – if that’s going to damage their opinion of me, then their opinion isn’t worth much.
“Most of all, I feel awful about dismissing your views. I love you. You’re my wife, you’re everything to me.
“And please don’t drop any courses. You can’t finish the degree without taking student teaching, and you like where you are right now. Nothing would be gained by dropping courses to take a job, and you’d lose time and momentum. The whole idea was for you to really put all your effort into finishing the degree so you’d have options, so please don’t ruin things now. Especially because of me.”
“They certainly sounded as if they consider what you do to be much more valid than what I do,” I said.
“No, Erin. I sounded that way. And I’m sorry for it. I know I hurt you, and I hate myself for that.”
I considered that.
“You know,” I said, “We’ve talked about having children, and about me staying home until they’re of school age. I need to know now if you’re going to think of me as just another ‘stay-at-home mom’.”
There was a short silence. The question had pulled him up short, as I had intended it to do, and I was glad to see that he answered slowly, with no hint of glibness.
“I never think of you as ‘just’ anything,” he said at last.
“Not even tonight?” I challenged.
“No, not even tonight. What I said was said out of political calculus – not that that makes it all right – but it does not and never could reflect what I think of you, or of what you think.”
There was another long silence.
“Please forgive me, Erin,” he said at last. He was crying. I turned to face him and placed my hand on his cheek.
“All right,” I said. I kissed him on the cheek and tasted salt from his tears. I kissed him again, and yet again, and I heard his voice and breathing drop back to normal.
His lips found mine, and the desire I’d felt before came welling back up in me with even greater force. I rolled over onto my back and gently pulled him toward me, and soon he was on top of me and I could feel his excitement growing. Soon, he was pushing the hem of my nightgown up past my waist, past my breasts, and finally over my head and off me altogether.
He was kissing me, licking, touching. I teased him in all the ways I knew he loved. But it was different this time – there was an urgency I’d never felt before. Maybe it was the desire to erase the hurt of the fight, or maybe it was the pent up desire that had been building the whole day. Or maybe it was a jumble of images of all the times we’d been intimately affectionate in different ways and at different ages.
I only know that when we made love that night, it was better than anything that had ever gone before.
Last edited by Erin L on Sat Jun 20, 2009 11:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
not sure my life would be all that different until i reached puberty in the late '60's and had to explain my affection for girls.......yikes! we were open-minded as a generation, but not that open-minded!
A Friday bon-bon to you. Amid the bevy of Mt. Holyoke freshmen, Robyn encounters bull sessions, a bolt out of the long-ago blue, mystery, music … an absolute vacation from the serious.
Love, Robyn Katie
***
“Aren’t you the little bookworm, though!”
Just one more arch remark from my beloved roommates, who think print on a page is a boring leftover from the Middle Ages. It’s true, though, I am a bookworm, I’ve always had my nose in a book. Never been made to feel self-conscious about it before, though.
Reading consumes me. Really once studying is done, what else is there to do? I don’t like to drink and hack around, like some of the girls in the dorm. As for music, I seem to have very few opportunities for that (last weekend it was wonderful, I had the room all to myself Sunday afternoon nearly till everyone came back to dress for supper. But it was a rare exception). Reading has always shielded me from all my troubles— even the ones I wasn’t yet ready to call troubles, but dimly foresaw I might have to.
Reading got me through the long evenings of Daddy’s drinking and Mom’s congealed anger. Reading saved me from loneliness, from long stretches of time when I didn’t know what to do with myself. So a bookish girl was what I became, until Karl, and then when Karl and I began falling apart, reading was my rescue. Almost as if words could blind.
“You’d read anything—the labels off medicine bottles …”
I guess that’s true. Words anywhere draw me, force me to read them. I always have a stack of paperbacks tucked in the corner behind the bed—murder mysteries, science fiction, adventures and travels and anything strange or out-of-the-way.
Reading at least makes no noise and takes up very little room. It doesn’t bother anyone (except Rena and Joanne, but everything bothers them; if they could stop me breathing without getting caught for my murder, I’m sure they’d do it). So I do a lot of reading, when I’m not chattering to other people, brushing my hair (it’s quite long now, and tangles at the drop of a hat), or having to study.
Maybe I’m not very good at fitting in, for I don’t seem to have succeeded in being very close to the other girls in the dorm, their stories, warnings, chatter. Just listen to them!
“When I wore my hair short, on the other hand—”
“Oh, short, well, that was your problem then. What you should have done was—”
“No, I liked it, but it wouldn’t keep a curl.”
“So I got done washing the egg mask off my face, I never was so glad to get anything off in all my life, I smelled like a loaf of bread ... or maybe fresh lumber.”
“Nothing a boy loves in a girl more than fresh lumber.”
“Oh you stop. But I think it did help. You notice? What do you think?”
“It does. I know it does. Draws your skin tight and makes it oooh, all over … I don’t know, what’s the word? Something.”
“Roses. He gave me roses, a whole dozen. I was ready to melt right there and then. There’s nothing that makes a girl feel quite the way roses do.”
“You have to be careful about roses. They can make you do things you’ll regret later.”
“How many strokes do you brush your hair?”
“I don’t dare brush mine more than twenty-five. Too much of it ends up on the brush after twenty-five. Because when I get nervous it starts falling out.”
“You get nervous a lot?”
“Pretty much all the time.”
“What about your legs?”
“Thought I’d just leave them as is. They’re pretty good—”
“You’re not shaving your legs for tonight?”
“I just did yesterday. It’s not time. I shouldn’t have to, not every darn day.”
“But they won’t be really smooth if you don’t. He’ll notice you’re all hairy-legged and shaggy.”
“You think he will?”
“It’s a cinch he will.”
“Your makeup’s awry, or did you not realize.”
“It is not! Is it? Where’s that hand mirror? Oh fish, how did it get like that? I’ll have to take it off and start over. Where’s the cold cream?”
“Tampon? Has anyone got a spare tampon?”
“Ginny, can I borrow your dress, the blue one with the white—”
“No you cannot borrow my dress. You’re always borrowing my things without asking. I would gladly loan them if you’d ask, but you never do.”
“I just asked right this minute.”
“Too little, too late. Go mooch off somebody else.”
If they’re not buzzing about last-minute readjustments and frantic primping, it’s boys’ manners, sense of responsibility, or lack thereof. The yacking drives the sports-minded girls crazy; they take their hockey sticks and leave with suitable parting remarks. As for the studious among us, on date nights they’re either defiant or pretty quiet about their devotion to biochem, calculus, Renaissance poets or the battle of Lepanto, and usually head for the library to escape the bevy of addle-pated young creatures wading around in beauty like an ill-fitting skin.
Where I fit into all this (or don’t), I’m not sure. I feel funny in some ways not being a virgin, for hard as it may be to believe, an awful lot of the girls here still are—at least I’m pretty sure they are. They certainly act like they’ve never been invaded in that particular way! On the other hand there are the select few who either admit, or can’t help showing, that they have been “made women of,” as the saying is. Then there are the ones who are dauntingly experienced, like Clara down the hall, who if she’s telling the truth has had any number of boys and doesn’t think much of them, either. Painfully I find myself guessing half the time at what’s true and what’s not, and what my fellow females all around me are really like under the forced cheer, the anxiety, the bravado, and sometimes the sheer headlong beauty they show at unexpected moments when they can’t help it.
Some of them drink pretty hard.
A very odd coincidence: Edith Wilcox from grade school is here at Holyoke! Not only that, she’s in my dorm, on the floor over mine. As a grown girl she’s much the same as when she was ten years old, big bruised eyes, shy, morbid personality. She came to my room when I was playing my guitar (my roommates gone, thank goodness), blinked and said Hi, followed by the usual seven or eight things people say when they haven’t seen each other in so long it’s a mistake to say anything at all.
Then, as if by accident, she drops her bombshell. “I always had such a crush on you.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. “I—didn’t know that.”
“No, of course you didn’t. I was just this little mouse and you were this amazing person. But I’m over it,” complacently settling herself on our sagging third-hand couch.
“You are?”
“I think so, yes. Mostly. Well, not entirely I guess, or why would I have come down to see you? But I thought I should, because otherwise it might fester.”
“What might fester?”
She gazed up at me uncannily. I began to be a little afraid of her. “Would you kiss me?” she said.
I stood flatfooted (literally, I was in my bare feet at the time, as I had just zipped up my skirt and been about to go the closet for my heels when she knocked and came in). I suppose I looked as if a creature from another planet had just crawled through my window.
“I beg your pardon?”
Edith didn’t waste any more words on me. She got to her feet, came, tilted her lips up sideways (she’s rather short), touched the back of my neck with her fingers, and put her lips softly to mine. And there they clung.
I didn’t know how to react. A million thoughts swarmed through what I laughingly call my brain, not all of them noble. For instance, I knew very well I was not at all attracted to her and never likely to be. On the other hand these days I was frequently lonely as I seem destined to be. So it occurred to me, what if I were to rather casually encourage this? I pictured leading this person I don’t much like by the hand to my bed, lying intertwined with her, even daring to get under the covers together. I’d reached the point of unfastening her dress (in my mind) when she ended the kiss.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “That’s what I’ve always wanted to do, ever since sixth grade. Glad I got that out of my system.”
I blinked. “Out of your sys—?”
“Golly yes. Wouldn’t do for me still to be wandering around with a crush on you, would it! After all, I have my education to see to. Thank you so much, Robyn, for letting me indulge myself a moment, and I do hope you didn’t mind. It really did help me ever so much. Now, I must go, I’m afraid. Quite busy, actually. I’m sure we’ll see each other around campus from time to time—”
“Edith—?” My whole self was suddenly in a turmoil, awakened, aching with arousal.
She turned at the door with solemn eyes and a cute little wave. “—’Bye.”
Sit on it, Robyn. That’s what the other girls would say. It’s very odd their saying that, as sitting on it, in a literal sense, often leads to wriggling on it, and what with the heat, and the humidity—oh, I needn’t go into that, need I? Still I can’t feel it was very fair of Edith to come use me for a kissing post like that, and then expect me to think nothing more of it.
No, I do *not* want Edith, I never did. But darn it, provocative is provocative!
Stop this. Get it out of your head.
Well sure, I could easily get it out of my head, if I was in love with someone. But just now I’m alarmingly unattached, and can I help it if I’m in a vulnerable state?
I said I wasn’t going to let myself become susceptible to girls any more. I have quite healthy instincts, and though I’m not at all comfortable with boys, from what I gather hardly any other girl is either, so why haven’t I a decent chance to turn out normal?
Taking myself in hand is my project for this winter. I’ve put away my palaces and paladins, my cloud forests and Martian sunrises, in fact everything fanciful, ‘cause they only get bruised or broken in this deadly dorm, and besides I can see they tend to lead me astray. Being led astray is a luxury I’m not planning to have happen to me any time soon. That’s my solemn resolve.
Yes, I am going to extract my head from the sky and keep my feet on the ground if I can. I shall think calmly and rationally about things, keep my imagination reined in, and see if I am a good enough actress to play the part of a normal everyday human girl. A girl like—
Like Alison Simms, my high school roommate. Each crossroads I come to, I shall ask myself, how would Alison react? What would her state of mind be? She wouldn’t let herself be swept away, or smitten, or fascinated, or breathtaken, or go all over faint with desire, would she? Then I shan’t be, either.
Booking it? Me? Yes. I’m studying hard—not very rewarding, as my freshman courses are sad, tedious, an awful lot of rote learning, very little scope for breadth of thought or interpretation, but I don’t care, I have set myself to do them, and though so far I’m getting only Cs in them, I want to raise my grades to Bs if I can.
I’ve seriously set about making friends, also. Or at least one friend (not sure I could handle more all at once, but as I get better at it, perhaps I could branch out). Her name is Harriet Thibodeau and she lives down the hall. She roomed with a girl named Debby Something, but Debby (who had a habit of wandering around in her pajamas hugging a pillow in the most forlorn possibly way) dropped out in early November, and so Harriet’s by herself now.
She and I just seem to hit it off. I love going there, for we get along very well, have a million things we love to talk about, often go down to the dining room together, and she is pretty nearly perfect—she even likes hearing me play and sing! She’s said I can come to her room and practice any time if I keep it soft enough not to disturb the girls in the rooms across and to either side. I realize now I’ve ached for companionship, a kindred spirit, and now here she is, in my lap (not literally, honest).
How we yack on and on into the night.
“Boys—men too—seem so blunted, don’t you feel?”
I eye her. “Blunted how?”
“There’s so much I see in a moment, but they don’t appear to recognize it. Undulant waves of feeling, little warnings that grow up under my toes like grass, things I guess at—oh, I don’t know, heights and, and depths beyond—well, all they seem to want to do is count from one to ten and back, while I’m all factorials and calculus— I’m not putting this very well, am I.”
I stare up at her where she sits crosslegged on the top bunk. When Debby left she didn’t move down to the lower one. Says she likes to be up in the air.
“The shadow that rings things and people before something happens—”
I’m dumfounded. “You see that too?”
“You mean you do?”
“Yes! What’s it called? Is there a name for it? Aura, or—”
“More like a penumbra, I’ve always thought. But the very idea that you—! Of all people—! And that we should meet—! Like this— Living on the same hall—! I could scream—!”
Suddenly she’s jumped down and we’re hopping all over the room, holding each other by the elbows. “I feel it in my skin I think.”
“Yes! Like an electrical discharge, or—”
“I thought no one saw that but me!”
“Think we’re precognitive?”
“I know we are. There’s no doubt in the entire world.”
Tumbling on the tumbledown couch, we lie on our sides facing each other, eyes deadly earnest. “That expectancy. Like soaring. An eagle maybe. Boys don’t seem to know—”
“Well, girls don’t either, most of them.”
“But you do. How can you be that amazing?”
Teasing, mock-preening. “Aw shucks, just comes natcherly I guess.”
“But foreshadowings! Tell me,” with a gulp, “do you see any now? Don’t joke.”
I shake my head. “It only happens sometimes. And sometimes it’s wrong, too. Not everything that’s got that shadow around it actually ever gets its—whatever you would call it—”
“Destiny. Yes, I know. That’s what makes it so flummoxing, till your heart practically turns inside out with needing to see, but not quite being able—”
“Does it only happen for you with people you’re closest to?”
Headshake. “Even with strangers—sometimes. Less often perhaps, I’m not sure.” Gaily, “But to know I’m not the only one! And does it sometimes get you so entangled your soul can barely manage all the complexity and you think it’s going to break down? And when that moment slides by and it’s gone, seeing it recede, what do you find to do about the unutterable loss?—do you have a way of making it up to yourself that doesn’t involve, oh, you know—?”
A second friend, though not as close to my bone marrow as Harriet, is Mara Schott, a slightly chubby girl with beautiful features who lives at the far end of the hall. She’s the other singer in our dorm, the one I kept hearing so boldly singing
I know just how ugly I are,
My face it ain’t no shining star.
I’m drawn to her room like a magnet. She plays guitar in a delicate style she says she learned from listening to lute music. She was in England last summer and raves about a “dashing young man” called Julian Bream.
“He was playing on the BBC—the radio, you know—and I went to see a recital he gave. He’s hardly any older than us, just out of college I think, but he’s dazzling. What I do is only a little fraction of it, just some things I taught myself.” Then she drags out her Andres Segovia album or something by a flamenco player she likes, Carlos Montoya.
“But most of all I like to sing old ballads,” she said, “some of the same ancient ones you sing, Barbara Allen and so on, only in very much older versions! But as there’s not much room in ballads for fancy guitar playing, I barely know what to play when I sing. Just strum? I’ve no idea really. I’m the sad product of a classical music education, I’m afraid, very stuck-in-the-mud.”
“You? You sing like an angel, and play like—well, nobody can play like that but you.”
“Pooh, it’s very simple, I hardly know anything, just a few things I’ve learned by rote.”
“Stop it. You have nothing to be modest about.”
“Oh but I do. I feel very restricted in what I can perform. Besides, being American after all, it’s hard not to feel self-conscious singing my ‘Olde Englishe’ songs here.”
“But I love them!”
She crinkles in a smile. “Yes, and we know you’re clinically insane, too.”
There’s no knowing what to say to her. She won’t take a compliment—turns away every nice thing I say. Adds, “I like the ones you sing—so American, so impromptu and unstudied. Those are the ones I want to learn.”
“Well,” I tell her, in a rush of generosity, “you’re welcome to copy songs out of my song notebook if you like.” This by now has grown to be a giant two-inch-wide three-ring binder of pages ranging from new and crisp to ancient and tattered, hole-punched and stuck on with reinforcements that are tearing away, from me flipping the pages so much. Can you teach me to improvise like you do?”
Amazed, I object, “Good heavens, Mara, what are you talking about, I’m at your feet, you can play rings around me.”
“But not so fetchingly.” In a sad strain she touches the guitar for a lavish waterfall of notes and sings something she says is an old Irish parlor song from the nineteenth century,
Shameen, come and wander
Through the long Boreens of Derry,
Shameen, take the high road
And wander with me,
For it’s there you’ll find the heather
And the scarlet rowanberry—
“You see? All set pieces. Teach me ‘Blackbird and Crow,’ the one you sang when I was in your room. I liked that about the birds talking about love.”
“All right, but you have to promise to play me some of the fancy stuff after.”
I run up the hall for my notebook and run back, so as to miss as few seconds of her company as possible. Opening it to the page, I show her the lyrics. This particular version came from a 1930s recording, but the song goes back a century or more.
“ … And the tune goes like this.”
Hi, said the bluebird as she flew,
If I was a young girl I’d have two,
And if that young man chanced to go,
I’d have me another string to my bow.
Mara looks grave. “Could you write it down for me?”
“You mean, the notes?”
“Uh huh. Just the melody. That would really help.”
Perplexity, for I barely know how to write music. “I don’t—I can’t. Not very well. I sort of know where the notes go on the staff, but I make mistakes. And as to time, rests and so forth, I have no idea.”
“You are the most peculiar creature! Are you really trying to persuade me you’ve learned all the things you play and sing, and never ever used notation?”
I cross my hands over my heart. “Guilty.”
“Well, show me the melody on the guitar then—where the notes go.”
The hours while away, music passing back and forth between the two of us, till I begin to notice (she says she does, too) how closely we’re beginning to be able to imitate each other. More and more we play duets, and sing duets too; I discover a knack for singing harmony, though it has to be low harmony, as I’m only an alto, and her whole singing range is higher than mine.
“You two still at it?” says Wendy, her roommate, barging in.
“What’d they do, kick you out of the library?” twinkles Mara, amused.
“It does close at eleven.”
“Is it that time already? Robyn, tell me we haven’t been singing nonstop for four hours.”
“Ask me, if you want to know,” advises Wendy, thumping her books down on her desk and taking off her coat and scarf. “I left here at precisely sixteen after seven by my watch, and you were already going strong then, the two of you.”
Mara puts on her most fetching apologetic expression, eyes swerving and pleading. “Poor Wendikins, are we very cruel to you?”
“Yup, you are.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
“It’s probably fatal.”
“Poetic justice.” They beam at each other.
“Gee,” I say enviously, “you two seem to have worked things out a lot better over music than I have with my roommates.”
“It’s the arrangement we have. I’ve promised not to kill her till tomorrow,” says Wendy fondly. “Although if tempted, it could always be done sooner.”
Mara stretches. “I suppose we ought to call it quits for the night.”
But that’s usually just the prelude to a fresh bout of singing, and I know I will sit up late entranced, harmonizing to her lovely soprano, playing backup to her intricate guitar figures, watching her fingers, trying to figure out what she is doing.
“These dateless Saturday nights,” says Harriet from the bed another night, when she has dropped by Mara’s room for no reason. “Not to defrost the pumpkin by any means, but I do wonder why the two of you don’t find someone to go out with.”
“L’art,” carols Mara. “C’est longue. La vie, c’est breve.”
“Yes, well, sometime in the tiny remainder of my vie breve I’ll need some sleep, won’t you?”
With a yielding snicker Mara says, “She needs her sixteen hours of sleep a day or she’s fit for nothing in what’s left of the afternoon.”
Our of sheer compassion we gently put away our guitars in their cases, and when Harriet has gone we fall to planning our lives as celebrated musicians.
Terri was next to get married, and the wedding was in early October. She asked me to be her matron of honor, and of course I was happy to accept. The rest of the wedding party would be small – her sister and a sorority sister, Angela D’Amico, would be the only bridesmaids, and she hoped that Laura and Cookie would understand.
Laura and Greg had decided to settle on Long Island and her parents had helped them with the down payment on a house. They’d bought a nice place in Port Washington, and with all the excitement of the wedding and the move, and then settling in, Laura was just as happy to simply be a guest.
Cookie was still living at home, having finished college as a psychology major and now going for her masters degree. Our Christmas party with the children had made a strong impression on her, and she was now looking to make her career in child psychology. She told me that she, too, was glad to avoid the hubbub of another wedding party just now.
With the summer off, I threw myself into Terri’s wedding. I went to fittings with her, made suggestions when she let me and ran a little interference when her sister became a little overreaching. But when conflict did arise, she made a wry little smile and shrugged it off, which made me very happy.
Jim asked Jeff to be his best man, which also made things easier for me. All in all, things were looking quite swimmingly as the big day approached.
“I’m always amazed at how unflappable she is,” Jeff said one night. “It’s like she’s found some source of inner peace that the rest of us don’t have.”
I had to agree, although there were times when I remembered her being more vivacious and outgoing when we were younger, and I missed that. But then I had to assume that her illness a few years earlier had been a sobering experience. For now, I could only be happy for her, and happy she was sharing so much of it with me.
She had really wanted the wedding to be on the Cape, but Jim had gently talked her out of it. He had agreed to move near there after the wedding, and had already found a job in Boston. They found a place to live on the Cape, and Jim settled in there before the wedding.
That morning, Jeff dropped me off at Terri’s parents’ house, and I was immediately swept into the storm of preparation that by now seemed so familiar. And yet, with Terri it seemed very precious. We had been friends for so long and seen so much of the other’s life.
Her sister came in to help her get dressed, but then sensed that three was a crowd, and she soon left the two of us alone. I helped her with her hair and makeup, not because she needed it but because it was a way for us to share it. I recalled that she had done the same for me the morning of my wedding.
All of us – her sister, Angie, her mother and I – helped Terri into her gown. In a way, her choice was just as much a surprise as mine had been. It was a dramatic looking gown with lots of silk and a long train, and the veil was held by a pillbox crown.
Underneath, she wore somewhat more subdued lingerie than I had, a pair of sheer white panties trimmed in lace.
“I’m not a slut like you,” she said when it was just the two of us, and we both had a nice giggle at that.
What struck me was how dramatic the skirt of the gown looked, billowing out from her tiny waist. And the stark white gown was set off beautifully by her dark, curly hair.
While the photographer took pictures of Terri and her dad, her mom pulled me aside.
“I always dreamed of this day,” she said to me. “And I always knew you’d be a part of it. I’ve always been so grateful that you and Terri have been such close friends.”
We hugged, and then I thanked her for all the warmth and welcome I’d always enjoyed in her house. “I sometimes wondered if I’d made myself a pest,” I added, and she laughed, squeezed my arm affectionately, and said, “Never!”
Before the photographer finished with the pictures at the house, he took a few of me alone. Terri told me later that she had specifically asked for that, recalling I had done the same when she’d been my maid of honor.
Terri’s brother met us at the church and informed us that Jim was there and was doing all right.
“Jeff seems to be calming him down,” Rod said.
“Probably returning the favor,” I said, and Terri laughed.
During the vows, I was able to glance over at Jeff, and our eyes met. I felt a little flutter inside each time it happened. I wondered to myself if Terri and Jim felt the same way, and I wondered if Jeff and I would feel the same way when we were old.
The rest was predictable – the recessional, more pictures, the introductions, the first dance. I was so glad that Jeff and I were together in the wedding party, so that we could be introduced together and have the first dance together. As we danced, I clung to him very tightly.
But one thing did stand out – Jeff’s toast. He’d actually been nervous about it the night before, and I’d told him to just relax and speak from his heart.
“Have you ever looked at a perfect sunset, or a marvelous painting or sculpture, or listened to a wonderful piece of music, and become so overwhelmed by it that all you can do is gasp, ‘Yes!’? That’s how I feel tonight, looking at Terri and Jim.”
Everyone broke into spontaneous applause, long and loving; I saw Terri blinking rapidly and Jim shyly wiping his eye. And I prayed that Jeff, who I knew had much more he wanted to say, would end it there. When the applause died down and he continued, I could hear his voice thickening with emotion.
“And may God bless,” he said, raising his glass. Everyone followed, with cries of “Hear, hear!”
When he came back to the dais, Jim embraced him firmly and Terri gave him a kiss, thanking him. I hugged and kissed him, and then we parted so that he could take his place next to Jim and I could take mine next to Terri.
“Perfect,” I said before we parted. “Not a dry eye in the house.”
He grinned sheepishly at me.
It was right after dinner that I saw Terri walk over the band leader.
“Oh, no!” I whispered to Jeff. “I know just what she’s doing!”
I was right.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I’d like to invite Erin, our matron of honor, to join us for a number.”
“And,” Jeff said quietly, “Don’t bother to protest.”
Terri was already laughing as I crossed the dance floor, and I laughed, too, when the bandleader held up a Fender Telecaster.
“No false modesty?” Terri teased as I took the guitar.
“No point in it,” I said. “You’re not going to let me off the hook.”
“Got that right,” she laughed.
The bandleader and I talked about a few different songs we could do, but it was Terri who said, “How about ‘Little Wing’?” I objected that it wasn’t a song you usually heard at a wedding, and she said, “But I’m the bride and that’s what I want to hear.”
So, we played it. I felt a little rusty, and the Telecaster was a little different from what I was used to, but I had to admit it went well. Everyone gave a nice round of applause when we finished. The bandleader asked if I wanted to stay and jam for a few more numbers, and when I looked over at Jeff, he gave me a big encouraging smile, so I did.
They did some Beatles songs, some Stones, and then a Little Richard medley that got a lot of people up on the dance floor and on which I played some leads that I thought sounded very nice. I got another nice round of applause when I stepped off the stage.
At the next break, the leader came over to the dais.
“How would you like to join us?” he asked. “My name’s Tom Gordon. I’ve been looking to add another guitarist for a long time, and you have some really nice riffs.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I started.
“Yes, you do,” Jeff said. “You’re dying to get back playing. She even played at our wedding,” he added to Tom, who laughed appreciatively.
“I’m not sure how reliable I could be,” I said. “I’m still in school, and Jeff works long hours, so I value the time we have together.”
“Here’s my card,” Tom said. “Please call me, and we can work something out. You should be playing, plain and simple.”
I thought about it for a week, with Jeff pestering me from time to time. I knew I should do it, and yet something inside me said I should wait. Then again, when I asked myself, ‘wait for what?’ I had no answer.
I called Tom, and he was thrilled. They held a practice session on a Saturday in his basement, and I had to admit, it felt wonderful to be playing in a band again. After three hours, I was in.
The name of the band was Tomfoolery. I liked it as a name, but wondered how it did to draw gigs. Tom himself was surprised that most of their gigs were weddings and other family occasions – it was not a niche he’d been looking for, but it was fairly regular and it paid nicely.
Tom played keyboards. Phil Barrow played bass, Rick Ferro played drums, and Kevin Taggart played guitar. Two weeks after I joined the band, we had a wedding gig, followed shortly thereafter by another wedding and a political dinner.
I was student teaching at Jeff’s alma mater, St. Michael’s. New York City was in the middle of a deepening financial crisis and had slashed music programs in its public schools. For a budding music teacher, it was parochial schools or nothing for student teaching jobs.
Some of the boys were openly lustful toward me, which Jeff had said would happen. Some were more like innocent, like schoolboy crushes, but all of them paid special attention to me, the only woman on the entire staff. Needless to say, I dressed as conservatively as I could.
Even more interesting, the teaching staff at the school were predominantly in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and I made sure that everyone knew I was married, insisting on always being called Mrs. Maitland. Jeff would come home at night and ask me how many guys had hit on me that day.
The week of Thanksgiving, I had an interesting answer for him.
“If my hunch is right, I don’t think anyone will be hitting on me at all before long,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m late.”
It took some time for the meaning to sink in.
“How late?” he asked.
“Well, I’m a week late for November,” I said. “But then I missed October completely.”
I was itching to say something over Thanksgiving to his family and to mine, but I didn’t, other than to Diane, who squealed with delight until I shushed her.
“It may be nothing,” I said. “I’m going to the doctor on Monday and then I’ll know for sure. But don’t let on to anyone.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because it will hurt too much if I’m not.”
She looked at me.
“So, you really want a baby, don’t you?”
“At first, I didn’t. We didn’t really plan on having children until after I’d finished my degree and maybe had a couple years of teaching under my belt. So, when I first noticed I was late, as well as some of the other symptoms, like swollen, tender breasts, I was upset.
“But now, I think I’ll be heartbroken if I’m not pregnant. I just want a baby so badly!”
We hugged for a long time, and once again I was thankful that I had a sister.
“Jeff Maitland,” he answered, sounding authoritative as he always did.
“Hi, Daddy,” I said. There was a short, stunned silence.
“For real?!” he said at last. “You’re really pregnant?”
“Due date of July 15, 1977,” I replied.
“Yes!!” he shouted loudly, and I laughed, imagining all the heads turning in his staid, sedate office.
I didn’t laugh for long, though. Almost as soon as I started taking the vitamin supplement, I was wracked by bouts of nausea. I couldn’t call it “morning sickness”, because it would hit me at different times of the day. And it lasted the entire first trimester.
I couldn’t believe how sore my breasts were, and they felt like they were filled with lead. Jeff teased me about the bras I started buying, but he knew not to push it because I didn’t have much of a sense of humor. And actually, from the moment he knew I was pregnant, he was the very essence of patience and understanding, never once snapping back at me.
Of course, both families were thrilled. Mom couldn’t believe I’d gotten pregnant after only being married for two years, but I teased her about the fact that she and Dad had been married in early September and I’d been born the following June. Diane began hinting that she wanted to be the baby’s godmother, but I was relieved that she didn’t ask outright, because Jeff and I hadn’t talked about godparents at all, yet.
Terri was actually my first choice for godmother. When I told her I was expecting, she started to cry. I thought that was a strange reaction, but she said she was just really happy for me, that she had known ever since we’d been little girls that being a mother was important to me.
Jeff’s sister, Donna, was my immediate model of beginning motherhood, having given birth early in the year to a baby girl, whom they named Jennifer – an early entry in what later became a naming frenzy, as it would become an incredibly popular name for girls for several years. I felt badly at first, because Gloria still resented Donna’s not telling the family right away, and she let her know by fussing effusively over me.
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Donna said to me one Sunday when we were at Jeff’s parents’ house for dinner. I was helping her change Jennifer and we were talking about babies, generally and families in particular. “Mom just has her way and sometimes the best thing to do is just ignore it until she moves on to other things.”
Donna was wonderfully helpful, making quiet little suggestions on everything from diet to exercise to sex.
“I know this sounds weird,” she said. “But once guys get past the whole ‘my wife is pregnant and therefore as fragile as an ancient vase’ thing, they can get horny as hell. I think it’s because of the myth that you can’t have sex when you’re pregnant, followed by the realization that you can.
“My first trimester was as bad as yours is, and it turned me off to the whole idea of sex. And I think it made it more difficult later on. So, my advice is to try it as soon as you feel up to it, probably once you get into the second trimester, but let him know what you want and what you don’t want. Jeff’s pretty sensitive, so you should be all right.”
She also asked if I was happy with my gynecologist, and I wasn’t. He had been recommended by the doctor Jeff and I had just started using when we were married, and there was just something about him that I found off-putting. But Donna, who had had some gynecological problems as a teenager and had feared that she might not be able to have children, swore by hers, Dr. Emil Bendetti.
We returned to the dining room where everyone was still sipping coffee, while Rob and Jeff’s father enjoyed after-dinner cigars. The men, including Jeff, were all having a little cognac while Gloria and Donna enjoyed a little Grand Marnier. I, of course, abstained.
As soon as we returned to the table, Gloria asked me how I thought I would enjoy taking care of a newborn.
“Right now, I just want to make sure that he or she gets safely into the world,” I said.
“Erin already handles diaper changes like a pro,” Donna said. I smiled at her.
“Great,” said Jeff’s father. “Takes you off the hook, Jeff.”
“Nah,” Jeff replied. “I figure I’d better get to know all angles equally well.”
“Well, that’ll be a first for a father in this family,” his dad replied.
“No, it won’t,” Donna said, and Rob blushed a little. Jeff’s dad’s face fell.
“I don’t believe it. This generation is softer than I thought!”
“I prefer to think we have a different definition of being tough,” Jeff said.
His father scoffed, but Jeff smiled at me, and I saw Donna smile approvingly.
There were some days when I thought I simply could not function, but I didn’t want to drop out of student teaching at this point, so I plodded on. The orchestra at St. Michael’s was top notch, and there were some additional music classes and a freshman orchestra, where students were taught new instruments for their freshman year and moved up to the varsity in their sophomore year, so there was plenty to keep me busy. But the nausea was really getting to me.
The first time I got sick in the middle of a class, I told everyone I was pregnant, and suddenly it was as if most of the student body drew a protective ring around me. Any time I dropped anything, someone was there instantly to pick it up. If I looked unwell – and that happened a lot – everyone was very solicitous and asked me if I was all right. Most of the time, that is.
The string section was grappling with a difficult passage for one of the pieces they would play for the Christmas Concert, and so the director, Brother Philip Corrigan, called for rehearsals by the entire string section after school.
“If you don’t mind,” he added when he told me about it.
“Why would I mind?”
“Because I’d like you to work with them.”
Technically, I didn’t have to do it because it was after school. But I readily agreed, because it would really put me right in the middle of things.
Our first session came on a day in which I spent a good deal of time sneaking off to the faculty ladies room – one of only two in the entire school. As the boys filed in for rehearsal, scheduled for the last period of the day, I was getting ready to go to Brother Phil and beg off for the after-school session. But then I overheard a conversation in the room where the instruments were stored.
“Yeah,” said one student. “I hear Preg-o is going to run the session.”
“That oughta be good,” another replied. “Maybe if we give her a hard enough time, we can send her off to puke some more.”
A few others were laughing. I kept going.
The main rehearsal was difficult, and sometimes contentious, as the concert was less than a week away. I listened as the strings stumbled through the section that was causing the most difficulty, and I could see some of the boys who were having the most trouble. One of the first violas, a senior named Tim Broncato, struck me as not trying very hard.
When the bell rang to end the period, Brother Phil held up both hands.
“Any other sectional rehearsals will have to be in one of the back rooms,” he said. “Mrs. Maitland is going to run the strings sectional right here. Everyone except the strings can leave right now.”
There was a general commotion as everyone else got up to leave. The trumpets took one of the back storage rooms while the clarinets took another. There were already some sour faces in front of me.
“Anyone need to take a short break before we start?” I asked as I mounted the podium. I saw Brother Phil frown out of the corner of my eye, and there was suddenly a lot of movement in front of me. Sensing a jailbreak, I held up one hand and loudly yelled, “Hold it!”
Everyone froze.
“You may have five minutes – and only five – to use the lavatory, get a drink of water, or to resin your bow if you need to,” I went on in a reasonable tone. “Anyone not back in five minutes will spend the rest of the hour in detention for defiance, which carries a two-week minimum, I’m told.”
No one moved.
“Anyone want to test me?” I asked. “Mr. Brancato, how about you?”
He started at my mention of his name, and sullenly shook his head.
“Good,” I said. “For a minute, I was afraid you were going to take the easy way out. Well, if no one needs to use the facilities, let’s get started.”
I plunged into the section that had been giving then the greatest difficulty. It was Mozart, and it was lively. I had them go through it again, but more slowly. Finally, I turned to the first violas.
There were three of them, and I had just the three of them play. Then I had Tim Brancato not play, and the other two sounded all right.
“It seems,” I said to him, “That you are the problem. So, let’s go through it slowly.”
After he played it poorly, I had him play it again, this time while I beat time on the podium with the baton. I had slowed the passage to a crawl, and he was trying to rush ahead.
“Mr. Brancato,” I said, “I want you to play to the time I am setting, not to whatever is knocking around inside your head.”
“That’s just it,” he said. “It’s too slow.”
“For a mature audience, yes. But you don’t seem to be able to play it any faster, so humor me, why don’t you, and play it at this speed.”
I proceeded to tap out a very slow tempo, and sang the phrase for him. I could see him flushing with embarrassment, not the least of which was likely due to the expectant gazes he got from his compatriots. He considered defiance for a moment, but then slowly raised the viola and began to play.
I saw that he wasn’t holding the bow correctly, and the instrument was screeching somewhat because of it. I corrected it, speaking more softly this time. Then I called out the names of three other boys I’d seen making the same mistake, and corrected them and had them play their parts of the passage to show the correct technique.
Then I turned back to Tim. I picked up the tempo a bit, and his playing was a bit better, but not much.
“Let me ask you,” I said softly. “How much time have you spent practicing this section?”
He shrugged.
“Well, I don’t know how much that is, but it isn’t enough. You’d better take your instrument home tonight and practice, and then you’d better spend your study halls practicing tomorrow, so that you know it when you come in for rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. Do you understand?”
He nodded tightly.
“Do…you…understand?” I repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“Yes…what?”
“Yes, Mrs. Maitland.”
“Thank you. Now…”
The rest of the rehearsal went without incident. When we finished, I smiled and thanked the boys, calmly left the room, walked down the hall to the faculty ladies room, went inside, and threw up.
After school, I went to the hair salon near our apartment. I’d made a decision – as awful as I felt, I could no longer stand to spend the time needed to keep my long, thick hair under control. I liked how it looked, but hated the work it took.
A shorter style was a must. After much discussion with Lisa, the stylist, I decided on a short cut that wasn’t too short, bob cut to the middle of the neck that was longish all the way around, including a fringe that swept across my forehead just above my eyes, and loose curls at the bottom of the sides and back. The model in the photo was blonde, but Lisa assured me it would look just fine with my auburn hair. I was happy with the result, and felt free of the ultra-ling tresses.
I decided to call Jeff when I got home to warn him.
“I just wanted you to know I had my hair done this afternoon,” I said.
“How did it come out?”
“A lot shorter. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure you look great,” he said. When he got home, he said he loved it. I didn’t want his approval to mean so much to me, but it did.
The next day, I saw Tim in the music room during two study halls. Twice, I passed him in the hallway and said hello, only to receive a tight nod in response. During the orchestra’s regular rehearsal, Brother Phil went over the same passage I’d worked on the day before, and I could see that Tim’s playing had improved.
“Mission accomplished,” he said to me, softly, as the rehearsal ended. I drove the strings hard in the after-school session, and they responded pretty well.
“I hope you’ll be at the concert,” Brother Phil said to me after the session had ended. I assured him that Jeff and I would both be there, and we were.
The holidays were a trial, as I felt sick most of the time. Gloria pronounced me a disaster area, which made me laugh, and also assured me that she absolutely adored my new hairstyle. Mom smiled when she saw it, because I had worn mine so long for such a long time while she had long been a fan of short hair.
“Reality sets in,” she said, and I laughed.
And then, in early February, it was as if a sudden calm swept over my nausea-wracked body. I awoke with not a trace of rumbling; food suddenly tasted good, again. I had a bounce to my step.
There must have been some outward sign I gave, because Jeff was suddenly more openly affectionate with me. Soothingly running his hands over my back now gave way to cuddling, which soon gave way to long, soft kisses. And his always-gentle caresses now came with a feather touch than ignited flames in me.
When he touched me…there…I was beside myself. He was naturally cautious, not wanting to take a chance on hurting me, and in so doing he was teasing me beyond all endurance. I actually had a small climax before we even really got started, something that had never happened to me before. I begged him not to hold back any more, and he didn’t.
We collapsed in each others’ arms afterward, unable to do anything but pant and cuddle.
“I think,” he said at last, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
We did. As awful as my first trimester had been, the second was a joy. I felt wonderful the entire time, we continued to make love whenever we could, and slowly, surely, my belly began to fill out with the precious life that was growing inside me. I went for my first sonogram, my first glance at my baby.
“Can you tell whether it’s a boy or a girl?” I asked the technician.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you want to know?”
I almost said yes, but said no. I wanted to be surprised, and I knew that Jeff did, too.
My breasts were filling with milk and growing heavy as we progressed into May. My belly became pronounced, and we stopped making love because the nausea had returned, although not as bad as before. And I could feel the baby kicking, which was wonderful at first but became tiresome at times, especially at night when the kicking kept me awake.
Dr. Bendetti finally found something about my pregnancy he was not happy with – my blood pressure was up, and my weight was now more than he liked. He said I was borderline toxemic, which scared the heart out of me. Two weeks later, he said my readings were better, but urged me to watch my diet. I did.
School ended for me. I considered not going to graduation, but Jeff insisted. Mom and Fred insisted, too, as did Gloria. Donna and Rob decided not to go to the ceremony, since they were sure Jennifer would fuss, but everyone else in the immediate family went, including Diane’s increasingly steady boyfriend, John.
I felt ridiculous in my cap and gown, which bloused out horribly with my impending motherhood. But Jeff insisted on lots of pictures, as did Gloria and Diane. Diane also laughed at my shoes, a pair of pumps with a 1 ½ inch chunky heel.
“A far cry from the kinds of heels you usually wear!” she said.
I found some friends I had gotten to know in school, and they made sure I was nice and comfortable, and had plenty of room when we began the processional into the gym where the ceremony would take place. We were supposed to remain standing when we got to our places, but I sat down because my ankles were already killing me.
We went up to the podium row by row, mounting the stage area at the side and walking across, our names being called just as we mounted the stage. As I climbed the steps, I could hear applause starting, and as they announced my name, it became very loud and sustained, and I realized all at once that the ovation was for me. I blinked back tears as the dean shook my hand, gave me my diploma, and said, “Good for you, my dear!”
Mom had us back to their house for dinner, where Jeff pointed out that the only one who’d gotten a bigger ovation than me had been the law student who was blind. He’d gotten my vote.
Gloria and Mom competed to see who could fuss over me more, and all in all it was a lovely day.
Two nights later, Terri called.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, hearing the tremulous tone of her voice.
“I…I think I may be sick again,” she said. “I’ve lost fifteen pounds since Christmas. I’ve been running fevers for no reason. I wake up with night sweats.”
She was starting to cry.
“Terri, just go to the doctor,” I said.
“I didn’t think about the weight loss at first, you know? I thought it was great, like I was looking really good. And then I couldn’t stop it from coming off, and all the other manure started!”
It was a Wednesday night that she called. By Friday, she was hospitalized. It was the Hodgkins disease. It had been in remission for four years, and I had a very bad feeling about it coming back.
Jim called early the following week.
“It’s Stage IV,” he said, his voice desolate. “It’s on both sides of her diaphragm and in her liver. They’ve started a combination of radiation and this new chemotherapy. I just hope to Christ they don’t kill her with it.”
Jeff and I drove up to Boston as soon as we could. Jim met us in the lobby and gave us the report.
“She’s lost all her hair,” he said. “It’s a side effect of the chemotherapy. She’s very weak, so she may not be able to talk for long. She’s been asking for you, so she’ll be glad to see you.”
Jeff slipped his arm around me as we entered the room, and he kept it there for most of the visit. I was inwardly horrified – this once vivacious and pretty girl with her head full of rampant brown curls was now shriveled and wasted. But I put on my best smile.
“Hi,” she gasped. Then her eyes went wide as she took in my profile. “Look at you!” she added with a weak laugh. I kissed her on the cheek, and then Jeff did, too. “How do you feel?” she asked me.
“That’s my line,” I said. She smiled at me indulgently.
“We know how I am. You’re carrying the future with you. Does the baby kick?”
“All the time,” I said, blinking back tears. Then I felt a jolt in my stomach. “There’s one, now,” I added with a smile.
“Let me see.”
I sidled up next to her, and she reached up and lightly touched my stomach. She began to caress it ever so softly, and in my heart, I felt all the closeness we’d shared over the years. The baby started kicking, almost as if playing, and Terri smiled broadly.
She kept rubbing me, and the baby kept kicking. I reached down and stroked Terri’s cheek.
“You’ve always been ahead of me,” she said at last. “You started growing breasts before me, you got your period before me, you got married first, and now you’re having a baby. What are you going to name her?”
“We don’t know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl,” I said.
“It’s a girl,” she said simply. “And she’ll be beautiful. So very beautiful. You’ll see.”
I nodded. I couldn’t stop the tears.
“Now, I’m going to be ahead of you in something,” she went on. “Don’t cry, Erin. You’ll have your path, I’ll have mine. I’m not afraid. Don’t you be, either.”
I bent low and hugged her. She hugged my belly. The baby kept kicking.
“I can’t bear to lose you,” I whispered at last.
“You won’t. I’ll always be with you, just as we have always been there for each other.”
“Please don’t give up, Terri,” I pleaded. I straightened up. She smiled at me again.
“I’m not giving up. I’m facing what lies ahead. God wants me home. Who am I to say no?”
“I love you,” I said at last.
“I love you, too. We always have.”
Downstairs, Jim told us that the doctors were amazed at her spirit, that she never complained and even joked with the nurses and technicians. They encouraged her at every turn. But she knew, and she accepted, and she wanted them all to accept, too.
For reasons I've laid out in my post, "Two roads parted in a wood..." I have decided to rethink things for a while. I will not be posting any more of my Erin autobiography, and in fact I have stopped working on it.
I will be leaving the forum at least for a while. But I want to thank all of you for your kind words and your interesting perspectives. I especially want to thank Absaroka and Robyn Katie, with whom I feel like I've been working in partnership since this thread first started. I hope you will both carry on.
I'm at a very scary point in my life, and I need to make sure I'm as focused as I can possibly be. Drifting along just isn't an option.
