Her Mother's Daughter (107 page)

Oh, Toni.

Still, he was high, reading the editor's comments on the novel, editing it himself, then waiting, wondering about reviews. I knew he was walking around the house composing reviews in his head, and that whatever the real ones said, he would be disappointed.

The book was published in early September of 1969. It was dedicated to me. “To Anastasia,” it read, “sine qua non.” It was reviewed, in short but admiring notices. It sold 2,500 copies. “Well at least I earned back my lousy thousand-dollar advance,” he muttered in a new harsh voice. He sent copies to his family, but I imagine they were offended by what they had to see as a family portrait and only his mother wrote to praise him—and she, clearly, hadn't read it.

A few weeks later, Paramount optioned one of his adventure stories. Ironically, it was the story of my Cuban adventure, considerably altered. It had a plucky but naive reporter as heroine and a stupid, venal leader commanding a bunch of trigger-happy ignorant Cuban emigrés. They actually land in Cuba, get into serious trouble there, but a wise and skillful CIA man who has been tracking the raiding party comes in with a group of Alpha 66 men who save the lives of most of the Cubans and the girl. The CIA man ends up with the girl, but of course must immediately leave her to go out on another adventure. The venal leader is captured by the Cubans and left to his fate.

They loved it. They told him it blended humor (the stupid Cubans), drama (the invasion), romance (the girl), and irony—for the entire adventure is pointless and accomplishes nothing. Irony was in fashion in film just then. They said it would make a great film. It did, too. They paid him $10,000 for a year's option and guaranteed $50,000 more if the movie was made. After that he spent hours on the phone with Jay every day discussing “deals.” He spent the option money on a red Corvette. He wore his silk shirts into the city for business lunches, and bought a suit at J. Press.

I
T IS FEBRUARY 1970;
grimy remnants of the last snowfall are piled up along fences and curbs, ice-hard, unmelting. Ribbons of ice crisscross each other in the roads of the suburbs, sending automobiles weighing tons shimmying across them. Ice still hangs on some branches of the trees that surround a house with a large garden on Old Hodge's Road, Huntington: it glistens in the sun like frozen tears.

A six-year-old Ford station wagon curves round the bend into the street, slowly, carefully maneuvering the ice tracks. It stops in front of the house with the large garden, and a woman emerges from it, in pants, a ski jacket, and high fur-lined boots. She reaches into the backseat of the car and pulls out a large shopping bag filled with what appears to be clothing. She struggles with it, trudging up the icy walk to the front door, slipping several times. She rings the bell and the door is opened.

The hostess greets her guest in a low voice, affectionately but intensely, in the kind of tone one uses after a death.

Her guest replies in a similar tone and sets down the bag.

The two women kiss lightly and embrace each other, standing close to each other for a long minute, each patting the other's back. Each of them is aware that the usual constraint between them is missing.

“Come on in. Take off your coat. I was so glad you called.”

“It's good to see you.” The visitor removes her gloves and coat. The hostess takes the coat and hangs it in a small closet near the door.

“It's been a long time! Christmas, I guess.”

“Yes.”

The visitor reaches for the shopping bag. “I brought some things. Franny's just shooting up—she needs new everything! I was going through the clothes she'd outgrown, and I thought maybe Jenny could use these.” She points to the bag. “They're in good condition, just too small. They're probably too big for Jenny, though,” she concludes apologetically.

The hostess gazes at the bag as if she were calculating a sum. “Oh, let's see. Come in!”

The guest removes her boots. In thick wool socks, she pads after her hostess into the living room, carrying the bag. The women sit near each other on the couch; the visitor pulls out one item of clothing after another and spreads it out for examination.

“Oh! Oh great! Oh,
that
she could wear right away! Oh, that's terrific, she'll love that! The kids really love those thick sweaters these days. She'll probably want to wear it right away, but she'll swim in it. But next year!”

The visitor hears the strain in the voice, the effort to sound cheerful and pleased.

The hostess smiles, folding the clothes up again and setting them on a side chair. “Well! How about some coffee? Or a drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

There is a tension between them now.

“I hope you don't mind my bringing them,” the visitor apologizes as the two women walk to the kitchen. “They were just too good to throw away, and I thought Jenny might like them….”

“She'll love them!” the hostess replies, but her voice is loud, there is an edge in it. “So!” she announces as she runs tap water into a kettle, “whatcha been doing?”

The visitor, who sits on a high stool near the sink, shrugs. “Same old stuff.” She lights a cigarette. She is pale, wearing eye makeup but no lipstick; her short hair hangs limply—it could use a shampoo. “You?”

“Yeah.” The hostess pulls open a drawer in a cabinet and pulls out a nearly-empty package of cigarettes. She lights one. Arms akimbo, each hand clutching the opposite elbow as if she were cold, cigarette dangling between two fingers, she walks across the room and sits in a wooden chair. “I have a day off today—teachers' conference. Otherwise it's the usual round.”

The two women look at each other. The hostess is wearing no makeup and her hair is pulled back severely and clipped. Her face looks tired and washed out; she is wearing baggy wool pants and a pilled Orion sweater.

“So how's Toni?” the hostess asks in her loud voice. “Doin' okay out there in Hollywood?” She seems to find something wanting in her utterance, because before the other can answer, she blurts, “It's really great! Writing a movie! That's terrific! How wonderful!”

The visitor smiles a little as if she understands something that has not been said. “It's great for him.”

The hostess leans back in her chair. Her voice softens but there is still strain in it. “Not for you?”

The visitor shakes her head.

“Why, Anastasia?” the hostess asks quietly.

The kettle whistles and the hostess starts to get up. Anastasia waves her to sit and turns off the gas. She pours boiling water into the filter cone of the coffeepot. Her back to the other, she says, “He left me with Franny. He promised when I agreed to get pregnant that he'd raise the child. But he went off without her.”

The hostess sits up sharply. “You wouldn't have wanted him to take her!”

“No.”

The hostess leans back again, there is something sagging in her posture. “Yes. I see.” She exhales smoke. The tension in the room decreases. “But at least you can afford to hire someone to take care of her.”

“Yes. But it's awful for her. You know, Arden and Billy are gone, Toni's gone. When I go away, she's left there with a stranger. She's in a state of shock, she has nightmares every night.”

“Oh! Oh! Maybe…no, you couldn't bring her here, she goes to school…but maybe…you could afford it…you could move, buy a house near here and then when you went away, Franny could stay with us. The kids are always around, there's always something going on, she'd feel more as if she were in a family. Well, she'd
be
in a family!”

“Joy, that's sweet. Really. But you have your hands full as it is.”

Joy's head sits up erect on her neck. “We manage,” she says stiffly. “Everyone has to help out.”

Anastasia hears the anger in the voice. She tells herself it is not directed at her. She directs herself toward if. “Oh, that's wonderful!” Warm voice, smile. “Do your kids really help? Mine weren't too good about it.”

“They have to,” Joy snaps. “They have to! I can't do it all. I just can't!”

The visitor ignores the anger, continues warmly, “What do they do? I'm impressed.”

“Coffee's ready.” Joy walks across to the stove, removes the filter cone from the glass pot, and pours coffee into two waiting cups. “You want to go inside?”

“No, let's stay here. I like kitchens.”

“Me too.”

They carry their cups across to the table and sit down. Anastasia gets up.

“What is it?”

“Milk.” She opens the refrigerator door.

“Oh!” Joy's lips narrow. “I don't think I have any. I ran out this morning. I meant to go to the store but…I forgot.”

Anastasia returns to her chair.

“I'm sorry.” Joy studies her face. “Can you drink it black?”

“Sure! It's fine. I often drink it black.” Her voice is tight.

“I don't have any coffee cake or anything,” Joy says miserably.

“You know I don't care about that.”

“I was so grateful to have the day off to work on my term paper. It's so hard for me to do big projects like that. Usually I work on them over the weekends, and that's when I do the marketing and picking up stuff at the cleaners and getting things for the kids…you know how it is…so I just sat down at the dining room table this morning and cracked the books and it slipped my mind…”

“Oh, Joy, of course I understand. Don't apologize. Maybe I shouldn't have come today. You could have had a whole day of peace and quiet.”

“When else could we visit? I'm glad you came.” Joy sips coffee and leans back in her chair. She unclenches her left hand. It is dead white. She tries to smile at her sister, but her mouth is Stiff. She clears her throat, trying to gentle her voice. “Anyway I guess Toni won't be away for too long. It doesn't take long to write a screenplay, does it? How long will he be gone?”

Anastasia shrugs. “Can't tell. Six months, a year.”

“How long ago did he go?”

“He went in October—a little over three months.”

“So, it won't be much longer.” Warm voice, returning warmth received.

Anastasia smiles. “So tell me about these wonderful kids of yours.”

Joy smiles too. “They really are good kids. Well, Jonathan is supposed to do the laundry, clean the toilets, and alternate with Julie washing and drying dishes; Julie vacuums and dusts the downstairs rooms and cleans the kitchen. I'm responsible for everything else. Jenny—well, she's supposed to keep her room clean and set the table,” Joy laughs, “They're all supposed to clean their rooms….”

“And they really do it?” Anastasia sounds amazed.

“They have to if they want clean clothes and a clean house!” Sharp. Then more mildly, “Oh, they're careless, I have to remind them. But they're pretty good except for cleaning their rooms. They know we all have to pull together….”

“What's your schedule like?”

“You don't want to know.”

“I do.”

“Really?”

Anastasia nods.

Joy recounts it as if she were reading from a manual for single parents: Rise at 5:30, make coffee, set table for breakfast while the coffee drips, take a cup upstairs, shower, make the bed, dress, put electric curlers on head, make up face, wake the children, prepare their breakfasts—frozen orange juice, cereal or muffins, marge a muffin for herself and eat it while making sandwiches of peanut butter and jelly or baloney and dealing with the kids' questions arguments complaints, remind them of their chores for that day, go upstairs, help Jenny get dressed for school, make sure she has her books, her homework, her lunch, throw a scarf over head, put on coat and boots, put on Jenny's snowsuit, walk her to bus stop, return to house. (Variation: in snowy weather: start car, turn on heater and defroster, leave car running.) Reenter house, remove coat and boots, try to stop Julie and Jonathan's argument, make sure they have lunches, remind them of dental or doctor's appointments (variation), kiss them good-bye, run upstairs and remove curlers, leave hair uncombed, putting scarf over it, go downstairs, clear kitchen table, wipe up crumbs, place all dishes in sink and run water over them, turn off heat under coffee, take last sip of coffee, place cup in sink, run water in it, put on coat, boots, gloves, take books, papers, lunch for herself, leave house, lock door. (Variation: in very cold snowy weather: remove ice from windshield with scraper.) Drive five miles to Manners School, park. (Another variation, a crisis: car will not start. Procedure in this case too complicated to be included here. See notes.)

Anastasia sighs. It is only 7:45.

“Go on,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Enter school, greet coworkers in office, go to female workers' lounge, remove scarf and comb hair, touch up makeup. Return to office, make or pour coffee (the office workers have their own machine), light cigarette, chat briefly with coworkers, prepare to begin work promptly at 8:00.

From 8:00 to 12:00, typing, filing, answering telephone, taking dictation from school principal, always chosen for this task because quickest and most accurate, making coffee and carrying it in to principal. More typing. From 12:00 to 12:45, lunch. Eaten in office-workers' lounge, with coffee carried from office, while reading and trying to memorize French verbs, the names of generals and important battles during the American Revolution, or the names of the parts of paramecia and amoebae. Brief cheerful chat with coworkers. From 12:45 until 3:00—except it is never 3:00, more like 3:10, more typing, dictation, filing. Put on coat, scarf, boots, return to car. (Variation in snowy weather: clean snow off car, run engine and defroster.) Drive at high speed the five miles to the corner of Mill Lane and Hobart Street. Three possibilities: 1. No school bus or child visible: turn off engine, sigh, wait. 2. School bus not visible, but child is: turn off engine, leap from car, prepare to calm down distraught six-year-old. 3. School bus visible but child not: Get out of car and walk to bus stop, take hand of small girl who descends from it, lead her back to the car. (Variation #1: at least once a week drive three miles to supermarket. Get out of car, enter market, pick up: package of hamburger or hot dogs; lettuce; milk; margarine; bread; cookies; any staple needed. PAY for purchases [this action is omitted from the recounting but both speaker and hearer are keenly aware of this step]. Variation #2: occasionally, drive small child six miles to next town to doctor's office, escort child into office, attend her there, speak with doctor, PAY doctor by check, leave. Variation #3: same, except office belongs to dentist. In this case, sit in waiting room, reading textbook, no need to PAY immediately.)