Authors: Jean Stone
“And it will be a nice evening for the party,” Susan’s father said, ignoring his wife’s last comment. “Is everything set?”
Susan’s mother sighed. “We’ll be back by six. Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, dancing until two. It’s all as I planned. Everyone will be there. Including Dr. Weiss, in case the young lady changes her mind.”
“Mother,” Susan groaned again, but she knew it was pointless.
“Well, it’s just that your father didn’t work his
tuchis
off all those years to move his family out of Brooklyn and into a decent neighborhood only to have his daughter wind up in some, some ‘home,’ where God only knows what kind of girls will be there.”
“Freida,” Joseph interrupted, “I told you. Larchwood is only for girls from the finest homes. It’s new and”—he winked at Susan—“it’s very expensive.”
“I think it sounds like a nice place,” Susan said. “Thanks for finding out about it, Dad.” Her father smiled, always eager to please his only child. And the thought of Larchwood did please Susan, if only that it would give her a place to go—in peace—where she would start making phone calls to try to find David, where she could decide what she would do about the baby. For now let them think she was going to give it up for adoption.
“So, so, okay. Maybe it is expensive. Your daughter is lucky, so you can send her there. She should be thankful.”
“I am, Mother,” Susan said, and smiled at her father. “And I’m thankful for such understanding parents.”
“Come on, we’ve got to get going,” he said. “We’ve got a big day ahead. Awards for my daughter, then a grand party. Your grandfather should be alive to see you
graduate from college. Imagine that, a Levin graduating from college! It’s a long way from the Seventh Avenue sweatshop your grandmother had to work in.”
“Leah Levin,” Freida continued, “working in a shop from the time she was twelve, mind you.”
At the mention of her grandmother’s name, sadness washed over Susan. Her grandmother. Bubby. Susan’s parents had decided Leah Levin was not to be told of her granddaughter’s pregnancy. But to Susan, it didn’t seem fair: Bubby had always been there for her. She was the one who never judged Susan, never expected her to be “like them.” But Susan also knew that Bubby was rooted in the traditions of the past, and that this unplanned pregnancy would probably upset her, so Susan had reluctantly agreed: Bubby would not be told. Not yet, anyway.
Susan tried to laugh. “And I’ll bet Bubby was thankful she married the man who owned it!”
Frieda pretended to spank Susan’s backside with a quick swat. “Not until she was sixteen! And you should be grateful too. Your grandfather left you an inheritance.”
“Mother, it’s only ten thousand dollars.”
“ ‘
Only
ten thousand dollars,’ she says! Such a spoiled girl we raised!”
Susan heard the phone ring out in the corridor. She picked up the mortarboard and listened to see if anyone would answer it. The ringing stopped. She readjusted the cap on her head and looked in the mirror. Would her grandfather have been proud?
Suddenly there was a loud knock on Susan’s door.
“Susan Levin!” a voice shouted. “Phone call.”
“Fine time for someone to call,” Freida snapped. “Tell them you’ll call back later.”
“Mother,” Susan said. “I’ll just be a minute.” She left the room and ran down the hall, her gown billowing behind her. Maybe it was David. Maybe he was calling to say Kennedy’s death had opened his eyes—that he had to be with her, that he needed her.
The black receiver was dangling from the pay phone. Susan snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Susan?”
Her heart stopped. It was him. “David,” she said. “Are you okay? I tried to find you the morning he was shot.…”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ve enlisted.”
Susan must have misunderstood him. “What?” she asked.
“I’ve enlisted. I’m headed for boot camp.”
This had to be a joke. Why was he saying this? To try to get her to laugh? “David …” She twisted the sash on her gown. “Stop kidding around.”
“It’s true. They’ve beaten us. I’m going over.”
Her mind spun. “What do you mean you’re ‘going over’? David, what are you talking about?”
“It’s no use, Susan. Kennedy was our last chance. I’ve requested combat duty. Vietnam.”
Her hand froze on the receiver. “David. Wait,” she managed to say. “You can’t. There’s something—”
“It’s too late. I have. Besides, you don’t love me anymore. Remember?”
“But …” Then Susan heard a dial tone.
She stood for a moment, then slowly replaced the receiver on the hook. She twisted the gold
magna cum laude
sash again. Then she slid it from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.
P.J
.
Tonight was the night. P.J. carefully applied pale green eyeliner around her emerald eyes, then teased the top of her shining auburn hair. She wanted to look her best tonight, because looking good always made her happy. Not that she needed help to be happy tonight. P.J. was, in fact, so excited, it seemed as though Frank would never arrive.
She glanced at her watch. There was still half an hour
to go. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” she said with kidlike glee as she wriggled on the vanity stool. “Please, please, please!”
Half an hour until Frank picked her up. Half an hour until she told him she was pregnant. It was still too early to put on her lip gloss: In thirty minutes she’d have it chewed off and smoked off.
“What the hell,” she said, and put it on anyway. Then she lit a cigarette and examined herself in the mirror. Yeah, she thought, I look good. Glowing, in fact. Would Frank sense the great news by the look on her face?
Frank, the father of her baby, the man she’d spend the rest of her life with. He was a “city boy,” so unlike the boring boys back home. P.J. knew once they were married, Frank would respect her need to have a career; he wouldn’t expect her to become a mundane housewife, he wouldn’t feel threatened that his wife wanted to be a commercial artist. It wouldn’t be easy with a baby on the way, but P.J. knew Frank would marry her, just as she knew they’d be happy. God, he made her feel so complete.
She took a long drag on her cigarette and smiled at the memories. P.J. had known Frank for almost a year, ever since she’d started her sophomore year at Boston University. She had fallen in love with him almost immediately, and within a month shared his bed.
Last winter P.J. convinced her parents to let her move out of the dorm and into an apartment with two other girls. She told them it would make studying easier, but the truth was, she and Frank needed a place to be alone. Neither his dorm nor hers was the place for loving.
It was actually some kind of miracle that P.J. kept her grades up. She loved playing house with Frank; doing his laundry; helping him with his studies; eating Chinese food while sitting naked with him on the floor; washing his back, his legs, his arms, his everything, in the shower; rolling hot and sweaty, soft and hard, among the sheets with him.
The doorbell rang. P.J. quickly stubbed out her cigarette. “Coming!” she yelled, then quickly applied fresh gloss. She stood up and rechecked her hair, aware that her
heart was beating a little faster than usual, that her cheeks were a little pinker than usual. The time had come. She hoped he’d be as excited as she was.
“Hi, babe,” he said as P.J. swept open the door.
“Hi,” she answered, and went into his arms.
He pushed back her hair and sucked at her earlobe. “You don’t really want to go out, do you?” he whispered.
P.J. pulled back and laughed. “Yes! I want to go somewhere wonderful and have an expensive dinner and champagne and everything! My treat!”
“Whoa! What happened? Daddy send you a check today?”
“None of your business,” she teased. “I just want to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Come on, I’ll tell you in the car.” P.J. took his arm and hurried him out the door. It was raining, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The world was beautiful.
They quickly got into Frank’s old Ford. He started the engine and looked over pensively at P.J. She giggled. “Let’s go,” she said.
“Tell me now,” he said.
“No. In a minute.” She loved tantalizing Frank.
“Christ,” he mumbled under his breath, and pulled out into the traffic.
P.J. giggled again. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s going to be a surprise.”
“So what is it?” He sounded a little pissed, but nothing could upset her mood.
“Umm,” she pondered. “Well, maybe you’ll like it, and maybe you won’t.” P.J. was playing; she knew he’d be as thrilled as she.
He glanced at her and rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to like it if you don’t hurry up and tell me.”
P.J. pouted. “Don’t get angry, Frank,” she said. “It’s really something good.”
“Then for Chrissake, tell me.”
“Not if you’re angry.”
Frank raised one hand off the steering wheel. “Then
why don’t we fucking forget it? It’s probably something stupid, anyway.”
“Frank …” P.J. started. This wasn’t going right.
“Forget it. I don’t give a shit. Jesus, I hate it when you play these cute little games.”
Tears came to P.J.’s eyes.
“Frank …” she started again, but the words didn’t come.
He stared through the windshield wipers.
“I’m pregnant.”
He didn’t move. The car seemed to glide forward with no driver.
“Fuck,” he finally said.
P.J. stared at the dashboard, at the replica of Saint Christopher, patron saint of the traveler, or something like that. P.J.’s family was Methodist: She never could get those Catholic saints straight. She turned to Frank. “I thought … I thought you might be pleased.”
Frank laughed. “Pleased? You’re shittin’ me, right?”
P.J. looked back at the little plastic statue. Whoever you are, she thought, help me out. But before she had a chance to say anything, Frank spoke again.
“Are you sure it’s mine?”
“
What
?” There was a lump in P.J.’s throat, then she smiled. He was teasing her. This was just his way of reacting to the shock. He was only teasing.
“I said, are you sure it’s mine?” Frank repeated, this time with a sarcasm that couldn’t be misread.
P.J. felt faint.
He continued talking. “Well, what did you expect me to say? You’ve been going home to that little rat town on weekends. How am I supposed to know you’re not seeing that old boyfriend of yours?”
P.J. thought she was going to be sick. “I’ve been going home to help my mother,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “You know that. She broke her leg, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Frank played with the column shift. He stared out the windshield. The only sound was the squeaky rhythm of
the wipers as they swept back and forth across the glass. “I can prove it if it’s not mine, you know.”
P.J. remained transfixed by the statue. She tried to shut out his words. They became hollow, then distant. But still, they were there.
“I’ve kept track of every time we did it,” he was saying. “I know when I used a rubber. What about your old boyfriend? Did he ever use rubbers?”
P.J.’s answer sounded like a cross between a whimper and a scream. “You know I was a virgin when I met you Frank. Josh never touched me, you know that.”
Frank smiled and continued looking out the windshield. “Well, honey, I don’t know that for sure. I do know there’s a good chance that kid you’re carrying’s not mine.”
“Stop the car,” she demanded. It was, she later realized, the only thing she’d ever told Frank to do. She’d always been so damn meek with men. She’d thought it was the way to please them.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Frank said as he pulled over to the curb. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, some man will come along and snatch you up. Maybe you can even make him believe it’s his kid.” They were on Marlborough Street, and P.J. would have to walk ten blocks to her apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. But she didn’t care. Back Bay Boston was suddenly much less threatening than another minute in the car with Frank. P.J. bolted from the car and slammed the door, just as Frank said, “Good luck, honey. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
She couldn’t cry. It was dark, and the rain was coming down hard, but as P.J. walked quickly on the brick sidewalk, she couldn’t think of crying, she could think only of the hurt. The rain grew heavier; clouds of fog swirled around the lampposts. P.J. buttoned her London Fog around her tall, slender frame, and hung her head, her thick auburn hair now soaked and dripping.
“Don’t call me, I’ll call you,” he’d said. She shivered.
She pulled the skeleton key from her purse and opened the stenciled glass-and-wood front door.
“I’m back,” she announced. Thankfully no one answered. Her roommates were out on dates.
She walked past the Lovin’ Spoonful, Mamas and Papas, and Andy Warhol posters in the foyer, pushing her way through the beaded doorway into the living room. She brushed past her drawing table, knocking the plastic T-square to the floor, then slumped onto the orange-and-brown striped hand-me-down couch. She was still void of tears, still filled with rage. The ringing of the phone pierced through her fury.
P.J. reached over and snatched up the black receiver. Maybe it was Frank. Maybe he’d realized what a jerk …
“P.J., is that you?” It wasn’t Frank. It was her mother.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I’m glad I caught you. I thought you’d be out with Frank.”
P.J. tried to conceal the disappointment in her voice. “No, Mom, I’m here. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, much better, dear. I saw the doctor today, and he said next week I’ll be out of the cast. Are you coming home this weekend?”
Home. God, she was going to have to tell them. She curled the phone cord, then stretched it taut. “Oh, Mom. Oh, Mom,” she said. Suddenly the tears came. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. P.J. had hoped that she and Frank would go—together—to her parents’ home and tell them. They would make plans for a quick wedding—later they could say the baby was premature, or hint that they’d actually gotten married in Boston last winter. It was the way “everyone else” handled this sort of thing. It wouldn’t matter that “people” would be whispering and counting the months on their fingers. She and Frank would be happy, and, after the initial shock had worn off, her parents would be thrilled to have a grandchild. That was the way it was supposed to have happened. Not this.