Maria
T
he day after I received the news about Ned Chapman’s letter to the police, Shannon showed up at Micky D’s while I was working. I hadn’t seen her since her graduation. She waved to me as she walked in the door and got in line. One look at her, and the suspicion that had formed in my mind at her graduation was confirmed: My seventeen-year-old granddaughter was pregnant.
I waited until she had gone through the line and taken a seat at a table before going over to her. I’d needed a few minutes to collect my wits.
“Hi, Nana.” She stood up to kiss my cheek and I sat down across from her, observing the Big Mac and milkshake on her tray.
“You know, Shannon,” I said. “That food is not good for your baby.”
Her eyes flew open wide. “Did Mom tell you?” she asked.
I wondered how long Julie had known and how long she’d planned to keep the news from me. I supposed she’d wanted to drop one bombshell on me at a time.
“I’m old, Shannon, but I’m not stupid,” I said. “I know a pregnant woman—a pregnant
girl
—when I see one.”
She looked down at her Big Mac, peeking under the bun as though studying the meat for doneness, and I figured she was waiting for me to chew her out. She was afraid, and my heart broke a little for her. I made a quick decision to be a better grandmother than I had been a mother.
“How did your mother take the news?” I asked.
“Like you’d expect,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Like my life is over. Ruined forever. She’s so—” She cut off her own sentence, looking away from me. “All she cares about is my music career. She doesn’t really care about what I want.”
She took a bite of her hamburger, looking around the restaurant instead of at me. The way she talked about her mother sometimes, you would think she hated her. Shannon reminded me so much of Isabel in the early sixties, while Julie reminded me of myself during that same time period. I could see my mistakes being played out all over again.
“When did you tell her?” I asked.
She swallowed her bite of hamburger. “Yesterday,” she said.
“And your father?”
“I told him last night.” She shook her head. “You know Dad,” she said. “He said ‘Oh, Shannon,’ and that was it. At least Mom yelled. Dad just…he can be so totally lame sometimes.”
“I bet it wasn’t easy telling them, huh?” I asked.
Her eyes filled suddenly, and she went from hardened young woman to scared little girl. I handed her a napkin, but she only
clutched it in her hand as a tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.
“Who is the boy?” I asked.
A light came into her eyes, the first glint of joy I’d seen since she walked into the restaurant. She told me his name was Tanner, that he lived in Colorado, and that she planned to move out there with him. That nearly stopped my heart.
Please, no
, I thought. It was bad enough she’d been planning to go away to college. I wanted my granddaughter in my life. I loved when she stopped by McDonald’s just to say hello. How many more years did I have? If she moved across the country, when would I ever get to see her? But I quickly got a grip on myself.
“I tell you what, Shannie,” I said, using the nickname I’d given her when she was a toddler. “If those plans fall through and you end up staying here, I’ll be happy to baby-sit for you.”
Her mouth fell open in surprise. Then she smiled.
“Nana,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, darling,” I said.
She pushed her Big Mac aside. “I think I’m going to get a salad,” she said, rising to her feet. I told her to stay put, and then I went behind the counter and got her the healthiest salad we made.
As I drove home later that afternoon, I felt good about how I’d handled things with Shannon. I thought I’d given her what she needed—some loving kindness, free of judgment. That’s what Isabel had needed, too, but that was not what she’d received from me.
My good mood ended the moment I got in my door. The phone was ringing, and when I picked it up, there was Ross Chapman once again.
“Maria,” he said. Even speaking that one small word seemed to be a great effort for him. The three syllables came out slowly, sadly. “Has your daughter told you what’s going on?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. I was angry beyond measure at him. I believed he’d lied for his son, and now he was badgering me for forgiveness he was never going to get.
“You mean, did she tell me about Ned’s admission of guilt?” I responded, and then I hung up. I had let that man toy with my mind before. It was not going to happen again.
1942-1944
On the first day of my senior year at the New Jersey College for Women, I arrived in New Brunswick still able to taste Ross’s kisses in my mouth and feel his hands on my breasts. We had grown ever bolder during that summer, each of us seeing several other people in order to avoid leading one person on, as I was afraid I may have done with Fred. Many of the young men—Fred included—were fighting in the war at that time, so Ross had quite a few more dating options than I did, but I did my best. Ross had been drafted, but at his physical exam they discovered a minor heart problem and he was classified 4-F. Although I was patriotic when it came to the war and felt everyone should do his or her part, I was relieved he did not have to go.
My parents had made friends with another couple in Bay Head Shores and they often went to their house to play bridge, leaving our bungalow empty. When I knew they would be gone, Ross and I canceled whatever dates we had for that night and we would have the house to ourselves, free to satisfy the hunger we felt for each other. The summer had been filled with cun
ning, deception, and a fierce physical passion. I could barely tear myself away from him that last night at the shore.
The fraternity down the street from our sorority house had a “welcome back to school” party the night of my arrival. I went with some girlfriends who were anxious to meet some of the Rutgers boys, even if most of them were “4-Fers,” but my heart wasn’t in it. I was standing in a doorway, missing Ross and already writing a letter to him in my mind, when a young man approached me. He walked with a pronounced limp, and something about his eyes reminded me of Ross. That was the only reason I could think of for the instant, feverish attraction I felt toward him. He introduced himself to me as Charles Bauer.
“A lovely girl like you shouldn’t be standing here alone,” he said. “Would you like to dance?”
“Sure,” I said. I moved easily into his arms. He was an awkward dancer because of his limp, but he didn’t seem at all selfconscious about it and I didn’t care a bit, because he felt like Ross in my arms. He was the same height, his shoulders the same slender width, and he used Canoe aftershave, the same as Ross. I inhaled as I rested my head in the crook of his neck, near tears with missing my lover.
After a few minutes, he leaned his head away from mine. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
I started to cry. He let go of me, took my hand and led me outside. We sat on the front steps, the sounds of the party behind us.
“What does a beautiful girl like you have to cry about?”he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said, then lied because it was the only way I could possibly explain my sorrow. “I recently broke up with someone.”
“And you still care about him,” Charles said.
I nodded.
“That happened to me, too,” he said, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to me.
“Recently?” I asked, pressing the handkerchief to the corners of my eyes. He was very attractive. A gas lamp burned in the front of the yard and I could see that he did not really resemble Ross one bit. He was brown-haired, for pity’s sake, while Ross was fair. His eyes were also brown, while Ross’s were a smoky gray. But he was handsome, all the same, and sitting there, I still felt drawn to him.
“We broke up a while ago,” he said. “When I was stationed in Hawaii.”
“Hawaii?” I asked. I thought of his limp. “Were you at Pearl Harbor when…?”
He nodded. “That’s where I got this bum leg,” he said, patting his right thigh with his palm.
“That must have been terrible,” I said.
“Much worse for a lot of other people than it was for me,” he said. “I wanted to go back, but they wouldn’t let me. I hate feeling useless here at home.”
“But you’re in school now,” I said, admiring his patriotism. “That’s not being useless. What are you studying?”
“Medicine,” he said.
“Oh!” I was impressed. “You want to be a doctor.”
“I always have,” he said. “I thought it would have to wait until the war ends—if it ever does—but I guess that was the one bonus of getting injured. Now, my dream’s within reach. And how about you?”
“This is my senior year,” I said. “I’m going to teach.”
“That’s wonderful!” he said, as if I’d said that I, too, planned to become a doctor. “Did you always want to be a teacher?”
“Well—” I smiled “—I’ve actually always wanted to have a family, but I think it’s important for a woman to be able to support herself.”
He nodded. “You’re a very smart girl,” he said. “I want to raise a family myself, but I also want to be sure I can provide well for them.”
What a remarkable man
, I thought. I liked that he didn’t denigrate my choice of career. Ross had made light of my studies as though they were inconsequential.
I smoothed my skirt over my legs and wrapped my arms around my knees. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?” I asked.
“A pediatrician,” he said. “I was sick when I was a boy and that’s when I decided.”
“So,” I said, “we’ve both chosen careers that will let us help children.”
He looked suddenly excited and turned toward me, reaching for my hand. “Maria,” he said, “you need to tell me something right now.”
“What?”
“Please tell me you’re Catholic.”
I laughed. “I am, but why?”
“Because in the thirty minutes since I first spotted you across the living room, I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said. “And you being Catholic will make it so much easier. Is there a chance you might like to go to mass with me tomorrow? Then maybe we could have lunch together afterward.”
I liked his impulsiveness. It excited me, and I had to admit that I’d become a girl in need of excitement. A strange little tugof-war was going on inside me, though. Only two days before, I’d been secretly making love to a man. Now I was being invited
to mass as a date. My family was Catholic, that was no lie, but we were holiday Catholics, attending church on Christmas and Easter and only occasionally in between. I felt as though God was intervening in my life at that very moment. He was giving me an opportunity to turn myself around and put an end to my deceitful and immoral behavior. I felt the sorrow over leaving Ross turn into a sort of relief and gratitude. This lovely man, Charles Bauer, who had fought for his country and longed to be a physician and raise a family, might be able to save me from myself.
“I would like that so much,” I said.
“Oh, wonderful!” he said, with an enthusiasm I would come to appreciate in him. “Was your boyfriend Catholic?” he asked.
“Yes, but not devout,” I said. An understatement if ever there was one.
“It was doomed from the start, then,” he said. “The gal I broke up with last year was a Methodist. My parents wouldn’t even talk to her. I should have known it wouldn’t work. The values are just too different, you know?”
I nodded, although I didn’t really know at all.
“She was…fast, if you know what I mean,” he said. “I found out she’d had…you know,
relations
, with the boy she’d dated before me, and I felt sick thinking about it.”
I knew right then that I would be starting this relationship off with a lie. I would never let Charles know the truth about Ross and me. Only a few of my girlfriends knew about Ross, so it would be a relatively easy secret to keep. I thought, though, that I’d better bring my ancestry out in the open before things went any further.
“I’m half Italian,” I said.
“I thought so.” He touched my hair. “You have that rich Italian hair and those big, dark eyes.” It didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Charles and I attended mass the following day and I saw my religion in a new light. I felt the peace that came over him inside the church. The smell of incense, the ritualistic standing and kneeling, the haunting Latin chanting, and the taste of the host on my tongue struck me like never before. I thanked God for giving me what felt like a second chance.
When we left the church and were back in my car, Charles turned to me. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded, wondering how he had known the impact that service had had on me. “I’ve never been to mass with a…” I started to say boyfriend, but it seemed too soon to give him that label. “With a date before,” I finished.
“You never went with your last boyfriend?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I understand,” he said with a smile. “That’s why it would never have worked out with my old girlfriend and with your old boyfriend. They would have been twiddling their thumbs in there, anxious to get it over with.”
We fell in love quickly. I think I was in love with him that first night outside the fraternity house. My relationship with Ross was becoming clearer to me: It had been based on the physical and the illicit and little more. This was so different. Charles met my parents, who instantly adored him and even attended mass with us the first weekend he visited. Charles and my father were New York Yankee fans, and they occasionally attended games together at Yankee Stadium, while my mother would marvel that I’d found such a wonderful man.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she said, her Italian accent flavoring the words.
“Why?” I’d asked her, surprised.
“You always flit from one boy to the other,” she said. “Never settled on any one of them. It worried me.”
“You didn’t have to worry,” I said to her with a smile. “I was waiting for the right one to come along.”
My relationship with Charles was entirely chaste. His kisses were passionate, but if his hands wandered toward my breasts or my thighs, he would pull back in apology. I craved more, and I found the craving exciting. I felt guilty for the lie of omission I was engaged in. He thought I was a virgin, and there was no reason to tell him anything different. The lie was so thorough that even I began to think of myself as virginal.