The Love Children (30 page)

At our usual weekly meeting on the last Friday in March, Brad said he had an important announcement. We'd been talking about budget matters, and we all stopped and looked at him, hearing the self-importance in his voice.

“I would like to put a proposal before the commune,” he began. Then he read a long paragraph from a pamphlet he was holding, describing sexual customs at communes of the past. He looked up and said, “So I'd like to propose that Pax women be held in common.”

“What does that mean?” Bernice wanted to know.

“Well, what it says, Bernice,” he said sarcastically. “All women shall be available to any man,” he said.

“What?” Stepan gasped.

“True communism! True communism, Stepan!” Bert snarled.

I cried out, “True communism! You mean sharing the wealth? So women are wealth? Possessions?”

Stepan looked troubled. I suspected, then hated myself for the thought, that what troubled him was the question of whether he counted as a man. Brad said we'd take a vote. He asked the men first. Bert nodded. Stepan said firmly, “Nyet!” Bernice said vaguely, “I don't think so,” and Lysanne concurred with her. Lolly said it was fine with her. I emphatically vetoed the idea. Four against three: that was the end of it.

But it wasn't. The idea was out there, poisoning the air around us. We knew they wanted it, and we—Bernice and I—also knew that they wanted it not because they desired us but because they wanted to feel power over us. And then—what a shock! Bert began to come on to Bernice really hard, and Brad came on to Lysanne. It was a tactic, of course, but the strategy worked. Bernice almost swooned in surrender. She was a hard lover, as we knew, and all these years she'd been waiting for a master. And Lysanne, absolutely thrilled finally to be included in the sexual dance of the commune, poor thing, fawned on Brad with adoring eyes. I wondered how these women would feel when the bruises and black eyes started, and I decided they'd probably stick to their men, well trained in the myth as they were.

The day I saw Brad coming on to Lysanne I became very low. That night, I went to Stepan's room. We had not been together for over a week, and he was extremely happy to see me. I went into his bed like a kitten seeking warmth, hoping I had him, at least, as an ally in this war. He was loving and passionate, and I
was grateful and loving to him, but after we'd made love—and he indulged me by allowing me to smoke a cigarette in his room—I told him what I'd seen. He shrugged. “Is good,” he said. “Poor Lysanne never get love.”

“Love?” I cried. “Is that what you think it is?”

He looked at me, bewildered and hurt.

The next day, a freezing April day, I was out in the fields digging earth to fill the boxes for my herb seeds, when I glanced over at the barn and the paddock and saw Lysanne clinging to Brad. I sat there stunned for a while, then walked slowly into the house.

Bernice had just come in from the chicken coops and was washing her hands. She turned toward me and her face took on an apologetic expression. “Oh, Jess,” she said lamentingly. “Please don't feel I'm deserting you. But you know I didn't like Bert when he first came, and I was outraged at his idea . . . well, you know. But he's changed, he's become so . . . so . . .
masterful
. I couldn't bear him before, but suddenly . . . I just can't resist him! You understand, don't you?”

“Sure,” I said. “And you won't mind him sleeping with Lolly too. And Lysanne, if he gets the impulse.”

“Lysanne!” she said, screwing up her nose. She turned away, concealing her face as I started down the hall.

“Say, what's for dinner tonight?” she cried.

“Search me,” I called back, mounting the stairs.

It was like the day I left Andrews. I didn't think then, but felt as if I'd been thinking all along without knowing it. I went up to my room and packed my gear. I didn't have much. The only things I'd bought in the past two and a half years were some cheap tops and underclothes and enough books to fill a couple of cartons. I found boxes for the books in the basement. I loaded everything in my car.

Bernice had gone back outside; the others were doing their usual chores. I debated whether to say good-bye to Stepan. But his behavior over the past weeks had soured my affection for him. They would know why I'd left. It pleased me that dinner would be late tonight: let them eat Bernice's millet. Lightness and harmony and democracy and virtue had disappeared from Pax. I had often heard that this happened at communes, but I had refused to believe it: we were different.

I wanted nothing from them. Pax had been my life for the past almost three years. I had learned an enormous amount here and been happy and loved them all. But the experiment had collapsed, as they usually do, when people tried to dominate. I thought how ironic it was that gentle Bishop, who never got angry or raised his voice, had been our major influence.

I put on my best jeans and sweater, my least scuffed boots, and set out for Cambridge.

This was the second time
I had arrived home unannounced and unexpected, surprising Mom. Maybe she'd really missed me, because she was elated to see me. She fussed over me, kept touching me, smoothing my shoulders, exclaiming over my thinness. Her eyes kept tearing up. God, that Lithuanian weepiness! But I just laughed, I was so happy to see her and to be there. It was so
comfortable
. I'd forgotten. I rested for a week or so, taking long foamy baths (I no longer had to worry about having enough hot water), reading, marketing, spending Mom's money on meat and fish and butter and cream and wonderful desserts. Mom and I cooked luscious things I hadn't had for years: stews and blanquettes and sauces and soups made with stock. I was thin as an insect. I hadn't really known how skinny I looked, which was lucky.

It felt strange to have free time. I was used to constant work. It was much warmer in Cambridge than in Becket, and I thought of planting an herb garden in Mom's backyard, but it turned out that Mom was leaving Cambridge soon. In August, she was going to France, to Lyon, to teach in an exchange program for two years, and a French professor and his family were going to occupy our house. I would have to find someplace else to live.

I met Mom's new boyfriend, Moss, who was tall and gangly and loud and very endearing. He wandered around making jokes
and being useless, as he constantly pointed out, but at least he took her out to dinner and a movie once in a while. He had promised to fly to France to visit her at least every other month. I wondered what it was about Mom that made guys commute for her all the time. Moss had an apartment in town, very modern and expensive looking, but to me it felt a little dark and cramped. It was on the first floor. I was used to the fields, the open air, and brightness. Even in winter, even when it was gray, Becket was full of light. I missed that, and the tremendous sense of satisfaction I used to have at Pax as I planted my garden or cooked something really good—good by our standards, I mean. But I determined that I would get those feelings back, somehow.

What surprised me and gave me a pang was that I didn't miss any of the people. What was the matter with me?

One Sunday after I arrived, Mom invited her old friends for brunch so we could see each other again. As they showed up, one by one, I realized that even though they were her friends, they loved me, and I loved them. It was a real pleasure to catch up with Alyssa and Eve and Annette and Ted. It was like old times—their affection caught me up and raised me high; at moments, I felt like a little girl again, a dependent child trying to please them. But on the other hand, I was different, older, and I now regarded them as equals. It was good to hear politics discussed by an older crowd—at Pax people thought that anyone over thirty was rigid and conservative and hopeless. It was good to hear different points of view for a change. We at Pax had almost given up on politics. I just listened. I no longer knew enough to argue; I'd stayed so out of things.

Alyssa hadn't changed at all; she was still so sweet she caught at your heart, but she was a walking ghost, filled with grief for Tim. Eve had recovered; she had a large practice and was becoming known for papers on a new therapeutic outlook, urging that therapists abandon their old silent, disinterested stance and
replace it with interconnection and responsiveness. She was really interesting on this, and we talked for a long time.

And Annette and Ted were calm and contented now. Whatever they felt about their lost children, they were hugely proud of Lisa, a professor now, and a striking woman. They showed me pictures—the homely child had become beautiful, tall and blonde, with her hair pulled back in a chignon, long straight legs in narrow pants, a beautiful figure in a stylish jacket. She was standing in front of a building on her campus, carrying books and smiling. She looked like someone who had made peace with whatever devils she had entertained.

Ted and Annette were both active in their professions and had a cozy new house, which they couldn't have had before. Annette was teaching autistic children and taking part in some experiments with them. She told me about some of these, saying how much more we knew now than we had known when her kids were young. I guess that was a good thing, although it didn't help her own children. When I asked about them, she said they never saw them and she sighed, but she didn't cry until she told me that Derek and Marguerite had forgotten her and Ted, and that was better for them. I was remorseful that I brought it up.

Moss did well with Mom's friends. He was interested in them and knew what kinds of questions to ask. He seemed to be on their wavelength, and they responded to him. He helped Mom in the kitchen and even helped clean up! He acted interested in me, even. That was a treat for me: I realized that although we loved each other, no one at the commune had really been interested in me. They were at first, when Sandy and I were new there and there were things to be found out about us. But after a while, we all lost interest in each other; we just lived together. I had come to feel pallid; I had wilted in the thin air of Pax. Eve's and Annette's curiosity about me, what I felt and thought, what I was going to do, felt like dew on parched skin.

None of the clothes I'd left hanging in my closet at home fit me anymore, I'd got so thin. Mom insisted I go shopping. She gave me money and told me where to go. I asked her to please go with me and wondered how it had happened that I had lost all my worldliness and confidence. I even needed her to help pick out pants and tops: it had been so long since I thought about clothes or bought any that I didn't know what was in fashion or what looked good on me. But once I had new stuff, I felt pretty good. I went to Mom's hairdresser and had a haircut; I kept my hair long but had it shaped and edged. I bought mascara. Then I felt ready to face the world.

I called Philo. I'd never stopped thinking about him, imagining a future for us. Whenever I was annoyed with Stepan or we quarreled, Philo flooded into the space between us like seeping water, giving no notice.

He was so happy to hear from me, his voice choked up. He'd been thinking about me, he said; he regularly thought about me, how the hell was I? Damned fine, I said, picking up his tone, although of course I wasn't. Losing Pax was losing the center of my life, but I had not allowed myself to think about that at all. Leaving it had been worse than when my father left, worse than the day I left Andrews. It felt as if my life had vanished, I faced only blank space. I'd have to start all over again, creating a life. Creating happiness, as Mom had described it years ago. As if I knew how. I felt aged, but I was only twenty-two.

Philo was a root I could grow from, I thought. I had something with him. We arranged to meet on Sunday at the gate to Harvard Yard facing the kiosk and the Coop. Mom was at an antinuke meeting in Boston somewhere, helping to plan a march. It was a beautiful day in late May. I arrived a little before noon and stood there in my new jeans and a new top (but the same old scuffed boots). Despite the new clothes and haircut and the mascara, I felt old and used and unattractive. I suddenly remembered
my first glimpse of Bernice and Rebecca in their babushkas, and realized I too had become a commune hausfrau. I wondered if Philo would even recognize me.

I spotted him coming from the T and walking toward me. He looked just the same, maybe even more beautiful than before—a little older, a little softer. His waist and hips were as thin as ever, his arms and shoulders muscled and shapely. He spotted me too and charged toward me and grabbed me in a bear hug and held on and we rocked and rocked as if we were in a cradle. We stood there wrapped together for a long time, both crying. Finally he pushed me away, holding on to my shoulders and gazing at me.

“My God,” he breathed, “you're even more gorgeous than you were!”

I burst into tears. Damned Lithuanians. “You too,” I said.

We decided to walk up to the Common, where we found a big tree. We sat under it and talked. And talked and talked. He'd been devastated when Mom broke up with him, he said; he even had trouble working, which was unusual for him. He could manage to teach, but he couldn't write for a while. Eventually, though, he finished his dissertation and got his PhD and was promoted to associate professor. He got a raise and could afford a tiny apartment in Boston, right in Back Bay. He was sometimes asked to speak at conferences, so he got to travel around the country. He gave talks about Marvell and Milton and had started to write a book on George Herbert, another poet he said I'd like. I'd never read him, but naturally he had a copy of Herbert's poems in his backpack and he read out a few to me. They were hard, I thought, but lovely.

“Have you been involved with anyone?” I wanted to know.