What It Was Like (15 page)

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Forget about what I said to Rachel. I was completely nervous about that first dinner at the Costa Brava Beach Club for a whole list of reasons, as you can well imagine. First time meeting the Mother . . .
and
the Mother's New Boyfriend. I know that many, if not most, teenage girls fight with their mothers, but there was something definitely strange going on with Rachel and her mother, something extra. (And maybe with her father too, for that matter, but apparently I wasn't going to meet him this time.) And it was at one of those ritzy beach clubs on the ocean – the kind of place I'd been to only once in my life, courtesy of rich cousin Ralph. But I resolved to make the evening a success. We had to get through this night in order to get time on our own.

I approached the dinner as I would a college interview. I got out my lucky blue blazer (the one I wore to my Columbia interview) with my lucky Bobby Kennedy for Senate lapel pin in the pocket, a blue pinstripe Oxford shirt, neat pants, and shined loafers. I passed on the tie; I figured that it
was
a beach club. I got myself into a frame of mind to impress Rachel's mother and
Herb
. I would be crisp and alert and respectful. It was very clear what had to be done. I would out-phony the phonies and win their trust so that they wouldn't interfere with Rachel and me.

“You look gorgeous!” said my mother when I came downstairs, which instantly made me check myself in the front hall mirror. I was not gorgeous, but it would have to do; my appearance, I mean. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to neaten up one last time.

“Can I take the Chrysler?” I asked her.

“Ask your father,” she replied. Neither my father's Chrysler nor my mother's Ford was really new or nice, but the Chrysler was newer and nicer. And bigger.

“Hey,” I said to my Dad who was leaning back in his recliner, reading
TV Guide
very close up, “You think I can have the Chrysler?”

“You think you can put some gas in it?” he replied. Which meant yes.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You should put your glasses on.”

“Good night, college man!” he said, bringing the little magazine closer.

My Dad has a good sense of humor. He's basically a gentle man who always tries to say “yes” to me, provided I didn't screw up. That arrangement worked well for a fairly long time.

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I got to the Costa Brava Beach Club early, but I didn't go in. I parked the Chrysler on the side of Ocean Boulevard, in full view of the Costa Brava's illuminated entrance. I didn't want to be too early or too late. I wanted to walk into the dining room where I was supposed to meet Rachel and her mother at exactly, perversely 8:00. I timed it perfectly, despite the snotty look and slow response I got from the guy who parked the Chrysler, which was way too shabby a car for this place, and despite the snooty questioning I got from the guy at the front desk when I asked directions to the dining room.

I walked into the reception area of the Neptune Room, went straight up to the tuxedoed maitre d' at his podium at exactly 8:00, and asked for “The Capulet table, please!” Then I corrected my little joke and gave the right name. He looked down at me, gave me a brief unfriendly inspection, and passed me off to a young girl in a blue and white uniform.

“Louise, take this young man to table twenty-four,” he said to the girl and went back to looking at whatever he was looking at. The girl in the uniform smiled blankly, turned her back to me, and walked away. I guessed that I was supposed to follow. Nice place, but I refused to let their attitude bother me. I followed Louise as she turned the corner, and I could suddenly see the whole Neptune Room spread before me, all blue and white – blue tablecloths and white candles and white plates, and a wall of windows showing the white, sandy beach and the wide blue Atlantic Ocean just beyond. My eyes zipped around the room full of diners, talking loudly and eating loudly, until I saw Rachel.

She was at a corner table, and she was looking straight at me, rising out of her chair with a huge smile on her face. Seeing her, I felt a charge of pleasure and excitement.

“Thank you, Louise,” I said. “I see them,” and I almost ran over the poor girl, getting to Rachel.

“Hello!” I practically shouted as we converged.

She greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, her hands holding me back a little by my forearms, just in case I got too close. A quick look in her eyes told me that she was nervous but hopeful.

“Hi!” she whispered. “You're late.”

“No, I'm not,” I whispered back. “I'm on time.”

She took my hand and turned me to the table where I could see her mother and the man who sat across from her. It was a round table, and Rachel and I were going to be sitting across from each other.

I greeted her mother first.

“Hello, Mrs. Prince,” I said warmly, trying not to sound insincere. “It's so nice to meet you.”

I tried not to react to the sight of her face as I extended my hand, but Rachel's mother was
not
a pretty woman. In fact, with all her make-up and puffy reddish hair and mouth and fingernails and jewelry, she was quite the opposite of attractive. I'm not saying she wasn't expensively and carefully dressed, but everything about her was a little too much, and it was especially off-putting, next to the pure beauty of her daughter. It was no wonder that she resented Rachel.

“Nice to meet you too,” she said, sounding completely insincere, shaking my hand with a limp rattle of bracelets. “Rachel cannot stop talking about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” I replied.

“You've made quite a big impression on her.” She was not just looking at me; she was sizing me up.

“Mother,” Rachel muttered.

“Well, Rachel makes quite an impression on everybody,” I said. “You should be very proud of your daughter.” I would not back down.

“Yes, I am.
Very,
” she said with a smile like a knife, not backing down to me either. “Let me introduce you to Herb Perlov.”

All this time I felt the presence of the man sitting across from Mrs. Prince, but I could not, would not disengage from her. Now I could.

“Hello, sir,” I said to the man sitting down. Rachel introduced me as I shook hands with Herb.

Even though he was sitting down, I could tell that Herb was a big, bony man. Balding and tanned, he leaned toward me with an aggressive smile, a hairy hand coming out of his blue seersucker sports jacket. He tried to crush/test my hand in the handshake, but I was ready and held my hand firmly in his vise.

“Nice to meet you,” I lied.

Herb had bushy black eyebrows behind thick black-framed glasses, a peeling, freckled dome, and an extremely confident grin.

“Sit down, kid,” he said. “Have something to drink.”

“Herb!” Mrs. Prince cautioned him.

“I didn't say anything alcoholic,” Herb defended himself. “Have a Coke,” he said to me.

“Thanks,” I said. “I will. Make it a double.” Which got a tension-breaking laugh from everyone as I sat down.

I looked across to Rachel and said a private “hi.”

“Hi,” she whispered back to me as her mother interrupted to ask her a question.

“Rachel,” said Mrs. Prince. “Tell me again what's the name of that store where you bought those ridiculously expensive boots?”

Rachel answered her mother sharply, “They were not ridiculously expensive, and I didn't even want new boots.
You're
the one who told me to go buy them.” They began an uncomfortable exchange of claims and counter-claims about said boots. Embarrassed, I looked down at my table setting – fat silverware, big, mostly-white dishes painted in a nautical theme, with ‘Costa Brava' in blue, and several different glasses – and caught my breath. I remembered to snatch the blue napkin off my plate and put it in my lap.

“Leave her alone, for God's sake,” Herb said to Mrs. Prince. “Stop busting chops!” And he winked at me, in an “us guys” way.

“So Rachel tells us that you're going to Columbia,” he said, taking the cellophane wrapper off a cigar.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I'm starting this week.”

“Columbia,” said Herb, biting the end off his cigar. “Good school.”

“Tell him where you went, Herb,” said Mrs. Prince. “Go on.” Before Herb could tell me, Rachel's mother crowed, “
Harvard
. The college
and
the law school, right?”

Herb didn't say anything. He just chuckled and lit the tip of his cigar with a gold Zippo lighter.

I admit it: it
zinged
me. Harvard was a big name to drop, and she dropped it right on me.

All I could do was mutter, “Also good schools.” Which made them burst into laughter, in my direction.

“I love to drop the H-bomb!” said Mrs. Prince to Herb with a little smirk. “It always gets such a great reaction.”

I looked across to Rachel for comfort, but she was looking down at the tiny printed menu that was next to each plate. She looked much more grown-up than at Mooncliff, in a dress, with make-up and her hair done. She looked beautiful and uncomfortable at the same time.

“Hey,” I said to Rachel. “When I called you this morning, you weren't home. Who answered your phone?”

“Oh,” said Rachel as I startled her out of her thoughts. “Ella Ruth. She told me that you called.”

“Is she your – ?” I asked her and Mrs. Prince.

Rachel jumped in, saying, “She comes in to help clean up and stuff, but we don't have a live-in anymore. My mother thought that the last one was stealing from her.”

“I did not!” said Mrs. Prince, sitting straight up.

“And Ella Ruth doesn't steal?” I commented.

“Not so far,” said Rachel, playing back to me. “But I'm sure my mother is watching her very carefully.”

“It is not that –” Mrs. Prince defended herself.

Herb interrupted, “I tell you, Eleanor,” –
Eleanor
! That was the first time I'd ever heard Mrs. Prince's first name! – “I can find you someone trustworthy, somebody who is bonded. And
fully
guaranteed, if you know what I mean.”

“It's not about the stealing –” Mrs. Prince said.

“Oh yes, it is,” Rachel put in.

“No, it's about privacy! It's about feeling comfortable in my own home,” Mrs. Prince insisted. “I just got one giant nuisance out of my house. I don't need another!”

That comment stopped the conversation for a moment. I was wondering if anyone was going to mention the Princes' divorce. Now someone had.

Mrs. Prince broke the silence, addressing Rachel, “You know
Herb
was very helpful to me, during all the proceedings.”

Herb spoke up, between cigar puffs, “Bernie did a fine job for you. I was just happy to be of help, reading things.”

“You are always a help,” responded Mrs. Prince, with a way-too-charming smile in Herb's direction that made Rachel squirm in her seat.

Fortunately, the waitress came just then to remind us what the specials were.

I had no control of the conversation; I just went wherever it was pushed.

Mrs. Prince turned to me with a cocked eyebrow as she cracked a dinner roll with her perfect pink talons. “So, has Rachel told you of her well-thought-out plan
not
to go to college?”

Before I could answer, Rachel jumped in, “At least not straight out of high school! Why can't I take a year off before I go to college?”

“For what, exactly?”

“To live!”

“You don't know how to live?” Mrs. Prince said, with a raised eyebrow. “Why not learn a little something first?
Then
you can live.”

She and Herb had another good chuckle over that.

“You don't always have to ridicule me, Mother,” Rachel said. She looked at me for help.

I started to say, “People have all kinds of different paths to –”

“I know a little something about education,” Eleanor cut me off. “When I was head of the PTA –”

“
Once
!” Rachel said directly to me. “When I was in fourth grade, she actually did something.”

Herb asked Rachel bluntly, “So what are you going to do for a year? Go work in the Peace Corps?” He reached his hand a little ways on the tabletop to pat Rachel's hand, for emphasis. “Even to work in the Peace Corps, you need a college degree. At least.”

She immediately pulled her hand away from his. Which I was glad to see.

“I can just picture my poor little girl working for the Peace Corps!” Mrs. Prince said, between bites of bread. “Imagine her in Africa: ‘Is there a Bloomingdale's in this jungle?'”

It wasn't funny, but Eleanor and Herb laughed as if it were hilarious. Now I've seen parents tease their kids before. My Dad sometimes teases me. But with Eleanor Prince, there was almost no affection in her teasing. It was all, in one way or another, a little hard, a little cruel. I smiled a grim smile of support at Rachel, one that said:
Let's just get through this, and we'll be OK.

Her eyes widened with embarrassment and cried out, “
You see what I'm going through? You see? I wasn't exaggerating!
”

And she wasn't. “Come on, Eleanor,” rasped Herb. “She's much too fair-skinned for Africa. Maybe the Peace Corps has a junior branch in East Hampton.” Which gave rise to another duet of laughter.

For the record, the dinner itself was decent: shrimp cocktail, salmon in some whitish sauce, and potatoes au gratin. Not much better than the fried clams at Howard Johnson's that my parents splurged on, my second night home, but I guess I'm low class. Maybe that's why she hated me, because almost from the moment that I sat down, I felt waves of condescension coming from Mrs. Prince. And Herb wasn't that friendly either, no matter how much he talked and “joked.” To tell you the truth, I don't think Mrs. Prince would have liked anybody Rachel brought to the dinner. For some reason, she was resolved to give her/me/us a hard time. Rachel could have shown up with Mahatma Gandhi, and they would have tsk-tsked him for wearing a diaper. Oh, there was a surface niceness throughout the entire meal, but I could tell by the time we got to dessert: Rachel and I were in for some considerable amount of trouble. I just didn't know how much.