All Good Women (9 page)

‘Teddy, I'm so proud of you.'

‘Proud?'

‘Yes, you're moving again, like we moved out here. It's going to be scary, but you'll be fine.'

Hmmm, Teddy thought, just as the family had been fine after moving to California? How could you keep your hopes when so many other plans had failed? Then Teddy surprised herself. ‘You could leave him, you know.'

‘What?' Her mother sat straighter.

‘You don't have to stay around. We'd all take care of you. Hank and Arthur and I would bring in enough. It's not like he adds to the family any more. He makes you upset and …' Teddy bowed her head, regretting the words but unable to stop them. ‘I heard about him hitting you the other night. Good thing Hank and Arthur were out. We can't stand for that, Mom, we really can't.'

Her mother's eyes were fierce and hard. ‘Now you don't want to be talking that way. Pop is a good man, just down on his luck.'

‘He's a drunk, Mom.'

‘I don't want to hear this, you slandering your own father. He drinks when he's down. He'll change with the times.'

Unaccountably enraged with her mother, Teddy wanted to shake her. One thing her parents shared was their stubbornness. She just looked down at her lap and felt the tears welling.

‘Now, there.' Mom put her arm around Teddy. ‘You mean well, I know you don't want to hurt your father. I know you want what's best.'

Teddy sat there, breathing in her mother's familiar smell and tasting her own familiar surrender.

Wanda felt guilty eating
the
last of Teddy's apple pie, but Moira and Ann were digging in. Teddy had told them to finish it. Sometimes Wanda was bored by her endless compunctions.

‘So, it looks like I may escape from Gilbert and Sullivan,' Moira said. ‘They're auditioning for
Man and Superman
next week and I think I have a chance at a small part.'

‘Terrific,' said Wanda, who wondered how Moira had time for work, Randy and her amateur theatre productions, but the girl didn't seem to need much sleep.

‘We'll see.'

‘Your parents will be pleased.' Ann sat back.

‘Daddy, maybe.' Moira shrugged.

‘But surely your mother will be impressed by Shaw,' Ann insisted.

‘Mother will be impressed with a pay check!' she laughed.

‘Oh, come on, she must see you have talent.' Wanda encouraged her.

‘Listen, when I told Mother I was serious about acting, she hit the roof and she hasn't come down since. Did I ever tell you about that evening?'

‘No,' said Ann, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Tell us. We haven't talked about families in a long time.'

‘Well.' Moira drained her coffee cup, drew herself into the roles and began.

‘Mother's first remark was
“Do
you know how many advantages you have, young lady?”

‘I stared at the stew congealing on my plate.

‘“What kind of life is the stage?” she insisted.

‘“I was thinking of the movies.” I couldn't restrain a smile.

‘“Don't be sarcastic with me,” Mother said.

‘“I'm serious, Mother. I have talent. Sister Lawrence said so.”

‘“Sister Lawrence, what does that old fool know, has she ever tried to support herself?”

‘“Jenny!” Daddy stepped in as he often did at the eleventh hour.

‘“I'm sorry, Tim, but really, why is that teacher putting ideas into Moira's head? The girl has few enough practical bones.”

‘“Well, she may be right,” he tried. “Moira does have a gift.”

‘I cringed, knowing what would come next, what always happened when Daddy tried to contradict Mother.

‘“The two of you — sinking in the same leaky dreamboat. Well, it may be good enough for you that after twenty years of slogging in this country we're no better off than when we left Scotland, but I'm not going to watch my daughter treading in her own foolishness.”

‘“It's her life, Jenny.” He folded his napkin on the table and walked away.

‘I looked past my fear long enough to see what he was doing. He couldn't stand up to her, but he could signal me a direction. I could leave. I could just get up from the table, away from the house and leave.

‘“I'll not support you to do any fool thing like acting,” Mother warned.

‘“Yes, Mother,” I said, but with a new confidence. “I'm going to get a secretarial job, make good money while I'm practicing my craft.” I don't know where I got the idea to be a secretary, to come to San Francisco, I was just in high school. But Mother, herself, was a powerful example of independence.'

Wanda was still staring
at
the pie. She was always amazed by how candid Moira was about her family. She could no more tell stories like that than turn blue.

No wonder she wanted to be an actress. Wanda was surprised by her reflex to change the topic. ‘It's interesting to think how much of our characters was shaped already in high school.'

Moira nodded, somewhat deflated by Wanda's response, but still interested.

‘For instance, did Ann ever tell you how she insisted on sharing the graduation podium with Howard?'

‘Oh, Wanda.' Ann got up to clear the table.

‘No, tell me,' Moira coaxed.

‘Well, Ann beat him for Valedictorian by two points. And she told the teachers it was silly to compete that way. So they both spoke. Ann first, of course. But our family was so proud. I don't think I ever told you, Ann, how much I admired that.'

‘It was nothing.' Ann blushed, but she noticed the pleasure welling inside her. ‘It was actually Carol's idea, you know.'

‘Carol.' Moira peered at Ann. ‘That's your friend who died, isn't it?'

Wanda closed her eyes, what had she got them into? She still felt the pain in Ann's voice from the first day at Tracey when she told her about the suicide.

‘You know,' Moira continued, ‘I always wanted to know more about her, about your relationship. Will you tell us?'

Ann brought the coffee pot to the table and silently poured three cups. ‘Yes,' she said with deliberation, ‘I'd like to.'

‘I still dream about her.
We're walking in Washington Square or strolling along the wharf. Everything is fine. I say, “Don't go to New York” or “Wait and I'll come with you”. But I never did that; I couldn't think of a way to warn her at the time. In the dreams I know something Carol doesn't know. Now she knows something I don't know.

‘Once in high school Carol talked about suicide. I worried at first, but then Carol snapped out of her depression. She was always given to exaggeration, talking about Art as if it were something sacred which one climbed to and was received by. I told her things would be fine, that she had great ability, that she had to give it time. I encouraged her about the watercolors. The etchings were sinister — people with distorted bodies and magnified eyes. The oils were very bright, too bright. But the watercolors had fine clarity of feeling and a marvellous immediacy.'

Wanda remembered that's what her friend Sarah Murdoch had said, that Carol was a brilliant watercolor painter. Wanda watched Ann closely, remembering that, although high school seemed a universe away, it was only five years ago. How hard it must have been for her then, and now.

‘Carol was my only friend to guess why I didn't invite people home. We were sitting at Wingman's Fountain sharing an ice-cream soda and Carol asked quietly, “It's your mother, isn't it? There's something wrong with your mother?”

‘I flushed, relieved to hear someone speak this truth because Daniel and I always just said, “Mama's extra tired today” or “Mama looks better this afternoon.” I asked Carol how she guessed.

‘“Well,” she snapped her gum thoughtfully, “you're always complaining about your father or talking about Daniel's college plans. But you never say anything about your mother. And I don't know, there's something in your eyes.”

‘“My eyes.” I drew back, how could Carol know about the freckle in Mama's eye?

‘“A sadness in your eyes,” she said.

‘“Yes,” I admitted.

‘“You don't have to tell me about it.” Carol pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

‘“No, I'd like to.” But I was nervous so I said, “Mind if I have one of those?” I didn't have any friends who smoked.

‘“Not at all.” Carol's face almost concealed her smirk. “Camels are strong in case you haven't had this brand before.”

‘“Thanks.” I had no trouble with the cigarette or with the next as I confided in Carol about Mama's receding presence.

‘After that we became best friends, meeting every day after school and walking to my job. On Sunday evenings we went out for a soda and a smoke and a good long talk about the week ahead and the years ahead.

‘I loved Carol's house. Both her parents were teachers and they took an interest in my languages. Sometimes I would sit in the kitchen with Mr and Mrs Sommers while Carol went to her room and drew. The ideal family, so educated, so liberal. Her parents doted on her, hung her pictures in the living room and agreed to pay for the best art school in the country. Oh, occasionally Mr and Mrs Sommers would worry about those episodes when Carol became talkative and loud and had a hard time sleeping, but they said Carol was much better than she had been as a child.

‘We took beautiful graduation pictures: the Valedictorian and the Arts Award Winner. All summer we talked about Carol's trip to New York. I remembered things about Manhattan, things I hadn't thought about for years. Carol invited me to visit at Christmas and offered to pay the train fare. I said I couldn't possibly. Well, think on it, Carol said nonchalantly.

‘I was still thinking on it at Thanksgiving when Carol's father phoned about the suicide.

‘I couldn't move for a week. I couldn't eat for several more weeks. How to put it together? Had Carol been too depressed in New York? Would it have been different if I had been there to show her around? Had Carol decided she could never satisfy Art? Her parents were as bewildered as I and, understandably, didn't want to talk. In fact they didn't want to see me. After months of depression, I began to feel a strange anger, an anger in which it was hard to distinguish between Carol and Mama. And I understood I could either waste my life or I could continue living it. It was then, six months after Carol's death, that I decided to leave the house, to create my own life. No argument from Papa was strong enough. I had Carol's tenacity now. The first thing I did after moving into the rooming-house was to buy a pack of Camels. I went back to the room, lay on the bed and smoked three or four before falling asleep.'

Ann drew a deep breath
and felt herself returning to the kitchen. Unable to bear the pained expressions of Wanda and Moira, she got up to pour herself another cup of coffee.

Moira stood and put her arm around Ann's shoulders. ‘Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. It's so hard, so sad.'

Ann let herself relax under Moira's embrace. She was safe here, she reminded herself. She had grown up and she was safe.

Wanda stared at her uneaten slice of pie and then at the clock, 10.00. When was Teddy going to get home?

Chapter Eight

Fall 1941, San Francisco

TOJO FORMS CABINET IN JAPAN

GERMANS CAPTURE YALTA

BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON FINLAND,
RUMANIA AND HUNGARY

WANDA WAS NOT SURPRISED
to see that Roy was early for their picnic. She stood at the window watching him walk up Stockton Street carrying a brown bag. The sun glinted off his new wire-rimmed glasses. They did make him look more intellectual, as Moira said, almost middle-aged and distinguished. But everything else about him was that of a young man, like his long gait and touseled hair. Although he combed back the hair, it always parted in the middle and fell on to his high forehead. The broad shoulders and athletic legs belied his artistic intensity. There he was, rubbing his hands in that familiar gesture of nervousness. Wanda had been waiting for him although they had made no definite plans about time. She, too, had been awakened by the deep blue sky, more appropriate to June than December.

Wanda opened the front door before he could knock. ‘Shhh,' she said softly as if blowing him a kiss. ‘They're all asleep.'

He smiled, tiptoed into the living room and watched affectionately as Wanda hurried for her purse and jacket and a lap rug.

She savored the coincidence of timing. There had always been an intuition between them, as if they might have been twins separated at birth. Yes, she reflected, the larger questions were getting settled slowly. The South was a place he would like to visit, maybe before he went abroad. She had said nothing explicit about herself, but she assumed he understood. Taking a deep breath, she held her hands before her, admiring the manicure Moira had given her last night. The crimson shine matched her lipstick. The ringless hands would be elegant, if she could stop shaking.

When she returned to the living room, he was examining an iridescent orange bowl on the mantelpiece. Grinning curiously, he raised his eyebrows.

‘A housewarming gift from Moira's parents,' she whispered and led him outside. The morning was warmer than she expected. Wanda closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

‘Housewarming?' Roy persisted once they began walking toward Market Street. ‘But you moved into this place ages ago.'

‘The Finlaysons were slow to warm up,' she explained.

‘Say, wasn't there some big shindig — all the parents for dinner recently?'

Wanda took a moment to answer as she considered how quickly time had passed since then. No, of course she wouldn't have felt safe enough with Roy to tell him the saga. He must have heard it from Howard who had got it from Mama and Papa — that was a version she shuddered to hear.

‘Catastrophic?' He laughed, unnerved by her silence.

‘Oh, no.' Her lips widened in an embarrassed smile. ‘We all survived. Witness the amiable glass bowl. I'll tell you on the streetcar.' Boldly, she grabbed his hand. ‘Let's run.'

They were still holding hands
as they lurched toward an empty seat in the middle of the tram. An old Caucasian man across the aisle turned dramatically, squinted at them, then mumbling irritably, gathered his satchels and moved several seats further back.

‘Afraid he'll get jaundice?' Roy joked anxiously.

‘Hmmm,' she sighed and, unwilling to be consumed by anger, said, ‘Back to the tale of the family repast!'

He nodded.

‘There were four of us and six parents. Ann's mother was in the hospital and Teddy's father was “in the bottle” or that's how she put it.'

‘Still, it must have felt like the League of Nations.'

‘Yes.' She was conscious of her agitation, of her hand sweating profusely in his. Was she still upset by that obnoxious passenger or just nervous about being with Roy? She pulled back her hand and fiddled with several curls at the nape of her neck. Returning to the story, she folded her hands on the lap of her corduroy skirt.

‘First of all, I guess they each had different expectations. Mrs Fielding seemed scared to death and kept virtually mute all evening. Mr Rose continually checked his watch and contemplated the appropriate time to call his wife at the hospital. Mr and Mrs Finlayson seemed genuinely taken aback that my parents were Oriental. And Mama, at one point — I still can't believe this — baffled by Mr Finlayson's Scottish accent asked him what his native tongue was!'

Roy burst out laughing.

‘Well, that set the evening's tone. Ann's lasagne was delicious, but I almost spit it out when Mrs Fielding, in a brave stab at conversation, asked “Is it a Jewish dish, dear?”'

Roy clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘What did Teddy say?'

‘Oh, not much. She's pretty good at letting people make their own mistakes. She was the only one of us with any fingernails at the end of the evening.' Suddenly conscious of her own red nails, she curled her fingers into her palms. ‘But Mr Rose intervened, explaining that the noodles were similar to those used in
kugel
.'

‘Where did you go with
that
conversation?' Roy shook his head. Wanda noticed how the sun shone blue lights in his recently trimmed hair.

‘Well, you'll never guess.' She smiled ruefully. ‘Starch.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Starch! We did a twenty-minute interlude on international starches — with my mother and Mrs Finlayson swapping recipes for rice and potatoes.'

‘At least you avoided explosive topics,' he sympathized, reaching toward her hand, then catching some unnamed fear in her eyes, pulling back.

‘Oh, the war did arrive eventually, but not until the living room stage when Mama was safely engaged in conversation with Mrs Fielding about the tribulations of travelling with a family. The rest of them — Father, the Finlaysons and Mr Rose — all professed classic immigrant patriotism for the USA.'

Responding to the quaver in her voice, he inquired, ‘Your mother's not still talking about going back.'

Wanda shrugged, staring out at the street. ‘She talks about it less. But you know my mother, Mrs Willpower.'

‘So you survived the League of Nations,' he said with finality, reaching for their earlier tone.

‘Yes.' She smiled. ‘And in the end supper was far more helpful to us than to our parents. I mean I now know why Moira is such a drama girl. If I grew up with those straight laces, I'd be busting out all over. No wonder Ann is so sober with her mad mother and maddening father. And Teddy, her mom just exuded the same kind of modest good will. Maybe Teddy is a little more confident. I guess that's true of all of us. We feel like we have a right to be here. Oh, maybe the parents got something out of the evening. At least they know that their daughters aren't living with barbarians. Even if they don't understand why we are living together.'

‘I'm not completely clear on that, myself,' he said tentatively.

She regarded him closely, scrutinizing the words behind his question — independent? Strong-minded?

‘I mean.' He adjusted his spectacles. ‘It must take a lot of courage. It must be — I don't know — an adventure for girls to live alone and fix the lights and the sink and …'

‘Yes.' She nodded. ‘Speaking of adventure — here's the park.' Looking back, she found the old man squinting at them again. ‘Let's go out the front door; it's closer to the corner.'

They walked all the way
to the ocean. Yesterday the plan had been cycling but this morning they were so caught in conversation that they were half-way to the beach before they missed the wheels. During the next hour, Roy talked about his admiration for Ansel Adams and Edward Weston and his pilgrimage to see their photographs in Carmel. Wanda related several recent incidents at the cannery: the Donner Stores closing their account and a new visit from the FBI. By mid-morning, they were walking hand in hand.

On the beach they stopped for lunch. Wanda unfurled their rug over the warm sand. She noticed how the waves reflected turquoise against the deep blue ceiling. Momentarily she wished she could simply sit here with Roy, close her eyes and float out to the middle of the ocean where there would be no government agents or squinting bus riders or fragile foreign grandparents. Perhaps that's where she belonged — on some mid-Pacific atoll. Japanese-American. American-Japanese­. Perhaps­ she could just rest on the hyphen.

‘Apple?' he asked shyly.

She burst out laughing. ‘Maybe Eve was
Nisei
,
but I'd rather start with the cheese. What's this?' She pulled a plastic container from his sack. ‘Coleslaw from Bertolis'. ‘You think of everything. Forks, napkins.' She dug deeper. ‘Plates?'

‘Oh no.' He knocked his forehead with his right fist and his glasses wobbled comically.

Wanda laughed at the pained expression. She couldn't help herself. She threw back her head and laughed at the two of them sitting on the warm ledge of the Pacific. She laughed at the thought of her curls dissolving in the mist. She put her crimson fingertips to her red lips and looked at the apple and laughed.

Roy laughed, as if trying to catch her. Deep in the pleasure of her company, his eyes sought out the core of this lightness. Yet, because the spirit of the laugh was in her, he was the first to subside.

‘Tell me,' he beckoned,
cutting
the cheddar with a pocket knife, ‘about the importance of that house to you. I want to understand it.'

Wanda looked closely and saw only curiosity and affection in his eyes. Yet it was hard to respond. Where could she begin? How much should she reveal? Instead of answering, she thought about writing in her diary last night about recording the evening's conversation at Clooney's. She had asked them this same question, what made them friends?

‘Because we don't need men
to focus our lives,' said Ann.

‘Maybe not to focus, but how about a little background music.' Moira drank the last of her lager and reached for the pitcher to pour refills.

Wanda put her hand over her glass and asked Ann what she meant.

‘Only that we're interested in our own careers,' Ann said.

‘That doesn't mean we can't have families,' Wanda answered quickly.

‘No, just that we're not about to drop fruit yet,' winked Moira.

‘I mean,' Ann's voice was calm, precise, ‘that we're committed to working in the world as well as to having families — you with your journalism, Teddy at the Emporium, Moira in the movies.' Ann raised her glass. ‘And me, knock wood, with Julius Caesar in Rome.'

‘You're right there,' laughed Teddy. ‘Some of the girls at Tracey said straight away that they were studying to be secretaries of the lawyers they were gonna marry.'

Well, Ann was right,
Wanda
decided in her diary. They did have a special perspective, wanting lives of their own.

Acknowledging this now, Wanda felt torn between Roy and the girls. Ridiculous notion. They had made no pact. They weren't a convent or a coven. However, she had never imagined she would lead the exodus. Moira had seemed most likely to wear the first white gown. Teddy, of course, would be the last to leave. She would be the most hurt and the most understanding about Wanda wanting to get married. Wanda shook herself out of the reverie. Why was she so bothered? This was completely unnatural. She should be ecstatic that she had found someone to love and all she could feel was guilty.

‘Boy, that must be some cheese.' Roy's nervous voice roused her. ‘What's it laced with? Opium?'

‘Sorry,' she said, conscious again that she could not answer him. Looking at his long, masculine legs and staunch shoulders, she did feel ‘sorry', as if she had landed on a strange planet. Who was this? A man. An other. How could they share lives? She would miss the common sensibility she had known with the girls. She had lived in a house of soft flesh and dulcet tones, save the occasional screech from Moira. She had grown accustomed to a light tread on the stairway and to the slight irony — or was it iron-like — odor of the bathroom during their monthly period, for it all came simultaneously from them, the discharge of unnecessary cargo from private wombs. She recollected the quiet swish of their nightgowns as they gathered in the kitchen on weekend mornings. She smelled their face cream and lipstick and perfume. She experienced all these sensations with a startling feeling of loss. What sounds and smells and textures would this ‘other' being bring to her life? When you were married were you still a whole female or did you become half of a whole that was different, unrecognizable from your past and from your deepest visions of the future?

Wanda cleared her throat. ‘No, not opium, just memories.'

‘Better than hallucinations.' He smiled, too, trying for the light-heartedness of a few moments before.

Wanda watched the concern on his face. She wanted to protect him. She resisted an irrational anger about the need to translate. Wouldn't another woman have understood? What did it matter? ‘Memories of the house,' she said finally. ‘Of how we met each other. It's still hard to piece together. Hard to take apart.'

‘OK, OK, I was just wondering.' His eyes were shadowed now and she felt him moving away, perhaps toward doubt about her stiffness and distance.

She imagined herself a mermaid, longing after a shimmering fish as he moved from the sunny depths towards tangles of seaweed and faraway caves. Unwilling to leave the sweet air she breathed, unwilling to let him go too far into the ocean. Unwilling to lose him; unwilling to lose herself. Panicked at the impossibility of mutuality. Wanda broke the spell. ‘Would you pass the coleslaw please?'

He laughed.

She laughed. Gradually, the acid in her stomach dissolved and she could feel lunch being digested. Roy talked about his admiration for Howard. Wanda agreed. ‘Too generous for his own good.' They all loved him for it. Yet Wanda found herself, on this day of disloyalty, comparing Howard to Roy. As much as she agreed about her brother's qualities, she thought he lacked ambition. There he was, everyone's nice guy, the life of the party, with no direction of his own. In comparison, Roy had plans and, if they sometimes worried her, they also excited her. Howard had grown into all Papa was not — reliable, predictable and, for that, a little boring. Sometimes Wanda thought Roy was a cross between Papa's adventuresomeness and Howard's security. How much of this was Roy and how much was her fantasy?