Goodbye Without Leaving (17 page)

“I think Franklin should learn to write his own language first,” I said.

“You mean they don't help them with it in pre-school?” asked Alice, her eyes wide.

“They don't officially teach reading at Franklin's school until they're seven,” I said. “You know, in some Scandinavian countries it's illegal to teach reading before six.”

“Well, of course that's the way things would be in a perfect world,” Alice said. “But life is so
competitive
. Amanda could write when she was three, and David really knows how to read already and he won't be four for seven months!”

By the end of the evening I had been told how wonderful it was for the children to have two parents who worked because it made them independent. How they had never cried at school or had any problems separating from their parents. (“We simply popped them in and left!”) How children, whose mothers stayed home, were less well adjusted later on.

“How interesting!” I said. “I sat around in Franklin's class for a month or so and a lot of the kids had a hard time for a while.”

“It entirely depends on the school and the child, of course,” said Alice, who had also remarked of breast-feeding, “I just didn't see what was in it for
me
.”

“Let's never, never, never see them again, okay?” I said.

“They
are
kind of nauseating in combination,” said Johnny. “I guess it's because at work Simon and I talk about cases. He's really incredibly smart. When he gets around Alice he turns into a kind of deformed jackass, as you would say.”

“You mean you boys never talk about your kids? You mean you never heard him say, ‘Of course, we really don't approve of the sort of school that makes the children wear uniforms, but Amanda looks so adorable in hers'?”

“I guess I haven't.”

“Ann Potts is needlepointing a pillow,” I said.

“Yes,” Johnny said, uncomprehendingly.

“It will have a quote from Dorothy Parker.”

“Yes?” said Johnny.

“It will say
I
hate men. They irritate me
. She picked out some extremely pretty colors for it at that yarn shop near the park. Teal, scarlet and yellow.”

Johnny said, “So kill me because I don't talk about children with Simon. Would you want me to?”

“No,” I said. “But I don't see any reason to see them again, ever ever ever, and I'm not going to. Besides, I don't think Franklin will ever like that nasty little David. He hasn't forgotten the time they came here and David hit him with a truck.”

“That's just kids playing,” Johnny said.

“Oh, yeah? What would you know? That is
not
kids playing. That is
angry
kids playing. I hope that little creep grows up to off his parents.”

On that note I took off my dress, which, I could tell, Alice Crain had found only marginally tasteful, and I got into bed. I reflected that if you were going to ask people for dinner, you ought to do a little better than overcooked round roast—that staple of retrograde dinner parties—undercooked rice and nothing for salad. I was not a great cook by a long shot, but at least I could put together something people could chew.

Before I fell into a not too refreshing sleep, I reflected on the whole subject of parents. How suspicious of them I was. My own, Johnny's, the parents of my friends from high school, the Listers, Alice and Simon. As I lay there thinking, listening to my husband showering in the bathroom, I realized it was probably grownups I feared in general, and parents in specific, since they were grownups who felt justified. And here I was, a grownup and a parent. Would Little Franklin, the light of my life, learn to hate me? Would some subtle change overcome me as I grew older? Would I begin to criticize his friends, tell him who he could and could not play with, and foist on him the nauseating offspring of my friends? Often I wondered if he truly liked Amos Potts or simply was forced to put up with him because I was a friend of Amos' mother. What an amazing welter of things there was to feel terrible about!

“Your problem,” Mary often said, “is that on the one hand you feel better than other people because you have never sold out or knuckled under, and on the other hand you feel worse than everyone else because you perceive them to be doing better or behaving better than you. You don't want to take a chance either way, and to stay marginal—the way you like to be—is nice and safe.”

There it was in a nutshell. Little Franklin's marginal mom! What good are pure ideals in a vacuum? I would have been better off if I had wanted to be a star and devoted myself to my career, or if I had been born in a time when women were
supposed
to be mothers—when motherhood was considered something to do.

“What are you muttering about?” Johnny said, slipping in beside me. He wore an old T-shirt that said on one side
I'D RATHER EAT WORMS THAN RIDE A HONDA
and
HARLEY DAVIDSON MOTORCYCLES
on the back, and a pair of striped pajama bottoms. His hair was wet. He sat up in bed with his shoulders slightly hunched, reminding me of Franklin, who often looked like his little clone. In my observations of children I had formulated the maxim that all babies walk like their mothers, but the exception was my boy, who had his daddy's springy, energetic, well-balanced walk.

I loved Johnny best when he appeared to be a little cracked. I liked him to do his imitation of John Lee Hooker or to go around the house singing “Lonely Teardrops” in falsetto. This was our common language. I loved to dance with him, not that anyone had dance parties anymore. He was my ideal dance partner, and sometimes at night, when I was not too exhausted and Little Franklin was in bed, we threw some sides on the stereo and danced as in olden times.

On my best days, I felt that his struggle was my struggle: the work of trying to stay true to your school and fit into an orderly society at the same time. I hated him most when he came home at night in his lawyer clothes, mooing lawyer noises and sounding like the dread Bill Lister, a man who actually used the word “heretofore” in normal conversation. I wanted my Johnny to retain his jagged edge. I wanted him never to stop being my Boy Scout from Mars, my weirdo from Normalsville, who knew how to maneuver in the world. I seemed totally unable to do it. Doubtless this was a burden for my adorable husband, who was now bent over a small stack of papers.

“Hey, man,” I said. “Why not trash those papers and let's have a little fun.”

“I have to be in court tomorrow, girl.”

“Oh, come on, baby. Let the good times roll,” I said.

“Okay,” said my well-organized husband. “Give me two minutes and we'll roll all night long.”

41

Every so often I felt it wise to go out on my own at night. Once in a while I went to a movie. More often, I found myself lying on the couch at Mary's, doing nothing in particular except enjoying a break from being someone's wife or mother.

It was easy as pie to slip back into my old self. I lay on the couch, reading through a stack of magazines or meandering through some choice Victorian novel, while Mary sat at her desk and worked. How many thousands of hours like this had we put in? Half an hour of reading, half an hour of music, a break for tea. We had established this rhythm our first week at college and it seemed to me that in Mary's apartment I had drifted back in time to some other self, some person who found the idea of a quest a challenge rather than a burden.

Sometimes for a treat we repaired to a club to watch a beloved performer from our past. My enduring image of Mary was of her sitting next to me in a smoky place, wearing her round-collared blouse and her little round glasses, with her hair parted like Alice in Wonderland's. She had never changed her style in all these years.

One dreary night I lounged on her couch, watching the rain slip down her not terribly clean windows.

“Today Little Franklin asked me what heaven was,” I said.

“How interesting,” Mary said. “How did he know to ask?”

“His baby-sitter, Mirandy, said her dog went there,” I said. “I told him it was a place some people think people go when they die, and then he told me that he and Johnny have this spot on River Road, up by Johnny's parents, called ‘the squashed frog place' because they once spent a lot of time looking at a squashed frog. He asked if the squashed frog went to heaven. I always feel like such a jerk about these things. How lucky you are to have religious structure in your life.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Heaven's always a good idea,” Mary said. “By the way, would you and Johnny like to buy my car?”

“Oh, are you selling it?” I asked stupidly.

“Well, obviously,” she said. “It's in really good condition. William found it out on the Island. It doesn't have too many miles on it and it's only five years old.”

“I'll ask Johnny,” I said. “Are you getting a new one, or are you just tired of having a car?”

“Listen, Geraldine,” Mary said, “I have something to tell you. I've been thinking about telling you for months.”

I held my breath. “You're marrying William.”

“I'm going to be a nun,” Mary said. “Sometime within the year. It's a monastic order. I'm going in as a postulant. Then I'll be a novice, then a junior. If I make it, I'll be professed in five years and then I take life vows.”

I sat bolt upright on the couch and gaped at her. I felt as if I had been struck.

“They're Benedictines,” she continued. “You might like to borrow this copy of
The Rule of St. Benedict
. It's a very good description of the way they live. You take vows of stability to your chosen house and then you stay there for life.”

“You stay there for life,” I repeated.

“Don't look so sick, Gerry. I'm really very happy. I've been thinking about this for years.”

“Do you mind telling me,” I said, “why you never bothered to mention this in all these years?”

“I guess I wasn't sure myself,” she said. “I guess I didn't want you to tell me not to.”

“Not to!” I cried. “Haven't I been your best friend and supporter all these years? Haven't I hauled your furniture around and run your errands and listened to every single thing you've ever said to me? Didn't I love you enough? Wasn't I a good enough friend? Or did you think I was too spiritually undeveloped to understand?” I burst into tears. “It's the place upstate, isn't it?”

“It is,” she said.

“I hate you,” I said. “I can't believe you've hidden this from me. Oh, fuck it. I'm jealous. I feel I have to invent every single thing in my life. The whole structure is there waiting for you. All you have to do is take your place in it. Now I'll have to invent some way of being myself without having you around.”

“Don't be silly,” Mary said. “You have Johnny and Franklin. How's that for structure? You have your friend the Smoking Poet. Don't you think I'm a little jealous? I didn't go through nursing and teething and measles shots and infant fevers with you. She did.”

“You're my history,” I said.

“I still am,” Mary said. “You can come and see me. And we can write to each other.”

“Oh, swell,” I said, looking desolately around the only other place in the world that felt like home to me. “Most people are such sellouts and jerks,” I said.

“Most people do the best they can,” Mary said.

“I don't want ‘the best I can,'” I said. “Neither do you.”

“I know you don't,” Mary said. “That's one of the reasons why I love you.”

“You're the only person in the world who understands why I don't have any interest in a singing career,” I said. “Every time I turn around someone wants me to perform.”

“You are a pilgrim,” Mary said.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Someone on a quest. You can't imagine how much I admired it when you went on tour, even if it was a kind of dodge. I was amazed that you did it and amazed that you stuck.”

“It wasn't about singing and dancing,” I said. “It was about
being
.”

“I know,” Mary said. “It's not unlike being a nun.”

“I hate people who compromise,” I said.

“Oh, really? Does that mean you hate Johnny?”

“I love him,” I said. “He's very adaptable. It scares me. What happens when he comes home and announces that he's taken on a case I find morally bankrupt and reprehensible? That worm Simon Crain is defending a gas company against a bunch of workers who were injured in an explosion.”

“Maybe he won't,” Mary said. “He's married to
you
, after all.”

“Oh, me,” I said. “It's all very lovely to have purity of heart and a right mind when you don't really live in the real world. Johnny thinks rock and roll keeps him clean. He thinks it strikes into that unpolluted core of his and that if he can still boogie he'll keep a cool tool.”

“He's a useful person,” Mary said. “If everyone were like us, the world would probably collapse. Let's have some tea.”

We went into her dark little kitchen, sat at the table and drank tea as we had a thousand times before. We were like sisters without the rivalry. We had worn each other's clothes and finished each other's sentences and told the same jokes and read each other's moods. We had known each other at the end of our childhoods and the beginning of our adult lives. I would never in my life make such a friend again.

When it was time to go, I put on my slicker and stood by the door. I had signed on to find Mary black cotton tights, a bolt of black wool cloth and a gray blanket.

“Thank you, Gerry,” Mary said. “Thank you for not making this hard. Almost every nice thing I have was a present from you. You're the only person who remembers all those small things, like what a person likes to eat and how a person likes to smell. The hardest thing about going into a monastery is how much I'll miss you.”