In Her Day (20 page)

“Me too,” said Harriet.

“Well, I hope we’re farther along than we were tonight,” Ilse half laughed.

“Just think, if the Olives of the world turned all that destructive energy toward Exxon instead of other women,” Alice mused.

“Maybe one thing we have to realize is that not all sisters are sisters.” Harriet kicked a stone across Eleventh Street.

“Olive taught me something and I’m grateful for that,” Alice said.

“What?” Ilse turned toward her.

“That sometimes you have to play rough. We can’t go on acting like ladies and expect to win, you know?”

“I’m beginning to know.” Ilse leaned over to see Harriet, who was on the other side of Alice.

“Don’t look at me, Ilse James.”

“Wasn’t it you who said or borrowed from some stale poster, ‘We have to replace the love of power with the power of love.’ ”

“Unfair, unfair. I do believe that. I guess I’m learning how far love goes and how far it doesn’t go.”

“Some people learn through love and some you just have to punch in the gut.” Alice now kicked the stone Harriet had sent down the road.

“Tell that to our sweet sisters.”

“Sarcasm, sarcasm and cynicism from Ilse James, young fountain of feminist thought!” Harriet teased her right back.

“Laugh, go ahead and laugh but I wonder how long it will take the ostriches to pull their heads out of the sand? Everyone thinks this struggle is going to be easy, all you have to do is think good, clean thoughts, brush three times daily and chant
om
in the presence of the Great Mother. Christ, women will still be brutalized in Bolivia and Appalachia and if the President wants an undeclared war in Cambodia we may well have one. What does it take to teach women to wake up, to grow up, to stop acting like ladies!”

“Patience?” Alice offered.

“Patience, and how long do I work with patience
as my reward? How much longer can any of us work for nothing? Shit, if we don’t get money we could at least get a little respect. That’s one thing Carole taught me, speaking of learning, that this movement operates out of the Lady Bountiful attitude and we drive out lower-class women who can’t keep up because they don’t have the time or the money or the babysitters.”

“I’m kind of sorry Carole never came and talked to our group,” Harriet mumbled.

“So am I. She’s been around longer than we have. If nothing else she could give us a longer perspective.” Alice quickened her pace as her hunger set in.

“Oh, if she could hear us now. She’d wither me with ‘All this has been said before. Don’t you read history?’ Carole sees centuries not days.” Ilse bordered on the wistful.

“No, no it hasn’t all been said before. We are adding something new to consciousness. I read history. I know what in this movement is right out of 1789 and what is ours. But what scares me is that it’s all talk. Do you realize that tonight for the first time we did not put out a little bulletin, we did not stage a feminist version of a craft fair, the proceeds to go to our favorite project which might as well be called a charity. Do you know what we did? We went out and fought ugly. Given those particular people nothing else would have worked but the important thing is we walked off with something. The rape crisis center will go on for three months because of tonight and the press collective will get out another mailing. We actually did something and we inspired a little fear. Seems like in America you got to prove you can hurt someone before you’re taken seriously. And you want to know something else?” Alice paused, her eyes grew larger. “I liked it. I loved it. I want to win. I don’t
care how it sounds. I want real power. I want to say: U.S. out of Bolivia, out of Cambodia, out of people’s bedrooms with your goddamned listening devices. I want to say: Pay up your fair share of taxes, U.S. Steel; build railroads instead of cars, Detroit. I want to say all that and have it stick.”

Ilse put her arms around Alice’s shoulders and Harriet reached up and put her arm around Alice as well. “Me, too,” they both replied.

“Guess this means we don’t remain pure as the driven snow,” Harriet breathed out.

“Guess not. I think that ‘be perfect’ business that gets thrown at us all the time is really a subtle way to say ‘fail.’ ” Ilse hopped to keep up with Alice.

At Mother Courage Alice ordered a carafe of white wine. A splurge for Alice who didn’t have much money.

“A toast, sisters. Here’s to growing up and discovering the world isn’t a rose garden but we have to live in it anyway.”

They clinked glasses and then Ilse started to laugh. “Leave it to you, Reardon, to find the right thorn at the right time.”

Howling they drank another toast.

Alice, with the thoroughness characteristic of her, researched Joshua Chernakov’s past and discovered he graduated from Northwestern in 1947. One of Alice’s old lovers worked there as an administrator and plowed through the records as much out of curiosity as a favor to Alice. She found something a bit peculiar in Joshua’s record. He was called before the Dean on unspecified charges and forced to seek outside help. The name of the doctor was not on the document but the name of the dean was. The dean, an old man, retired to Princeton, New Jersey, where he lived on the west side of town amid other relics. Alice hopped a New Jersey Transit bus out to Princeton
and conned her way into the old man’s presence. He recalled the case vaguely but wouldn’t give out any details. Alice tried every bribe she knew—decently of course. She noticed lovely illuminated manuscripts on his wall. Desperate but determined she raced back to Carole Hanratty at N.Y.U., spilled out her plight and Ilse’s intention of beating them all to a pulp if they couldn’t get anything on any of the
Rag
people. Carole, full of her childhood devils, swooped into Fred’s office while he was out and brazenly stole one of the department’s illuminated manuscripts off the wall. Before Carole would hand over the prize she made Alice swear never to tell anyone including Ilse. Alice solemnly swore, tore out of the building, back to Port Authority, ran up to platform 122, and headed back to Princeton where she arrived in time for afternoon tea. Weakened by Alice’s booty, the old fellow told his tale: Joshua Chernakov was a promising young student. His professors were quite glad he was too young to enlist or had been found unsuitable for service, no one was quite clear. A bright journalistic career loomed on Joshua’s horizon. A man of social ambition, Joshua dated an icy Chicago meat-packing heiress. One weekend at a particularly rowdy college party Joshua could no longer contain his ardor. He slipped the young beauty a drugged drink and when she passed out gallantly carried her to a nearby room where he had, as grandmothers used to say, his way with her. The heiress on being driven back home, slowly awoke and, formerly a virgin, felt some pain. She also noticed a telltale stream of sperm oozing down her thigh. A brave person, considering the times, she told her parents. Horrified, they called the president of the university, told him the scandal in strictest confidence and he in turn, told the dean, whose job it is to see boys in trouble. Joshua Chernakov was
in a great deal of trouble. Because he had such a good record, was so intellectually capable, the dean pleaded for him. And so a deal was struck between the meat-packer midas and the dean. Joshua could finish out his senior year but upon graduation he must leave the area and he would never work for any of the big paper chains anywhere since Midas was in tight with the publishing giants. And so Joshua Chernakov wandered to New York City and happened to be around when the
Village Rag
, a new concept in journalism, got started. He had good skills, was young and personable, could turn a neat phrase and that was the beginning of his career. No one was ever the wiser for his past. Naturally, the young woman’s parents never told anyone. Rape is not a word used in polite society.

A literary calender at the left edge of Carole’s desk showed the day was October fourth. Written in the square was the notation, “St. Francis of Assisi died 1226.” Francis was Carole’s favorite saint in her Catholic girlhood and though she left the Church she never quite turned away from this gentle man who practiced what he preached. She wrote next to the saint’s name, “The Clares,” the female order of Franciscans. She sat there making the capital C a darker red by retracing it absent-mindedly. Five days passed and Ilse hadn’t called her and she hadn’t called Ilse. She picked up the phone as though to dial the number and then dialed Adele.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Trying to teach Lester ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ ”

“How’s he doing?”

“So far he’s a whizz at ‘Into the valley of death rode the squawch.’ ”

“Would it disturb his study if I came over for tea?”

“No, might be good for him. All this blood, guts, and gore is straining the little fellow. I’ll make a pot of Twinings English Breakfast or would you like Russian Caravan?”

“Uh, Russian Caravan, a good flavor for the late morning, don’t you think?”

“Hurry up, it’ll be brewed by the time you get here.”

Indian summer warmed the sidewalks. Briskly Carole walked to Adele’s. Window boxes offered up their last crop of the year, late blooming roses, marigolds, and sturdy zinnias. A twinge of regret for summer tugged at her although fall was the most exciting season. The beginning of the academic semester filled her with new students and new ideas. Friends came back from abroad or wherever and the city’s pulse quickened. The only trouble with fall was that she knew winter followed. A bakery shop’s smells enticed her to buy croissants and fresh butter.

When Carole rang the bell Adele, in her eagerness to see her friend, forgot to close the door to the bird cage which she had been cleaning. She ran over to unlock the front door. Lester unfurled his crown and craned his neck to see if this was too good to be true.

“Pot’s ready.” Adele gave Carole a big bear hug as she walked in the door. “What’s in there?”

“Goodies. What’s Lester doing flying through the living room, Adele?”

“Lester!”

Mad with power and being the center of attention, Lester bellowed, “Bwana, White Devil, Bwana. Ack, Ack.”

The other birds squealed and clicked their tongues. Adele raced for the cage and closed the door before the other creatures got big ideas.

Carole laughed. “Sounds like a goddamned Dolores Del Rio movie.”

“Maybe if we advance slowly he’ll retreat and I can back him into the cage. You hold the door ready.”

“We can’t back him up. He’s flying over our heads. Maybe you should try the broom.”

“Good idea, then I can break his little neck.” At the sight of the broom waving in the air Lester became bolder. “Not the sofa, Lester, not the sofa.” Naturally he passed over the sofa and shat with amazing accuracy. “LaVerne is going to kill me.”

“I feel like Doolittle bombing Tokyo.”

“No, dear, you feel like the Japanese. Lester’s doing all the bombing around here.” Adele put her hands on her hips.

“Let’s try another approach,” Carole suggested. She raised her voice and smiled. “Lester, pretty Lester. Come on, birdie, come on, time to go back to your nice home.”

“Balls said the queen. Ack, ack.”

“Whoever said ‘birdbrain’ is a derogatory term didn’t know much about birds.” Adele by this time was laughing at Lester’s outrageous behavior which only made him do it more.

“If I had two I’d be king. Bwana, White Devil.”

“Racist.”

Lester headed for the feathered flag on the wall. He attacked it vigorously which made Adele scream at the top of her lungs. Carole threw her hands over her head like a referee signaling the kick is wide. She rushed him. He gained altitude and circled coming back at the flag with his feet this time.

“Lester, anything, just leave my flag alone,” Adele moaned.

Secure in his victory he got fresh and zoomed close to Adele’s head, the brightly colored feathered bits in
his talons brushing her nose. He circled again, nearly hit the ceiling and made for Carole. It was all systems go. Lester was having the time of his life.

“I may kill that bird before LaVerne gets the chance,” Carole threatened, brushing off her sleeve.

“We’re both so damn dumb. I know what’ll get him. You stay here and keep him occupied while I sneak into the kitchen.”

“Keep him occupied. I’ll be a target.”

“The price of eternal friendship.”

“What are you getting in the kitchen?”

“Potato chips.”

Lester heard her crinkling the bag and rested on the chair. He screwed his head around until it was close to upside down. Hopping from foot to foot he opened his mouth and croaked. He threw his head back and chattered a whole row.

“Look what Mommy has, you home wrecker. Lookie, lookie.” She held up a large potato chip and continued to crinkle the bag with her other hand. “Now if you want this delicious Wise’s potato chip you’re going into your cage.”

Slowly Adele moved toward the cage. The temptation of that huge, golden potato chip was too much. Lester followed. Adele sprinkled a shower of chips in the cage and Lester, tired from all his flying, waddled in the cage like a tiny Jemima Puddleduck. Triumphant, Adele slammed the cage. “Gotcha!”

Carole went over to the cage and put her arm around Adele’s shoulder. The two of them shook with laughter. Lester devoured the chips, looking at them from time to time. The turtle down in the water stuck her head out to get a better view and to steal a chip. She got one before Lester could stop her. Lester would never mess with the turtle. The mynah let out a wolf whistle and Lester muttered, “Piss.”

“Hey, bird, Momma’s gonna cram bee-bees down your gullet so you can’t fly,” Adele purred. “Devil.”

“That’s his line.”

“Now that the commotion has died down let me bring a knife and two small plates so we can eat ourselves.”

“Can I do anything?”

“No, you’ve already suffered enough. Speaking of suffering, has Ilse called since the fight?”

“No and I haven’t called her either.” Carole buttered the buns while Adele fussed over the tea in the kitchen.

“Too bad you didn’t stop by a Chinese bakery. You could have bought fortune cookies and all our guessing would be over.”