Jennifer Haigh (8 page)

Luck had prevented mishaps with his many girlfriends—Marla, Rita, Louise, Rosemarie. Pretty Pennsylvania girls spoiling for husbands; in that hope, they had all opened their legs for him. They were not easy girls, a phenotype readily distinguishable in the late fifties.

They were all beautiful, all virgins. At least that's what they'd told him, as though it were a selling point. As though, to a randy young man like Frank, it made any difference.

Luck had put him in the lab of Kendrick Moore, whose brilliant scientific mind would succumb eventually to dementia but was then at the height of its power. It was Moore who'd seen his potential, who'd urged him on to graduate study at Harvard, where Neil Windsor was already sweating at the bench. Frank had lucked out too in choosing a course of study; he'd picked developmental biology at precisely the right time.

As graduate students he and Neil were roommates; the university housing department had assigned them to each other. At first glance Frank was unimpressed. He had the athlete's habit of sizing up another man in a single glance. On the playing field—in life too—it was a crucial skill. Neil clearly lacked size and strength. His speed too seemed dubious. The guy's shoes were forever untied. He could barely cross the street without falling over his feet.

McKotch
, Neil repeated after Frank introduced himself.
Scotsman?

Sure
, Frank said easily. He got that all the time—his height, his reddish hair. He knew little about Scotland but liked the associations: golf, family tartans, expensive single malts. His actual background, Hungarian and Slovak, was less appealing and harder to explain.

Windsor
, he said.
The royal family?

The black sheep. Notice how they never mention me. Prince Neil.

Prince Neil had gone to Harvard as an undergrad, and knew his way around Cambridge. He pointed out the libraries, the labs and—not that he'd ever ventured there—the gym and athletic fields. Frank considered him an expert on all things Harvard. Their first weekend approaching, he asked the all-important question:
Buddy. Where are the girls?

At that Neil had simply shrugged.
Radcliffe, maybe? How would I know?

Frank understood, then, that Neil's predicament was even more dire than it appeared, that the guy was still a virgin. And though Frank didn't know Cambridge—had never, but for a single trip to the Jersey shore, left the state of Pennsylvania—Neil's problem fell into his narrow purview. He knew what to do about that.

For the next week, he took the long way home from the lab, making a slow detour through Radcliffe Yard. There he met a pretty blonde named Janet Smart, sunning herself on a September afternoon.

She's a smart girl
, he said when he introduced her to Neil. And Janet, who'd probably heard that line a hundred times, giggled in delight.

That weekend Frank and Neil had their first Radcliffe dates; Janet's roommate, Muriel Kline, had agreed to come along. They saw
Psycho
downtown, a perfect date movie: Janet clutched his hand and hid her face against his shoulder, and by the famous shower scene she was nearly sitting in his lap. When the lights came up, Janet suggested a drive down to Nantasket, a moonlit walk on the beach.

That September was Indian summer; they'd walked for five minutes under the low moon. Then Frank led Janet away, to where the beach was fringed with tall sea grass. They had stopped at the girls' dorm to pick up a blanket, a fact Frank had noted. He and Janet were clearly thinking the same thing.

They lay together a long time, though Janet stopped him in the end. This didn't discourage him: she would let him next time, or the time after. He never minded waiting a little. It gave him something to look forward to.

They found Neil and Muriel still walking the beach.
Where've you been?
Neil demanded.
It's freezing out here.

They drove back to Cambridge in virtual silence, Janet leaning against Frank's shoulder, her hand high on his thigh. When Frank dropped the girls at their dorm, Neil stayed in the backseat.

What's the big idea?
he demanded.
We were walking for over an hour.

I felt like a sand crab.

Frank stared at him in the rearview mirror.
You were walking?

Jesus, Windsor. I get you a cute girl, I drive you to a beach. Do I have to kiss her for you too?

I didn't want to kiss her.

A cold feeling settled in Frank's stomach. He had heard of guys like that, but had never encountered one. He was stumped for a response.

Muriel seemed nice
, he said finally.
I'm surprised you didn't like her.
If you're queer, he thought, just tell me. I'll find another roommate. It's no big deal.

I liked her fine.
Neil ran a hand through his hair, a tic Frank had come to recognize as a nervous habit.
But Frank, Muriel is Jewish.

Frank shrugged. He was Catholic but had dated Lutherans, Episcopalians.
Yeah? So?

Well, I'm Jewish too.

No kidding?
He turned to look at Neil. The only Jews he'd ever known were merchants back in Bakerton: the Lippmans, who had a flower shop, the Friedmans, who owned the furniture store.
Windsor is Jewish?

Our real name was Weisberg. My dad changed it when he was applying to grad school. He couldn't get into the Ivies as a Weisberg, so he changed his name to Windsor. Princeton took him right away.

No kidding
, Frank said again. He was amazed at what Neil's father had done, and filled with envy. His own father had left Hungary as Anders Mikacs; a clerk at Ellis Island had misspelled his name. A government paper pusher had renamed him, and Frank's father had simply accepted it. Trained in Budapest as a dentist, he would mine coal for the rest of his life. Intimidated, speaking little English, he'd been passive as a lamb.

So you're a fraud
, Frank said.

Absolutely
.

Me too.
Frank parked the car.
I'm from the royal family too
.
Royal

losers. The American dream in reverse. I should go back to Hungary and pursue the Hungarian dream.

The Scotsman
, Neil said, laughing.

The Prince of Wales.

They got out of the car.

I don't get it
, said Frank.
What's the problem with Jewish girls?

It would be like kissing my sister.

Got it
, Frank said.

What I want to know is, how'd you find me the only Jewish girl at Radcliffe? The odds of that must be astronomical.

Shut up, Weisberg
, Frank said. Over the years he would say it a thousand times.

Outside , the snow was still falling. Frank turned up the collar of his coat. Seeing Neil made him think of the past, in ways that tore at him. Made him think, achingly, of Paulette. Not his angry ex-wife, the bitter final days of their marriage, but an earlier iteration. The young Paulette. The girl he had loved.

Against all odds, it was Neil who'd introduced them. Paulette was the only girl he knew in greater Boston—possibly, with the exception of his three sisters, in the entire world. For two years, as an undergrad, Neil had tutored Paulette in math. As she would later explain to Frank, trigonometry mystified her as completely as it bored her. But she was about to apply to college, and even a legacy couldn't crack Wellesley with such lamentable board scores. Something had to be done.

Her father had hired Neil on the recommendation of an old friend, one of Neil's professors at Harvard. One look at the kid had undoubtedly clinched the deal. If you had a daughter as stunning as Paulette, Neil's awkwardness would have to be reassuring. Her virtue, surely, would be safe with him. After Paulette entered Wellesley, the tutoring stopped; but she and Neil kept in touch. When she invited Neil to a Wellesley Christmas mixer, Frank did something he'd never done before. He tagged along.

He was free then, and on the make. He'd tired quickly of Janet Smart; but when he tried dating other Radcliffe girls, they all seemed to know about him. Blackballed his first semester, he was forced to look elsewhere.

The Wellesley girls, by and large, did not impress him. They struck him as opinionated, even strident. Though beautifully dressed, they were nothing special in the looks department. He'd known prettier girls, loads of them, at Penn State.
Wellesley to wed, Wheaton to bed
, Frank thought, and wondered why they weren't at a Wheaton mixer instead.

He was dancing with an especially irritating girl, a willowy redhead, when Neil Windsor sailed past with a girl in his arms. A darkhaired girl with an exquisite face. Not merely pretty: a knockout. The most beautiful girl in the room.

Excusing himself, Frank disengaged from the redhead, crossed the dance floor, and tapped Neil's shoulder. And before they'd exchanged a single word, he had Paulette in his arms.

That girl you were dancing with is Edith Anderson
, she said.
You were very rude to her. You left her stranded on the dance floor.

I didn't like her
, he said.
I liked you better.

You could have waited.

I couldn't wait.
He spotted the redhead across the room, dancing with a new partner.
Is Edith a friend of yours?

Paulette giggled.
I can't stand her. She's a witch.

I'm glad I ditched her, then.
Frank pulled her closer.
Come on. Let's go dance next to her.

They met in baggage claim, their usual arrangement. Frank stood next to the belt, waiting for his daughter's small purple suitcase. It was easier than finding Gwen in a crowd.

"Hi, Daddy," said a voice near his elbow, startling him. She'd always had a way of sneaking up on him.

Frank stooped to embrace her. His natural inclination was to lift her into his arms; but years ago a counselor had admonished him against this.

"How was the flight?" he asked. Her appearance hadn't changed in twenty years. Pale skin dotted with freckles; carrot red hair cut short and choppy, with a cowlick that couldn't be subdued. She wore jeans and a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt, boys'size Large. Gwen was the only one of Frank's children who followed sports. Together they'd watched the Steelers win four Super Bowls. Two at home in Concord.

Two more in a bare, drafty apartment on Mass Ave, where Frank had squatted after the divorce.

"Wait a minute," he said."Where are your glasses?"

"No more glasses." She grinned."I had the surgery."

"Radial keratotomy?" He stared at her, confounded. Gwen's childhood had left her with a lifelong horror of doctors. It was inconceivable to Frank that she'd let someone take a knife to her eyes. That she'd seen a doctor of any kind.

He kissed the top of her head."What's gotten into you?"

"I'm taking a dive trip next month. I figure as long as I'm down there, I might as well see something." For years she'd complained about her prescription dive mask, heavy and, in warm waters, perennially fogged. Her vision was so poor that a regular mask was out of the question, and despite years of nagging by Paulette, she refused to consider contacts.

"That's wonderful, Gwen. Good for you." He spotted her suitcase and swung it easily from the belt. Gwen was a famously light packer.

She'd learned long ago not to pack more than she could carry.

"Is that everything?" And then, with a twinkle: "No pocketbook?"

Gwen rolled her eyes, and they both laughed. Paulette was outraged at Gwen's refusal to carry a pocketbook. It was a dialogue Frank had witnessed many times—years ago, when his presence was tolerated at school functions and graduations.

But where do you keep your wallet?
Paulette would demand.

In my pocket.

What about your lipstick?

I don't wear lipstick.

If you carried a pocketbook
, Paulette insisted,
you could start.

They headed for the car-rental counter. "Reservation for Gwen McKotch," Frank told the clerk, a bald Latino with a lobeful of earrings.

"Where's the driver?" he asked.

"Here," Gwen said.

The clerk looked down at her, and frowned."Can I see a license?"

Gwen fished in her pocket and handed over her driver's license.

He stared at it a long time, his eyes returning twice to her face, which had flushed a deep red. Frank understood that his daughter's life was full of such moments, the stares of strangers trying to figure out what she was. At thirty-four, Gwen was four feet eight, the height of an eleven-year-old child. Even her voice was childlike, clear and high pitched. In elementary school she'd been a regular soloist in the school choir, with a voice that astonished her teachers: more boyish than girlish, the joyful banshee cry of a young hooligan making mischief. A voice with perfect pitch, remarkable in its clarity and power.