Loss of Innocence (13 page)

Two

The next day dawned warm and clear. Whitney got up eager to test her leg in a tennis match with Clarice. It was good to be young, she thought; somehow this reminded her to wonder about her sister. Checking her watch, she called Janine.

The phone rang for a long time. Whitney was about to hang up when her sister answered, “Who is it?”

Her tone sounded off, groggy yet anxious. “It’s Whitney, Janine. Are you feeling okay?”

“Whitney,” Janine repeated, and her voice became lifeless. “I had an all-day photo shoot, then I stayed out late. Call me some other time.”

“Okay,” Whitney began, and heard the click of her sister hanging up.

She found her mother sitting on the porch, sipping coffee as she gazed out at the dewy grass and, beyond it, the swath of ocean visible through the trees. It was Anne’s favorite time, with the house still quiet, the day untouched by the disorder of normal life, when she could lose herself in unspoken reveries and, Whitney was sure, remembrances of her mother and a childhood that, in the filter of
time, had become flawlessly secure. Whitney sat beside her, saying hesitantly, “I haven’t heard anything from Janine lately. Have you?”

“Of course.”

“I was just wondering why we haven’t seen her more.”

Putting down her cup, Anne kept gazing toward the water. “I miss her, too. But she’s busy with photo shoots, and her social calendar sounds fuller than ever. That doesn’t leave her much time to visit.”

This cool recital, Whitney sensed, was designed to close the subject. “Think there’s anyone special?” she asked.

“Not that I know of, Whitney. It’s more that so many men keep asking her out. Her usual problem of traffic control.”

That this sounded like a catechism enhanced Whitney’s concern for Janine. “Just wondering,” she said. “I should go change for tennis.”

Breeze rippling her blond hair, Clarice drove them to West Chop with the top down on her Fiat convertible, radio tuned to Janis Joplin singing “Me and Bobby McGee.”

“There’s something wrong with Janine,” Whitney told her. “When I called her this morning, she could barely speak. It was like she’d fallen down a mine shaft.”

Clarice turned down the main street of Vineyard Haven, still sleepy at this hour of the morning. “Had she been drinking?”

“Her voice was slurry enough. But to me she sounded more anxious and depressed. All she said was I’d woken her up.”

“At nine o’clock in the morning? What a shock. This
is
Janine we’re talking about, Whitney.”

“I think she’s in trouble,” Whitney insisted. “But no one else does. More and more it seems like my mother’s world depends on airbrushing unpleasant thoughts. Even my dad’s. Last night he found me reading
Couples
, and gave a lecture on how books about adultery destroy the social fabric. Like if I read about it, I’ll do it.”

Clarice glanced at her. “What do you suppose
that’s
about?”

Whitney thought she knew. But she did not want to say so; perhaps she was more like her mother than she wished. “I don’t know, really. Except that it upset him.”

Clarice gave her a second, more narrow-eyed glance, then shrugged. “So read it in your bedroom,” she advised.

Passing the lighthouse, they arrived in West Chop. Shaded and well maintained, the tennis court was surrounded by the large and venerable houses of families like the Brewsters who, for generations, had gazed out at the water from their private enclave. Reflecting on her conversation with Ben, Whitney realized that everyone she knew there was Protestant and privileged. “Out of curiosity,” Whitney asked, “do you know any Jews who live here?”

Clarice gave her a querying, amused look. “I’m not a demographer, Whitney. But are you sure that’s even allowed?”

Without awaiting an answer, she took her place on the court.

They rallied for awhile, allowing Whitney to determine that she ran well enough to play. Once it began, their match was competitive as always—whereas Clarice was swift and graceful, Whitney was dogged and more consistent, scrambling to return the ball until Clarice hit some stylish but erratic stroke just out of bounds or into the net. Within forty minutes, Whitney had won the first set six to four.

“I wouldn’t call that pretty,” Clarice groused mildly. “But you’re amazingly persistent. Some days it feels like I’m playing against a backboard.”

More pleased than she should be, Whitney chose not to mention her throbbing leg. “Why don’t we rest up, Clarice. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

They sat on a shaded bench, two young girls in white tennis dresses on a fresh summer morning, content in each other’s company. “So,” Clarice asked, “is the wedding falling into place?”

“Pretty much. It’s more afterward that I’m wondering about. I’ve been thinking about some sort of career.”

“What does Peter say?”

“Not much. He wants my parents’ life—kids, a place in Greenwich, weekends at the club or on the Vineyard, trips to Europe in the summer, the occasional dinner and play in Manhattan . . .”

Listening to herself, Whitney started laughing as Clarice did. “What drudgery, Whitney. Putting one foot in front of the other until you die, with children tugging at your Chanel ensemble who’ll be even cuter and smarter than you and Peter.” She placed a hand on Whitney’s shoulder. “There’s only one solution, dear. Get yourself sterilized, then take a job in some office, working in a cubicle beneath a bank of fluorescent lights as you await the unpredictable thrill of being fondled by the moron you have to work for. Not to mention spending time with the real people you’ll meet in the subway, many of whom won’t mug you. Let me help you with your résumé.”

Whitney laughed again. “You’ve thought about this, I can see.”

“I’ve had to,” Clarice said glumly. “My parents are insisting on it.”

“So what about using your brain?”

Clarice gave her an incredulous look. “Outside of academia? How many places do
you
know where women get paid to think? All I’m saying to you, Whitney, is that the charm of all too many jobs depends on not having done them. At Wellesley, I went to a lecture by Betty Friedan, quite possibly the most shrill and unpleasant woman I’ve ever seen . . .”

“So my mother claims,” Whitney interjected. “She says Friedan’s a feminist because she’s ugly.”

“I’m not sure about that one. But she’s certainly not getting by on her looks.”

“Is Janine?”

Clarice shot her a curious look. “Back to her again? You don’t have to be ugly to be a mess, though it probably helps. Personally, I think that women should be allowed to try whatever they like. It’s just that you can’t repeal human nature. Women like Friedan are going to liberate the rest of us to work like dogs, plus do all the things we already do until we’re gobbling uppers just to
keep ourselves going. Do you really think men are going to start raising kids, as opposed to coaching Little League on weekends? Good luck.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Whitney allowed. “But I keep thinking about Karen Claymore, my psych professor at Wheaton. She insisted that sexual predestination was more a matter of conditioning, and that society shapes girls from birth to believe that it’s our inherent nature to tend to men and kids. Professor Claymore wasn’t against marriage—she just argued that what kind of marriage you have is a choice like any other, but that we’d been raised not to think we had one.”

Clarice’s gaze turned skeptical. “That’s hardly novel,” she said crisply. “So give me credit for having thought about this one, too. Maybe some women will have great careers and be blissfully happy—far be it from me to get in their way, and it would be nice if men didn’t either. But I think the only way most career women won’t get stuck doing two jobs is not to have kids.

“Most men want them. So what you’d get in the end is a lot of single, unhappy women with plenty of time to consider their regrets. Compare that to where we are now. We’ve been ‘stuck’ with a role that, by and large, is a better deal than men have. Or haven’t you noticed that they’re the ones who keel over from heart attacks after too many years spent as ‘man, the hunter,’ earning the money that allows their widows to mourn them without having to work?”

“Didn’t turn out so well for Peter’s mom, did it? She’s pretty unhappy,”

“That’s still better than how it turned out for Peter’s dad. He’s pretty dead.” Clarice sat back, clearly pleased with her argument. “Most women’s biggest job is to find a guy who’s reasonably attractive, hell at work, and pleasant enough at home, who’s also an adequate lover and doesn’t get sloppy drunk in public.
You
, Whitney Dane, don’t ever need to worry about
that
much. You and Peter have your dad to catch you before you fall.”

Clarice was no visionary, Whitney thought, but she was a sharp observer, and dead practical. “You should write your own book, Clarice.
The Anti-Feminist Mystique
.”

“Oh, I prefer to keep my wisdom to myself. It preserves my guise of innocent wonder when some guy is explaining to me how the world works.”

The remark, Whitney realized, evoked her mother’s advice about concealing her own opinions behind attentive listening. “I’ll remember that,” she said. “Speaking of male wisdom, did you read where the Pope condemned every form of birth control except the rhythm method?”

Clarice rolled her eyes. “Thank God we’re not Catholic. What’s that old song, ‘I’ve got rhythm, I’ve got my girl, who could ask for anything more’? But what can you expect from a middle-aged virgin who looks like an accountant.”

“Not much,” Whitney agreed. “As my dad would say, ‘if you don’t play the game, don’t make the rules.’ But I wonder if this Pope thinks God wants thousands of kids in Africa or Latin America starving to death.”

Turning sideways, Clarice studied her friend. “You’re becoming very serious, I have to say.”

“Am I? Most of this stuff doesn’t touch us, I know. But it hasn’t been that great a year, has it?”

“So far it has for you.” Clarice paused again. “Forgive me, but I’m wondering if some of this comes from Ben. You’ve been spending enough time with him.”

Nettled, Whitney retorted, “Now you’re sounding like my dad. Expose me to a different thought, and I’m a different person. Incapable as I am of thinking for myself.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just coincidence,” Clarice said with a dubious smile. “But have you mentioned any of these thoughts to Peter?”

This time it was Whitney who paused. “Not really, no.”

“Then maybe you should, Whitney. He’s the one you’re marrying, after all.” Clarice stood, shortcutting the conversation. “Let’s
finish out the set, best friend. I plan on running you ’til that leg of yours screams for mercy.”

Later that afternoon, Peter flew out for the weekend.

After dinner, he lay beside her in the chaise longue, tie unknotted, his air of fatigue underscored by the weariness beneath his eyes. Kissing him, Whitney murmured, “You look tired.”

“I just need some sleep,” he acknowledged. “I worked late the last two nights. There’s still so much to learn.”

Whitney imagined the pressures he felt—as Charles’s future son-in-law, his presumed security in the eyes of others could only nourish his own self-doubt. “Just for the fun of it, Peter, can I ask you to imagine something?”

“Chapter Ten of the Kama Sutra?”

“A little less acrobatic. I’ve been thinking more about how much you liked your coaches. Could you ever see yourself at a boarding school like Exeter?”

“Away from New York?”

“Uh-huh. I can imagine living in a quiet place, teaching and maybe writing.”

Peter turned his face to hers, his expression puzzled and surprised. “I don’t know, Whitney. That’s a whole different life, way more modest than you’re used to. My teachers didn’t even own the houses they lived in—the school provided them. I’m sure it was the same for your teachers at Rosemary Hall.”

“It was. But they didn’t seem miserable to me. Did your lacrosse coach?”

“No. I just never imagined being him.”

“But can you?”

Peter’s gaze became more probing. “Are you worried I won’t make it at Padgett Dane?”

“Of course not,” Whitney assured him. “It’s not the only thing you can do, that’s all. I don’t want you to feel stuck.”

Frowning, he sat up. “I can’t let your dad down, Whitney—not after everything he’s done. Besides, I don’t know of any teaching jobs.”

“Not yet. But you could always look. If not now, maybe in a year.”

“I just joined the firm, all right? Let me try it without thinking about a whole other life. Besides, do you really want to work? Who’d take care of the kids when they’re babies?”

He looked so young, Whitney thought, to be imagining his life as a father. “We both could—our hours would be flexible, and there must be a way of arranging care when we’re both working. It’s really no different than Billie watching after me so Mom could see her friends.”

Peter grimaced at this. “Maybe it seems like that to you. But I don’t want strangers raising our kids so we can work, at least when they’re small. I’d like them to know we’re always there.”

This was about losing his father, Whitney surmised. But though she sympathized, she could not quell her own misgivings. In the life Peter imagined for her, she would have several roles—wife, mother, helpmate—but none unique to her. Instead, those roles had awaited her since birth, as they had for countless women of all kinds. But there was no way she could articulate this to him, at least right now, without eroding his self-confidence. He felt too vulnerable in his new identity not to read his own doubts into hers.

“I understand,” she told him. “We can talk about it later.”

Exhausted, Peter turned in early. Climbing into bed, Whitney took
Couples
with her. She read for over an hour, then put it down again.

It was beautifully written. At times, she confessed to herself, the sexuality of Updike’s characters had spoken to her own, the desire to lose herself so completely that sex felt like transcendence. But she found his cycle of adultery between linked couples ultimately depressing, a march through meaninglessness toward death, undertaken less from lust than from fear of one, the other,
or both. She could understand her father’s aversion: his life was too purposeful, in business and at home, his convictions about marriage and family too central to his idea of himself. Nor could she imagine living with and yet betraying Peter in such a casual way—or, she amended, any way at all.