What It Was Like (25 page)

With no other choice, Rachel and I left my room and went down the hallway to the lounge, with its plain, stained furniture and bad TV. But at least we were alone, at least for a few minutes on the gray, uncomfortable couch.

“I really don't like that guy,” I said. “He's a slob
and
a snob. I think he's used to having people clean up after him.”

“Don't think about him,” she said. “Think about us.”

She leaned toward me, closing her eyes, wanting to be kissed. And believe me I wanted to kiss her, but first, I had something that I had to say; something I had been thinking the whole time.

“Wait,” I said. “You've got to call them and tell them where you are.”

“No.”

The look on her face hardened as she turned away from me.

“They're going to be worried about you,” I reasoned.

“I really don't care.”

“They're gonna call the police, and you don't want that.”

“This is such a big dorm. Maybe someone is gone,” she pleaded. “And you could get your roommate to switch beds? Or I could sleep in here. You could sleep with me! It would be like a camp-out at the end of the lake! Or the Quarry!”

“Oh, baby,” I said, trying to hold her closer to me. “Just hold onto me, and it'll be like in The Zone –”

“No!” she said, pushing me away. “You don't understand! I don't want to go back there! Herb has been very creepy, and I'm afraid if I go back there something might happen.”

“What do you mean, ‘creepy'?” I said, suddenly feeling that blank-white rage I felt on the Princes' porch begin to rise. “What's he done?” Mental pictures of that hairy sleazeball peeking in at Rachel, doing things to her, flashed through my mind, and I was infuriated. “Tell me.”

“Nothing specific,” she said. “I mean, he didn't rape me or anything yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘yet'?” I said.

“It's the way he looks at me,” she said. “He leaves his bathrobe open during breakfast, and it's disgusting. And sometimes some of his greasy gangster friends come over to watch TV, and they look at me too.”

“And what does Eleanor do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “She laughs as usual, and blames it on me.”

Then I brought up something that I had been going to let pass.

“Tell me one thing, honey. . . . What's that mark on your arm?”

“Oh,” she said, trying to turn her upper arm around so she could see the back of it, to see the dark purple bruise that I saw before when we were in my room. “Is there something still there? Eleanor pinched me a couple of days ago. Hard.”

I felt flushed with anger. That must've been one wicked pinch, to cause that kind of a bruise.

“You've got to call your father,” I said.

“He really doesn't care,” she said, waving her hand in the air.

“How can he not care??” I almost shouted, “He's your father!
Make
him care! Do you think he wants Eleanor to
leave marks
on your skin? Do you think he wants a skeeve like Herb hanging around you? I don't care if he
is
connected to the Mafia. If I had a daughter and she was bothered by some old pervert, I'd cut out his throat, with absolutely no hesitation.”

It had never occurred to me until that exact point, but I realized right then that I would indeed kill for Rachel. But only if it were justified. If she needed protection, and if nobody else would protect her, I would.

≁

I waited with Rachel on 116th Street for Manny to come pick her up. It was cold and dark, and we held hands as Rachel shivered.

“I'm not going to let them win,” she said, shuddering against me. “I told you that at Mooncliff. I'm not going to let them control my life.”

Her blue-blue eyes were shining with brave tears as Manny drove up in the biggest, blackest Cadillac I'd ever seen.

“This is good,” she said. “This is going to force their hand.”

“Don't let them come between us,” I implored her.

She turned to me with no verbal answer, just fear, as Manny, double-parking, ripped open the driver's side door and emerged. He looked directly at Rachel, who was squeezing my hand as hard as she could.

“I had your mother on the phone
four times
today!” Manny yelled, as if he had a mouth full of acid. “You
know
how much I love
that
!”

Rachel shouted right back at him. “They're mean to me, Daddy! You know they are! She never lets me do anything! What if I came and lived with you?”

“Forget about that right now!” he cut her off, as he came right toward her. “You know that ain't happening.”

From his abrupt answer, I could tell that he really didn't want his daughter. That seemed so foreign to me: my father always gave me unconditional love. (And does to this day, even after everything that's happened.)

“What are
you
looking at, smart guy?” he said to me suddenly. “You're half the cause of all this!”

Before I could say anything, Manny grabbed Rachel's wrist and pulled her away from me.

“Get in the car!” he ordered her, half flinging her toward the front end of the huge Caddy. “I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I have to deal with this nonsense!”

Rachel looked at me with desperate sadness as she moved to get into the car.

“Call me,” I said directly to her, trying to send my love and compassion directly to her, one last time before she went.

“Shut up!” Manny barked, pointing a finger straight into my face. “Stay out of this.”

I had to say something.

“This is just wrong, Mr. Prince,” I began with.

Manny's head swiveled away from me, shouting at Rachel, “GET IN THE CAR, RACHEL!!!”

Rachel flinched and got straight into the car, rabbit-scared at Manny's outburst. Then he refocused on me.

“You listen to me and listen to me good,” he said, his index finger aiming right between my eyes. He lowered his voice, for the first time. “Stay away from her. I am not kidding.” His quiet tone was even more sinister. “Don't make me tell you twice.”

He was trying to scare me and he did, but only by half. Outside, I might have looked terrified – he was so much bigger and angrier than me – but inside, I knew that he could never scare me away from Rachel. No one could. At least not permanently.

He slammed back into the Cadillac and drove away fast. I think she turned toward me again, to look over the backseat, but I'm not sure. It was dark and streetlights reflected off the car's back window. In any case, I was left shivering, standing there very much alone, as Manny turned a hard right as the yellow light turned red, and the big black Caddy disappeared down Broadway.

≁

She didn't call me the next day. All day, through all my classes, I thought about calling her, but I didn't even know
where
to call – Manny's or her mother's. I also thought about my father's rule: “
Don't make things worse
,” and how much sense it made. I should just let things cool down. I couldn't fight both Manny and Eleanor (and Herb, for that matter), at least not right now. But I tried not to get too negative about the overall future for Rachel and me. Sure, they could make it difficult for us, but they couldn't make it
impossible
for us. We would win in the end because we were younger, and we had love on our side. All it took was patience and a belief in each other. So I didn't call her the next day. I just thought about it, over and over again.

I considered what I would do when I went back to the Island that weekend. (I certainly couldn't stay in the dorm all weekend with Roommate A.) Would I drive over to Eleanor's house? Or Manny's place in Garden City? How would I find her? I could call Nanci. I could get her to find out what was going on. I could probably get her to do anything.

≁

I went to all my classes and tried to pay attention, but despite my best intentions, my thoughts keep circling back to Rachel. With everything in danger of being lost – or at least threatened – my anxious mind couldn't concentrate on anything but her. I thought about all the angles of our separation and how to get around the barriers that Eleanor had and would raise against us. I thought about how much worse they might be now, after Rachel's little trip into Manhattan to see me. Then I would banish those thoughts and try to think of better things. I remembered all the wonderful times we'd had together, times in The Zone. Like a kaleidoscope, my mind flashed through scenes of Mooncliff, moments of intense memory, intense pleasure. Bright mornings on the Mess Hall porch and hidden moments under the pines . . . rowing on the lake and “Honor your partner!” . . . sunsets at the Quarry. Bailey's and the backseat of the Super-Coupe. Walking with the Doggies and her girls all around us. The Burning of the Lake and “
Promise you'll love me forever!
”

In the midst of one of these self-debates, one of my teachers called on me with a direct question. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about – it had something to do with
The Book of Job
and forgiveness – but I couldn't even fake an answer. A couple of kids snickered, and my teacher shot me a sharp look of displeasure that I well deserved.

So you'll understand that I was pretty blue when I straggled back to my room to change books during lunchtime. I had picked up my usual roast beef hero with extra ketchup and can of Nehi grape soda at Mama Joy's, figuring that I'd eat at my desk. Roommate A was usually out and I could have the room to myself. I could eat in peace, not like in the bedlam of John Jay or one of the nearby greasy spoons, and check my notes in case there was a surprise quiz – which was not out of the realm of possibility – in my afternoon's French class.

“Phone!” Somebody pounded on my door twice and shouted my name, shocking me out of my trance of Flaubert.

“OK!” I yelled. “Tell 'em to hold on!” Not that anybody would have told anybody to hold on to anything; the phone was just hanging there in mid-air, swinging on its cord, knocking against the wall. Nobody really cared about anybody else on the floor.

I raced down the hall, pulling my Keds on. The hall floor was cold. In fact, the whole dorm was cold unless the radiators went bananas, which happened sometimes, and then it became as hot and moist as a rain forest. I grabbed the phone, hoping it was –

“Hello?” I said, out of breath.

“Hello?” said a voice I could hardly hear, but I thought it was Rachel.

“Hello?” I said louder. “Is that
you
?”

“Thank God,” she said, her voice suddenly more audible, as if she had just closed the door of the phone booth she was in.

“I was hoping it was you,” I said. “But I was afraid to hope.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, the ever-present music in her voice taking on a minor key. “Oh, my sweet boy.”

“I was thinking a million times of calling you,” I said, even as I remembered why I didn't. “But I didn't even know
where
to call.”

“It's probably good that you didn't,” she said heavily. “At least for now. They want me to stay away from you. They think that you're a bad influence on me.”

“That's ridiculous,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed. “But you wouldn't believe what they've put me through! I had to go see this family court
judge
and –”

“No! Really?” I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on her words.

“And I have an appointment to see this
therapist
,” she continued. “
They're
the ones who need a therapist! They certainly could've used a
marriage counselor
!”

She huffed one laugh, but I could tell how upset she was.

“Where are you living now?” I asked her.

“Back with Eleanor,” she snapped. “Manny doesn't want me. Where else can I go? I can't live in your dorm room, and the couch in that lounge was very uncomfortable. So tell me what choice do I have?”

She sounded so forlorn and resigned, even as she tried to make a joke.

“Maybe I could live in
your
parents' house,” she said. “In your room.”

“They would let you, if I asked them,” I said, and I meant it.

But she just laughed sadly.

“Thanks,” she said. “But no thanks. I have to figure out a way to get through all this.”

I didn't know exactly what to do or say, but I knew that we were at a critical moment. I didn't want to push her too hard.

“Let me help you,” I said. There were some guys in the hall, passing by, and I had to turn to the wall.

“They really want me to stay away from you for a while,” she said. “They say that I've developed a quote-unquote
unhealthy attachment
to you. They say that I'm obsessed with you.”

“Is that supposed to be a bad thing?” I said. “I'm obsessed with you too!” She didn't respond immediately, so I prompted her. “And what did you say to them?”

She said, “I told them that I'm in love with you.”

I snickered at that, but I couldn't feel anything but the edge of dread.

“You're too smart for them,” I said. “The next time they say that, you can tell them that I'm obsessed with you too.”

“But listen, listen, listen –” she said until I stopped talking and there was quiet. “I've decided . . .” she let that hang in the air.

“You've decided
what?
” I asked, knowing/feeling what she was about to say.

“I think it might be better,” she said slowly. “If . . . we take a break from each other for a while.”

I wasn't sure that I heard her correctly.

“What?” I said. “I didn't hear you. I thought you said that we shouldn't see each other for a while.”

“Only for a little while,” she said. “Until they stop with this torture. They're always at me. If it's not Eleanor, it's school. If it's not them, it's Herb, always looking at me. Or my father, threatening that he won't get me my car. They're always at me, and you're always at me –”

“What do you mean,
I'm
always at you?” I interrupted. (I think that's when the hall really started to tilt, and I had to lean against the wall.)

“I mean that I'm always worried about not being home for your calls,” she said in a rush. “Or Eleanor not letting me talk long enough. Or trying to figure out when to call you at school, and knowing that you probably won't be there. And fighting with them every weekend to steal time with you. I get so worked up every time I'm going to see you – and I fight with Eleanor and Herb before, of course – that after I've left you, I'm wrecked. I feel . . . I feel – I don't know, I don't know –
used up
by it all. It's just too much for me. It's too much.”

She started crying, and this time, I let her cry. Theoretically I felt bad for her, a girl being forced to break up with her boyfriend. Myself? I tried not to feel anything myself. I guess, in retrospect, I was starting to go numb.

“I made a deal with them,” she said. “I told them that I'd try things their way for a while. My father said he'd still give me the Mustang if I ‘straightened out.' Those were his words.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, trying to see exactly where she was going.

“It means seeing their stupid therapist twice a week. And trying to get decent grades, finishing off my college applications –”

“You mean you haven't finished them yet?” I asked. “Not even NYU?”

“You know what I want to do,” she answered back. “And it's
not
going to college next fall! Are
you
having any fun?”

“
I
have no choice!
I
don't have grandma money. It's either college or the Army for me. I'd rather not wind up face down in a rice paddy, if you don't mind.” I didn't stop, “What about your grandma money? What did that lawyer ever say?”

“I never actually spoke to him,” she said. “He had to cancel that meeting, and then it never got rescheduled.”

“Don't you think you should, before you start making plans for your future?”

“Please don't talk to me like that,” she snapped. “You sound like Eleanor.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say,” I responded in a calm voice.

“Well, neither is what you said!”

I let there be a long pause. Then I asked the question.

“So what does this actually mean?”

She paused – I don't know if she was choking up or what – and said, “It means not seeing you for a while.”

“What about loving me ‘forever, no matter what happens'?” I said, quoting her very words as she left me on the last day of Mooncliff. “You remember when you said that –”

“I remember!” she cut me off. “I didn't say that I didn't love you. I didn't say that at all.”

“I'm sorry,” I groped for the right words. “I just don't understand. You say you love me, yet you want to break up with me?”

“Not break up,” she said. “Just take a break.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know how long!” she paused. “This therapist told them that it should be a total break, at least for a while. I'll have to see what happens.”

I couldn't believe the words I'd been hearing – I
never, ever
believed that she actually wanted to leave me of her own free will – but here she was, doing it, breaking up with me.

“You really think ‘boys are toys,'” I said.

“Don't say that; I'm serious,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can't keep going on this way. I just have to change some things.”

“But why change
us?
” I demanded.
 
“I thought that we were one of the
good
things in your life.”

“I'm sorry,” she wept. “But I don't know what else to do. Everyone's pressuring me, and I can't take it anymore.”

“OK,” I said, sounding casual as I was imploding. “Whatever you say.”

“No, please don't say that.”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, closing my eyes, my forehead against the wall. “You always said that you don't want anyone to control you. Why should I think that I was any different?”

“Please, I hate it when you sound so cold.”

“Tell me, Rachel,” I said, my voice cracking. “After what you've just told me, what temperature am I supposed to be?”

I heard her start crying again, and I was almost glad that she was. She was doing something stupid and wrong, and I couldn't stop her.

“We were supposed to make each other happy!” she sobbed. “I thought that if I loved you enough, everything would be OK.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, trying to break through to her rationally, but losing hope.

“I have to do something,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. “I can't go on, the way things are.”

“OK,” I said, going back to cold, resigned. “If you say so.”

“Just trust me,” she said passionately and finally. “Give me time, and I'll make things better. I have to go. I love you. Goodbye.”

And she hung up the phone.

I have to go
 . . .
 
I love you
 . . .
 
Goodbye.

≁

I stood there for a long time, trying to understand what had just happened. It didn't seem possible. Rachel loved me, and I loved her. Why should we be apart
at all
? Something was wrong with the world. Very wrong.

I don't remember walking back to my room. I don't remember much of the rest of that day, to tell you the truth.

I did a lot of sleeping in the days immediately after Rachel broke up with me. (There, I said it.) And when I was awake, when my mind managed to focus, I debated over my next course of action. First I had to decide if I
had
any course of action to take. “
Don't make things worse
.” Rachel was doing what she had to do; maybe I should trust her to come back to me.

But she sounded as if she were in such trouble. Could I –
should
I just abandon her? Involved with Eleanor and Herb and her father, who knows what she was facing, even in the way of physical danger? None of them really seemed to love her or care about her. I did.

But I was smart; I laid low. At least for a couple of days. I went to my classes and, on one level, paid attention to what was going on and being said. But, on another level, it was RachelRachelRachel all the time: what to do, how to get her back, how to survive until I got her back. I know now that I didn't behave normally. But that's because Rachel and I didn't have a “normal” love. We had something deeper, much deeper, and when it was gone I kind of fell apart.