New York Echoes Page 5

  Eschewing Northwestern and the University of Chicago, he and his wife encouraged their children to attend pricey Ivy League universities, and Henry had scored Harvard and Carol Yale, which was and still is a feather in their parent’s caps. Not wanting their children to be burdened with debt, they had borrowed heavily for the tuitions and it had taken them years to pay off the debts.

  They had high expectations, quickly dashed on graduation, that their children would return to their Midwest haven loaded with honors and make Chicago their permanent home. He had yearned to be the paterfamilias of a growing brood, a wise guide, steering both his children through the minefields that awaited them in adulthood. Dorothy, too, had her own ambitions to be the mother hen grandma whose long soft arms would embrace her blood progeny through the generations.

  They had, of course, survived their original disappointment, learning the hard way that destiny had other things in store. Mobility had trumped their dreams, and once out of the coop both children had fled. Memories of family joys, concerned only the first two decades of their children’s lives, probably less, for soon both kids had established themselves elsewhere and condemned them forever to long distance parenting, telephonic talk, and reports from afar.

  Of course they remained connected via all those new devices and they all participated in a running documentary of their children’s activities. Inquiries were made about their own lives, mostly, they suspected, with a sense more of obligation than overwhelming concern. The children seemed to accept the notion of their parents’ decline, often with, what they supposed and hoped was genuine regret. Spencer assumed that their memories of childhood, those crucial two decades, continued to hold them in thrall as they did him.

  They had been dutiful, even Henry, whose gaydom might have threatened the old bond, but Spencer and Dorothy felt they had navigated that choppy river with tact and understanding. Besides, there was little they could do about it.

  Observing his son now, seeing the child in the man, the deeply loved firstborn, he remembered those first years, the joys of fathering, the caresses of that smooth baby flesh, the giggles and tickles as the little boy got between them in their bed to be loved and fondled, those first steps, the feel of that little hand in his, the olfactory memory of those little boy and later little girl’s smells.

  His pride of progeny was boundless. Drawings done by both children in first grade were still preserved forever in frames as if they were great art and continued to grace his Chicago apartment. Nothing could ever erase the angst of old illnesses, measles, mumps, croup, and all the other large and small ailments and affliction that plagued them as during their childhood. Carol had scarlet fever and frightened them for days as they imagined the ultimate tragedy, the potential loss of a young child.

  He and Dorothy were concerned and deeply interested parents in all phases of their children’s lives. No parents were more dedicated, more devoted, more supportive of their offspring.

  For years he and Dorothy had pored over the thousands of pictures they had taken of themselves and their children, during family vacations, outings, and visits to the long-gone generation of their own parents. For some unspoken reason, as the decades passed, it became too painful to look back through this tangible visibility and it felt better to resort to memory to revisit those old images.

  Then, looking at his son’s smooth complexion, he remembered something that he could not contain and words suddenly popped out.

  “Do you remember when I gave you your first electric razor, Hank? I took you into Marshall Field’s and made a big deal about it, then instructed you how to use it?”

  It was hardly the most important incident in their father son life, but it did mark the end of something and the beginning of a new chapter. Henry’s thin smile and shrug indicated only the vaguest of memory.

  “And the bike?” Spencer said, his memories drifting as his mind lighted on the strangest incidents. For some reason, Henry had great difficulty learning to ride a two-wheeler and Spencer had patiently held the bike upright until Henry had finally mastered the process. It seemed like weeks until the boy was finally able to ride on his own. There were countless other incidents, but it just didn’t seem the time or place to be overly sentimental.

  What he kept especially hidden from revelation at that moment was the day when he called Henry aside to inform him about what was then called “the facts of life.” It was summer and they were at their lakeside cottage and he had illustrated the process by using a twig to outline in the dirt at lakeside what happens when the penis enters the vagina. Embarrassed in the telling, he used medical terms, which seemed to confuse the boy.

  “Do you understand all this, Hank?” he had asked.

  “I think so, Dad,” the boy had answered, and that was enough to satisfy the father that he had done his duty.

  The irony of the memory caused him to swallow hard and a bit of lettuce caught in his throat. So many things were left unsaid now. It had been years since they had had an intimate conversation, although he was not quite sure he knew what that would entail. In fact, except for the blood bond and the obligatory connection, Spencer felt that there had been little intimacy between them for three decades or more.

  Bits and pieces of his son’s adult life had emerged in passing, in the unguarded and inadvertent remark, but nothing said seemed to have the genuine feel of revelation. His son had been through therapy, had had various partners, whom he had met on occasion, but this information was merely offered as dry facts and impersonal stage asides.

  Spencer often wondered if being a father meant that he had any right to any more than a cursory interior view of his son’s psyche. Where, after all, were the real boundaries of fatherhood?

  Spencer’s relationship with his own father had been closer, but they had had the advantage of proximity and frequent face-to-face conversations. They had observed each other, and overcome reticence by familiarity. Still, he wondered if he had really known his father, the man’s inner life. Or had his father known him? His memories were heartfelt and pleasant and, in truth, he now wished he knew his father better and would have welcomed some memoir that would have revealed more than he knew.

  “What is it, Dad?” Henry asked suddenly.

  Spencer realized he was staring at his son.

  “Sorry, Hank,” Spencer said. “I was just thinking about the old days when you were a kid and we were all together.” Well not quite, but that was what it came down to.

  “The good old days,” Henry chuckled. Spencer detected a mocking tone.

  “They were the best of it, Hank,” Spencer said, pretending now to eat his salad with relish. He felt suddenly bereft, unbearably alone. “Do you ever think about those days?”

  Henry put down his fork. His nostrils flared and he used his napkin to pat his lips, then took a deep sip on a glass of water.

  “I do, Dad,” Henry said. “I do think about them. Then he added. “Not often.”

  Spencer could not think of a response. He tried not to show his disappointment.

  “The fact is, Dad. I’m sorry to say. I really didn’t like my childhood.”

  “You didn’t?”

  While the words were a shock and Spencer felt a sudden wave of nausea assail him, he valiantly tried to keep up appearances. It was a blow for which he was totally unprepared.

  “I was not a happy camper, Dad.”

  No, the father protested, searching for soft words of refutation. It was, Spencer concluded quickly, revisionism fostered by those years in therapy.

  “You could have fooled me,” Spencer said hoarsely. “And your mother.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Dad. Or Mom. I know you tried. Valiantly.”

  “We were your parents,” Spencer said, feeling a flush of anger, as he pushed his plate away, as if some gesture of impatience was needed. “We loved you and did everything in our power to give you the best of life, and, above all, to give you happiness. Are you saying that there was no joy in your
childhood?”

  “I assume you want me to be truthful,” Henry said blandly. His attention was suddenly allayed by a greeting to someone passing their table. It seemed to Spencer a rude gesture, considering the earth-shattering importance to him of his son’s remark.

  “You mean your version of the truth.”

  “My perception is my truth, Dad.”

  “Are you saying that all those episodes and incidents in your childhood, our early times, what we did together as a family, all those acts of devotion and, yes, sacrifice and expense, all that loving care lavished on you by your mother and me was all for naught, bringing you nothing but unhappiness.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that, Dad. You just don’t understand what it means to struggle with one’s sexual identity in a potentially hostile middle-class environment.”

  Spencer felt his stomach tighten. He reached out for a glass of water, noting that his hand shook. It was impossible to hide his reaction.

  “A hostile middle-class environment? Really, Hank. Long ago, we accepted your sexual orientation.”

  “It would be difficult to explain,” Henry said.

  Spencer was quick to recognize the dismissive nature of his remark.

  “Did we live under the same roof? Or am I imagining things. Childhood begins at birth. Are you saying you never had a happy moment when you were growing up? Your mother must be turning over in her grave.” And his daughter? Would she too reveal that her childhood was unhappy? Considering how this present incident had shattered him, he resolved to avoid inquiring. A double whammy would be too terrible to bear.

  He felt himself wrestling with a rising rage, searching his son’s face, wondering if this person who sat in front of him, was, indeed, his real son, child of his loins, recipient of his love and devotion. Or was he a stranger? At this moment, it seemed so.

  “I hadn’t meant to be hurtful, Dad. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love and respect you. Or that I didn’t love Mom. Would you rather I told you that I had a happy childhood? Didn’t you always teach us to tell the truth, no matter how much it hurt?”

  “It cannot be the truth. No way,” Spencer protested. “Why now? Why did you tell me now?” He ignored the issue of hurt since he was too wounded to confront it.

  “I can’t answer that question, Dad. It just came out. I guess I hadn’t expected your reaction.”

  “It shouldn’t have come as a surprise,” Spencer said bitterly. “What you’re telling me is that because we never really knew who or what you were, we robbed you of a happy childhood. Is that it?”

  “You’re overreacting, Dad. It was all so long ago. What does it matter now? Think happy thoughts. You’re going on a great trip. Why dwell on the past?”

  He felt trapped by disappointment. Getting his rage under control required a great force of will. He studied his son’s handsome face, looked into his eyes. What was he thinking? He could feel no connection. Between them was merely empty space, a great gulf.

  “So my well-burnished image of a happy family was just delusion.” Spencer muttered.

  “That may be too strong an interpretation Dad,” his son said with some annoyance. He hailed the waiter and ordered coffees, then turned to his father. “Let’s drop the subject. Its really of no importance now.”

  Henry shrugged and waved to someone across the room. It was obvious that to his son, this revelation was a small thing, a passing blip on the screen of his life. It was merely confirmation of what Spencer could no longer deny to himself. To Henry, he had long ago entered the age of irrelevance. In this environment, this fancy restaurant that validated his son’s success, he was a stranger, an object of condescension and charity.

  His son had severed himself years ago, holding on only to the rituals of family. His periodic calls and e-mails and this little lunch were Henry’s version of kindness, a painless tribute to an ancient memory, reserved mostly for obligation and, perhaps, to satisfy a tiny trill of guilt.

  When the check came, his son reached for his wallet, but Spencer stayed his hand and pulled out a small wad of folded cash.

  “Please, Dad, let me. New York is my town. You’re my guest.”

  “Thanks, Hank, but I’d prefer it this way.”

  Henry nodded.

  “I get it. Once a dad, a dad forever.”

  “Nothing is forever,” Spencer muttered, laying out the cash to pay the check.

  The Epiphany

  by Warren Adler

  “I want a divorce,” Carol Goldstein said.

  Charlie, her husband, had just returned from one of his occasional foreign business trips. He was a lawyer dealing in international trade. They had been married twenty years and their daughter, Sharon, was away at college, a sophomore at Harvard.

  “You can’t be serious,” Charlie said, trying to remain calm and summoning the mask of his lawyerly demeanor. In fact, he was stunned. It was beyond his comprehension. He and Carol had been what he believed was a sharing, compatible, and contented couple all of their married life. He had never been unfaithful and there had been numerous opportunities. She had combined a busy career with elements of traditional wifely chores.

  Charlie was Jewish and Carol an Episcopalian, an issue that had been bridged without major complications years ago. To spare themselves and their parents any undue tension, they had been married in Manhattan’s city hall. Both sets of parents were secular, although they had schooled their children to respect their religious heritage. Charlie had gone to Hebrew school and been bar mitzvahed, and Carol had attended church with her parents and observed Christian holidays.

  The reason for their city hall ceremony was that they did not want to confront the complications of a joint religious ceremony and the painful rituals of merging relatives of different backgrounds forced to celebrate an event that might be uncomfortable for some of them. Nevertheless, acceptance came early, since such marriages were now commonplace in the new age of diversity. They had met at a student cafeteria at Brown University, where Charlie had been a senior and Carol a sophomore.

  “He could have been a Hawaiian,” Carol’s mother said in an offhand moment after imbibing too much champagne at a welcoming dinner in the Greenwich, Connecticut, home of Carol’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Clark, after they had returned from their short honeymoon in the Berkshires. It was a tiny slip of the tongue and in conflict with the family’s Wasp tradition of reserve. When he was in the company of Carol’s parents and relatives, Charlie always felt an oddly forbidden sense of guilty pleasure in the knowledge that he, the Jew boy from the old ghetto land, had absconded with the heart and body of this “Blonde Goddess” sorority girl of legend and entitlement.

  Charlie’s parents, liberal and progressive to the core, wore a façade of complete acceptance. When they slipped in front of Carol, it came in the form of a joke, as in an occasional remark from Charlie’s father that “shiksas made the best wives.” Pure shtick, Charlie would say, laughing without any attempt at rebuke. Charlie’s mother, in a typically Jewish Burns and Allen riposte, would remark that there was nothing more domestically satisfying than a nice Jewish husband for any girl, especially a shiksa.

  It was a case, they both agreed, in which true love trumped tribal affiliations and outmoded irrelevant rituals. Of course, Charlie knew he was irrevocably and inescapably branded a Jew by his name and to some, his looks. He was comfortable with that. It was, after all, who he was, and he had too much pride to reject the idea that he had sprung from an ancient people who had survived centuries of persecution and pain. Just because he was not into their God fantasies didn’t mean that he didn’t consider himself a Jew. He could never reject such a notion and he made no effort to hide his pedigree. Carol accepted it fully and completely and gave him no reason to think otherwise. She hadn’t converted, which was okay with Charlie. There was no need to. She had equal pride in her Christian antecedents.

  Nor did they feel any sense of compromise. The world had changed and they were part of it. I
t never occurred to him that he was watering down the faith and she never acknowledged any hint or attitude that she had surrendered to an alien horde.

  From the beginning, Carol and Charlie had asserted that they would be aggressively non-denominational and if they had children they would allow them to choose what religion they wished to identify with or none at all. Nor was it an issue between them. There was one small concession about identity that Carol had adopted early on. She called herself Carol Clark Goldstein. It was the name she used in business as an advertising executive and in her personal relationships. Completely supportive, Charlie would always introduce her to strangers with her three names.

  Their social and business circles consisted of people of all persuasions, political and religious, and all skin tones and accents. The old boundaries of past generations seemed extinct in their own, although occasionally a word or gesture might hint of a mild imagined reaction in someone observing Carol when they were introduced. Goldstein? Funny, you don’t look Jewish. Later they would chuckle over the observation.

  As for their daughter, with a name like Goldstein how could she deny that her father was a Jew? In fact, as she matured, she was rather proud of it, although she stayed on the edge of any formal affiliations with Jewish groups and shrugged off those areas still cordoned off by prejudice against Jews. She could not understand the bigotry, the extent of which surprised her once she got to college, but she didn’t lose any sleep over it, thinking those who practiced such sentiments were bigoted fools.

  Between Carol and Charlie, they made a good living and had an apartment on the Upper East Side, with appreciating art on their walls, a well-stocked library featuring leather-bound sets that Charlie had lovingly collected, and a large dining room that could seat fourteen. Carol entertained frequently, and to all appearances they were a typical successful Manhattan couple with a wide circle of friends and an accurate image of being a loving, compatible couple with a bright, attractive, and devoted daughter. They were, indeed, and Charlie had no clue or premonition that this image was about to implode.