Blessings (3 page)

Jennie hugged her. They were so sweet, these children, with their fragrant skin and moist, sloppy kisses! Oh, they could have nasty tantrums now and then—she had seen a few—but that was natural. She felt a surge of something that, if not love—how easily one tosses the word love around!—was very close to it. Back in the bedroom, she got out the beloved book and read about Christopher Robin.

“They’re changing guard at Buckingham Palace; Christopher Robin went down with Alice.”

She read about water-lilies.

“Where the water-lilies go To and fro, Rocking in the ripples of the water—”

She closed the book—”Now, bedtime”—and drew the embroidered curtains against the night.

In the rosy, lamplit room, all was orderly and clean. This peace did something to Jennie’s heart. So much did she see of life’s other side, of the abuse and hurt and ugliness that human beings inflict on one another! Taking a last look at the two little girls, she felt waves of thankfulness that they, at least, had been spared. Complicated feelings these were, almost prayerful.

She turned off the light. “Good night, darlings. Pleasant dreams. That’s what my mother used to say to me. Pleasant dreams.”

Jay was standing at the door of the master bedroom. “I know you said you don’t want to change anything in the apartment,” he began.

“It would be awfully extravagant when everything’s in perfect condition.”

The thought of redecorating all these rooms was distressing. She wasn’t prepared with the right knowledge to do it, and moreover, she wasn’t really interested. She looked down the corridor now into the long living room, over a sea of moss-green carpeting on which stood islands of mahogany and chintz in pleasing, quiet taste, and then across into the dining room, where she surprised herself by recognizing that the table was Duncan Phyfe, and the chairs, with seats of ruby-flowered silk, were Chippendale.

“But the bedroom, at least,” Jay said. “We’ll want a new bedroom.”

Yes, she would concede that. She didn’t want the canopied bed in which he had slept with another woman. Also, she would replace the armoire and chests in which Phyllis had kept her clothes. She would take time next week and attend to that.

On a tall chest, which she supposed was Jay’s, stood a silver-framed photograph of a young woman wearing a spreading ball gown and the other grandmother’s pearls. Her eyes were large, with traces of amusement in them; her face was round, with prominent cheekbones. Why, Jennie thought, except for the straight, light hair, she looks like me! She wondered whether Jay was conscious of the resemblance. Probably he wasn’t. It was said that people unconsciously made the same choice over and over. She paused, examining the face and comparing.

Somewhat anxiously Jay said, “That won’t stay, of course. I should have put it someplace else.”

“Why shouldn’t it stay? You wouldn’t be much of a man if you were to forget her.”

Poor soul, dead of cancer at thirty-two, leaving all this life, these beloved people behind!

“There’s nobody like you, Jennie.” Jay’s voice was rough with emotion. “Not one woman in fifty would say that and mean it, as I know you do.”

And she did mean it. Strange it was that, alone with Jay, she felt no insecurity, not the least dread of invidious comparisons with anyone else. Alone with him, she was absolutely certain of her own worth. It was only the family, the parents, the setting that caused a wavering, a dread of not belonging in spite of all their welcome. But she would get over that… .

He put his arms around her and laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m in such a damn hurry to get this wedding business over. Couldn’t sleep together this weekend at my parents’ house, can’t sleep together here because of the children and the nanny. It’s hell.”

“My place again any night this week,” she murmured, then raised her head to look into his face. She ran her finger down his nose. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of Lincoln? If you had a beard, you’d be a dead ringer for him.”

Jay burst out laughing. “Any man who’s tall and thin and has a narrow face and a long nose is supposed to look like Lincoln. For a hardheaded young lawyer, you’re a romantic,” he said.

“Hardheaded I may be, but softhearted too.”

“Darling, I know that well. Now listen, you need your sleep. I’m going to put you in a taxi. And phone me when you get home.”

“I can put myself in a taxi, Jay. I’ve never been so pampered! You don’t think the taxi driver’s going to kidnap me, do you?”

“No, but phone me, anyway, when you get back.”

The flat in the renovated walk-up near the East River was a different world. Here lived the singles and the live-together couples, young people from the theater, the arts, and business, either on the way up or hoping to start on the way up soon. Their homes ranged from empty— futon on the floor and a standing lamp—to half furnished —raw wood painted over in brave black enamel or scarlet, with Victorian wicker rocking chairs from the secondhand stores—to the furnished, complete with rugs, books, records, and plants. Jennie’s was furnished.

The moment she turned the key in the lock, the door across the hall was opened.

“Hi! How was it?” Shirley Weinberg, in a chenille bathrobe with a wet head wrapped in a towel, wanted to know. “I was just drying my hair when I heard you. How was it?” she repeated. “All right if I come in?”

“Sure, come on.”

They had been neighbors for five years and hadn’t much more than neighborliness in common, that and friendly goodwill. Shirley, secretary to a theatrical producer, thought in terms of Broadway and what she saw as glamour, certainly not in terms of battered wives and dingy courtrooms. She sat down on Jennie’s sofa.

“Was it gorgeous, their place?”

Shirley’s vision, no doubt, was of marble floors and gilded wood.

“Not really. It’s a farmhouse, a hundred fifty years old or more. I liked it, but you wouldn’t.”

“They’re terribly rich, though, aren’t they?”

Questions like this were offensive, yet one should take them from where they came. Shirley was blunt and kind. But why did so many people ask such questions? From somewhere a memory stirred, a voice asking, “Who? When?” The memory dissolved… .

“I don’t suppose they are ‘terribly rich.’ But they’re not poor, either,” Jennie replied patiently. “Somehow one doesn’t think of them that way.”

“You may not. But you’re a funny duck,” Shirley said affectionately. “What’s in the box?”

“A necklace. I’ll show you.”

“My God, will you look at that!”

“You scared me. What are you shrieking about?”

“These, you idiot. You’ve got ten thousand dollars’ worth of pearls here, don’t you know that? No, what am I saying? More than that. Pearls have gone way up again.”

“That’s not possible,” Jennie said.

“I’m telling you what I know. I used to work on Madison Avenue at a jeweler’s, didn’t I? They’re nine-millimeter. Do you know what that means? No, of course you don’t. Put them on.”

“Now I’m afraid to touch them. I’m afraid they’ll break.”

“They won’t break. Put them on.”

“I feel silly if they’re really worth that. Where will I wear them?”

“Lots of places. They’re gorgeous. Look.”

“I never knew about things like these,” Jennie said wonderingly. “I mean, why would anybody want to hang all that money around her neck?”

“You are a funny duck,” the other repeated. “They really don’t matter to you at all?”

“Well, in one way they do. They’re very beautiful, of course, but what matters to me is what they stand for, that I’m wanted in their family, and I’m very, very happy about that. I just never craved things like this. And a good thing I didn’t, because I never could have afforded them.”

“Well, it looks as if you’ll be able to afford them now. You’re really mad about him, aren’t you?”

Jennie raised her eyes to the other’s face, on which a certain tenderness was mingled with curiosity. “Yes,” she said simply. “That’s about it. I am.”

“I’ve never seen you like this about anyone before.”

“I haven’t felt like this about anyone before, that’s why.”

“You’re lucky. Do you know how darn lucky you are?”

“Yes, I know.”

“To be in love with a man who wants to make it forever. God, I’m sick of guys who don’t want to promise you anything except that they’ll never interfere with your freedom. I’d like to give up a little freedom—not all of it, just some of it—to have a home and a kid. Two kids. The men you meet these days are all kids themselves,” Shirley finished, grumbling.

Jennie, hanging up her coat, had no answer. She remembered how, not much more than a year ago, Shirley, like most of her contemporaries, including Jennie herself, had gloated over total independence, being able to experience the adventure that had once belonged only to men. And then the biological clock, as they called it these days, had begun to tick very loudly.

“The biological clock,” she said now.

“Yeah. Well, I’m glad for you, anyway.” Shirley stood up and kissed Jennie’s cheek. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer gal. Listen. Be sure to get a piece of flannel and wipe those every time you wear them. And have them restrung every couple of years. I’d go to Tiffany for that, if I were you.”

When she went out, Jennie stood for a few moments with the pearls draped over her arm. Thoughts flooded her mind. She looked around the little room. You certainly wouldn’t call it a handsome room, but it was comfortable and pretty, with its prints, Picasso’s doves and Mondrian’s vivid geometries. Sometimes she thought what fun it would be if Jay could just move in here with her, instead of the other way around. She had painted the yellow walls herself, bought the homemade patchwork quilt from Tennessee mountain craftspeople, and nurtured the tall palm that stood in the brass container at the window. The books, which were her extravagance, and the first-rate stereo equipment all were the fruits of her own labor, and that was a good feeling,-probably there was no better satisfaction.

Indeed she had come far. Now, having confronted the world and proven that she could survive in it alone, she was ready, willing, and glad to relinquish some of her independence to Jay.

They had met at one of those big, fancy gatherings of disparate people in a fancy, renovated loft filled with abstract sculpture, stainless-steel mobiles, sushi, white wine, and buzzing talk. Somebody had made a remark about Jennie’s Long Island environment case, and somebody else had casually and hastily introduced Jay. Almost at once they had drifted away by themselves.

“You’re a lawyer too?” she asked.

“Yes. With DePuyster, Fillmore, Johnston, Brown, Ro-senbaum and Levy.”

“Very different from me.”

“Very different.” He smiled. His eyes held a twinkle of amusement. “Are you thinking that I’m a wicked defender of wicked corporations?”

“I’m not stupid enough to think that corporations are all wicked.”

“Good. Because I’d like you to approve of me.”

“It’s just something I could never imagine myself doing.”

“Fair enough. But I do pro bono work also, you know.”

“That’s good too.” She smiled back.

“You’re not enjoying this,” he said. “All the pop sociology and psychology. You know what it boils down to? ‘Look at me, I’m here, listen to me.’ When it’s all over, you’ve nothing but a headache to show for the whole evening. Let’s leave.”

In a quiet bar downtown they sat half the night telling each other all about themselves: their politics, their families; their taste in music, food, books, and movies; their interest in tennis. They liked Zubin Mehta, Woody Allen, Updike, and Dickens. They hated golf, buttery sauces, zoos, and cruises. Something clicked. Afterward they both agreed that they had known it right then, that very night.

The next day he sent flowers. She was touched by the old-fashioned gesture, and expectant as she had never been before. Suddenly it was clear to her that she had never known the possibilities of loving, never known what lay at the core of things. She had only thought she knew.

So it had begun.

She had come a long, long way since the row house in Baltimore and Pop’s delicatessen. A long way from the University of Pennsylvania and its tuition, so painfully eked out. About the time she had graduated from the university, her father became ill with a degenerative kidney disease. When he died, she was already twenty-five. Her mother sold the store and with the small proceeds of the sale, plus Pop’s small insurance, went to live with her sister in Miami, where the climate was benign and living was cheaper. Then, having saved enough for law school, Jennie went back to Philadelphia and enrolled again at the university.

She had no time to waste, for she had lost four years. She was all purpose, working hard and seldom playing. At twenty-nine, she graduated with an outstanding record, enough to provide her with a prized clerkship for the following year. The clerkship would have led to a position in an esteemed Philadelphia law firm, if she had wanted it to. But during the intervening hard years, a distinctive character had been formed and a point of view had been taken. The times were ripe for what she wanted to do, and the logical place to do it was, in her mind, New York.

In a modest neighborhood downtown near Second Avenue, she established an office, two rooms sublet in space belonging to a striving partnership of three young men who were just barely out of law school themselves and eager to get a footing in criminal law. Having no interest in family cases or the particular problems of women, they were glad to refer all such to Jennie. So she began and gradually was able to build a reputation as a dedicated, caring, tough defender of women’s rights, especially those of the poor.

And the years went by then in the style of the times and the place. She went to consciousness-raising groups, learned something from them, and left them behind. Like Shirley, she had her share of men, who were bright and fun but wanted no permanence. She fell briefly in love—or thought she did—with a nice young man who finally, half in tears, confessed that he had tried hard, but he really preferred nice young men, after all. She was pursued by one or two decent men who would have married her and whom she would have married if only she could have loved them. She met a charming man who adored her but had no intention of divorcing his wife. Somehow nothing worked out. So she was thankful to have her work and all the good things that the city afforded, the ballet and opera at Lincoln Center, the first-run foreign movies, jogging on Sundays in the park, Fifth Avenue bookstores, Italian trattorias in the Village, and courses at the New School.