Illusions of Love (7 page)

Dominic thought of the piano in their dingy living room. He’d cut his eye teeth on Chopin. Dammit, his mother really could have become a concert pianist if life had been a little more charitable. He shoved the painful thought aside.

“I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Now I’ve got to get to bed if I want to make six o’clock mass.”

The next morning Dominic’s alarm clock went off at 5. 30. Watching him dress, Martin asked, “How long does mass take?”

“An hour,” Dominic said, tying his shoes.

“Oh, then should I meet you here?”

“Anything you like. But it’s a heck of a morning for walking. In fact, if you want, you can walk to St. Patrick’s Cathedral with me. But move it, move it!”

By the time they reached the magnificent church, they were winded.

“Okay,” Dominic said.

“How about meeting me here at seven-thirty?”

“It’s a deal.” Martin watched as Dominic disappeared inside, then walked down Fifth Avenue and turned east on 42nd until he came to a

coffee shop. As he sat at the counter he felt strangely envious of Dominic’s easy relationship with his God.

With all the Roths’ insistence on tradition, religion seemed to be a very distant part of their lives. And suddenly Martin was consumed with curiosity about Catholicism. Judaism didn’t exercise the same magnetic pull; at least not on the Jews Martin knew; and he experienced a peculiar sense of deprivation.

Quickly he paid for his coffee and left. When he got to the corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue, he wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Without much thought he got on the bus which had stopped at the corner. It didn’t really matter where it was going.

When Martin got off he found himself on the Lower East Side. In a state of shock he realized that the hordes of people crowding the streets were Jews, immigrants like his great-grandfather, Ephraim, whose birthday they celebrated each summer. As he walked past the dirty tenements, was jostled by the crowds around the pushcarts, and saw the pale-faced children, many of whom seemed like stunted adults, he felt a surge first of pity, then shame. An elevated train roared overhead and the very buildings appeared to sway. For a minute, Martin determined to catch the next bus uptown. Then something in the enthusiasm with which the women were outbidding each other for the vendors’ goods, and the quick laughs of the children as they played around overflowing garbage cans, caught his attention. Although he was appalled by their living conditions, the inhabitants of Orchard Street did not seem defeated. Suddenly Martin understood the force which had sustained Ephraim on his journey West. Martin listened to the old men in skullcaps discussing the testaments, each one arguing the fine points of the Talmud and each thinking the other an idiot. They too seemed completely oblivious of their ugly surroundings. They were absorbed by their discussion, and more intensely alive than any of the rich old men who attended his temple in San Francisco. Martin was suddenly jealous of a heritage he felt he’d been denied. These were his people, and for all their poverty they

seemed to embody the persistent strength that had ensured Jewish survival through centuries of persecution. These were the chosen people.

Suddenly, being Jewish without that spiritual force left Martin with a sense of being suspended in limbo. He again envied Dominic his simple faith.

Martin couldn’t handle this new flood of emotion. He had to get away.

As he hurried towards the bus, he almost stumbled over a little boy sitting on the kerb crying. The child looked so frail that Martin’s heart went out to him. He sat down on the kerb alongside the child.

“What’s wrong?”

The child looked wide-eyed at the stranger.

“I lost my ball.”

Taking out his handkerchief, Martin handed it to the child.

“Where did you lose it?”

“In the street. A guy picked it up and won’t give it back.”

“How old are you?”

“Five.”

“Five? I thought you were at least six.”

“No, my brother Benny is six.”

“And what’s your name?”

Jeremy Cohen

“That’s a nice name. How about an ice cream, Jeremy?”

The little boy shrugged his shoulders, “Okay,” he answered, although he would have been happier to have been offered a new ball.

Martin took him by the hand and bought him a cone. Forgetting his loss for the moment, Jeremy smiled. Martin observed the child’s tattered clothes and the hole in his left tennis shoe where his large toe stuck out. It was all an accident of birth, wasn’t it? Like being born a Rockefeller, the Queen of England . or himself. Martin took a five dollar bill from his wallet. As he handed it to the child he wondered if his gesture was born out of charity or guilt. Perhaps it was one and the same. He wasn’t sure.

“I want you to buy a ball, Jeremy, and a pair of shoes. But put the money away until you get home to your mama.”

Jeremy was so intent on the five-dollar bill he didn’t notice when Martin got up and walked to the bus.

Martin’s experience on the Lower East Side stayed with him for a long time. It left him with a greater drive to succeed. Professor Wheeler and his likes could no longer terrorize him. He had been born into privilege and given opportunities, and by God he was going to take advantage of them. There was no way he could fail. Perhaps a bit of Dominic’s determination had rubbed off. But more important than his academic commitment was his decision to devote his free time to the Jewish Home for Children. Originally it was an orphanage, but now it had become a haven for the poor. The Home offered after-school classes, Hebrew instruction, and other activities for children whose mothers worked and who had nowhere to go except roam wild.

In the beginning the kids’ resentment made it almost impossible for Martin to reach them. But his persistence won over first the teachers and then the children themselves. Their eventual admiration brought a joy to his life no monetary achievement could ever equal. The sound of their laughter as he coached their baseball team and their cheers the day he brought over the ‘anonymously’ donated uniforms he had purchased himself completely overshadowed any lingering loneliness Martin felt at the dorm or in some of his classes.

Life had become a constantly changing kaleidoscope. Martin’s experience working at the Home had been only one of the many things that had caused his transformation. Dominic had taught him a great deal about himself. He

realized he’d been overprotected and overindulged. Perhaps it had not been a deliberate attempt on Dominic’s part to open Martin’s eyes to the real world, but deliberate or not, Dominic had. And in return he earned Martin’s unconditional friendship. The confusion and uncertainty which Martin had brought to Yale seemed to have disappeared.

By the time Martin went home in June, he felt confident of who he was and what goals he wished to pursue. The problem was that his parents had sent away a boy and were not prepared to have him return a man.

Bess in particular was upset by the change. She couldn’t lay a finger on it except to note that Martin was no longer amenable to her various social suggestions. If she had been willing to probe deeper, she might have recognized and even admired the extent of her son’s maturity, but as it was she only saw that he rebelled against her arrangements for his summer, particularly as they involved Sylvia Lowenthal, the daughter of their long-time family friends.

Almost the moment Martin arrived home Bess began, “Oh, Martin, darling, Mrs. Lowenthal and I have so many wonderful plans for you this summer.”

“I’m not going to have much time. Mother. I want to spend the next few months working on my sociology project for next year. That’s my only priority.”

“Well, dear, you can’t just bury your head in books. Besides, you’ve done so well this year, why should you spend your summer ” Because I have a lot of catching up to do. I really wish you would check with me before you make any plans. “

Bess looked puzzled.

“Martin, dear, I have the distinct feeling we’re arguing.”

“Look, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. The point is I’ve already made other arrangements. I mean this weekend …”

“Well, that puts me in a bit of an awkward position, Martin.”

“Really? Why?”

“I asked Sylvia to keep Saturday night free so that you could escort her to the country club dance. I was sure you’d be delighted.”

He looked at his mother not knowing whether to laugh or scream. She knew that he’d be delighted? Imagine.

“Mother, I really just don’t feel like going.”

Bess looked wounded.

“What am I going to say to the Lowenthals? This is just dreadful. I’m sure that Sylvia could have made other plans.

Now you’re standing her up. “

This time he did laugh. The whole thing was ridiculous.

“Since I didn’t ask her, I can’t stand her up. It’s you who have the problem.”

She smiled.

“I suppose you’re right. I guess I should have asked you first. But, darling, I truly thought you would want to take Sylvia.

It’s been three years since you’ve seen each other, with her being away at school in Switzerland. She’s really grown quite lovely. ” She paused for a long moment, giving Martin time to dwell upon that, then added, ” Do this for me, Martin. “

He looked at his mother and hesitated. She really looked so vulnerable and he did love her. Besides, it was such a small request.

“All right.

But please do me a favour. “

“Of course, dear, anything.”

“From now on let me do the asking.”

“Yes, dear, of course.”

The country club hadn’t changed in fifty years. Same red damask sofas and chairs. Maybe the draperies were more faded. Going away seemed to have made him notice all sorts of things he had previously ignored.

Begrudgingly, though, he had to admit that, by God, Sylvia had changed. Without the braces, the horned-rimmed glasses, and the smell of horses which, he remembered, was an ever-present aroma since so much of her time had been spent riding, she was indeed lovely. And he might have been completely bowled over if she hadn’t kept saying, “You’re stepping on my toes. Your feet were always much too big for you, Martin.”

At least she didn’t say it was his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Sylvia.”

“And for heaven’s sake, don’t keep saying you’re sorry. It’s so irritating.”

“I’m sorry … I mean I’m sorry I said I was sorry. Would you rather not dance?”

“I think that’s a very good idea.”

As they left the floor, he said, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Maybe a glass of champagne.”

On the fringes of the dance floor he stood and looked at her.

“Why are you so angry with me, Sylvia?”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you here with the whole club staring. The whole thing is just so irritating.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just told you, Martin. I’m not going to discuss it now, here.”

“All right. Let me get the champagne and we’ll take it out on the terrace.”

As they sat on a stone bench sipping champagne in the moonlight, Martin watched Sylvia out of the corners of his eyes. Putting down the glass he said, “All right, Sylvia, what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Martin, is that our mothers have combined forces and decided you and I should be thrown together this summer. I resent it.

I don’t like feeling like a business merger. “

“I know, Sylvia, and I apologize.”

“Well, thank you. That’s very comforting. But I have a more serious problem.”

“Anything I can help you with?” Martin asked, ready now to acknowledge her as the close friend she’d been before going to Switzerland.

“I don’t know.”

“It sounds serious.”

“It is. I’m in love.”

Martin wasn’t sure why he minded. But he did. He had a sudden memory of the day his mother caught them playing doctor.

“Why should being in love present a problem?”

“Because he comes from a long line of middle-class dentists. Need I say more? My father hit the ceiling when he found out his name was Maury Orloff. That was when the inquisition started.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At the Rosen Delicatessen on Third Avenue.”

Even for somebody as emancipated as Martin, he was rather taken aback.

“Really? That’s a strange place to meet.”

“Now don’t be stuffy, Martin. People meet all sorts of ways. They don’t all grow up sharing the same treehouse.”

“I’m sorry if I sounded stuffy.”

She smiled.

“There you go again. Anyway, when I tell you about Maury it won’t sound all that dreadful. When Karen and I came back from Switzerland, we stayed at my Aunt Blanche’s apartment in New York .. can I have a cigarette?”

Martin reached for one inside the pocket of his dinner jacket, lit hers, then one for himself. Sylvia inhaled and then continued.

“Well, Karen and I decided to shop by ourselves one day. And here we were laden with a bunch of goodies from Bloomingdale’s when we realized we hadn’t eaten lunch. We stopped at Rosen’s and were going to our table when all of a sudden a package fell out of my hand and landed on his head.”

Martin laughed.

“His head? That’s quite a feat.”

“Well, the tables were so damned close I had to raise my arms to slither through. I’m not apologizing, Martin, but I did say I was sorry.”

He laughed.

“You better watch out or you’ll get into the habit.”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Well, he stood up abruptly, but then when he looked at me he didn’t seem one bit angry.”

“Well, I can understand that. You’ve really changed.”

To what? “

“From a gangling, argumentative brat to a beautiful woman.”

She laughed.

“Gee, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Martin. Well, anyway, I kept apologizing. He insisted it wasn’t necessary and if I wanted to redeem myself, I’d join him for lunch.”

“Oh, I see. Well, obviously you did, but after all he was a stranger.”