Sins of Innocence (5 page)

Susan opened the tabloid to a photo of Ted Kennedy
and his vibrant young wife. She thought of Jack Kennedy, of Bobby. Would Ted’s tumultuous life have been different if they had survived?

Beside Susan, Freida sighed audibly. “When was the last time you saw Leah Levin?”

Susan knew her mother always tried to bring her grandmother into the conversation when she wanted to attack Susan’s conscience. As usual, it worked.

“I took Mark to see her over the Fourth of July.”

“That’s two months ago.”

“Mother, a boy hardly wants to spend time hanging around a nursing home.”

“
Retirement
home. Not nursing home. Besides, she’s your grandmother. You could find time to go alone.”

Her mother was right. Her grandmother—“Bubby,” as Susan still called her—deserved more from her granddaughter. “She’s in New York, Mother. I live in Vermont. It’s a five-hour drive.”

“Your only remaining grandparent. It seems the least you could do for an old lady all alone. I’ve tried to get her to come down to live in Florida. Haven’t I tried, Joseph?”

Susan’s father mopped his brow, nodded, and disappeared around the corner of the house with his pruning shears.

Even poor Bubby can’t seem to please Mother, Susan thought. “Her arthritis is bad,” she defended her grandmother. “Plus she hates the heat, you know that. And she has friends in New York.”

“She’d feel like she had family, too, if you’d visit her more often.”

Susan wanted to scream. She looked back at the picture of Kennedy.
Families
, she groaned to herself.

Freida looked at her watch. “It’s almost time for lunch,” she said flatly.

“Did somebody say ‘lunch’?”

“There’s my boy,” Freida said, and patted the side of her chaise. “Come sit by Grandma and tell me what you’ve been doing all morning.”

Susan watched her son bound across the patio. He
was already taller than Susan’s five-eleven height. Thankfully he hadn’t inherited his father’s short stature. And as yet, Mark hadn’t shown any proclivity toward the “fat” genes that she and Lawrence both seemed to have.

“Dad called,” Mark said as he plopped next to Freida. “He’s been in Lauderdale on business. He’s going back to New York late tonight for Rosh Hashanah, but he wants to take me out for dinner, okay, Mom?”

Susan started to protest, when Freida jumped in. “Out? Not a chance. If your father is in town, he’ll have dinner with all of us tonight. Here. Tell him we’re having challah and roast chicken and noodle kugel. Our New Year’s feast one day early—seeing as how your mother insists on leaving on the holiday.”

“Mother …”

Freida turned to her daughter and pointed a finger. “It’s bad enough you refuse to follow your traditions, but in my house, we do as I say. Now, Lawrence Brosky may be your ex-husband, but he is always welcome here. He is my grandson’s father, so we’ll celebrate together the way we should. As a family.”

She turned back to Mark and ruffled his hair. “Go call him back and tell him seven o’clock.”

Mark scurried away. Susan’s father returned to the patio, set down his shears, and wiped his hands. “Lawrence is coming for dinner?”

“Won’t it be nice to see him? We haven’t seen him in a month. Or is it two?”

Susan picked at a sliver that had become embedded beneath a chewed fingernail. She couldn’t remember the last time she, Lawrence, and their son were together in the same room for more than a few “hello-and-good-bye” minutes—was it at Mark’s bar mitzvah? But the sight of Lawrence made Susan sick. He seemed to be getting shorter, fatter, and balder as time passed. She hated the way Mark admired him. She hated the way her mother fluttered over him. And she hated the way her father talked to him about the business in such a respectful, proud way. Face it, Susan said to herself, being around Lawrence makes you miserable.
“I would have appreciated it if you’d consulted with me first,” she said.

“You’re the one who divorced Lawrence. Not us. And he’s done a fine job with your father’s business. You think we could have retired down here if it hadn’t been for Lawrence?”

Susan pulled a black MIA/POW T-shirt over her head. The worst thing she had done in her life was marry the man her parents had picked. Lawrence Brosky. Up-and-coming genius of the garment industry. Her father’s protégé. The best thing she’d done was pack up her four-year-old son and leave him. Now Lawrence was settled with a nice Jewish girl who worshiped him, and they had two short, plump, dark-haired, dark-eyed spoiled daughters. But for some reason, Mark worshiped his father.

She returned her attention to the tabloid and pretended to be fascinated by its contents. There had been few men in Susan’s life. Bert Hayden was a good friend—a good friend who often made overtures at becoming something more. They slept together occasionally, but for Susan the act was nothing more than a safe way of satisfying her hormones. There simply were no sparks. As for Lawrence, the only thing that had excited Susan about him when they met was that her parents adored him. She had succumbed to their dream for her and had actually believed that one day she would love him. Susan stared at the newspaper without seeing the pages. Back then she’d thought she had owed it to her parents to marry Lawrence—owed it to them after David. Her eyes were drawn once again to the photo of Ted Kennedy. Forget about his life, she thought, what about mine? Would my life have been happy if Bobby Kennedy were still alive? Was it possible that a lone assassin’s bullet had reshaped even her own life? She lowered her eyes to the ground. Hardly a day passed when Susan did not think of David, of what they had shared, of all she had walked away from. Ted Kennedy had been young then, in 1968. Young, and full of promise. Susan and David had been young as well. Young, and full of hope.

She tossed down the tabloid.

“I’m getting out of the sun,” she announced. “I have enough wrinkles.”

“We’re having nice chopped liver for lunch,” Freida said, as she stretched out her paste-colored feet and wiggled her Worth Avenue-pedicured toes. “To help us get into a celebration mood.”

“I’m not hungry.” Susan heaved herself off the chaise. The thought of seeing Lawrence always made her lose her appetite.

“We couldn’t have asked for a better year to have our labor contracts come up for renewal,” Lawrence boasted as he dipped an enormous chunk of challah in honey, took a huge bite, then sucked his fingers.

Susan clenched her hand around her wineglass. Just get me through the evening, God, she thought. Just get me through the evening without killing him.

“How come, Dad?” Mark asked.

“Recession. People were scared out of their wits to lose their jobs.” He reached across the table for the platter of chicken. “They’d have agreed to anything.”

Susan’s father had told her that the negotiations, such as they were, had ended last month. When she’d asked how they had turned out, he’d merely said, “Successful.” Lawrence’s bragging suggested they had been better than that. Better for him, anyway.

Susan steadied her eyes on her ex-husband. “Exactly what did they agree to?” she asked.

At the end of the table Joseph cleared his throat. “Details, details,” he said. “There’s no need to talk business tonight!” He tried to sound cheerful.

“I’m interested, Dad,” she said without taking her eyes off Lawrence. “The plant is my son’s future.”

“Yeah, come on, Dad,” Mark urged. “Fill us in.”

Susan saw Lawrence glance at her father. Oh, boy, she thought. This must be good. So good, they both know how I’ll react.

“They settled on a two-percent raise. Every year for the next three years,” Lawrence said.

“How generous,” Susan said.

“And we only laid off fifteen hundred workers. It could have been worse. We could be GM.”

“People don’t need to trade in cars every year. But they need to buy clothes. Warm clothes, in winter.”

“Let’s not turn this into a discussion about the homeless, Susan,” he seethed. “I’m sure it disappoints you enough, just knowing that the recession wasn’t my fault.”

Freida coughed.

Joseph took a big gulp of wine.

Susan quietly tapped her foot on the cool tile floor.

“Look,” Lawrence continued, “we don’t know what’s coming. With your pal Clinton in office, anything can happen.”

“Bill Clinton is not my
pal
. He is our
president
.”

Lawrence snorted.

Susan stared at the contents of the pink Zinfandel.
Why the hell do they call this “white”?
she wondered. “What about benefits? Benefits to those lucky souls still in your employ.”

“Our people have benefits.”

“Do they have any more?”

“Like what?”

“Like day care, for instance. It’s already a law in some states. Any company employing more than some minimum number of workers has to have day care on-site.”

“New Yorkers don’t need perks,” Lawrence grumbled. “They’re tougher than the rest of the country.”

Susan began to boil. “What about health insurance?”

Lawrence gave a sardonic smile. “Well, yes, that is one area where we had to make some adjustments.”

“To whose advantage?”

“Everyone’s.”

Freida drummed her fingers on the Formica table. “I’m sure it is, Lawrence.”

“In what way, exactly?” Susan pressed on. She wondered what the workers had to give up in order to keep their tedious, demanding jobs.

“They agreed to pick up half the cost.”

Susan wanted to throw her wineglass in his face. “Half? You’re making them pay half their medical coverage?”

Lawrence shrugged. “Costs have become prohibitive. Until this country figures out once and for all what we’re going to do about health care, everyone has to pay their fair share.”

Susan picked up her fork and stabbed an olive. “And how much is their ‘fair share’?”

“The average married worker’s insurance is almost six hundred a month.”

“So they pay three. God, Lawrence, that’s seventy-five dollars a week!”

Lawrence shrugged again and looked at Mark. “Pass the salt, please.”

“I remember when Joseph didn’t bring home that much money in a week,” Freida said.

“What about HMOs?” Susan asked.

“They’ve got the option.”

“At what cost?”

“God, Susan, I don’t remember exactly. Half. Maybe less. But not everyone wants to go to a clinic.”

“HMOs aren’t clinics,” she said.

“Look, don’t blame me. This is America. I never did figure out why you didn’t become a socialist and get it over with.”

Joseph cleared his throat. “Lawrence may be right to keep the reins tight,” he said. “It’s the only way to keep profitability up.”

Susan felt her stomach begin to churn.

“Mom and I went to an AIDS rally,” Mark said.

“Mark …” Susan warned.

The room grew quiet. Susan felt everyone’s eyes on her. So far, this evening was going along pretty much as Susan had expected.

“It was cool,” Mark added.

“Well, it certainly doesn’t sound like dinner conversation,” Freida said.

Lawrence raised his eyebrows. “Maybe it should be.
I’d like to know what escapades my late wife is exposing my son to now.”

His late wife. Why the hell did he always call her that? Susan ignored it and answered, “I’m not exposing your son to anything horrible, Lawrence. We had gone to the Boston Museum for the day. There was a rally on the common. We took part. That’s all.”

“That’s all? My son spent the day surrounded by faggots and dykes, and you say ‘that’s all’?” His face reddened. He shook his head, his jowls swayed back and forth. “Is that what comes next? You try to turn my son into a faggot?”

Susan pushed back her chair and threw her linen napkin on the table. “I’m going to go pack,” she said. “As usual, Lawrence, it was wonderful seeing you again.”

Susan unlocked the back door, and Mark pushed ahead of her into the kitchen, his duffel bag nearly knocking her down.

“Watch what you’re doing,” Susan snapped.

“I’ll be in my room,” he said, and bounded up the stairs of the small cottage.

He’d barely spoken to her on the flight home. He’d said he was tired, but Susan knew better. She knew he was angry with her for being what he thought was cruel to Lawrence last night. It was hard enough to be a kid from a broken home, Susan thought. It must be even tougher when the parents couldn’t get along.

She sighed and dragged her suitcase across the uneven tiled floor. A cup of tea. That was what she needed. She filled the kettle and put it on the old black stove, then went to check her answering machine.

In the darkness of the small living room Susan could see the red light flashing. She opened the drapes, letting in the dusk of the early September evening, while she counted the number of flashes. One, two, three, four. Four messages. Not too hot for having been away two weeks. “Says a lot about your social life,” Susan said aloud.

From overhead she heard the boom of the latest rock
CD. She had no idea who the group was; she’d lost track of them. She went to the answering machine.

“Susan, this is Doris Hayward at the library. The Chaucer critique you asked for is in.”

Good, Susan thought. Maybe I’ll start off World Lit with Chaucer this year. Something different.

Beep
.

“This is the attendance officer at Clarksbury Regional High School,” a nasal voice declared. “I have a note here saying that Mark Brosky won’t be starting classes until Friday the seventeenth. Is this true?” There was a short shuffle of papers. “He will need to pick up his schedule in the office when he arrives. Otherwise …”—the voice paused again in confusion—“he won’t know where he’s supposed to go.”

No kidding, Susan thought. Long live the bureaucracy.

Beep
.

“Hi, Susan, it’s me.” Bert Hayden. “Hope you had a good time, and that you’re back safe and everything. I was wondering if we’ll be able to get together before crazy classes start Monday. If you’re listening to this when you get in, then I guess it’s Thursday night. Call me if it’s not too late, okay? Or I’ll try you tomorrow.” She stretched out her legs. She was too tired to see Bert tonight. It was only seven o’clock, but traveling always exhausted her.