The History of Great Things (17 page)

B
y the end of your first week together, Victor stops asking you to marry him and simply tells you instead.

By the end of your first month together, he's broken the lease on his midtown bachelor pad that he never really lived in and moved into our apartment on West End Avenue.

By the end of your second month together, you say yes, by the end of your third month he's going to parent-teacher meetings with you, you've had three high-decibel arguments, and by the end of your fifth month together, you are married.

It takes a while to figure out why, of all your suitors, this one. It may be nothing more than his timing. You've been in New York for the better part of five years, which is about three years beyond your original timeline for becoming a world-renowned opera star and meeting a good man. He's handsome, sure. He knows music; you have things to talk about. He wants to help your career, that's a huge plus, but that's not the whole of it. He's not the first to fall madly in love with you, not the first to propose, and he's not a whole bunch of other things too. He's not uncertain, about anything, and to your mind that is possibly his greatest asset. You are certain of few things, and rely heavily on the certainty of others. And he is as certain of you
as he's ever been of anything, which is good, because that is the thing about which you are least certain, and you hope to god his certainty about you will make up the difference. And as much as anything, he's not Fred.

New York has been, at times, exciting beyond your ability to handle it. You've also barely made your rent more than a few times, even though your rent is still about as cheap as it gets. You don't mind pinching pennies, but you're growing tired of store-brand everything, and there's not always time to let down the hems on Betsy's dresses when she grows two inches in a week—it would be nice, once in a while, to send them to a tailor. And let's face it: you're thirty-four. It's 1971 and you're thirty-four—almost thirty-five—and that's not ancient but this is a weird era for you. It doesn't feel like yours. It's confusing. War protests, race riots,
moon landings
?
Women's lib?
It doesn't seem bad in theory, you might never have made it out of Iowa without it, but still. If you'd been born even ten years earlier, you might have gotten stuck with a Fred for your entire life, but all of this—hippies and free love (you live only two hours from Woodstock, but hear little of it)—you did your best to try on a version of that, only to find that wasn't you either. Love is never free. Not to mention that there's all kinds of holy hell happening around the world that you don't understand the half of and couldn't handle if you did. There's plenty of holy hell happening inside your own head. You want some stability. You had thought you might be a star by now and you aren't. You hope that Victor will help turn that around; in opera, you're not over the hill yet at all—look at Sutherland, Tebaldi, Price—and you know, you
know
, that you are better than ever and could be better still. But you have doubts on top of doubts, about your career prospects, about yourself as a human fit for the world,
epic, wide-ranging doubts—and this new man has not a one. This is something you can only marginally comprehend, that a person could be so utterly doubtless, but Victor Silvestri is a man who knows what he knows. He knows music, he knows talent, he knows what he loves (you, in absurd amounts, to the point where he sees your flaws as assets), he knows what's right and what's wrong without doubt, ever, and though you have been known to state many and varied and sometimes even conflicting opinions as though you have no doubt, really, you don't know anything without doubt, and you suppose that it would be nice—more than nice, a relief—to have someone in the house whose doubt couldn't blow down the entire building with one heavy sigh. And you do like him; he's sexy, he's steady, he's a good father figure, he takes care of you, and you know now that you are a person who likes being taken care of. Who needs being taken care of. “Taken care of” here meaning being there with an unassailable point of view and a steady paycheck, and perhaps even just being around for those times when pouring out a bowl of cereal for your kid before school is more than you can manage by yourself.

It's a June wedding. You should have been a June bride the first time; that was probably mistake number one. (You will never admit that being nineteen was mistake number one; you will claim forever and always that you knew exactly what you were doing.) This time, you have engagements on the books to rehearse for, so you have the dresses made for you: yours, Audrey's, and mine (though you have to do a bit of alteration work on mine because I've gone and grown, again, since the measurements were taken); you plan this shindig with two months' notice.

You learn the extent to which Victor's mother is perpetually late; today, two hours. This would be unacceptable on most
occasions, save for some horrific circumstances not involving simply getting dressed and made up, and today, it's just under bring-me-a-straightjacket level. She's
in
the wedding. You could go ahead without her, but after an exchange of heated messages between your dressing room at the church and the anteroom where Victor and his best man are waiting (your messages leave your room heated
—Tell Victor she has ten minutes to show up or I'm leaving
—but they're delivered by Audrey's husband, Jack, with enough of a wink that Victor remains calm, and thank Christ his mother shows up before you have to make good on that. There's no time to shift back into joyful-wedding-day mode before walking down the aisle, but Audrey whispers in your ear that it's all going to be fine, and Audrey invented the reassuring tone of voice, and on your way down the aisle, on your father's arm for the second time (thinking: Why in creation did we decide to do it this way? Why such a big deal, again? Why not City Hall?), you give your groom the death glare from the aisle, which only causes him to stifle his trademark loud and high-pitched laugh, over how much he loves you for and in spite of your death glare—which, in turn, reminds you why you decided not to split.

At the reception, some relative of Victor's in a polyester suit wants to dance with me and won't take no for an answer until I'm near tears. I turn to you and whisper
I don't want to
, you say
It's fine, Betsy, that's Victor's uncle, he's all right
. I'm insistent; I try to make you look at my face so that Victor doesn't see.
Mommy, pleeeeeze, I don't want to.
You'd already given me instructions, prior to the wedding, to be an especially good girl today, but I have already established a zero-tolerance policy for creepiness that has served me well to date. You call Victor over to mediate with Uncle Whosis.

—Hold on, Betsy, what kind of creepiness are we talking about here, exactly?

—It was 1971 in New York City. The creepiness levels were at an all-time high.

—Did something happen to you?

—No. Things just happened. And/also things could have happened to me, but didn't.

—Why didn't you tell me?

—You had other things on your mind.

— . . .

Victor comes over and says
Maybe later, Silvio
, and escorts me back to my table to sit with my friend Miriam, but now I'm all worked up and demand to sit next to you, and you relent, because though it doesn't happen often, I am sobbing loudly and you are not having any more of that on your wedding day. You try to squeeze an extra chair between Grandma and Grandpa, but I remain firm that my seat must be next to yours. You remain firm that I must keep my shit together for the rest of the reception, and we reach an accord.

You don't know, of course, that your doubts about this choice of spouse will remain after the hubbub of the first year. In your honeymoon suite in Mexico, you have your first real shouting match—a preview of the future—when Victor takes off his ring to go swimming and the room is burglarized while you're gone.
Why did you take it off in the first place? I didn't want it to slip off. You can't take it off ever! I can do what I like. No you can't, we just took vows! I didn't vow not to take off my ring. I knew this was a fucking mistake! Calm down, Lois, it's just a piece of jewelry, it's replaceable. No, it's not! It's the one I put on your finger and now it's gone! I'm going down to the bar until you calm down. Oh, no, you are not! If you do, then don't come back!

Victor does come back, of course, but now you're too tired to get back into it, and he tells you how sexy you are, and the honeymoon makeup sex helps you deny that this incident could in any way bode for your future together as Mr. and Mrs. Silvestri.

You have big auditions and a calendar that's almost as full as it can be with singing engagements spread all the way into 1974. You don't anticipate that someone with absolute conviction in his own opinions might infuriate you at times. How does he know what Mayor Lindsay should do to solve the financial crisis, or that he can buy a stupid two-door LeBaron if he wants because
We'll always have plenty of cash
and
You can't take it with you. In that car I can't take anything with me, Victor. Then we'll get two cars
, he says.
We're not keeping two cars in Manhattan, Victor! Calm down, Lois, everything is fine. How do you know that, how do you know what you're going to think about something, anything, everything, a year from now? Because I do, Lois.

With Victor, you're able to dine out, meet powerful people, perform with some of the big stars of the day, send Betsy to private school, buy real, whole milk instead of powdered, don't have to have some weird braless girl living rent-free in your apartment as a so-called babysitter when you leave town for jobs, because Victor will be there. You're more resigned to being married than convinced that any one man will ever be perfect for you. Victor's fun and he's funny and he knows how to please you and this one will stick. You'll deal with the arguments; they'll probably stop anyway. You've decided. Stick. (He already knew this, but you believe that you decided it; you're both right.)

Y
ou and Victor have been married for five years now. You love him, in your way; he adores you, still, always. You fight, loudly, sometimes every day. You always, always believe that each fight will be the last, though evidence over time suggests otherwise. Notably, in one of these fights, the kitchen telephone gets ripped off the wall on New Year's Eve.

—I think it was Christmas Eve, Betsy.

—Okay, it doesn't matter.

—So you say. It could matter.

—It could for sure, but it doesn't.

—But it could.

—But it doesn't.

—I will win. Just let it happen.

— . . .

—Sometimes I'm not sure who's talking.

—Sometimes that doesn't matter either.

—That's ridiculous.

—It's not.

Victor walks toward the door, opens it to leave, all the neighbors can now hear, without a doubt.
I'm not going to that party if that bitch Bernadette is going to be there! She's harmless, Lois! So you say! I see the way she looks at you! You're crazy, Lois. Bernadette is my mother's friend. You dated her in high school, Victor! She shouldn't be friends with your mother anymore! It's sick! I can't control my mother. Well, there's your problem. But that's not news.
Victor buzzes the elevator, slams the door, comes back a couple hours later, apologizes, but also tells you that you make up things to worry about
. I know
, you say, even though you don't, really. The following day, New Year's Day, all is well. You and Victor stay in bed all day, reading the paper, eating cold cuts, and watching
The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight
on channel nine. You think about Fred, how the two of you never argued; for a moment you think of him fondly, for the first time since the divorce. The whirl of those early years with Fred, the better years, had never really been about Fred. This, with Victor, is love. Sometimes you fight, that's all.

You still make love as often and as intensely as you fight. You're now forty. Thanks to him, your music calendar is always booked three years ahead. Your voice is richer, more powerful than ever, your reviews always raves. You have performed opposite all the greats, sung all the roles you've coveted (Gilda, Lucia, Tosca, Queen of the Night), performed with all the major orchestras (Philadelphia, Chicago, Caracas), all the major opera companies and concert halls (La Scala, Covent Garden), and maestros (Ozawa, Mehta, Chailly, Muti). But the thrills are briefer and briefer, and now the crashes are harder. Post–standing ovation, post–dressing room visits, they come hard and fast, but as soon as you're in the taxi they're replaced with an empty space; you're entirely hollow, and no amount of love from your husband—and he has a lot to give—keeps it filled. It is sink
ing in that you may never have a recording career, though you will never fully comprehend why. Over many a supper, you and Victor discuss the possible reasons, all of which have to do with the nefarious business of classical music and those who run it.
That cunty R
won't hire me because I'm better than her. And she's got that weasel D
at her side making sure it doesn't happen anywhere else.
You will claim, for all of your days, that there are compromises you are unwilling to make—that there's a classical casting couch you are unwilling to lie down on, and that this is the sole reason that you have never recorded. Your self-doubt resides elsewhere and calcifies until it's not even doubt anymore. You are certain that everything else about you is bad. You're definitely not the best person. You're not the prettiest, you're not the thinnest, you're not the smartest, you're not the -
est
anything, except when it comes to singing. You do know how talented you are. This may be the only thing about you that you know is truly good.

You are not fooling yourself about that, either—you are a gifted musician and still in your prime, as far as singing goes, so you haven't given up yet. You'll never give up. It's all you have. And so when you get pregnant, in your forty-first year, this is not the good news that it might be at some other time, some right time. You and Victor discuss it. You choose not to mention the services from back in the day. You don't much want to remember that yourself. Victor tells you that he wants whatever you want. It's true-ish, but there's an ever-so-slight speck of melancholy in his eyes that betrays the earnest tone of his voice when he says it. You know he hopes that you want to have a baby, his baby. But your silence says what needs to be said. It's not that you don't wish you could give that to him, but you do both know, you really do know that if not this baby, no baby.
You've made the right decision, you're sure, but you've failed, again. It's time for therapy. You will fix yourself.

Therapy does not result in fixing yourself. You push forward with it; it seems like a good outlet for your screams and tears, though one hour a week hardly covers your screaming and crying needs. You are sure that everything is about your father and your husband, who you are coming to see doesn't understand you, not that anyone ever could.
Well, then, why are you here? I don't know
. You really don't know. You want it to work. You do. You don't think you're keeping secrets, or that you're unwilling to do the work. But therapy plus time seems to change exactly nothing. You think it might be worse if you couldn't go somewhere and scream once a week with impunity, but there seems to be no notable cumulative effect. Victor says
Therapy is bullshit; it's for weak people
.
I am weak!
What are you talking about, Lois, you're the strongest person I know. You never back away from a fight. I don't think you understand what strong and weak mean. Are you crazy? Maybe, yes, I think so. There's nothing wrong with you, Lois, you just have to think differently. That's kind of the end idea behind therapy. Why pay seventy bucks an hour to do that? Because it's not that easy. Sure it is. It doesn't work like that, Victor!
Tell me when you ever in your life decided to think differently and then just thought differently? I never had to, Lois, I already think the right way in the first place. Ha! So you say. So I know. So we're back to, we should all think like you. Things would be a lot easier for you—
and
me. Ha! You don't even try to understand me! I understand more about you than you do
, Victor says.
You don't know shit. I know, your daddy didn't get you a pony, boo-hoo. You're an asshole. Leave me the fuck alone. Suit yourself.

Victor has other phrases for occasions like this:
Get over it. Tough titties. Guess you're SOL.
Yes, you tell the therapist, he
is supportive in his way: you have no doubt of his big love for you; he is expressive both verbally and demonstratively; and he tells you often that everything is really okay, he doesn't know why you don't know that, you have no problems.
Your problems are in your head
, he'll say, which doesn't help, even if he says it in the sweetest tone, like
Honey, don't you see, all you have to do is realize that you've been making all this up, and then you won't have any problems?
You see now that you agree, on this problems-in-your-head idea. But you need him. He has something you don't have. And you're not going back to being single again. That is not for you. Unfortunately this therapist, and the next three who follow, are missing some vital information that could actually help. They miss it, and you don't exactly offer it. There are times when you believe, genuinely believe, that the outside world is conspiring to make your life more difficult, that this isn't just a feeling but a real thing—whether it's drivers who cut you off in traffic, or taxis with their on-duty lights clearly on who don't pick you up even though you're practically standing in the middle of the fucking street with your arm up, or snowstorms when you need to go out for groceries—that, in essence, anything that doesn't go smoothly for you is the work of some malevolent force determined to hold you back because you deserve no more than you already have. You don't offer any of this information in therapy, because you know the world is a hostile place for everyone, but most especially for you. That's not something that can be treated. It's what is.

—Christ, I wish I could do some of this over.

—That's a phenomenal idea.