Endless Love

area anyone dared wade was a hearty Welcome Home, that would have been just as suitable if I’d returned from a two-year study of socialist genetics at the University of Leningrad. Even those who had written me and sent me presents during my stay in Rockville avoided touching the truth of my absence. Did they fear what might accidentally appear in their own eyes if they mentioned my incarceration—the tears, or perhaps the scorn? Or were they respecting my mother’s ardent desire that everything, everything in all the world, be absolutely as normal as possible? History owed Rose a normal afternoon and even the children of my parents’ friends were determined to keep anything reminiscent of pain at bay. Meredith Tarnovsky, sixteen and finally beautiful, with the pure, animal attractiveness of someone whose sexual drive is not yet social but purely hormonal, was just returned from a few weeks in Cuba, where she’d cut sugar cane and attended lectures. She was often at my elbow, talking to me about Castro, who I actually happened to like, though not with Meredith’s wholehearted passion. Her dark eyes glistened, the perfume of her bath lifted off her soft skin, the Havana sun had turned all the soft hairs on her arm bright platinum. I drank gin after gin, wondering if the purpose of this party was to encourage me to violate my long celibacy and drag Meredith into my room. “You were in Cuba,” I said to her, “and I was in a fancy little nuthouse. Talk about your separate paths, huh?” She lowered her eyes and shook her head. Meaning what? That it was ironic? Sad? Or that we weren’t supposed to talk about it? The other representative of my “peer group” was Joe Greenbladt, an ex-runt who once was called Little Joey Greenbladt and who now, at twenty- two, towered over me. He wore a red shirt, powder blue corduroys, and cowboy boots. I’d never had enough to do with him to join the ranks of his childhood tormentors, yet today he avoided me and glanced at me with a certain dark irony as if his presence in my parents’ apartment was somehow settling an old score. He was apparently a great favorite in my parents’ set. Meredith may have gone to Cuba but Joe (Josef on his birth certificate) had read all of Kapital and referred to the civil rights movement as “the Negro question” and to his own friends as “today’s youth.” Joe’s parents, Leo and Olga, remembered my birthday while I was in Rockville and now and then had sent me a book or a magazine. The year before, they’d gone to the Soviet Union and brought back a small reel tape recorder, which they gave my parents to give to me. Along with the tape recorder was a taped message. “Helloooo, David, this is Olga speaking to you.” “And this is Leo.” “David,” Olga had continued, “we’ve just returned from the Soviet Union. We had the most marvelous experiences, too numerous to mention. It was very cold but our hotel was perfectly warm. And the people, David, the people…” “Very happy,” Leo said. “Joyous and dignified.” I had listened with tears in my eyes, overwhelmed by the stupidity and tenderness of their message. Without realizing, I’d lain my hand on the machine and it got in the way of the reel. Olga and Leo’s voices got slower, lower, and they sounded now like stroke victims—that preview of their mortality had gone through me like heat lightning.

Around seven, the rains began. The sky turned a vivid electric green and the rain pounded against the windows and battered against the air conditioner. Like a pack living in the wild, the guests moved in unison, making plans to leave, to share rides, to drop each other off. It seemed the rain panicked them, though I suppose they were seizing a good excuse to leave. Tom and Natalie Foster were the last to go and even they were gone fifteen minutes after the rain began—they’d lingered only to gossip about the Tarnovskys, Meredith’s diminutive, gaudily dressed parents. The Tarnovskys owned a movie theater on the North Side and had taken to booking in an occasional sex film to pay expenses. “We told them it would come to this,” Tom Foster said, feigning sadness and concern.

When they finally left, Arthur closed the door and leaned on it. “The first to arrive and the last to leave,” he said.

Rose laughed loudly. “What a pair of characters.” Then she said, “Hmmmmn,” as if she’d overheard herself and found it puzzling.

I sat on the sofa eating a piece of ham that I’d placed on an apricot sweet roll and drinking a gin and tonic. I felt blurry but not tired enough to sleep.

“Well, how did you like it?” said Rose as she began her rounds, collecting glasses and emptying ashtrays.

Arthur stood at the window and gazed out at the rain. I wondered if he wanted to look quite that dramatic. “It wasn’t much of a party for you, was it?” he said.

“It was fine,” I said.

“Everyone was so glad to see you,” Rose said.

Arthur paddled across the room and lowered himself into what we still called Arthur’s Chair. He heaved a glutinous sigh and placed his smallish feet on the battered oxblood ottoman. “It could have been a lot worse,” he said.

“No, it was good,” I said, injecting some conviction into my voice.

“You know,” said Rose, in her “family secret” voice, “your dad and I have been shopping around for a welcome home present for you.” She sat really quite close to me on the sofa. “Would you like to know what it is?”

“You don’t have to buy me anything,” I said. “You’ve already spent a goddamned fortune on me.”

“On this party?” asked Arthur.

“No. On the new lawyer. On Rockville.”

“Well, money has to be spent on something, doesn’t it, Arthur?” Rose said.

“Not necessarily, but I know what you mean,” Arthur said.

“Are you interested in what we’re getting for you?” Rose asked me.

“Sure.”

“A little car.”

“A little car?” I said, holding up my thumb and forefinger.

“Not quite that small,” Arthur said, smiling—I was never more his son than when I made a simple joke, especially if it was at my mother’s expense.

“If you’re not interested…” said Rose.

“I’m interested. It would be great. But I don’t even have a license. Mine expired.”

“What does that matter?” said Rose. “You’ll bone up and take the test. You were a wonderful driver.”

“Yes,” I said, “like driving you crazy.”

“Or driving me to drink,” said Arthur.

“Are you happy about the car?” asked Rose.

“Yes. But I don’t want you to get it. I don’t need presents.”

“It’s Millicent Bell’s car, you know,” my mother said. “A green Plymouth sedan. As soon as her new car’s delivered, we get to pick up yours.”

“So it’s a slight case of hurry-up-and-wait,” said Arthur.

“That’s not the worst thing that ever happened in this world,” said Rose, with a brave, incongruous smile. “But how about this? In the meanwhile we’ll get you something else, another welcome home present. What would you say to that?”

“Fieldmouse,” I said.

“What?” Rose said.

“Nothing, no, that would be great.”

“What would you like?” Arthur asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t need anything.”

“Some clothes?” said Rose. “For when you start school, or whatever.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

“Clothes aren’t a present,” said Arthur. “He’d get clothes no matter. How about something special, David? Something a little off the beaten path?”

I wondered if he were tempting me deliberately. “Like what?” I said.

“Name it,” said Arthur.

“Well,” I said, leaning back and preparing my insides for the worst, “there is one thing.”

“What?” said Rose.

“And it wouldn’t cost a penny,” I said. “It’s something of mine. I’ve been looking around for it and I can’t find it.”

My parents exchanged glances; it seemed they knew what was next.

“Anyhow,” I said, “I’d like you to give it to me. It means more to me than any old Plymouth, I can tell you that.”

“What are you talking about?” said Rose.